Chapter Text
The Church of St. Magdalene sat in the center of Wilde and Dupont Street in Manayunk, Pennsylvania, a puzzle piece out of place compared to the traditional, clustered row homes surrounding it in the small, Northwest Philadelphia neighborhood. The rusted brown brick facade had darkened over the decades to the color of old bruises, and the stained glass windows depicting various saints and sinners in their martyrdom cast multi-colored shadows across the worn wooden pews each morning. An unkept cemetery with a handful of headstones filled the plot directly to the right of the church, adding an extra layer of heaviness to the atmosphere. The cold late January winds had stripped the trees outside lining the pathway down to their skeletal branches, and ice crusted the edge of the cement step leading up to the heavy, red wooden doors. It wasn't the kind of church that attracted the young professionals gentrifying the neighborhood with their artisanal coffee shops and sip and paint ceramic studios. Instead, St. Magdalene's welcomed the holdouts. The elderly women who'd been coming since before half the current population was born, and a handful of families too established to move out of the city's suburbs. There was also the occasional wanderer who stopped in, typically looking for something they couldn’t even figure out themselves.
Pastor Carol Sturka had been at St. Magdalene's for three years now, which was two years longer than anyone expected her to last. A woman pushing forty, she was younger than most pastors the congregation would have preferred, and her sermons had a sharpness to them that made people shift in their seats from the uncomfortable sensation of being called out for their actions. Carol wasn’t a fan of the typical, relatable pastor routine so many of her younger peers favored. She didn't tell heartwarming anecdotes about rescue dogs or make pop culture references to prove she was “hip.” Carol Sturka preached like someone who'd read the Bible, the difficult parts, and had decided that if God was going to challenge her, then she would challenge Him, and anyone who would listen, right back.
She lived in the rectory behind the church, a narrow, matching brick building attached with creaking wooden floors and radiators that clanged through the winter nights. She swore the noises were ghosts haunting her from the cemetery, a mere stone’s throw away from her door. The diocese had offered her a residency elsewhere, somewhere more modern with a central heating unit that actually worked, but Carol had refused. She told them she wanted to remain available for her congregation. But truthfully, Carol didn't trust herself with too much freedom. She needed someone, God, a parishioner, to keep a close eye on her.
Carol followed a rigid structure that consisted of morning prayer, coffee (black, no sugar), sermon preparation, hospital visits, evening prayer, and dinner. Usually, something microwaveable that she ate standing at her kitchen counter while reading theological journals. She went to bed by ten, never later than eleven. Carol also allowed herself one glass of wine on Saturday nights, which she drank from a teacup while sitting in the small fenced-in garden behind the rectory. She purposely didn’t own any appropriate liquor glassware. It was a decent way of life, or so she thought, an orderly one. A life scrubbed of anything that might lead her astray.
Carol had grown up in a semi-religious household in Pittsburgh, an only child born to parents who'd married late and acted surprised to find themselves responsible for another human being. Her father had been a quiet man who worked as an accountant and died of a heart attack when Carol was nine, leaving behind a life full of meticulously organized tax returns and a daughter who'd inherited his need for structured order. Her mother had been, still is technically (they hadn't spoken in over two years), a woman who expressed her love through strictness and disappointment through silence. Carol had learned early that the best way to avoid her mother's sharp tongue was to be perfect, or appear perfect, which eventually became the same thing for her.
She'd gone to mass every Sunday without being asked. At first, it wasn’t due to devotion. It was simply an hour she didn't have to spend in the oppressive quietness of her mother’s house. Growing up, she was the kind of child who made adults say things like "she’s so mature for her age," and teachers write "well behaved” on all of her report cards. When it came time for college, she'd chosen a small, local university because the decision had already been made for her by expectation and circumstance in the form of a hefty scholarship. She'd drifted toward a major in theology because it seemed like the kind of thing a girl who took life and death seriously should study. In her final year, when the real world reared its ugly head and she was faced with the reality of finding a job, Carol panicked.
