by Caleb Adams
“Her name is called. My mother’s body comes down like a building on a documentary I once saw, and my father tends to her the best he can. I myself do not move. I am still staring up at the Jesus. I am waiting to see tears from His eyes. And when I realize He is not going to cry, I begin to look at the nails in His hands and feet. I am waiting for them to pop out. I am waiting for Him to come down off that cross. I am waiting for Him to walk down the nave, stop at our pew, and tell me that He is either going to return with my little sister alive or with the heads of those who took her life.
“Father John waits until all has settled down. He tells us not to hate our Muslim brothers and sisters. He says the deaths were by men not of religion, but men with evil in their hearts. He then reads from Corinthians 15, and in my head I am thinking, O’ God I need a miracle to still believe in anything You have to say.
“I remember walking out after that. I remember exiting the doors of the church into a field of television cameras and ambitious reporters. My father is pushing through the crowd like an angry icebreaker. He is stepping with one crutch and thrusting the other into their chests. We barely make it to our car. We are still surrounded like rock stars. My mother is banging on the windows and screaming hysterically. My father pulls away, and the last thing I remember is our car ride home. My father spoke only once. To my mother, once she had calmed down, he said, ‘When it is okay for us to hate, then we will return there. Until then, all of them can go straight to hell.’ ”
“Did you ever return?” Father Mahoney asked of me.
“No, we never returned.”
“But here you come to Mass every week.”
“Yes, but every week I feel like I’m betraying my father. And every week, I feel like I still need a miracle to believe in anything that He has to say.”
“The miracle is that you are here at all. You do understand that, right?”
I nodded my head, thanked Father Mahoney for listening, and returned to my quarters. I lay awake for hours afterward, thinking about his words. I suppose he intended for them to have two meanings. I suppose it was a miracle that I still had enough faith inside to keep listening, and I suppose it was a miracle that I was still alive when so many others had perished. Father Mahoney is like that. He is not one to tell you that your suffering is God’s plan. He is the one to say that after all you have been through, you are still strong enough to have faith in God and the Jesus.
Saturday, February 02,
“I have finished,” I said to Father Mahoney after cleaning the chalices and cutting the bread into cubes for tomorrow’s Mass.
“What is your guess?” he asked.
“I say we have thirteen.”
“It is a hopeful guess you give. But it is the number of the Lord’s Supper, so I say we should toast to it.”
“I will get the water.”
“If you like your whiskey with water, then you should pour yourself a glass,” Father Mahoney said, and then from a pocket of his pants, pulled out a small bottle of liquor. “One of our parishioners slipped it to me last week. It’s probably a good vintage.”
I left to get some cups. And when I returned, Father Mahoney was sitting in the first row. I sat beside him, and he poured us both a drink. In silence, we stared at the Jesus. A few minutes or so passed, and Father Mahoney took hold of my hand and squeezed it. I suppose he was asking for me to forgive the Jesus. I suppose at that moment I did.
“You know, Father,” I began when he suddenly put a finger to his lips. I, of course, left my thought and quieted as directed.
“Do you hear that?” he then questioned.
I admit I did not hear anything at first.
“Bells. I hear bells,” he uttered while getting to his feet.
I watched him walk to the altar, and then I watched as he looked heavenward.
He was not imagining, because right at that moment, I started to hear them myself. They were ringing above our heads. There was no mistake. It was glorious, and it was ethereal as if a choir of angels with bells in their hands had gathered right above our heads. I walked over to meet him. Tears had already flooded his eyes. Mine had just begun. A sign. Yes, it was a sign from the Jesus that He had not forgotten us.
And as we stood there, tears on our faces like crying children, the bells rang louder and louder until only one who had been struck deaf would not have been able to hear them. Father Mahoney fell to his knees and began to pray. I myself remained standing and turned to the Jesus. Even through my blurry eyes, I swear He was no longer there. If, for but just that one moment, perhaps He had come down from that cross to take a look around at all the suffering throughout our tunnels.
Sunday, February 03,
“What is your guess?” Father Mahoney said to me.
“I suppose one hundred, maybe even one hundred and ten.”
“Yes, I think you will be close. Please help in seating them. I have to finish preparing the sermon.”
Father Mahoney hurried back to his quarters. He still had another fifteen minutes before our first Mass of the day. The bells had uplifted the spirits of most everyone in the tunnels. To accommodate the renewed faith, we had to hold four Masses. And at each, we prayed and sang our thanks in a house of God that nary had room for another soul. The Jesus was near, we all thought. The Jesus had come down from His cross and was now donning His battle gear. Soon, He would arrive to save us all.
Tuesday, February 26,
It has been three weeks and two days since those bells rang. The Jesus has not yet arrived, and this morning, like last morning, Father Mahoney was not in his quarters when I went to visit. In fact, he has not been in his quarters at all since last Sunday. It is quite unlike him to just vanish without a word to anyone, without a word to me. Perhaps he has been called into the wilderness of our tunnels to be given another sign. Or perhaps he has gone off on his own to seek rest and solitude for just a day. After all, he has been plagued with exhaustion, trying to keep up with the demands of the Services we have had to accommodate the new parishioners. Either way, I have prayed to the Jesus to keep him well and safe. The tunnels do have their dangers, even for a priest.
