Part One: In the Beginning

The Virgin smiled benevolently down at Mary.

Mary craned her neck heavenward, trying to get a better glimpse of the billboard. The sign was affixed to the side of an otherwise unremarkable barn, on a hilltop along a meandering country road, and depicted the Virgin Mary superimposed over a map of the United States. The Virgin’s robes, once bright blue, were now muted to a dusty cornflower hue from years of facing the elements. She held a phone receiver in one hand; jagged lightning-like lines emanated from the mouthpiece and stretched across the country. THE VIRGIN MARY SPEAKS TO AMERICA, the billboard shouted. 1-900-555-MARY.

What the… Mary reached for her cell phone, and punched in the first five digits before stopping to think. A 900-number would be expensive.

“Can I help you?” A thick Pennsylvania Dutch accent interrupted her. “Help” came out “hep,” and a slight drawl on the vowels—“ye-ew”—made the word two syllables. Even here, less than an hour from Philadelphia, the country accent crept into the local vernacular. Mary no longer shared that prominent twang—four years of communication and theater classes had effectively eradicated it.

The man who approached Mary sported a large baseball cap, about two sizes too big, which dominated his forehead and shaded his eyes from view. He wore dingy overalls and a ripped T-shirt, and sneakers that looked as if they had seen (and walked) the ages. He had laborer’s hands, with blistered fingers, thick dark nails, and deep crevices mapping his palms.

“I saw the billboard from my car,” Mary said. “What is this place?”

“Ah. The old sign still catches the eye, despite having seen better days, eh?” The man stood back to admire it himself.

Ivy climbed the barn’s red façade with gusto, crowding the edges of the sign. The Virgin’s face was flecked with peeling paint, creased over the years where the midday sun had settled in each afternoon. The map’s lines were barely distinct after ages of weathering—looking up, Mary couldn’t tell where Colorado ended and Utah began. At one time, the phone’s transmission might have stretched brightly to Nevada, but now the yellow lightning was visible only as far as Oklahoma. And the whole West Coast border seemed nonexistent—California especially seemed to fade right into the blue.

He turned back to her. “I run the Virgin Mary Hotline. The name’s Ralph.” He extended a mottled hand.

She shook it, gingerly. “Mary Tupper.”

“So,” Ralph said. “What brings you here today, Mary? Are you here about the want ad in the paper?”

Mary paused. She had been heading toward Peterson Lake, hoping to spend her free afternoon enjoying its shimmering, cool waters, relaxing among the sand and pines. No acting gigs had materialized after her last show wrapped in May, and she had taken a few housekeeping jobs to hold her over, all the while setting up as many auditions in the city as she could. The fact that it was August and she had yet to receive a call back had begun to worry her.

She looked at him in disbelief. “You’re hiring?” She had only pulled over her car to get a closer glimpse of this weird, quirky sign. It had been such a beacon, such a scenery change from the rolling expanse of fields that had only showed sunflowers, corn, and the occasional grazing cow up to that point. She couldn’t remember taking notice of the barn before—although, admittedly, it had been some time since she had been out this way. What she had taken to be a quick entertaining diversion, a fun landmark to commit to memory, now seemed like a providential stop.

“One of the girls just quit, and I need a new Mary.” Ralph blinked, his expression unchanging, and named an hourly salary that was significantly more than she earned cleaning houses.

Mary looked again at the barn. A little more money, no more scrubbing other people’s mess and grime in unfamiliar homes. A new Mary, he had said—would she be answering the phones as the Blessed Mother herself? “So people call in to speak with the Virgin Mary?” she asked incredulously.

“’Course they know it’s not the real thing,” Ralph started, then caught himself and paused. “Well, you never know. Some of them might think it’s real.” He looked at an undetermined point in the distance. “What we’re selling is consolation and comfort, that’s all.” He removed a large flake of dirt from beneath his fingernail, and brushed his hand off on his pant leg.

It could almost be a form of acting, albeit from afar, Mary thought. What could she do with such a juicy role? What type of performer could she be, without the benefit of visual cues and interaction? It could be great training for voice, improvisation, character study. She looked up at the painting again, drawn in by Mary’s reassuring smile, and felt herself nod.

