"YOU!"
As much as the sight of Helga in such a state may have frightened those who knew her, Deacon Sawa once again stood unfazed at the spectacle of her barreling through the parking lot towards him in righteous fury. Even as she defiantly blocked his way into the eatery, the clergyman couldn't find it in him to express any emotion beyond bemused déjà vu.
"I want to know where in whimsy's name you get the gall to do what you have done?!" The girl in pink growled with clenched teeth.
"And what might you be referring to?"
"'You know Wolfgang.'" She began mockingly. "'Even with what you returned, that's still a lot of food to carry home. Perhaps Helga and Phoebe can help you. And while they're at it, why not have them meet the evil! Vicious! Foul! Abusive! Misogynistic! Slimy! Goatish! Sociopathic! Morally bankrupt! Nightmarish! War-crime committing! Emotionally anorexic! LOUT who by one bad roll of the genetic dice you have the utter misfortune to call a father!'"
"Mhm." He replied dryly.
"Do you get some pleasure in serving up preadolescent girls to sickos like that, or are we just lucky? Asking for a friend."
"If you are finished Helga." The Deacon replied in an uncharacteristically sharp manner. "You'll be amazed to know that I too am capable of repeating what I hear; 'Screw. You. Wolfgang.' 'You will not walk away a winner if you want to play that game.' 'You're looking for sympathy and validation for using us as punching bags because we didn't eat up your whole 'Boys Town' act at first glance.' And, if memory serves me correct, I didn't exactly hear you raise an objection to meeting him in the first place. In fact, Wolfgang was more horrified than you were. But you didn't believe him, did you?"
"Yeah? Well that…I…well…that…was because…So? If you're keen to playing the talking movie projector this evening, do you happen to remember the part where I mentioned squatting in my dad's floundering store? How about my mom's drinking? Or my chipperly perfect older sister who has her own back catalogue of mental issues? Any of that ringing bells?"
"Such a wrathful little girl…" He began despondently.
"Oh whoop-de-friggin' doo!" Helga seethed as she flopped on the bench outside. "Just what the doctor ordered; a pop-up Sunday School lesson about the Seven Deadly Sins."
For a moment, the two of them locked eyes; almost daring each other to keep the conversation going. After two minutes of silence, Deacon Sawa spoke."
"It's interesting that you mention the Seven Deadly Sins. We as Orthodox Christians don't believe in that."
"Really now?"
"All sin is deadly as it is unnatural. And while the idea of 'Seven Deadly Sins' are more a thinking of the Catholic Church, one professor of mine from Seminary told me not to discount them entirely. Sin is a subtraction from our humanity; a distortion of something fundamentally good and God-given; a reflection of what happens when we turn our focus off our Creator and instead make idols of our human needs and desires. Gluttony to our need for food, sloth to our need for sleep, greed to our need for financial stability, you get the idea."
"Now you, Miss Pataki," he continued. "Boil over with wrath, a God-given burst of energy we experience when confronted with dangers and moral atrocities; parents who seek refuge in delusion and drink as you have mentioned. And from what you have said not just now but also earlier this evening at the community center, I don't blame you for being mad. I can't begin to imagine what you've struggled with. And what crosses you've had to bear, especially at such a tender age."
"Isn't there usually a 'but' in these things." She muttered to herself.
"Nonetheless…"
"Right on schedule."
"…there are some sins that feel good at the moment. Wrath is not one of them. By nursing and cultivating wrath in the garden of your soul Helga, you have choked any chance of growing mercy, patience, and kindness. And one way we know of wrath tearing little pieces off our soul and leaving us in tatters over time is when we have lost that part of our soul that feels perspective; which more than anything was scary to me-"
"Really? Losing perspective is what scares you?" Helga interjected dryly. "And here I bet my money on the whole 'you've been a bad little boy so Satan uses you as a human smore for all eternity' thing. Stupid me, right?"