Discernment after graduation was her life raft. More structure, plenty of rules, and most importantly, boundaries between right and wrong. A path that had been walked by thousands before her, and she felt safe. She wouldn't have to decide what to do with her life because it would be decided for her. Life as a pastor was a choice that came with a pre-determined outline. She loved the certainty.
When Carol shared this plan with her mother, she was furious. Carol had told her it was a calling, a vocation, and her mother laughed in her face. She remembers the day so clearly.
“You just want God to tell you what to do with your life rather than figure it out yourself!” Carol’s mother shouted as Carol frantically packed her bags with tears in her eyes before leaving her childhood home for the last time.
They haven’t spoken since. Not even at her own ordination. Her mother didn’t come.
Carol told herself it didn't matter. She told herself a lot of things didn’t matter after she left Pittsburgh.
Despite her past, Carol succeeded at being a pastor in the traditional sense. She sat with people in their grief and found the right words for their particular struggle. Carol was especially skilled at loneliness, an emotion she wore with a sense of pride, a constant reminder of her devotion.
However, she wasn't good at handling when other people addressed her loneliness. Moments like last week, when Mrs. Metz grabbed her hand after the fundraiser and jokingly said, "Pastor, you do too much for us! You need someone to take care of you!" Or when an average, fine enough male parishioner suggested at last month’s bake sale that they get dinner sometime, his eyes gleaming in a way that made her stomach clench. Not in a positive way. Carol struggled the most when she caught herself staring too long at the women from the local university’s Bible study group. Almost every Wednesday, she’d find one at the evening service and chat briefly afterward to feel something. A moment of weakness, she’d remind herself. Carol had learned to redirect those moments and transform them into prayer, or service, literally anything other than what she actually felt. She was never the relationship type, avoiding questions about boyfriends from family members her entire adolescence. It wasn’t until Freshman year of college that she went on a few dates with some equally repressed boys that ended in drunken one-night stands. It was a societal expectation she crossed off, nothing more. She spent the rest of her 20s and early 30s feeling way too little around men and way too much around women. She didn’t have time to address any of the latter since she was focused on her discernment during that stage of her life. At least that’s what she told herself.
Zosia Orzech had not planned on going to church on a random Sunday morning.
She'd moved to the quaint Philadelphia suburb six months ago for a fresh start after feeling lost in her former city of Boston. She worked at a small cafe nearby, which meant she spent eight hours a day making cappuccinos and pastries for teens and twenty-somethings who could barely crack a smile at her. Have a nice day! Silence. Every day, she would walk home after work to her studio apartment off Main and watch some mindless Netflix show until she fell asleep on her couch. She hated the eerie quietness of her place and the hum of trucks from the distant highway. Lonely, but surviving.
She'd left behind a girlfriend in Boston (well, ex-girlfriend now) and a circle of friends who were more like dolls she’d play with than meaningful friendships. She was tired of the harsh winters and New England attitudes, so Zosia responded by moving to Philadelphia, which she had to admit was, unfortunately, not much different.
Zosia might not have been very good at keeping relationships, or with people in general, but one thing Zosia was sure about was her sexuality. She knew she liked women at fifteen, came out to close friends at seventeen, and spent her twenties hooking up with a playful confidence that made other women either envious or annoyed. It was simple for Zosia. She loved women. Women loved her. They fucked. No big deal.
However, the mundane routine of these non-committal relationships created a version of herself she didn’t entirely connect with. She was witty and abrasive, but felt absolutely nothing underneath. Zosia had even started smoking again after she brokeup with her girlfriend despite quitting three years ago, because at least it gave her something to do, and slowly killing herself felt like the only decision she really had any control over.
Zosia found herself walking past St. Magdalene's on a Sunday morning in late January. She took a drag from her cigarette and questioned if she had the energy to walk to the grocery store on Green Street or if she should just go home and crawl back into bed for a few hours. Before she turned the corner, Zosia heard the organ music drifting out through the propped opened doors. Her breath fogged in the cold air, mixing with the cigarette smoke. Her fingers were numb despite her gloves, and the sky was a particular shade of gray that Philadelphia specialized in during winter, as if the sun had given up.