“This way.” Around a corner, down a dustier dirt road, Ralph directed Mary to a small, shed-like structure. It was squat, shorter than the barn, but longer: an unassuming cinder-block building with neatly landscaped flower beds around the front entrance, contrasting with the rambling fields that stretched over the course of the property. Like the barn, ivy also seemed to be taking over here, and covered most of the building’s front wall.

Ralph tipped the wide brim of his baseball cap. “This here’s the headquarters. We’ve been running our little hotline for near ten years now.”

Inside, there wasn’t much more to the place: A simple main room, almost austere, seemed to be the center of activity. Several long card tables held multiple telephones, oversized three-ring notebooks, and Bibles. Three women were deep in phone conversations, their hushed voices keeping the calls as private as possible in the open space. They barely looked up to acknowledge Ralph and Mary. A few paintings of the Virgin Mary and Jesus were hung, almost haphazardly, around the space, and a sad-looking ficus tree wilted in a shady corner.

“Those’re the other Marys,” Ralph gestured toward the tables, dropping his voice so as not to interrupt. He pointed down the line: “Denise, Suellen, and my wife Colleen.”

The phones were old-fashioned chunky devices, the color of weakly brewed coffee. Each had a row of plastic buttons that flashed red when a call came in. The tables’ notebooks were well-worn, with laminated pages that long ago ceased to be crisp. Mary picked one up from an unmanned phone station; its sheets softly crinkled as she thumbed through it.

“Those are the hotline scripts,” Ralph said. “A guide of sorts for the different types of calls that come in.” He coughed deeply, and pounded a fist against his chest. “’Scuse me. Gotta stop smoking them cancer sticks. Now, let’s see. Colleen comes in when we’re short-handed, which lately has been a lot.”

Colleen looked up from her call and gave Mary a little wave. “Welcome,” she mouthed. Mary never would have placed her as Ralph’s wife—she was a sweet-faced woman with honey-colored hair, as tidy and poised as Ralph was mussed and casual. Suellen, a bottle-blond with tightly wound curls and an impressive arch of hairsprayed-stiff bangs, turned to smile as they walked past. Denise was rounder than her coworkers, a stout brunette with soft, doughy arms. She had her shoulder raised high to cradle the phone to her ear, the folds of her cheek against the mouthpiece, speaking quietly. She paid them no attention.

Mary felt the slightest tremors of apprehension take hold, not unlike opening-night jitters: the fluttering stomach, increased pulse, pricks of perspiration. Newly twenty-four, she was younger than these women by at least ten, fifteen years. And she certainly wasn’t dressed for an interview—she wondered if Ralph and the women would be able to see her purple bathing suit straps peeking out from her t-shirt collar. Even if she hadn’t been in her beach outfit, she would have felt conspicuous, sticking out with her tall build, freckles, and long red hair.

“So the phones are ringing off the hook, huh?” Mary said, a little too loud. Denise glared and raised a finger to her lips.

“We’re a bit busy, yes. I wouldn’t say we’re desperate for help, but…” Ralph shook his head, as if trying to find his way. “The sooner I can get someone in here, the better.”

As if on cue, he was interrupted by the ringing phone, and the three women didn’t react, still absorbed in their own calls. Ralph pointed to a vacant seat at a table behind the other women, gesturing to the flickering red light. “Here, this will be the practical portion of your interview.”

“Me?!?” Mary asked, taken aback. “But –”

She still held the binder, the pages spread open. Ralph reached over, turned to page one: INTRO/ANSWERING CALLS. “Thanks,” he said. “I got to go check on something. Denise, keep an ear out for her, will ya?”

Denise, phone still to her ear, frowned but nodded her assent. Mary glanced warily at the other women, and quickly scanned the script before her. She picked up the phone. “Bless you, caller,” she began, trying to calm the voice as much as possible, per its instructions. “How can I be of counsel?”

The script seemed to be divided into sections—family, romantic love, job/career, spirituality, crises of faith, and the like, each indicated by a little colored tab along the right-hand margin. Mary felt her hands shaking as she tried to concentrate, tried not to get flustered as she realized she’d already missed the beginning of what the caller had said. She felt a few beads of sweat tickle the nape of her neck.

“I’m sorry,” she interrupted the speaker, a woman with a lilting Southern accent. “Would you mind repeating what you just said? I think—it seems we may be having a bit of a connection problem.” She saw Denise hang up, and understood she was fully in the spotlight. A white lie from a supposed religious figure, she thought, feeling unbearably hot. Great start.

