THIS IS THE DAY THE LORD HAS MADE.

I open my eyes and realize it's a day with two mornings: the snow-shadowed dawn and right now, in my bed, with Bradley next to me. The champagne bubbles have turned to lead and bob freely in my temples; the dusty digital clock on my nightstand tells me that it's 10:56. In approximately four minutes the alarm will go off and with a full three hours of beauty sleep, Bradley and I will rise and shower and eat a little something before we work the Sunday shift at the Pale Circus: noon to five, people, and in honor of the Day of the Lord, your second item is half off. We took a cab home last night, given our champagne consumption, and so we'll have to take one to the Pale Circus this morning. I know my car is still drivable, but wonder how I will get the crunched grille fixed. My mother had a mechanic-his name was Russell-but where does he work? Adding another detail to the slate of my life makes me want to sleep for a hundred days.

Instead I roll over and study Bradley's arm slung across the pillow, the hairs and freckles, the dry skin, the veins in his hands, the crucifix on his thumb, a dark bruise on his elbow. I watch the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the fading moment of his nocturnal delicacy. I touch my tongue to my swollen lip and think how I can perhaps coat it, gently, with dark lipstick and pa.s.s it off as a bad collagen injection. My second thought is how strange it is to have a body, to not just be a collection of random floating thoughts, but to own a solid little patch of the universe. My own body has changed; it has absorbed the pain of the past months. For those first weeks after my mother died, I would wake up happy enough in the bright spell of the first split second of day. But that flash of ignorance was never bliss, given the reality that would follow, the electric blue shock of it all.

And now my body has absorbed this other surprise. I know the school will not call.

I miss my gun.

But Bradley is awake now, and humming, a small smile on his face, his eyes still closed. The sun slashes through the inch between the window frame and the shade, shooting in a line of snow-white brightness. Bradley reaches across the bed and takes my hand, and we lie there like chaste, realistic honeymooners who will never divorce. He sings out slowly, softly: "This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it."

Bradley sings with his eyes closed, maybe not such a bad idea, since the stripe of sun highlights the dust in my room. It is no mere speckling on my walnut dresser and bureau, it is thick and white, the stray fluff of a cottonwood tree on the clock radio and jewelry box and picture frames. I have not swiped a cloth over anything since my mother died. And so she is with us here in the bedroom, her dry skin and dandruff, her skin cells and hair. Of course the throwaway detritus of a human being is the lamest of consolations. Still, it's better than nothing. I tilt my head back on the pillow and look at the framed cross-st.i.tch over my bed. My mother made it when she was into embroidery-a blissfully quick phase, as seeing her on the sofa with her little wooden hoop and Baggie of colorful threads-h.e.l.lo, Ma Ingalls!-always vexed me. She loved trying out new art projects-knitting, painting, beading, ceramics, printmaking, and my least favorite, weaving, which involved a large rickety loom that briefly took up residence in our living room like a c.u.mbersome hippie roommate. Our DIY home decor is an homage to her craftiness, but the cross-st.i.tch sampler hanging over my bed is all that remains of her winter of embroidery. It's definitely corny, but I won't take it down. Because, once upon a time, my mother sat on the couch, and with needle and soft blue thread, embroidered the only prayer she believed in: PRAYER FOR THE CARE OF CHILDREN.

Almighty G.o.d, Heavenly Father, You have blessed us With the joy and care of children: Give us calm strength and patient wisdom As we bring them up, So that we may teach them to love Whatever is just and true and good, Following the example of our Savior, Jesus Christ.

-The Book of Common Prayer, 1979 Bradley is still singing in a high, goosey voice: "This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it."

Clearly this is an anthem for the deluded or the mentally ill; I suppose we are both.

"This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it, let us rejoice, let us rejoice, let us rejoice and be glad in it."

Possibly this is the lamest song ever, made bearable only by Bradley's ironic crooning.

But then Bradley opens his eyes and sings in his regular voice: "This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it." His voice is clean, strong. I imagine the bad priest picking his voice out of the choir, letting his eyes flutter shut while he listened to Bradley sing. Jesus, if he is at the helm, if he really exists beyond the spun-sugar Milky Way of stained gla.s.s and mahogany pews, would not look down in fey, helpless confusion; he would admit he is doing a highly questionable job of shepherding his flock. He would, in the words of daytime TV, own it.