Zosia hadn't been to church since she was twelve, but she was freezing her ass off outside, and something about the depressing and slightly off-key music had made her stop. She took a deep breath, stubbed out her cigarette against the brick wall, and walked inside. The church was exactly what she'd expected. It smelled of incense and wood polish. The accumulation of at least a decade's worth of dust was sprinkled across the ceiling fixtures. She'd slipped into a pew near the back, planning to stay for maybe ten minutes, just long enough to warm up, but she could still see the fog of her breath fill the air - so much for heat.
It was at the five-minute mark that Pastor Carol Sturka walked up to the pulpit.
Zosia had expected someone old, an elderly man with a stern presence. Your stereotypical small-town pastor. She didn’t expect a younger woman who looked like she'd been carved straight from the ice she almost slipped on outside. Zosia noticed the woman’s blonde hair was cut in a precise bob that ended just above her shoulders, a haircut that required maintenance and discipline. She wore her clerical collar tightly around her neck, unforgiving against her pale skin. Everything about her appearance suggested control. The neat part in her hair and the way her vestments hung without a wrinkle. The woman wore no jewelry except for a silver cross that landed just below the crook of her neck. Zosia assessed that the woman could likely see straight through the bullshit of every person in the room. But Zosia could see straight through hers too.
She noticed the blonde grasping tightly around the edges of the pulpit with both hands, her knuckles now white against the tan wooden fixture. The nerves were evident through her body language.
"The reading today is from Luke, chapter fifteen. The parable of the prodigal son." Carol's voice carried through the cold air with a loudness the woman in the last pew did not expect.
"The son who squanders his inheritance and returns home expecting nothing. And the father, in his infinite mercy, throws a party. Kills the fatted calf. Rejoices."
She paused, her jaw tightening.
"But I want to talk about the older brother. The one who remained loyal, followed all the rules, and never strayed. When his father throws a party for the troubled son, the older brother says, 'All these years I've slaved for you and never disobeyed. Yet you never gave me even a young goat.' And the father replies, 'You are always with me, and everything I have is yours.'"
Carol's voice had gone softer, but there was something bitter underneath it, a sense of hurt.
"I thought to myself the other day, this doesn't actually answer the question.” She glances across the eyes of those still paying attention, which are few. “The older brother wants to know why obedience gets him nothing while rebellion gets a celebration.” She stopped, as if she'd realized something profound herself. "Maybe staying in your father's house, working in his fields, living his life…is its own kind of prison. Another form of death."
An elderly woman in the front pew looked uneasy and lowered her head. Carol took a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was warm, all judgment fading away.
"But the point is grace. Unmerited grace. Whether we're the prodigal son or the older brother, we're all invited to the party. We're all welcomed home." She gestured outward to the pews.
Zosia couldn’t help but quietly roll her eyes at the irony of it all. She looked around to see if others saw through the pastor’s act. At the same time, she felt her pulse beating in her chest at the sight of this older, commanding woman. She watched Carol's fingers grip her thumbs for dear life as she stood perfectly still. Cautious that any movement might shatter her carefully constructed composure.
Carol's eyes swept across the congregation and landed on Zosia in that back pew. It lasted maybe five seconds, but Zosia knew she caught her watching. An unidentifiable expression flickered across her face before she looked away and continued her closing prayer without missing a beat. But Zosia felt the blonde’s gaze sink into her body. Her fingers nervously fidgeted around each other. She ended up staying for the entire service. Mumbling along to hymns she didn't know while trying not to stare at Carol's hands or listen too closely to her deep voice. When it was over, as people filed out and shook the pastor’s hand at the door, Zosia joined the line, her palms sweating despite the cold air creeping in.
"Welcome," Carol said while the younger woman inched closer, her voice professionally warm, but her smile much more distant. Up close, Carol could carefully examine the new face she noticed in the back of the church. Unbrushed dark brown hair, shoulder length, no older than thirty. She wore sturdy winter boots with black cargo pants and a floral embroidered cream colored sweater. A puffy, forest green winter jacket covered all of the above and fell past her thighs. The brunette had several ear piercings and a small tattoo on her wrist that looked like a camera. She smelled of rose essential oil and cigarette smoke. Mismatched, Carol thought to herself. Unorderly. Another lost soul.