Denise swiveled her chair, ever so slightly, so she could just make eye contact with Mary. Use your binder, she mouthed. Mary sat back in her seat and rustled through the pages.

“I can’t get my daughter to go to church with me anymore,” the caller began again.

Family. Mary found the tab near the top, bright yellow, and turned to its section. Get into character, she thought, racking her brain for some applicable acting techniques, and struggled for inspiration. I haven’t studied religion in years! How am I supposed to play Mary? Quelling her rising panic, she asked the first question that came to mind. “How old is your daughter?”

“Sixteen,” the woman replied. “She was a really good kid, up until about a year ago. We moved recently and she had to switch schools, and she just hasn’t been the same since. I think she’s dating some punk kid behind my back, too.”

Punk kid, punk kid, Mary flipped through the pages, knowing it was hopeless. Then, like a beacon, she saw the words TEENAGE REBELLION atop a page. Mary zeroed in. Refer to St. Aloysius Gonzaga, patron saint of teenagers, the page instructed, along with a prayer. Mary didn’t know how to pronounce “Aloysius.” Luckily, the caller was still talking.

“Mary, I tell you,” the woman continued, and Mary bristled at the sound of her own name, at being addressed in this context. “My friends warned me these years were coming, and I thought by now, with her being sixteen, I was in the clear. And now that it’s here, and happening, I just feel so unprepared.”

Mary saw a second line light up, staccato red flares, on her phone, heard the muted ring as another call came in. From her peripheral vision, she saw Denise reach for the receiver, and the red went from blinking to steadfast.

“It’s the skipping out on church that’s the last straw for me.” The caller’s voice quavered a little. “If there’s only one thing I would impress upon her, just one way I’d measure myself as a parent, it would be for her to keep our faith, our religion.”

What would Meryl Streep do? Mary thought, hoping her acting background could help her focus. She had little personal experience with church—just a few years of weekly Sunday school, then a swift departure from the church once she was confirmed. She considered herself agnostic. Mary wondered if the caller’s daughter was taking a similar path. She glanced quickly at the script and re-read the prayer recommendation. The other “Marys” were deep in conversation.

“Let me ask you a question,” she said, lowering her voice a little. “Does your daughter know you feel this way?”

“Well, I mean, we haven’t really talked about it.” The caller was quiet for a moment. “You know, I don’t know.”

“When was the last time you had a real heart-to-heart with her?”

“Gosh… I can’t even remember. We talk about little things—her homework, grades, things like that—and of course bicker quite a bit. But no … we haven’t really sat down and had a real discussion about it.”

“Do you think she’d be open to it?”

“I don’t know … I would hope so. I’m her mom, after all.”

Mary thought a bit and put the acting idea and the script aside. “When I was in high school,” she began, “my mother used to take me to this coffee shop she liked. It was two towns over, so she knew there wouldn’t be distractions—kids I knew from school, things like that—and that if we bickered I wouldn’t be able to just get up and walk home. We went there a lot if she wanted to talk, or just spend some time with me. At first, I thought it was lame, but after awhile I really started to look forward to our ‘dates’ there.”

“Even as a teenager?”

“Even as a teenager.”

Mary noticed Denise had already finished her call, and wondered if she was eavesdropping. “It was really fun,” she continued. “Just her and me…”

Denise turned to glare at Mary, her forehead accordioned with wrinkles. “Use your script!” she hissed. She looked to Colleen and Suellen for reinforcement, but each was engrossed in a call.

“… those are actually some of my favorite memories of that time in my life, me and Mom just shooting the shit about anything and everything.”

“Excuse me?” the caller said.

“Oh my God. Shit! Um, I mean, oh no. I’m sorry about that.”

“I didn’t call this number to hear profanity.”

“I’m sorry.” Mary didn’t know what was worse, having disappointed the caller or the fact that now Suellen and Colleen had turned to gawk at her as well. She gave them a feeble smile, tried to shrug it off. Sorry, she mouthed, and turned her chair slightly so she wasn’t facing them.

A pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t want to hear that again.”

“You won’t. I promise.”

The line was quiet. Mary wondered if the caller had hung up.

A beat. “You were saying?”

“Oh. Yes. Well, my mother and I…”

Forty-five minutes later, Mary was still on the phone. Somewhere along the way she discovered she was enjoying herself.

