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    Thirst: A Novel
    Thirst: A Novel
    Thirst: A Novel
    Ebook131 pages1 hour

    Thirst: A Novel

    By A. G. Mojtabai

    ()

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    About this ebook

    As A.G. Mojtabai's Thirst opens, Lena has been summoned to the bedside of her ailing "brother" Theo, an aging country priest who has started to refuse food and drink. What Lena faces is complicated by the fact that she left the faith long ago.

    First cousins and closest childhood friends, Theo and Lena were raised in a small Catholic farming community in Texas, named for the village their parents left behind in Germany, a place where all questions, asked and unasked, were answered for all time. The known world was bounded by the iron fence of the parish cemetery containing nearly all their dead. Beyond it lurked disorder, the dragons of unbelief.

    Now faced with the mysteries of mortality and loss, both are struggling to come to terms with the choices that have defined them.

    Thirst is a book hard to classify--a novella, certainly, but it is also in part a tone poem, a contemporary book of hours, and a meditation engaging issues of faith and doubt, death and healing.

    Roger Rosenblatt has said of A.G. Mojtabai: "It is rare to find a gorgeous stylist and a writer of substance yoked in the same artist. Her work shows heart and unsentimental kindness that leaves the reader enlightened and wiser."
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSlant Books
    Release dateFeb 1, 2021
    ISBN9781639820894
    Thirst: A Novel

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      Book preview

      Thirst - A. G. Mojtabai

      THIRST

      A Novel

      A. G. MOJTABAI

      THIRST

      A Novel

      Copyright ©

      2021

      A. G. Mojtabai. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Slant Books,

      P.O. Box 60295

      , Seattle, WA

      98160.

      .

      Slant Books

      P.O. Box 60295

      Seattle, WA

      98160

      www.slantbooks.com

      hardcover isbn: 978-1-63982-088-7

      paperback isbn: 978-1-63982-087-0

      ebook isbn: 978-1-63982-089-4

      Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

      Names: Mojtabai, A.G. | Mojtabai, Grace | Mojtabai, Ann Grace

      Title: Thirst : a novel /A.G. Mojtabai

      Description: Seattle, WA: Slant Books,

      2021

      .

      Identifiers:

      isbn 978-1-63982-088-7 (

      hardcover

      ) | isbn 978-1-63982-087-0 (

      paperback

      ) | isbn 978-1-63982-089-4 (

      ebook

      )

      Subjects: LCSH: 1. Catholics — Fiction. /

      2

      . Death — Fiction /

      3

      . Clergy — Fiction / I. Title

      Classification:

      PS3563.O374 T45 2021 (

      print

      ) | PS3563.O374 (

      ebook

      )

      Manufactured in the U.S.A.

      October 14, 2021

      Table of Contents

      TITLE PAGE

      1. MIDDAY

      2. LENA, HERE

      3. THEN AND NOW

      4. STUFF!

      5. PROVOCATIONS

      6. FOUND ITEMS

      7. VISITORS

      8. OUTSIDE/INSIDE

      9. NIGHT AND DAY

      10. LAST MASS

      11. TELL THEM I LOVE THEM

      12. RUMMAGING

      13. RESPITE

      14. REMEMBERING

      15. QUICK SPIN

      16. WORDS

      17. READING THE DARK

      18. OUTWARD AND VISIBLE SIGNS

      19. NIGHT

      20. AFTER

      Also by A.G. Mojtabai

      Mundome

      The

      400

      Eels of Sigmund Freud

      A Stopping Place

      Autumn

      Blessed Assurance: At Home with the Bomb in Amarillo, Texas

      Ordinary Time

      Called Out

      Soon: Tales from Hospice

      All That Road Going

      Parts of a World

      Shine on Me

      For Richard Giannone and Frank D’Andrea

      O Lord who has set the sun in heaven but chosen to dwell in thick darkness.

      —I Kings

      8

      :

      12

      Ich kenne dich, du bist die tief Gebeugte. . . .

      I know you, you are the deeply bowed. . . .

      —Paul Celan, Breathturn into Timestead, translated by Pierre Joris

      1

      MIDDAY

      "

      IS THAT YOU, FATHER

      ?" Sister Perpetua calls, speaking through the door. The door is unlocked but he waits for her to open it.

      Still blowing out there? she asks.

      Off and on, he says.

      You’re almost late—it’s not like you, Father. Are you all right?

      Fine. Better than I deserve, Father Theo says, his reply for all occasions. Aware he is being watched, he quickens his pace as he moves ahead to where the others are waiting.

      Day after day, the same ragtag procession: First, the propped (Dorothy, Hildegard, Sixtus, Cecilia), in silence but for the clack of canes; then the walker on wheels (Dymphna); then the wheelchair (Josepha). Sister Perpetua follows, on her own, with unfaltering step, the only one.

