THE PRAYING LADY by TERRI MCCORMICK

Willa Salinger took a long drag off her cigarette, feeling the smoke flow into her eagerly waiting lungs. Holding the half-inhaled dart between her fingers, she appreciated having something to do with her hands again. She'd quit for eight days, and in that time, she'd bitten the thumbnail on her right hand down to the quick, making it sore and bloody like a severed stump. But now, as she leaned outside Cecil’s in the greyness of mid-morning in the lull between the breakfast and lunch rushes, she didn’t notice the annoying pain of her chewed thumb. Even the ever-present ache in her chest was starting to subside.

"Ah, balls," she whispered into the air. It was a phrase her grandmother used to say when she was tired, or thinking about something, and just needed to get the cobwebs out of her throat. "Balls, balls, balls!" Willa repeated, and then chuckled a little before allowing her eyes to fill up. She didn't know if the tears were for her grandmother or the other most important woman in her life, Jennifer Garry.

Looking up at the red neon sign that flashed the name of someone who had nothing to do with the restaurant anymore, she wondered if people would ever stop coming here. The building was old but had a 70s’ charm that customers liked. Willa had been working at Cecil’s as a server since leaving high school at age 15, and now, at twice that age, she was still here and owned the place. She spiked the cigarette butt on to the pavement and stomped out the heater with the toe of her white sneaker. Then she put her left hand into the pocket slit of the cotton-polyester hybrid uniform. There she could feel the weight of her new gift. Her fingers caressed its edges and smooth parts. But as if it had bit her, Willa quickly pulled her hand away.

Two hours earlier, Norby Allerby had come in for his usual western sandwich, hold the onions. Willa had been serving him for as long as she could remember. She called his order the Norby Special and he thought that was pretty funny, even though it really wasn't. He was a troll of a man with tiny eyes and a huge, hooked snout that she and her staff members couldn't help but joke about.

"If his dick is as big as his nose we're all in trouble," Lela, one of the waitresses, deadpanned back in the kitchen, while pouring too much syrup on a stack of pancakes. Her plump face became red with delight. Michael, the line cook who made a point of checking out every male arse that came into the place, made a gagging noise.

"Would ya stop?" Willa scolded as if horrified by their comments. Feigning disgust, she grabbed a slice of bread that leaped out of the toaster, turned on her heel, and muttered “and y’all wonder why I eat pussy.”

"I love it, bitch," Michael praised. He looked up and smiled as Willa grabbed two cups of coffee.

For a moment there was a glimpse of her former, vile-humoured self despite everything she'd been through.

Of course, it wasn't Norby's fault that he was horrible looking. It was just the luck of the DNA draw. Norby didn’t mean to creep everyone out with his tiny, bent-up body. Last Christmas eve, he’d come in about an hour before closing. Willa was alone and the place was empty. She had poured herself a tea and sat down across from him as he ate his no-onions western, which was actually an eastern, but she held off schoolling him in diner etiquette. He told her he was 66 years old, something which shocked her, because with his bald head and scrotum-skinned neck poor Norby looked at least 85. A widower for almost 20 years with no children, it was the first time he'd given Willa a hint that he had once had a life. As he ate, his hands had shaken and Willa had to look away while he talked with his mouth full. Since that day, they'd shot the shit like this at least three or four mornings a week. Norby knew about Jennifer, her overdose and how Willa had practically lived at the restaurant since finding her dead.

Earlier Norby was quiet. Willa had hoped he didn't hear the stuff they said about him in the kitchen. Self-consciously, she pushed a long strand of her blond hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She put Norby's breakfast in front of him.

"Sit," he said.

"I can for a minute but if it gets busy…," she started before he cut her off.

"Sit," Norby said again, this time his voice almost cracked like an egg.

Willa sat and watched as he opened his folded newspaper to reveal a small, hand-carved wooden statue. He nodded for Willa to pick it up. It was the length of her hand and it felt warm even though she knew that was impossible. It was a figurine of a woman with her head tilted downward, eyes closed, with a not-quite smiling mouth. She had shoulder-length hair and praying hands. A long cloak covered her entire body but for one foot that poked out. She stood on a ball, and the ball sat on a flat piece of wood to make it easier for her to stand upright, Willa surmised.

An immediate sense of calm came over her, and when she looked up, her eyes met Norby’s.

"What is it, the Virgin Mary?" she whispered as if others were listening in. "I don't believe in all that."

Norby smiled and leaned closer to her. His face looked uglier than ever, if that were possible. "This is your tip."

Willa smiled. "Um, Norby, I own this place. I choose to waitress because I like it. I don't need tips. The tips go to the staff."