“Are they having you ladies use a new tactic or something?” the woman said.

Mary didn’t know how to answer that one. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I’ve called your hotline a few times, and before it always seemed kinda … formal. This was a little less so, but more enjoyable. Not the profanity, that is! I didn’t enjoy that. But the rest of it—it was good. Tell your superiors I like it.”

“I will!” Mary replied, beaming.

Silence, just a few seconds too long.

“Are you still there?”

“Ye-es … You might be forgetting something, I think …”

“Um…” Mary tore through her pages.

A slight chuckle. “Aren’t we going to close with a prayer or two?”

“Oh! Of course.” Mary glanced at the “prayer” section of her script, but once she started on both the "Our Father" and "Hail Mary," she found she didn’t need to. She hadn’t forgotten the words, after all. The lines came back from the depths of childhood memory, old recitations she had chanted over and over when learning the rosary and other rituals.

She hung up and swiveled her chair back toward the other tables to discover only Denise, who was on a call. Damn, she thought. Only an audience for when I make a mistake.

Down a short hallway, she found Colleen and Suellen sitting around a small round table in a modest kitchen, sharing a pot of tea. “Well.” Suellen took a sip from her mug. “You’ve been on the phone awhile.”

“Yeah—I talked to a really nice woman.” Mary picked at a loose thread on her t-shirt. “I’m sorry if I offended you earlier. If Ralph decides to hire me, I won’t use language like that again.”

Colleen’s expression was stern. “I should hope not.”

Mary hoped they would invite her to join them, but neither gestured for her to sit down. She had so many questions about their work, this place. “Where is Ralph, anyway?”

Colleen consulted her watch. “He’s usually back from his errands by this time. I’d check the tool shed—if you take the path to the left of the front door, you’ll see it. It’s the dark green building next to the larger garage—the one with the antique car in front.”

“Thank you.” Mary didn’t linger, knowing they were eager to continue their gossip, the inevitable critique of her performance.

She found Ralph leaning over a work table which held a circular saw at one end, a sander at the other. Thick goggles obscured his eyes as he studiously contemplated a long board of some wood she couldn’t identify—oak, maybe, or pine. She wondered if guessing the correct variety would impress him.

“What are you going to make out of that nice piece of oak?”

Ralph snorted. “This here’s walnut.” He pushed the goggles up to his forehead. “And it’s for a desk I’m building for my nephew. This piece is going to be the top.” Mary noticed the skeleton of a desk in the far corner, two legs and a lidless pocket where the top drawer would be. Wood shavings carpeted the floor.

“Ah … So I just finished my first call a few minutes ago. Do you have a few minutes to talk? Am I interrupting?”

Ralph looked at the tool shed’s clock, a cheap plastic item on the front wall. “Just now getting off the phone! That’s impressive, gal.” He took a few steps away from the table, then looked longingly back at the sander. “We-elll… Yeah, I guess I could take a break. Let’s go inside, though—no place to sit around here.”

Mary was perspiring in the afternoon sun, her bathing suit feeling as hot as a down parka against her skin. “That sounds great.”

She followed him back inside the hotline headquarters, past the kitchen to a small, cluttered office. A desk, two chairs, and a slew of boxes and files were scattered about. Someone had scrawled TRACTOR PARTS across three boxes in chicken-scratch penmanship; four others read MISC. Ralph cleared a pile of papers from one chair, briefly rifled through them, and tossed them atop the tractor boxes. He opened the blinds, streaking the room with sunlight, and motioned for Mary to sit down.

“This is your office?” Mary asked.

“Supposed to be—can you tell I’m not in here much?” Ralph laughed. “I tell ya, I can’t stand being indoors for too long. Even in winter I have to get fresh air. Couldn’t hurt to come in here and get organized, though—I’ve probably been using this room as a catch-all too long.”

Mary perched at the edge of her chair, taking in the mess. Her fingers hovered over a pile of invoices, prayer cards, and newsletters, fanned three layers deep, itching to attack the space, organize, tidy, dust, de-clutter. She turned to Ralph instead, who finally seemed about to sit down.

“So you had a pretty long phone conversation,” Ralph began, tapping his fingers against the desk. “What did you think?”

“Well, it was a mixed bag.” She found a spare script binder among the piles, and reached for it. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t find this script to be all that helpful. It was when I stepped away from it and just tried to talk with the woman that it seemed to go well.”