But when I think of Jesus hanging on the cross at Bradley's church, his face is not just the standard ostentatious suffering, Jesus rendered as the big wooden crybaby of Our Lady of Mercedes. The Son of G.o.d looks confused and highly p.i.s.sed: Big Daddy's grandiose plans have gotten me into a bit of a pickle.

And I think of my mother, her rejection of all things Catholic and our subsequent church-hopping, her tiresome rants about the patriarchal hijacking of Christianity. And yet, she always told me: "Jesus is your brother." It's what she believed: Jesus is my brother. n.o.body could take that away from her.

As we lie there together, I start to sing along with Bradley: "This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it, let us rejoice, let us rejoice, let us rejoice and be glad in it"-the chorus of the next thirty seconds until the alarm goes off-"be glad in it be glad in it be glad in it."

After a rush of customers, the store is suddenly quiet. Late afternoon: Bradley's in the back alley, on his Pale Circus smoke break. Unable to control myself, I decide to call home and check my messages one more time. Because what the h.e.l.l, and also because I'm not really expecting a call on a Sunday. People are at church or reading the newspaper or arguing with their family about the day's ch.o.r.es; n.o.body can hurt me on a Sunday. According to the Lord it's the first day of the week, but it always feels like the last. In kindergarten I had underpants embroidered with the days of the week, and I liked it when Sunday came, the navy blue cursive letters, and the comfort of the week finishing, the closure of a spaghetti dinner and a bubble bath, fingernails trimmed and hair shampooed before Monday morning, when the world reliably began anew.

I'm standing at the counter, the cell phone jammed between my ear and my shoulder, when I hear the five words that start my heart shuddering: "You have one new message."

I punch in 617. My mother's birthday was June seventeenth. How could I ever forget my code? I'm looking at a round rack of candy-colored sweaters when I hear: "Sandinista, this is Lisa Kaplansky."

I close my eyes and the colorful sweaters form a brief, bright rainbow on my eyelids.

"Hey, I was out of school last week from Tuesday through Friday-my baby got sick on Monday night-it started out as just a regular flu, with a fever, but evolved into full-blown pneumonia. Charlie ended up in the hospital for two nights-nightmare-but he's fine now, so I'll be back at school in the morning. And I heard that there was a problem with Catherine Bennett last Monday? Listen, come to my room first thing in the morning and we'll try to get it sorted out. Okay? I'll be looking for you. Okay, Sandinista. Hope you're well. Bye."

It happened.

Finally.

I am shaking. I take a deep breath and run my tongue over my lip, coming away with a taste of dried blood and lipstick, while my mind zooms: Lisa Kaplansky. Lisa Kaplansky. And Monday. And school? Going back to school? Because I'm on the schedule at the Pale Circus from ten to five on Monday. What would I tell Henry Charbonneau?

Especially after this morning, when I found a gorgeous comfort waiting for me at the Pale Circus: a note from Henry pinned to the mulberry ball gown that was displayed in the front window at the beginning of the week.

Sandinista, I thought this would be just the thing for you. Wear it with glee. Love, Henry C.

When I tried the dress on, I was surprised at how perfect it looked on me, as if I had clicked my heels three times and turned into a 1950s starlet. For Bradley, Henry left a dove-gray shirt with a collar that flared out in deep, handsome Vs and fit as if custom-tailored in Milan.

Bradley and I, though achy from the car accident, vamped together in the three-way mirror: "You're gorgeous." "No, you are!" And then, just as our heads started to throb from the world in general and specifically from a lack of caffeine, Erika showed up with two lattes in a cardboard carrier. Of course she brought chocolates for the candy dish, because that's Erika's thing, her job, but the coffee was a specific kindness that required seven dollars and twenty minutes out of her morning to stop at Buzz Cafe, to jostle hot beverages across a snowy street. She did a double take when she saw my swollen lip, because makeup only does so much: "Sandinista?" Her voice gentle but laced with panic.

"Driving on the ice?" Bradley said quickly, and he put his hand on Erika's back. "Not really Sandinista's strong suit."

"Oh," she said. She laughed a little. "Okay. That's right. I saw your car out there."

