I debate kicking the grandfather clock over, but it looks
old, expensive, and well cared for and I decide self-control might be the
better option. And even if the clock was
brand new, cheap, and indestructible it would still be six different kinds of
rude and I shouldn’t ask for any more trouble.
The woman sitting next to me turns in her seat and gives me a pointed
look, first at my knee and then up at me.
I’ve started bouncing my leg again, mile a minute and without any
consistent rhythm. I give her my best, most sheepish apology
smile
and exert conscious control over the traitorous limb, hoping it won’t further
betray my nerves.
Churches make me itch.
My breathing gets shallow, my legs start to bounce, and my fight or
flight instincts kick in. For once my body
forgoes any attempt at confrontation and scream at me to just run! Get the hell out of Dodge! Never mind that if I stayed in town Father Lot
could probably have me found just as easily as he did the first time around. Never mind that my problems wouldn’t go away
just because I book it out of town, that they would actually get worse. I just want out.
It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to peg me as a person
with some deep-seated guilt and that guilt makes me edgy around a place so
shrouded in shame and repentance. Or it
could be that I’m a naturally contrary person and, churches being the focal
point of power in the remaining world, I’ve got far too many anti-establishment
sentiments floating around my pretty little head to ever be the god-fearing
type. Or, and this is my personal guess,
it could be that one of the priests caught me digging up a grave in the church
cemetery the night before and they don’t really take kindly to such
blasphemies.
I shrug and, to no one in particular, mutter about living
and learning. The woman next to me
stares pointedly.
And then in sweeps the padre, all fire and brimstone. He wears black on black on black, dark
well-cut clothes, a wide-brimmed hat that shades his face ever so dramatically,
and a black cloak that billows down around his ankles. He’s even got a carved wooden walking
stick. That’s what the Church is really
about anymore, fire and brimstone and melodrama. Leave everyone fearing further damnation,
claim you’re the only one with the answers, and people become very pliable very
quickly. I hear the padre’s lack of
exposed skin is just a skin condition.
If that’s true then I have to give him credit for working it.
Father Jeremiah Lot raps his cane sharply against my knee
and with an almost absent-minded grunt tells me to “Follow”. I grit my teeth and feel a distinct urge to
snatch the fucking stick out of his hand and crack him over the head with
it. Failing that, I sit up a bit
straighter and cross my arms firmly across my chest. Nuts to his air of mystery and his intimidating
presence. The priest stops and looks back at me and
though I can’t see his face I get the impression that he’s arched an eyebrow at
me. My arms remain crossed.
He speaks after a moment.
His voice is soft enough that I find myself leaning forward to hear him. “Follow me into my office. This needs to be sorted.”
I frown at him a moment longer, to prove a point, before
standing up. I stretch my legs, my back,
and my shoulders out just to be contrary and then nod toward what I assume is
his office. To his credit, he seems unperturbed.
Father
Lot doesn’t offer me a seat but I drop myself into the chair sitting opposite
his desk anyway. His office is a very simple square room. It’s of modest size when compared to the rest
of the church but it’s easily as big as most families’ living rooms. A heavy desk made of real wood
sits facing the door and taking up most of the space between the padre’s barren
right wall and the wall-length bookcase to my left. The bookcase is every inch as large as the
wall itself, leaving no room vertically or horizontally for the wall to peek
through, and is filled to the bursting point with books. Most of them actually look functional, like
they’ve really been read. I try not to look impressed, like I’ve seen
all kinds of rooms like this one before and maybe even some nicer ones. I lose whatever stoicism I had managed when
the padre lifts a half-full gallon jug of water
onto the table. Beads of sweat roll down
the side of the jug. He brings up only one
cup up with it. Bastard.
He takes his time, filling the cup carefully and sipping
daintily. I don’t know if he’s trying
harder to not waste the water or to dry my throat out but he’s surely aware of
both effects. He looks up sharply from
the water and I realize I just muttered “asshole” out loud. I wonder if he’s ever heard anyone swear in his
presence before. Even farmhands clean their mouths up when
priests come around. After all, everyone’s
convinced that salvation rests in the palm of the priest’s right hand and
damnation in the left. Better to eternally
brown-nose than to eternally burn.