“I see.” Ralph took the binder from her, scrutinized the cover as if seeing it for the first time. “It’s been awhile since we’ve updated this thing.”

“Who wrote it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“A variety of people have worked on it—a couple of volunteers from our church do the bulk of it, and we’ve even had a few of the past Marys—the other hotline employees—write a bit, too.” Ralph’s eyes looked skyward, counting. “We used to update it about once a year, usually with little inserts, although we’re probably even behind schedule with that, now that I think about it. Although it shouldn’t make too big of a difference—the answers don’t change much.”

“Okay.” Mary wondered if she would have to write, and figured she’d handle that situation once it actually presented itself. “How many hours per week would you want me to come in?”

“Well, we work mainly in two shifts, first and second,” Ralph explained. “I like to have two Marys available at any time, sometimes three, although we can usually get by with just one in the early morning and afternoon hours. Ideally, I was hoping to have you here about thirty hours per week, broken up between both shifts. You can work out a schedule with the other girls.”

“Okay.” Mary did a quick mental calculation. Depending on the flexibility of the other women, she could squeeze in auditions, maybe even still keep the job if a part came along. “I think that should be fine.”

“Now you said you spoke with a woman?”

“Yes. She was having difficulty with her teenage daughter.”

“And the section on family wasn’t useful to you?”

“No, sir.” Mary tried her best to be polite. “I found it was best just to let the conversation flow naturally.”

Distracted, Ralph peered at a few of the invoices on his desk, opened a file folder, and shoved them in. “Do you go to church?” he asked, abrupt.

Mary paused. “No, sir.”

Ralph raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t want to ruin my chances of being hired here, but frankly, I’m not all that religious.” Mary could tell she was speaking fast, and tried to slow down a bit. “I can’t say I go to church much. I certainly consider myself spiritual, and given the way the conversation went today, I still think I can do a good job for you.”

Ralph’s eyes twinkled a bit. “Let me tell you a secret.” He leaned forward and whispered, as if to a co-conspirator. “I don’t go to church as much as I used to, either. In fact, if it weren’t for Colleen, I don’t know if I’d go at all."

“So being religious isn’t necessarily a prerequisite?”

“Being religious personally isn’t, no. Respecting the callers’ beliefs is.”

“Of course.”

“The people who call,” Ralph continued, seeming to search for just the right word, “they're kind of … lost souls. The way I see it is they’re just lonely. First and foremost, you should just try to listen.”

“I can certainly do that.” Mary paused. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I was wondering something...”

“Shoot.” Ralph lit a cigarette and blew a perfect billow of smoke in the air. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“I was wondering…” Mary struggled with how to phrase it. “Well, the hotline uses a 900 number, which I know has a fee, but… I just wanted to know…”

“How the business makes money?” Ralph finished her thought. “Ah, good question—wanting to know all my secrets.” He grinned. Usually Mary was faulted for being too nosy, but Ralph seemed impressed with her inquisitiveness. “Well, there are three main ways. The first is we have two very generous donors, two individuals who helped us set up the hotline and have funded it on a yearly basis for nearly a decade.” He tapped his cigarette against a small dish; the ashes gasped out a few wisps of smoke. “The second is we have several advertisers who play a short message before every call. It’s mainly a few media groups—religious publications, radio and TV stations, a few local stores, and sometimes even we’ll get a big box chain like Mall-Mart. We’re like a drop in the bucket for them. So what happens is, someone calls the hotline, and before they’re connected to one of you girls, they listen to a quick thirty-second ad. And the third is the 900-status. We charge a lot less than what other 900-numbers do, but there is a per-minute fee. That’s announced after the ad. We don’t want anyone to feel hoodwinked. Once they're through to you, you want to keep them on the phone as long as possible. The longer the call, the more revenue for us.”

“And you just run the hotline? Accounting, bills, all that?”

“Just run the hotline?!?” Mary couldn’t tell if he was actually offended, or a bit of a joker. “Ha. Actually no. As you could tell, this isn’t exactly a Fortune 500 enterprise here. We do well enough to stay afloat, of course, but in many ways this is a supplement for me and Colleen. I’m mainly a farmer and occasional mechanic/handyman, depending on what needs to be done here and at my neighbors’.