“I don't think we've met,” Carol uttered, boring, a basic formality.
"Zosia," she introduced herself, shaking the Pastor’s hand. It was cold and dry, and Carol pulled away almost immediately, as if Zosia's touch had burned her.
"I'm new to the neighborhood. I heard the organ playing outside and…”
"Well, we're glad to have you at St. Magdalene's." Carol interrupted, her smile slightly more genuine now. "I'm Pastor Carol Sturka."
"Nice to meet you, Pastor Sturka,” she nodded, doing her best to play nice.
“That sermon," Zosia continued, "the whole prison thing. That was pretty dark for a Sunday morning." She chuckled to break the awkward tension.
A semblance of a smile twitched at the corner of Carol's mouth - cautious amusement.
“Well, the gospel isn't meant to be comfortable."
"No, I liked it. You gave me a lot to think about!”
Zosia lied as she scanned the woman’s face for something real.
Carol's eyes were giving her a complicated look to read in return. She felt somewhat afraid of the younger woman. "Well, I hope you'll come back.” Not entirely a lie. “We could use some new people around here!” Carol idiotically blurted out, anxious to move on from this conversation.
There was a beat of silence. Zosia felt a shift in her chest, a dangerous pang.
Before Zosia could respond, an elderly woman appeared at her elbow, demanding Pastor Sturka’s attention. The woman whipped out a list and started asking questions about a church bake sale.
Zosia took this as a sign and snuck past them to the exit, flicking her lighter in front of a cigarette the moment she stepped outside, hands jittery. She inhaled a long breath and exhaled the smoke as her face pointed up at the church’s exterior and followed the building up toward the sky, assessing her surroundings.
Zosia told herself she wouldn't come back. That this was a mistake, just some confusing interaction with a pastor, no, a stranger. Her eyes rolled out of annoyance. No wonder I stopped going to church. She had better things to do with her Sunday mornings than to deal with this nonsense.
By the following Sunday, Zosia found herself back in that old, smelly church. And, reluctantly, the Sunday after that too. Embarrassing.
She started paying attention to what she wore on those chilly February mornings. Nothing obvious, she wasn’t a fool, but not entirely innocent either. A blazer and a blouse underneath, with one too many buttons undone. A leather jacket that she knew made her look like trouble in the eyes of holier beings. Dark blush lipstick just because she liked it, not because she wanted to see if Carol would notice. She'd purposely catch Carol's eye during the service and hold it for a moment too long. Zosia was getting good at this game, making small talk with the other parishioners, always aware of exactly where Carol was in the room, tracking her like sport.
It was all for fun, Zosia told herself. Just something to make her life less boring. A distraction from the fact that she was twenty-nine and had no idea what she was doing with her life. How lonely she felt underneath it all. She made it clear to herself that she was not falling for a repressed pastor. Absolutely not.
Carol had noticed Zosia the first Sunday she'd appeared and how she kept coming back. In typical Carol Sturka fashion, she told herself it didn't mean anything. New people came to church all the time. Well, maybe not all the time. St. Magdalene's wasn't exactly a popular parish, but regardless, it was her job to welcome them, to make them feel included, and bring them closer to God. The fact that she found herself looking for Zosia during weekend services was irrelevant. Actually, it was rather pathetic how she would lie awake in the cold rectory, listening to the fireplace crackle as she thought about the way Zosia looked at her earlier in the day. Carol wondered if Zosia could see all the things she kept locked away. She sat closer during service now, the third row pew to be exact, and for the record, Carol did notice the blouses sat much too low on her chest. She knew the brunette was doing it on purpose, and it frustrated her. But it also flattered her that someone could want her in that way. When these obsessive thoughts entered her head late at night, it was simply a sign that she needed to pray more. Carol Sturka was very good at lying to herself. A necessary survival mechanism that she used to repress and pray away anything that threatened the careful structure of her life. Even if that repression felt like her own personal hell.