"My older brother Oleg would have said the same thing." The deacon replied coolly.
"OLEG?!" Helga yelped. "Was he also the oblivious, over-achieving and insufferably perfect golden kid too?"
"Well, he did become a Mitered Archpriest and serves at the church in Smerekowiec …" Deacon Sawa began. "In his youth, he too had a disproportion for wisecracks and perspective. But that was before…"
"Before?"
"Do you know why I sent you to see Wolfgang's father tonight?" The Deacon asked as his voice suddenly got rigid and grave.
"To teach me a lesson."
"But in what exactly?"
Silence.
"Humility." He replied. "When my brother got out of seminary, he never seemed to be able to hold a church for very long. The bishop could set his clock to him getting a letter within the fortnight from Oleg asking for an 'easier' parish assignment where the people would not fight or speak against him nor stand in his way at every turn. Finally at the end of his rope, the bishop sends my brother his next assignment; a chapel in the middle of a humble village cemetery. When Oleg asked the meaning behind his decision, the bishop calmly replied that he got what he wanted: 'a parish where no one will fight you. No one will speak against you. No one will stand in your way. Go and preach to them!' Consider this visit your graveyard Helga, and no matter how mad you get, remember Wolfgang, and who knows how many others with families worse off than your own…on that note, I see our friends have wrapped up dinner."
Helga looked to the entrance way of the diner where Wolfgang and Phoebe descended the stairs and joined them in the parking lot. Striking the girl was the sight of her friend's hair upon exiting the eatery. Gone was the scrunchie that held part of her hair in a subtle ponytail, and while it didn't change the overall shape too much, it still piqued Helga's curiosity.
"Hey Pheebs. Leave something behind?"
"Not exactly." She began. "Let's just say while the two of you had an understanding. So did we."
(Earlier, inside the restaurant)
While awaiting the check, Phoebe's phone suddenly begins to hum and chime. Her eyes widen with shock as the clock reads half past nine followed by a friendly yet concerned text from her parents.
"Sweetheart. How long are you and your friends going to be out? It's almost ten."
Poking at each key with all the care and dexterity of a heart surgeon, Phoebe concocts an uncharacteristically glib apology over losing track of time and a little story over how wonderful it was meeting some of the older parishioners to boot. Before long, the ebbing chat bubbles at the bottom of her screen give way to a message about how they were just worried for a bit and that the door was open when she came home. But it was their reminder of how proud they were over what a civic-minded young woman she was becoming that causes Phoebe's apprehension over whether they would buy her act to curdle into disgust with herself that they did.
"In case you're wondering, no. It doesn't get any easier when you do that." Wolfgang said.
"What?"
"Lie to your folks." He continued. "I can read it all over your face. At least they have the common decency to give a rats ass about where you are at odd hours."
"Like Leo would get sore if you came home at the crack of dawn." Phoebe said.
"That part, no. What'd really cheese him is whether or not I…well, you know."
"No, I don't." Phoebe began before she really began to process the look on her company's face. "You don't mean…ICK! Wow! I mean…wow! He knows we're all still kids right?"
"He was doing the same thing at my age-" Wolfgang began.
"And probably dropped stray cats off the overpass or fed cigarette butts to ducklings in the park when he finished!" Phoebe interjected. "Seriously. What exactly is his deal with… that aspect of your life?"
"I guess every father to one degree or another wishes to live vicariously through his son's carnal exploits." Wolfgang began. "Makes them feel young and strong again. But like everything else, Leo took it to eleven and here we are…(he pounds the table ruefully)…him and that damn flag. After breaking my oboe, him showing me that thing was a time of unquestioned dread and disgust."
"Yeah, you and Marlene mentioned his South Vietnamese flag." Phoebe said. "A war trophy I assume?"