In this fifteen-second exchange, I saw that Bradley knew the backstory of Erika's a.s.sault. I saw how quickly he moved to rea.s.sure her-and with just the right tone-that the same thing hadn't happened to me. And then time stopped and roared past all at once as I projected him into his confident, happy adult life in a different city-Manhattan or Malaga-a man holding a book, a baguette, a man with a suit and a smile, without the weed, without the bad priest. I wanted to tell him that his cleverness and imagination would take him far and that none of his kindness had been wasted, but that's a tricky thing to say. When Erika left the store, what I actually said was: "Bradley? Seriously? That shirt really does look terrific on you."

And now: it has happened. I've gotten the call, and my heart is full of Lisa Kaplansky's words; oh, how easily they translate into those highlighted words from my mother's junior high Bible: I will not leave you comfortless; I will come to you. And I think of Erika, hard-core and sweet and broken, and of Henry Charbonneau, seemingly all froth and delicious eyes and ludicrous asides. Yet Henry Charbonneau has his own bulls.h.i.t deal d.o.g.g.i.ng his days: HIV. And still they both give thoughtful gifts; they both pay attention. I look over my shoulder and admire my calves in the thin mirror on the end of the shoe rack-I've borrowed black beaded satin pumps from the shoe rack, and the three-inch heels do something crazy fantastic to my legs. It seems that vanity is an antidote to any residual grief, until I think of my mother, lacing up her espadrilles as she sat on the edge of her bed before taking a long, cool look at herself in the mirror, smiling at her own yogalicious calves.

I walk to the back of the Pale Circus and take yet another good look at myself in the three-way mirror: the lavender-gray shadows under my eyes, my banged-up mouth. Beneath my fanciful dress, the bruise on my ribs-Monday's surprise-has faded to a shadow. It has been a long week, and there's still work to be done. Along with my dress and Bradley's shirt, Henry Charbonneau left a very long list of Sunday ch.o.r.es written out in pastel-colored pencil: marshmallow-pink, mint-green and baby chickyellow, as if this would make scrubbing the toilet and changing out the roach motels Easter-sweet. I b.i.t.c.hed a bit about the work; I inquired about what Henry Charbonneau might be doing with his free Sunday: refinishing the white pine floors of his loft? Scrambling eggs and chopping fresh chive? Balling melon? Brewing jasmine tea? Bradley smiled and shook his head. He put his hands together, crucified thumb to his heart, and said: "On the seventh day, he rested."

And now Bradley is walking back into the Pale Circus. His eyes are a bit bloodshot and he's forgotten to stamp his feet at the door, tracking in a dusting of snow that would make Henry Charbonneau weep. Bradley rubs his hands together and makes a bl.u.s.tery brrrr sound before he looks at me and says, "Sandinista? What? Why are you smiling?"

I can hardly get the words out. "My English teacher called me."

"She did?" Bradley packs the two words with all the tenderness the world has ever known. "She did?"

I'm Windexing the windows, the Pale Circus filling with that clean, aqua-blue smell, when I see a monk walking down the street. He walks with great purpose, cradling something in his brown robe like a baby. When I lean closer to the window, my forehead resting on the cold pane, I see that it is Brother Bill of the Dixie Cup humor. He stops to look at the crunched-up front end of my Taurus, which is parked right outside the Pale Circus. He brushes off the snow, fools with one of my windshield wipers, and puts something on the hood of my car.

Just as I'm about to open the door and yell out: "Brother Bill, can I help you?" or "Dude, what the h.e.l.l are you doing to my car?" or some amalgamation of the two, he looks up, twists his head around, then racewalks back down the street to the monastery, his hands tucked up in the folds of his robes.

"I'm stepping outside for a minute," I call out to Bradley, who is dusting, or about to start: he rolls the wooden end of the feather duster between his palms so that the feathers do a slow fan dance. Bradley stares down at the duster with a shy smile, as if he's holding his bridal bouquet. His cell phone is sandwiched between his head and bent neck.

"What?" Bradley startles and drops the feather duster. "Sorry! I'm going outside."

" 'Kay," Bradley says amicably, offering up a little wave. He smiles, then curls his head down like a cat and whispers something into his phone. Whoever he is talking to makes him laugh, soft and slow. I won't ask.