"Colleen is really the force behind all this," Ralph said. "In fact, this whole hotline, the enterprise of sorts, is her passion—her baby, some people might say. I help with the hiring and upkeep of everything, of course, but this is her labor of love. She'd probably be sitting here with us now if we didn't need the extra person on the phones."

“And where do people get the number? Do you advertise?”

Ralph shook his head. “A little bit—I'd love to do more. A couple of local and major papers, penny savers, some church circulars, you know. We have a few billboards in several key cities across the country, that's one of the areas the funders help us keep up. And ‘course, there’s the billboard on the barn, which anybody driving past can see.”

Ralph looked at Mary, expectant, and she didn’t offer any other questions. “So what do you think?” he asked.

The woman on the phone had been nice. Ralph seemed like a good boss. Colleen had seemed friendly enough. She could spin this as acting experience, no sweat. “Let’s give it a shot.”

***

Returning home, script under one arm, Mary could hear Sam’s singing even from the sidewalk. Once inside, his voice increased in volume as she placed her keys and script on the table, and got herself a glass of black cherry soda. By the time she found him, cross-legged in the bedroom, she was pretty sure the neighbors at the end of the block could sing along.

“You’ll have no trouble reaching the back of the house tonight,” she joked, running her fingers through his hair. He looked like a grasshopper, sitting there on the floor, all long bended limbs, angles and curves. When they had first met, Mary had been struck by the sheer geometry of him—jutting elbows, long eyelashes, fingers that stretched forth. Even his hair was lanky, sandy strands that spilled into his eyes, swept the arcs of his ears.

“Fa la la la la la la la la.” Sam took a deep breath, made his tenor even stronger. “Lee lo lee la lee lo lee la lee.”

“Did they take away your microphone or something?” Mary knew this was one of the few times she could tease him mercilessly without retort. Sam was always dedicated to his preparation before a show. In just over a year together, she had never been able to get him to break.

Laundry covered the bedroom floor, strewn towels, boxer shorts, crumpled T-shirts. Mary started to gather them, picking up pieces in time with Sam’s chanting. She sung along with him, softly. “Lee lo lee la lee.” She tossed a sheet into the hamper, its end billowing a bit before landing. Then a sock. “Fa la la la la.” A bra, a dress, a pillowcase, until all the floor was clean.

Cleaning, rearranging, tidying up—she enjoyed all of it, could always get lost in the simple tasks and repetition, the reliable work. As a little girl, Mary used to clean for fun, relishing her mother’s praise after she had polished all the wood furniture throughout the downstairs, her hands greasy from gripping the oily polish dustrag. Usually, a cleaning project or a specific chore would be something she’d reliably complete, one of the few activities where she wouldn’t get distracted or lose interest. Perhaps it was the instant results—she liked seeing her help made manifest, the results of her handiwork visible right away.

Before long, Mary had stripped the bed, and put new crisp sheets on. She was under the frame, fully at work with a duster and laundry bag. Engrossed in corralling a particularly large pile of dust bunnies, she didn’t even notice Sam had stopped singing.

“Heya babe.” His voice boomed down, right over the bed. She jumped, startled, hitting her head on the box spring.

“Ow!” Mary wriggled out from the dusty cave, rubbing a newly formed goose egg. “Good God, I didn’t even realize you were still here.” Their bedside clock showed quarter to six. “Aren’t you going to be late?”

Sam brushed a speck of dirt off her shoulder. “Nah, I’m on time.” He fingered the strap of her bathing suit between his thumb and forefinger. “What’s this? Did you go swimming today?”

“Oh geez.” Mary didn’t even know where to begin, or if they had time to get into it all. “I had quite the day today.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sam sat at the edge of the bed and pulled on his pair of beat-up sneakers. “Excitement at the community pool?”

“I kind of had an audition. No, not really—an impromptu job interview, I guess. It went okay—better than okay, actually.”

“You wore that to a job interview?”

“Yes, in fact, I was auditioning for Baywatch: The Musical. Turns out I’m a much better dancer when I just wear a bikini.”

“Hot.” Sam pulled Mary to him, nuzzled into her neck. “So you might have a new gig?”

“Yeah. I go back tomorrow.”

“And you like the director? Or whoever your new boss is going to be?”

Mary tried to find the right way to sum up the hotline, her gaze drifting toward the clock. Sam took notice as well. “This must be a good one—it’s a long story, I take it?”