"Swiped it while on tour in Saigon. And in the ultimate boasting of his conquests across this great nation of ours, had it enshrined with …(Wolfgang began to imitate his father's voice)… 'them 49 pairs of panties. All the tail I've gotten on the road, each one from a different state (except Louisiana).' Then, after pointing out exactly which pair of them belonged to my birth mother, he waxes on and on about how…Not getting-t'Louisiana got to be a blessin' of sorts 'cause I know when you start carousin' you'll make your old man proud eh?' Seeing the two of you with me, of course he's already killing the fatted calf in my honor for coming home a man in his eyes…"
As the credit card came back to Wolfgang's table and he placed a generous quantity of singles beneath his cup, Phoebe pulls her trademark blue scrunchie off her hair ad gently gives it a prod toward Wolfgang's general direction. Needless to say, he looks shocked for a moment.
"It's ok. I have more than plenty at home." She began. "Just don't get any ideas that this ruse may go farther than your imagination. Gerald and I-"
"Yeah, I've heard. As are Helga and Arnold. And I expect nothing more or less from your gesture. Thank you. All that's left to do now is hope the old buzzard buys it."
(Present: Deacon Sawa's car again)
…And isn't it sardonic, perhaps…
…A little too sardonic, one might think…
…It's like nuptials, in a hurricane…
…Or no medicine, when you've got a killer sprain…
250 feet stood between the cul-de-sac known as Butler Circle and Helga, Phoebe, Wolfgang and the deacon. The third of whom can't help but let out a dry laugh as the easy listening station which played (almost fittingly enough) a catchy Alt-rock ballad called Sardonic by Eleana Marigold.
"Sardonic indeed." He says to himself.
"What?" Helga said.
"My father." He said staring out the window as the car turns. "I know it sounds stupid…but all my life, 'don't be like your father' was the refrain mom kept engraining into me. And that's where it began and ended… And…and I guess I had this daydream of everything mom wasn't and how one day he'd free me from…and how awesome it would be; a parent figure who'd spoil me rotten, not hover over me all the time, and maybe allow me to indulge in my wilder yearnings…little did I know."
"Yeah, little did you know." Helga shot back.
"Oh, like you've never had a lost family member you hyped up and put undeservedly on a pedestal solely because they scared a more authoritarian parental unit?" Phoebe asked her friend slyly.
Before Helga could retort with a perfectly devastating yet empty threat to bring Ol' Betsy out to play, Deacon Sawa's vehicle came to a halt. With a final round of goodbyes, Wolfgang Toran shut the door behind him and moseyed back into the deceiving domicile. Within the hour, Deacon Sawa crossed the river and entered Hillwood proper. Phoebe was the next to be dropped off. Naturally, Kyo and Reba waited up in the foyer awaiting whatever whimsical and festive stories their daughter may have about her time with the senior most members of the St. Seraphim church.
Then it was Helga's turn.
Like a flickering candle that had been burnt to an end for a soldier missing in action, the anemic lantern illuminated the doorway to the Pataki's house. As for the rest, it was pitch black. Assuring the deacon she would be fine, Helga exited the car and slowly, almost penitently, tip-toed to the doorway like a prodigal child. Naturally, the door was locked, but beneath the welcome mat, someone had been kind enough to at least leave a note and key, and by the 'baby sister' scribbled over the top of the letterhead before being hastily replaced with 'Helga', it was obvious who of the three family members would still find it in them to forgive her after the events this morning.
Helga,
We all went for Chinese food at 11am. There's an Orange Chicken chef's delight platter for you in the fridge if you're hungry.
I don't blame you for ignoring us all day. Even with our faults, I want you to know I love you, mom loves you, and daddy…well, he's gruff but he's trying.
It's 7:30 now, we're going to bed. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.
Olga.
