Garden of Lies by Eileen Goudge

years and she were looking back
    at herself, at the child she’d been just an hour ago, at all the things she’d felt but been unable to
    put a name to.
    “I love you,” she said.
    “Rose.” He tugged her to him and held her tightly, his words muffled by her hair.
    “Something ... happened. I’m not sure exactly what. But I ... I think I meant it. I think I must have
    wanted it to happen. God help me, Rose, I think I did.”
    It was those last words of his, “God help me,” that stuck in her mind like a thorn. A terrible
    thought occurred to her: would God punish her for loving Brian this way? They had committed
    adultery, hadn’t they? Sister Perpetua said adultery was any unclean thought or deed. Rose didn’t
    feel unclean, but she knew what Sister meant by it. Sex. And that was a sin unless you were
    married and did it to make a baby. Any kind of sex.
    Fear took hold of Rose’s heart. She thought of dreadful things. She wouldn’t get pregnant, but
    she could be struck down by a car while crossing the street. Or fall in front of a subway train. Or
    —
    She stopped; the pressure on her heart was hurting now. Then she realized what the very worst
    punishment of all would be.
    Losing Brian.
    “... but deliver us from evil. Amen.”
    Rose completed the last Our Father. Looking up, she saw that it was dark and the church nearly
    empty. Her knees ached, and her stomach was growling. It had to be past dinnertime.
    [61] She rose stiffly and sidled from the pew, wincing as she genuflected. Then, dipping her

finger in the holy water in the vestibule, and crossing herself, she went outside.
    Rose walked the sidewalks quickly in the fading light. Clouds had formed overhead, and it was
    starting to rain. Fat tepid droplets broke against her face.
    Chin tucked against her collar, she hurried down Coney Island Avenue. This time of the
    evening the street reminded her of a boardwalk closed for the winter. Striped awnings folded
    back, heavy metal shutters or accordion gates drawn across storefronts. Even the pretzel man had
    left his corner. She glimpsed the back of his black coat flapping as he trotted across the street,
    pushing his cart.
    Still, the avenue teemed with life. Car horns blaring, people scurrying to get out of the rain.
    Rose heard a burly trucker bellow to the driver of a Plymouth who was kissing his tail and
    honking like crazy, “Aaaayyyy, mistah, I’ll ram ya fuckin’ front end up ya nose.”
    She quickened her step. Loose rubbish—leaves of newspaper, bits of Styrofoam, straw
    wrappers, empty cigarette packs—blew across her path. She felt lonelier than any other time she
    could think of.
    She hadn’t seen Brian since that night on the roof, a week ago. He was avoiding her. Why?
    Was he sorry about what had happened? Too embarrassed to face her?
    Guilt gnawed at her. It’s my fault, I made him kiss me. I led him into sin, just like Eve did with
    Adam.
    Was this to be God’s punishment ... taking Brian away from her?
    Oh please, God, please, I’ll do anything if you give him back. I’ll give up meat every day of the
    week, not just Friday. I’ll fast for forty days on Lent. I’ll devote my life to serving others.
    When Rose came into the apartment, Nonnie was watching “The Lawrence Welk Show.” She
    barely glanced up from her knitting.
    “You’re late,” she croaked. “I left supper in the oven for you.” Since the night Marie left,
    Nonnie had been keeping off Rose’s back. Rose wondered if her grandmother was regretting her
    awful words.
    “That’s okay. I’m not hungry,” Rose said.
    [62] In the tiny dark bedroom she’d shared with Marie, the other bed was bare, sheets removed,
    its worn chenille spread pulled tight over the mattress. Clean circles in the dust atop the dresser
    marked the places where Marie’s bottles of perfume and skin lotions had stood. Gone, too, the
    snapshots and twenty-five-cent photo-booth strips that had been tucked inside the mirror frame.
    In