Mary nodded.

“Okay, then. Let’s save it for later. You’ll wait up for me?”

“Of course.”

Sam kissed her, his hands just grazing the goose egg, and Mary flinched a little. His green eyes flickered with concern. “You okay? Did you really hurt yourself?”

Her head was throbbing, but Mary considered herself an actress, first and foremost. “Doesn’t hurt at all,” she replied. “Have a good show.”

She heard him leave, then, from the bedroom window, watched him cross the lawn, his strides as long and purposeful as if he were already on stage, hitting his marks. His deliberate movements, his total command of space had been what first caught her eye.

The previous summer, Mary had gotten a swing role in the local theater’s revival production of Our Town. As a swing, she wasn’t a full-time member of the company, but her role was important nonetheless—an understudy for several roles, depending on who was having a night off. Her favorite nights were when she got to play Emily, the lead. Sam was the Storyteller, charming the audience – and her – each evening. Mary had hoped to impress the director enough to get hired full time after the show wrapped, and envisioned putting in her dues, maybe even becoming a principal down the line. She scrupulously took notes in the margins of her script during rehearsals, showed up early to help with the sets, brought snacks and drinks for the troupe a few times each week.

Opening night brought a 24-hour flu bug for the principal actress, and Mary eagerly stepped in. Even though it wasn’t her name in the playbill, just a slip of paper noting Mary Tupper will be playing the role of Emily this evening added hastily to each booklet, Mary felt elated, as if the role had been hers all along. Sam had gripped her hand as they took their second bow, and kissed her goodnight after the cast party that evening.

Mary relished her stint in Our Town. In her brief career, she had slogged away in college productions (sometimes as a member of the chorus, sometimes a supporting character) and ad-hoc, experimental theater (playing to single-digit audiences in basements, parks, or wherever they could get permits). She got to fill in enough roles that she felt like a principal—and that was enough. She loved the period costumes, the simplicity and sturdiness of Wilder’s language, the daily interactions with the director and fellow actors. She loved thinking about which actors had read the same words before her, and how she was becoming part of the history of both the theater and the play. She loved the sounds the stage boards made as she strode across them, each creak and sigh specific to its place. By the end of the play’s run, Mary had come to learn exactly which spaces on stage would announce her presence, tailoring her voice so she could project over these peripheral sounds, and which would respectfully remain quiet. She got to know that space the way she knew her home, or her favorite old T-shirt, and eventually, Sam.

By the time the play wrapped, they had moved in together. Sam went on to the next starring role, as the company continued its revival year, in The Music Man. Mary sang for the director, hoping for another role; he kindly recommended she re-audition for the troupe’s next play.

Mary finished tidying up the bedroom, took a hot shower to rinse off the day, and changed into comfortable clothes. Sam wouldn’t be home for at least four hours, maybe later if the cast went out for a late-night dinner or drinks, which was becoming a regular occurrence. The Virgin Mary script lay on the kitchen table, and she retreated to the front porch with it, hoping to take advantage of the last hour of daylight. She settled into the larger of their two Adirondack chairs, and turned to a section labeled SAMPLE QUESTIONS.

Question: I’m thinking of getting a divorce. May I still remain a member of the Church?

Mary’s Answer: The Catholic Church does not recognize divorce. If you wish to remain a practicing Catholic, you may consult your priest about getting an annulment.

Mary’s Recommendation: Marriage is one of the seven holy sacraments. Are you sure the marriage is over? Let’s pray to see if we can find clarity.

Question: I’m thinking of having an affair. How can this be stopped?

Mary’s Answer: An affair is never permitted in the eyes of the Church. Let’s say the Lord’s Prayer and ask for forgiveness for such thoughts.

Mary’s Recommendation: Have you considered taking some time away, just by yourself, to atone and study Scripture? Much forgiveness and healing can be found there.

Question: I don’t attend church anymore. Is this really a mortal sin?

Mary’s Answer: It is indeed. Mass is a time each week to reflect, repent, and grow closer to God.

Mary’s Recommendation: Let’s have you go back this week, for a start. Set up an appointment with your pastor to see how you can become more involved and committed.

I’m a good actress, Mary repeated to herself while studying the Answer Key. Instead of analyzing the lines, she practiced her tone of voice, the speed of her speech, wondered more about the character. Do I know this woman? she thought. Do I even like or admire her? Can I play a good Mary?