I pull open the door of the Pale Circus and walk across the snowy sidewalk to my car, cold in my bare dress and holding out one hand for balance. I visor my other hand over my eyes and take a long look at Brother Bill scurrying down Thirty-Eighth Street. And then, when I look down at the hood of my crushed car, I see the monk's gift.

It nearly blinds me.

The sun flares off the bra.s.s lid of a mason jar of red jam. I pick it up and look at the jam sparkling beyond the gla.s.s, the seeded clots of berry like a chambered heart. There is no label on the jar, no price or bar code, no list of ingredients. There is only a preprinted note card attached to the jar that says LOVE AND BLESSINGS TO YOU FROM YOUR FRIENDS AT ST. JOSEPH'S MONASTERY. The label smells hotly of glue. I brush the lid against my mouth, the ridged metal gold and sweet as a kiss.

I close my eyes for a second, savoring this day of gifts, and for once I do not see Catherine Bennett. I only see Alecia Hardaway under the fluorescent lights in the school corridor, the brilliance of her puzzled smile as she closes her locker and turns to look at me. She's waving, pleasantly at first: Hi, Sandinista! You're a real cool person, Sandinista! You're a real cool person every day! But then she starts to wave as if she's drowning: Look at me, Sandinista! Help me, Sandinista!

And so I imagine myself showing up on the Hardaways' doorstep. Her mother answers the door and it's me, the real me, resplendent in a white angora sweater and pencil skirt, a lipsticked pinup saint spilling G.o.d's truth. Your daughter is being tormented at school. And not by some random b.i.t.c.hy girl, Mrs. Hardaway. Not by a student. By a teacher. Everyone acts like it doesn't happen. But I have seen it. I've seen it many times, Mrs. Hardaway. The pinks and purples and wild navy blues of Mrs. Bennett's slip exit my brain, my eyelids. Birds of peace appear on the telephone wires above our heads.

But the valiant holiness of my confession is lost on Mrs. Hardaway. Tell me how long this has been going on. Tell me!

All year, I tell her, my voice loud as dinner theater. Since school started.

At first her face falls. Mrs. Hardaway chews her lip, maybe thinking of the days when Alecia was at school and she was at work, or sipping a latte or playing computer solitaire or listlessly wandering the aisles of Target, whatever mothers do in those long, lost hours without their children.

But then Mrs. Hardaway says: And you're just telling me now! You let her suffer just like everyone else for all this time?

I try to be plucky. Better late than never! I've been trying to figure out what to do about the teacher. I had a pink gun, but now it's gone. If I get another one, I will take care of Catherine Bennett for you.

Mrs. Hardaway screams it loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear: JESUS CHRIST!

And of course it's Jesus I'm thinking about as I stand on Thirty-Eighth Street, how all of Christianity seems a cautionary tale, a bleak epiphany visited upon the King of Kings himself as he was nailed to the cross: What the h.e.l.l? I guess you can't save anyone else without crucifying yourself.

But what can any of us do but try? In the morning, I will go to school and talk with Lisa Kaplansky. I will tell her about Alecia. About me.

I stand here on the street for another moment, shivering in my ball gown as I watch Brother Bill trudge up the steep, frozen steps of St. Joseph's. I press the jar of jam to the deep V in the front of my dress, to my bare and bony sternum. It's still warm.

I don't think he sees me.

I know he doesn't see me. But then, just before Brother Bill disappears into the monastery, he turns around. He raises his hand, and he waves.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

A world of grat.i.tude to Sara Eckel, Lisa Bankoff, Mich.e.l.le Poploff, Rebecca Short, Angela Carlino, Mary Wharff, Lucia Orth, Laura Moriarty, Judy Bauer, Andrea Hoag, Sharon Zehr, Kellie Wells, Jerald Walker, Whitney Terrell, Jennifer Lawler, Laura Kirk and Stefanie Olson.

And thank you to my family, my parents, my siblings, my husband and my children: I love you all.

MARY O'CONNELL is a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop and the author of the short-story collection Living with Saints. Her short fiction and essays have appeared in several literary magazines, and she is the recipient of a James Michener Fellowship and a Chicago Tribune Nelson Algren Award. The Sharp Time is her first novel.

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