Sure enough, Helga looked down at her phone and the plethora of worried texts from Olga and Miriam. Guilt seizes her as the argument replayed with a vengeance throughout her head, particularly what indignities she imparted on her mother and sister. Helga often forgot that underneath Olga's bubbly and childish front was a living wind-up doll of a girl who for one reason or another hoped that academic brilliance could quell the worst of Miriam and Bob's tempests. Likewise, she also forgot that her mother was battling some serious demons of her own too after years of disappointments. And that for as many days as lucidity came with ease, there were ones that were more difficult. This, by luck of the draw, just happened to be one of the later days.
Even as her stomach rumbled violently at the thought of food, the young Pataki daughter grew weary of waffling over whether or not to enter her 'new' house. Instead, she sat on the stoop, breathed in the temperate November night and listened to the sounds of Thanksgiving Day drawing to a close; that last relative finally leaving, that greedy schmuck and his brood racing to the store to get a jump on Black Friday deals, or simply that beleaguered host or hostess sighing in disgust over how they and they alone find themselves stuck with boxing everything up. The unwitting victor of Helga's attention span went on to be the neighbors across the street who decided to flop on the couch and bask in the glow of a television which belonged more in a franchised sports pub than in a private home. Also helping matters was the close captioning which scrolled along the bottom a second and a half behind the audio.
Suddenly, a bevy of can-canning showgirls in front of a giant display of antiquated communication devices fills the television screen, eliciting a chuckle from the otherwise emotionally emptied adolescent. She gives a knowing nod as the scene explodes; cutting to desolate almost post-apocalyptic panorama of pagers. And there like Job of old sat Big Bob the Beeper King himself; slack-jawed like some tranquilized beast on his own mountain of metaphorical crap before being assisted and dusted off by his 'queen' and 'princess' as they usher the kingdom into the modern era ('while still keeping the dream of the 90s alive here in Hillwood').
As breakout star and girlfriend of the writer, Helga knew this commercial in her sleep. Nonetheless, after the ad ended, her mind couldn't help but replay Bob being lifted off his duff and getting his grove back. For a man who preached self-reliance, having to be helped is ignominious enough, but by your own daughter was really salt to the wound. As the commercial continued and Bob's steely grin filled the screen, Helga swore that for a minute, she could see a twinkle in his eye. A drive of sorts that one might dare say is admirable. That same gift of shrewdness and raw confidence that made him believe in beepers to this day, and admittedly cost them everything in the process, was on full display earlier that month at the bank when he managed to bring the cost of the house down to a steal.
But there was still something more to Bob that now became apparent when stacked against Leo. When the chips were down, much of Bob's moral failings stemmed more from ignorance than malice. Yes, he ignored her that fateful morning of her first day of preschool, yet still rushed to Urban Tots with fresh clothes for her. Yes, he regarded the store as his de-facto son and had toxic philosophies on what made a man a 'man', but he still made sure Olga got enough of an education to not depend on whomever she would someday call a husband, and that Helga lived in relative comfort too. Yes, he had more than enough foot-in-the-mouth moments (calling her boyfriend and Orphan and asking the Rabbi if he had money to burn on beepers came quickly to mind), but he still found it in him to ask why Helga looked shocked over this outburst on that Parent's Day and privately apologized to the Rabbi before leaving Miles and Stella's wedding as well.
Even those who continued to had an ax to grind with Bob for cozying up to Scheck, still had to begrudgingly acknowledge his presence with Phil and the rest of the Sunset Arms crew in their attempt at blowing a hole in the street to stop the bulldozers on that fateful morning. And the reception the emporium received on its grand reopening only confirmed that Hillwood's populace had by-and-large begun to forgive the old man (or more likely, felt he'd eaten enough humble pie) for being a municipal quisling.
With newfound conviction, Helga rose herself to finally enter the house for the evening. She unlocks the door and hears it slowly creak open, only to stop short again upon coming face to face with her reflection in the wavy glass windows beneath the gratuitously ornate doorknocker.
"NO!"
She slammed the door shut and returned to sulking on the stoop as her exclamation reverberated around the block, slicing through the stillness of the night. Brick by brick, the wall of numbness which had been erected by the night's events comes crumbling down as a two-word question comes to embody the quandary which hung over her head all her life: why her?