She thought back to the conversation with the caller earlier that afternoon, how she had mentioned her years of Sunday school, and her decision to quit right after being confirmed. At that point, her parents, convinced they had done enough, were reassured that her soul’s eternal damnation was now Mary’s own responsibility, and not theirs. Admittedly, Mary had always liked the lessons on the Virgin the best – she was such a puzzle, so important but so shadowy, and cast to the background once her son finally arrived.

“We don’t worship Mary,” Mrs. Geisweit, Mary’s fourth-grade Catechism teacher, had lectured one rainy Sunday morning. The classroom’s ancient radiators clanged and hissed, working their hardest on the one day of the week they saw any use. “We honor and pray to her, but we do not worship her.” Her tongue clucked each word for emphasis. “My dears, do you see the distinction?”

None of the nine-year-olds did. “This first prayer we learned is the ‘Our Father’,” Mary had asked. “And in the ‘Hail Mary,’ we call her ‘Mother of God.’ And it’s a prayer. Isn’t that worship?”

“Not exactly,” Mrs. Geisweit had spoken patiently, each word deliberate. “You see, we call God ‘Our Father.’ That ‘our’ is personal, a call of worship. Mary is not ‘our,’ but we do hold her in the utmost respect, love, and honor.”

Mary stretched out in the last rays of the sun, read a few more sample questions. She jumped around in the book, looked at several of the other sections: a listing of saints, broken down by patronage; prayer printouts (she had never been able to remember the differences between the Apostles’ and Nicene creeds, so this would be helpful); acts of reparation for common sins; and guides to the Sacraments.

When it came down to it, the script was somewhat lean. The conversation tips were merely suggestions, and there was not much describing the Virgin Mary as a person, as a counselor. Mary wondered which parts Colleen, Denise, and Suellen had written. Could she add some sections herself—or would she be expected to? Whenever she started a new play, she would try to find the essence of the character first—family history, primary personality traits, needs and wants, likes and dislikes—and fill in 

secondary details later. Maybe the same tactic would work here, although the Virgin’s family history was already a bit complicated.

Returning inside, Mary noted the bathroom could use a once-over. She was well familiar with the old adage of cleanliness being next to Godliness, and decided to explore the character, practice while cleaning. Would the Virgin have scrubbed the floor, Mary wondered, while anticipating the birth of her holy son? Would she care about the state of her home when Jesus was a young boy, scrambling to wipe up his scraps and crumbs, or were these minor concerns? Mary remembered the Virgin was considered to never have committed a sin—if dirtiness was unholy, was her home always spotless? Where did her divine virtue stop and personal motivations begin?

And, more importantly, what would the Virgin have talked about on the phone?

She wouldn’t have known what the hell a phone was, Mary thought.

She attacked the shower tile, lathering the sponge until her hands were covered in foam and stripes of suds slipped down the stall.

“Fa la la la la la la la la.” Mary started her own set of scales, wondering if Sam was having a good night on the stage, if the audience was participatory, if anyone flubbed or forgot a line. “La lee lo la lee lo lee la lee.” Mary liked how her voice carried upward, reverberating off the tile and pipes. She moved from shower to commode, from sink to floor, and finally the mirror, until all was gleaming to her satisfaction.

She wiped the last few smudges off the mirror, and paused to study her reflection. She looked nothing like the portraits of the Virgin she had seen as a young girl in church. The Virgin’s expression was always so solemn; her complexion milky-pale, her eyes usually cast downward; or respectful, raised in reverence toward the heavens. Mary always was curious about what color hair she had hiding under her 

headrobe, if she were tall and slender, or short and compact. Did her feet ache while pregnant? Was Joseph a pain in the ass? Mary tried to replicate a demure expression, then frowned—her own shock of red hair would hold no likeness, her freckles no doubt betraying her as an unconvincing impostor, a simple actress.

She reached upward and pulled Sam’s blue towel down from its perch, and wrapped her hair back, hiding her hairline. She powdered her nose and cheeks, trying to conceal her freckles as much as possible, dabbed some clear gloss on her lips and lowered her chin, trying to hold the most saintly of poses.

Mary saw herself in a towel, staring back with a slightly pained face. Try as she might, she wasn’t wholly convinced she looked the part.