He finishes the cup and fills it again, this time sliding it
slowly across the table. His voice is
still soft enough to make me want to lean into his words. “You’ll have to excuse my manners but I have
only one cup.”
I glare at him feeling sure that he expected this exchange
to play out in hopes of embarrassing me with my poor manners. I think profane thoughts but I don’t turn
down the drink. I can feel the coolness
of the water against my palm through the cup and a small, cracked sound rolls out
from the back of my throat before I can cut it off. I glare at the priest again and avoid taking
an overeager sip—or just chugging the whole cup. “So what’s there to be sorted, padre?”
The informality doesn’t bother him this time. He reaches behind his desk again and pulls
out my dirty, battered black duffel bag.
The grip-end of a shovel juts out from one side. He drops the bag on his desk, careful not to
knock over the gallon jug of water. He
looks at me evenly until I drain the rest of my water, “That’s not my bag.”
He laughs louder than his speech suggested was possible; a
sharp peal of warm, honest laughter. I
blink. I don’t like him seeming so
human.
“Dear—man, I am well aware that you are not the rightful
owner of this bag.” I can hear the smile in his words. I also hear that he almost called me a
child. “And I am far more interested in
the contents of the bag and what you were doing with them than in the bag
itself.”
I scowl at him as ferociously as I can manage, but the lack
of eye contact makes it feel underwhelming.
“Take that goddamn hat off.”
I instantly realize I’ve made a mistake. The laughter leaves the room on a rocket and
though I can’t see his eyes I can feel his gaze. “You are in more trouble than you know and if
you see fit to disrespect the Lord once more I will simply leave you to the
fullness of your punishment.” His voice
is sharp and hard and I can’t help but push myself further into my chair. “I have done everything in my power to see
you released with a stern warning, but there are many in this church who do not
care that you are young and that there are no records of trouble-making in your
youth.” My chair scrapes loudly across
the floor. Father Lot hasn’t moved an
inch but I can’t possibly get far enough away from him. “You defiled the body of one at rest. Life is hard and short and knowing that there
is rest at the end of this suffering is as important to people as anything else
they need to survive.”
I fully expect to see fire cavorting and capering behind his
eyes as he speaks and I find myself searching for something to say. I can’t even manage to say something glib. We sit silently until my mouth goes dry and I
feel heat radiating off of my face.
Father Lot breaks the silence by clearing his throat. His body language shifts, settling himself
comfortably into his chair and he pulls the cup back to his side of the table,
pouring another drink. He sighs and
takes a small sip. “Let’s start
again.” His voice is soft again, but I
no longer feel any urge to lean in closer to him.
Father Lot lifts the hat off his head and sets it on the
ground behind his chair. His face isn’t
horrifically burned or misshapen but I get the feeling he doesn’t draw amorous
eyes from any women who don’t get off on powerful men. His skin is pale and dry and it’s flaking
along his receding hairline.
“Tell me what you were doing last night.”
He doesn’t add an implied threat to the words but my stomach
knots up like he’s holding a pair of pliers to my fingers. I don’t even consider lying to him. I was digging up the body of Thomas Marston,
I tell him. I tell him that the two
suicides in the Felton family weren’t really suicides. The Feltons live above the Marston family and
had turned Thomas down for a loan when things on the Marston farm started
turning to shit. I tell him that Thomas
Marston’s ghost had forced Louis and Sylvia Felton to slit their wrists, that
Marston’s spirit holds Garret Felton responsible for the farm going under. Marston hung himself to escape having to
watch his family slowly wither away and now his spirit’s back. I tell him I was trying to stop Marston from killing
the rest of Garret’s family. I tell him
I was trying to lay the spirit to rest.