Perspective was all well and good, but it wasn't like meeting Leo brewed some magic potion or waved some magic wand which unraveled her childhood or zapped away years of callousness from her heart and soul. She was still Helga, the unwanted and neglected gift of the Pataki gene pool, a fact bought home all the more by the pink bow topping her head. Even without the last year of technical homelessness, memories of shaving cream lunches, empty refrigerators/pantries, condescension, alcoholism, workaholism, negligence, dysfunction and the simple fact that everyone constantly confused/compared her to Olga, laid the groundwork of who she was for both good and bad. For every poem she wrote or frantic lovesick monologue she cranked out in honor of Arnold, there followed a far from subtle reminder of Ol' Betsy's vigilance.
Of course, the three of them had their moments of showing her the care and affection she deserved as well as finding it in them to be productive members of humanity at large, but the operative word was 'moments'. Moreover, all these moments seemed to come in the wake of a bigger existential threat like insidious relatives, eleventh hour mechanical bull competitions, forged college grades, vengeful urban redevelopers, or shady partners no sensible human would trust to lead lemmings off a cliff. But as time put distance between these episodes, the status quo would slowly creep back into place and no long-term lessons would be retained.
With all that, Helga looked skyward in anger as if to ask where was this capricious clergyman to give Bob's myopically prehistoric worldview a jostle? Or Miriam's? Or Olga's?
Why did it have to be Helga Geraldine Pataki who needed a change in perspective?
Across the street, the commercial break ended and the feature program resumed.
"Oh hey, Someone Censored Hiram Hyrax is on." She said to nobody in particular.
Getting as cozy as she could given her place on the cement stoop, Helga watched the scene play out as Detective Ethan Noble enters an underground nightclub where the main character's wife Josephine is set to perform. Sure enough, out she steps to serenade the crowd with a slow and jazzy rendition of a Great Depression jazz song. Hugging and highlighting a figure that looked like an hourglass filled by the Sahara Desert was her iconic sequined midnight blue cocktail dress contrasted by her flowing platinum blonde hair.
"That's Hiram Hyrax's wife?"
"Yeah. Ain't she the lucky one." Bertha Beep replied before scraping Ethan's jaw off the floor.
"Damn, this film is much more risqué and bawdier than I initially remembered. It's almost amazing with how much crap sped past the radar. Almost makes you wonder what kind of person would reconcile themselves to call it a kid's film…"
"…reconcile…"
"…reconciliation…"
With a heavy sigh, Helga rose herself and looked again at her anemic and warped reflection in the window. Yes, her home-life was one she wouldn't wish on a single soul. That said, she had people still in her corner, willing to look past the façade she had erected over her life whereas Wolfgang had nobody until Deacon Sawa entered the picture. Between Sunset Arms and the Heyerdahl house there were places she could (and did) turn to if things got truly awful. With a flick of her wrist and a turn of the key, Helga opened the door whispering to herself:
"Reconciliation has to start somewhere."
THE END
(Well, that's two words I haven't said since 2020)
Thanks again to Cre8ivelyBankrupt87 for allowing me to write this fic and thanks again to everyone patient enough to deal with a mid-fic reupload and re-rating. CB has also given me their permission to work on another fic "Curly on the Couch" which will be published at my leisure.
That isn't to say I've completely abandoned writing anything original. A full catalogue for what the future holds for me can be found in my bio.
Random fun fact: Deacon Sawa's story about his brother was based on a real event in the life of Metropolitan Anthony Bashir who was the head bishop of the Antiochian (Middle Eastern) Orthodox Church Archdiocese of America from the 1930s until his repose in 1966. For those curious to learn more check out the following link ( /remembering-metropolitan-antony-bashir-on-the-50th-anniversary-of-his-repose/)
As always, like, share, comment etc.
HumanDictionary.