      They are—count them—all of the seven remaining, the eighth, Sister Martha, having gone to her eternal reward the week before. Father Theo files in after the sisters. He’s been a frequent noontime guest since Father Nolan, their regular chaplain, assumed extra duties elsewhere. Father Theo is dragging now, as though trudging uphill.

      All but Sister Perpetua have grown old in service here.

      Tower bells herald the noon hour, proclaim an ordered world. The sisters chorus: The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary. . . . Those who are able to stand for the Angelus do so; kneeling is not an option.

      They spread out loosely over the long table in the refectory as if to colonize the emptiness. The white oilcloth gleams, immaculate but for a frayed spot here and there where the shining surface has worn through, exposing the underweave.

      So many vacant places. . .so many echoes! Once upon a time this hall was filled with young, clear voices, singing and laughter, for despite the name of their order Servants of the Sorrowing Mother, also known (teasingly, among certain priests) as the Sorrowful Sisters, they were a joyous bunch in their younger days. And they were spunky: To the great I AM, say ‘we are!’ was one of their shout-songs. They were nurses and teachers, living in the world and out of it, at a time when vocations were plentiful. Forty-some professed, a dozen or so in the various stages of postulancy and the novitiate, everything clicking right along—so different from this year when their one and only novice quit and gave no reason. As if the reason were all too obvious.

      They sit, then bless themselves. Bean soup and cornbread today. Some sort of dessert—pudding—whitish. Father Theo dabbles in the soup, takes several bites of the cornbread, postpones the pudding.

      Banners grace the four walls proclaiming Morning with Jesus , Midday with Jesus, Evening with Jesus, Renewed by His Grace. A portrait of the foundress, Mother Bernarda, is positioned midpoint between Morning and Midday. She is wimpled in the old habit, neck and ears under wrap. She seems to be smiling, but faintly, slightly off-center, as if losing patience. Year after year she’s been put up for beatification, but she’s not there yet, remaining merely Venerable—worthy of veneration, not yet Blessed. And she’ll need two miracles after Blessed to boost her up to Saint. So far, one sister’s claim to a miraculous cure has not been authenticated— in fact, the recipient (Sister Martha) is the one who has just died.

      Father Theo finds himself sitting next to Sister Hildegard and across from Sister Cecelia. I dreamed about you last night, Sister Hildegard ventures.

      Oh? Pleasant, I hope?

      Strange. Very strange. You were leading a herd of white-faced cattle. You know the kind—their bodies and ears are black with white markings. They were grazing, moving across the field here, and some of them were straying. You started crossing the highway and never once looked back. What does it mean? You’re not thinking of leaving us, are you?

      How should I know? he answers. "It was your dream, not mine."

      Do we own our dreams, I wonder?

      A flurry of speculation follows. Are dreams messages? Or mere detritus, sweep-ups of unfinished personal business from the day?

      Meanwhile, Sister Cecelia has been bursting to get a word in. Have you noticed how the days are warning? she says. But it’s still too chilly to go outside and play.

      Charity is called-for. It’s not clear whether it’s only her speech that’s failing, or her hearing, or her mind, or possibly all three together. One must listen carefully: We are swimmers—all concerns sinners. Friday becomes flyday. Best not to argue or press for clarification. All signs point to the End of Time.

      Jesus is coming, Sister Cecelia concludes, and that spells it all.

      Father is leaving. Rising abruptly, he gathers his plates, nudging the pudding aside untouched. Be quick!—he feels the gimlet eye of Sister Sixtus upon him. I saw you only pecking at your plate, Father. Don’t carry the fasting too far, she scolds. He hurries his dishes to the sink, scrapes and stacks them, hoping for a clean getaway.

      Which is not to be—for Sister Perpetua is close on his heels. She draws him out of the hallway and into the deserted Host Room. Neither makes a motion to close the door. Leaving the door open is scarcely necessary but old rules become second nature at last.

      * * *

      Since Sister Martha’s passing

      , Sister Perpetua has been acting Superior of the convent. She’s the youngest of the group, somewhere in her fifties, which is not so young, but looks apple-cheeked and positively farm-fresh in comparison with everyone else here. Feeling herself to be a generation apart sometimes, she needs to vent. It comes out in a burst:

      We still have open house, our day of discernment, as you know. Last year we baked a hundred cookies, and two girls showed up. We always hope, we never learn. Those who come are mostly curious to know what goes on here—they think of it as a secret place. So they think it’s ‘cool’ to investigate. But no one is willing to commit or give it a serious try. Not one single aspirant. I guess you know what happened to our one and only novice? but here Sister Perpetua breaks off. She has begun to weep. The girl’s departure still rankles—a desertion and a harbinger of things to come.

      They

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