"I call it Praying Lady. It's got nothing to do with any of that religious crap. It's what I called her as a kid." He explained that his ancestors had brought it back from England, Cumbria to be exact, where it was carved by a vicar who was known to hear voices and images from beyond. Sprits began to attach themselves to the statue and the good vicar took to charging those in mourning for a few precious moments with a passed loved one.

"Oh come on," Willa scoffed, her blue eyes flashing disbelief. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Norby shook his head and continued, telling her that some years later after the vicar’s death the carving was purchased at an estate sale by one of Norby's relatives and eventually ended up with him via his grandfather. Before Willa could ask for more information, Norby, who seemed agitated, stood up and gathered his things, newspaper included. The top of his head barely reached her shoulder. "Enjoy the comfort that she brings while she's in your possession. You're starting to piss me off, so I'm going to leave now."

Willa stood, holding the praying lady. “Norby's really lost it this time, he barely touched his plate. Must be dementia,” she thought. Moving over to the window, she watched his small body trudging down the street.

"What's this?" Lela asked as she exited the kitchen and noticed the statue. Willa handed it to her and was just about to explain that Norby had seemingly lost his marbles when the very lovely ghost of Jennifer Garry appeared and rested her head on Lela's shoulder.

"Shit!" Willa blurted, startling Lela and causing her to lose her grip on the praying lady, who dropped to the floor.

Jennifer Garry, beautiful dark-skinned lover, and maker of the best Belgium waffles this side of Cumberland County, who had self medicated a little too much some 14 months ago and who had suddenly appeared in front of Willa, disappeared just as quickly.

"Pick it up!" Willa exclaimed.

"Why?" Lela asked.

"Just pick it up!" Willa insisted. Lela did, and Jennifer came back. She stood next to the waitress, her eyes as beautiful as when she’d been alive. Willa felt the omnipresent ache lessening in her stomach. Her hands reached out, but there was nothing to touch, just that beautiful airy image of what once had been. There was no moment of anger, no question of why, it was simply the feeling I'm so happy you're here, please stay please stay.

And then Lela set the statue on the counter and it was over.

"I have customers, and you're acting weird."

Willa picked up Praying Lady and followed Lela as she made her way to a table of teenagers. "Lela, did you see her?"

"See who?"

Willa shook her head and waved her employee off toward the table. Clutching Praying Lady, she went into the kitchen and handed it to Michael. He obliged her odd request to just stand there and hold it. Again, Jennifer appeared. She licked Michael's ear, unbeknownst to him, and winked at Willa. Then the corners of her mouth curled down in a sad smirk as if to say, "This sucks."

When Michael couldn't stand there any longer, Willa went into the bathroom and stood in the mirror, holding Praying Lady. She hoped Jennifer might appear that way, but it didn't work. It seemed that she could only be seen when others held the statue. Willa was so desperate to see her again she ended up handing Praying Lady to a few more people before lunch, each time savouring the image of the love of her life, despite the fact that everyone was wondering why they were being forced to hold a little wooden woman.

On her break, she stood outside, her hand in her pocket. Norby scuffled up the street and Willa ran over to meet him. Before she could say anything he blurted, "I'm getting takeout."

"I don't care what you eat, Norby," Willa hissed. "What the hell is this thing?"

"It's nothing evil. Not The Hands Resist Him print, if that's what you're thinking," Norby said.

"No? Because it feels like some real Annabelle shit," Willa said before Norby cut her off with his explanation.

"It comes from a place of love. When my mother died it kept me sane. I was only 12, but I knew that the connection with Ma wasn't lost just because she was in the ground. Night after night, my grandfather would hold it and my mother would appear. When the hurt began to heal, I put it away. I didn't need the statue anymore. It sat in a box in my closet for years. That is, until my wife passed, and then I turned to her again for comfort. When your Jennifer died, I knew the kind of pain you were in. I didn't want to give the statue up, but..."

"You knew what I needed," Willa interrupted.

"I'd had my time, now it's yours," Norby admitted. "And very soon I'll be with my wife again. Willa I wish I could carve a thousand of these things so that everyone who felt loss would have a sense of peace. But, of course, I can't. It begins again with you, my dear."

Before she could thank him, Norby pushed past her to the restaurant door, grumbling something about being delayed getting his western.

Each day after that, Willa waited for Norby to arrive for his breakfast. But he didn't come.

One morning, Michael asked, "Where’s that little troll man? He hasn't been back for weeks."

"Norby?" Willa said, smiling, "he's with his wife." Patting the pocket of her uniform where Praying Lady rested, Willa turned to him and asked for a favour. "You wouldn't make me a western sandwich would you?"

Michael nodded. "Sure, babe, I'll get right on it."

"Oh, and Michael," Willa said, "hold the onions."