I tell him I’ve done it before. I
even tell him how I do it; salt the bones, douse them in alcohol, then drop a
match into the coffin. The salt’s a
symbol of purity. I tell him it worked
with the string of cattle mutilations. I
tell him to dig up the graves of Donald Ghant and Mary Hardaway. Ghant was killing the livestock and Mary was
responsible for a rash of crib-deaths. My
voice starts to give out on me and the Father offers me a cup of water. Between sips and with a dry rasp to my voice
I remind him that the church has professed belief in spirits for centuries.
Father Lot nods thoughtfully. “The cattle mutilations were caused by a pack
of animals. They stopped after Simon Heller
waited outside one night and shot two of them dead.”
My stomach sinks.
“There was no rash
of crib-deaths. In such harsh conditions
as those we live, the number of infant deaths was well within the norm when one
considers the whole city. It was only
slightly unusual that the deaths were concentrated more densely in one area.”
He thinks I’m crazy.
“The suicides however, had drawn our attention. That is why you were caught. Father Murphy was going to check Thomas
Marston’s grave for any signs of restlessness.”
I blink.
“Restlessness?”
“Yes, restlessness.
Certain weeds grow over the graves of those that do not find eternal
rest. They are quite impossible to get
rid of until the soul has been laid to rest and the grave has been sanctified.”
****
Father Something-or-Other walks me home. He talks to me the entire way, but I don’t
hear him. Restlessness. Father Lot had
admitted that the end wasn’t really the end.
Not always. The priest asks to
come in and rest his legs; the basement I’m squatting in is a long walk from
the church. I prefer the basement’s
smooth, dirt walls to the hodgepodge of rusted sheet metal that composes most
of the city’s buildings and walkways.
Except for the church of course.
The church is mostly made of pre-war stone and is filled with wooden
pews and desks and chairs. It had
somehow survived the bombings mostly intact despite the area around it being
reduced to rubble and cinders. That had
always seemed suspicious to me. I was
unaware that apocalyptic nuclear war played favorites. Then again, I couldn’t figure why the Church
would level an entire city just to build up a ramshackle city wall and fill it
with tin-huts.
Restlessness.
If death didn’t really usher the just into eternal rest than
what does that say about the church? It
meant the church was wrong. No, not
wrong—lying. Father Lot knew that Thomas
Marston’s spirit had not been at rest.
He knew that the church couldn’t keep its promise of a peaceful
afterlife and yet he still gave sermons promising a light at the end of the
tunnel. And it wasn’t just Father Lot,
someone else had been the one checking the grave for the signs. Father M…Martin, Min, Murphy.
I don’t realize that the priest is still in my house and
hasn’t stopped speaking until I feel his hands around my throat.
“—cannot spread heresies to the people.”
His voice is sad but he wrestles me to the floor
anyway. He buries his knee into my
stomach and shifts his grip clumsily. I
tuck my chin before he can bring his forearm down across my windpipe. He blinks, looking like he hadn’t expected me
to fight back. I pull my head back and
bite down on his forearm. The priest
jerks back, but before he can manage it I warp both my hands around his elbow
and bite down harder. The priest shouts
and swats at my head but rather than let go I hunch my shoulders to better
protect my head and I shake my head like a dog breaking a rat’s neck. My teeth sink in and a taste like liquefied
pennies fills my mouth.
The priest cries out again and brings his fist straight down
on top of my head. The world goes black
for a moment and when it comes back into focus the priest has pulled his arm
out of my mouth. This time he gets his
forearm down across my throat I can stop the world from spinning. I get my hands under his fist and elbow and
push but the priest probably outweighs me by seventy pounds and is driven a
zealot’s conviction. There’s a certain
inevitability to it. He’s more than a
man; he’s the weight of the entire church come to strike down the blasphemer.
The Church lives and dies by the peoples’ belief in
salvation through eternal rest. Father
Lot told me that himself. I understand
why the padre’s having me killed.
The maniac priest on top of me leans down and whispers into
my ear, “Eternal rest must be immutable if salvation is to be achievable.”
Seems a little overly dramatic to me, but that’s what the
Church is all about since it rose up from the ashes of the apocalypse; fire and
brimstone and melodrama.