Thursday, February 28,
I admit I now fear the worst. We have searched the tunnels day and night. We have handed out fliers to everyone. Some have speculated he was assumed into heaven. Those same people say that soon we will all be assumed into heaven, one by one. Those same people said it was the only explanation. I suppose that is possible. I suppose that after the ringing of those bells, anything is possible.
Friday, March 01,
My heart is more than heavy. It is a ship that has been sunk in the middle of the ocean. They have told me that Father Mahoney has been found at the far end of our tunnels, one length of his lavender-colored stole wrapped around his neck and the other wrapped around a water pipe. Below his feet, they told me was a crate onto which he took his last steps before kicking it away. I told them it was a sin impossible for our Father Mahoney. They said it was the only explanation.
Sunday, March 03,
I did not need to guess at the number of those at the funeral. The number was seven, which included myself, Father Mahoney, and the Jesus. I said a few prayers and told a few stories, the other six said nothing. I have become myself again. I have become my father. I have decided that I will return here to this church when it is okay for me to hate.
Saturday, March 16,
It has been almost two weeks since I have written in this diary. I did not think I would ever write again. But we have a new priest, and I suppose I will have new things to say since I have decided to resume my role in assisting with the Services.
I still think about Father Mahoney all the time. I think of him as a kind-hearted man who wanted nothing more than to first bring a smile to those around him and then perhaps to bring a few words of God afterward. That is how I believe a priest should be. He should start first at being a man of the Lambs before being a man of God. As far as the Jesus, I am
not sure what I will do. I suppose it will be like ex-lovers who, by some strange set of circumstances, once again find themselves under the same roof. I’m sure we will throw each other glances. I’m sure we will think of the times we spent together. But I do not believe there will ever be a reconciliation. There is now too much between us. I have twice taken Him back and twice He has forsaken me. I am now of stone, and a stone neither wants nor needs anything. How glorious to be a stone.
Monday, March 25,
The new priest has only given two Services, but already I am certain that he dislikes me and I the same. He is so impersonal it would make one think he was playing the role of someone impersonal. He gives Mass reading from notes as if he is a teacher’s aide. His sermons speak of nothing, and he hurries through the Services as if he were in a race. We have already lost two parishioners, which brings us now to six. I swear we could serve lobster tails and brandy at the Eucharist, and still, our flock would be the same. Even the Jesus, in the few times that I have looked at Him, seems disinterested. I am contemplating a return to my full-time position of thinking about Father Mahoney.
Sunday, March 31,
“We are done,” Father said curtly after Mass.
“May I walk with you to your quarters?” I asked.
He nodded. Father had his own room. He did not seem at all troubled that he had been placed in the same quarters that our Father Mahoney had resided. We did not say a word on our walk. When we arrived at where he slept, he parted the curtain that hung over the entrance and was about to walk through when I finally spoke.
“From which parish did you come?”
He turned around and stared at me. I wasn’t sure if he had heard me.
“From which parish, Father?” I asked again.
“I wish not to speak of it.”
Tuesday, April 02,
Today I took a walk to the Department of Occupancy and Vital Records. I have an acquaintance there. I asked her for a favor. I asked her for some information on our new priest. She said his in-processing form listed him as a relatively recent escapee from the Fawzan labor camp. I nodded my head and said thank you.
From those who have escaped Fawzan, there has been nothing but stories of the utmost atrocities being committed. A man of the cloth would surely have been subjected to twice that. I can see how the beatings could have struck him forgetful and made him unwilling to bring anyone into his confidence. With this new information, I will stay on a little longer and give him time to heal. All of this I have forwarded on to the Jesus in prayer. I thought He should also be made aware, in case He was also wondering.
Friday, April 05,
Things are changing quickly down here in the tunnels. At least once a day, we are now called upon to visit the dead or those who are at its door. The deaths we see vary widely. Some have taken their own lives. Some just seem to have willed weakness into their bodies. Others voluntarily refuse treatment for infections and such that could easily have been ministered to. Others are soldiers carried back from raids that were conducted. The hardest to say prayers over are the children who have succumbed to disease. Those are the ones who wanted life the most. Those are the ones that no matter how loud we pray to their departing souls, are unable to hear a single word of God over the wails of their grieving parents.
This afternoon though, I think was the hardest. The little girl in her strawberry-imprinted dress was gulping for breaths like a fish that had just been taken off a hook and tossed into a boat. She couldn’t have been any older than seven years of age. She must have already been orphaned as there was no else around her except the nurses at the infirmary. As Father and I stepped before her, I took inventory of the looks in those nurses’ eyes. They were all spider-webbed in red. I knew then that before the hour struck, she would be at heaven’s gate.
“Let us pray,” Father began after taking to a knee. And as he had done before, took out a sheet of paper from his pocket. “Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. May the Lord who saves you from sin free you up and raise you.”
He then sprinkled holy water over her body and arose. I followed him out of the infirmary and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Should we have not at least remained and waited for her last breath? She has no one else,” I said to him.
“Death is on its way. There is no need for us to hold the door for it. And there are others to tend to.”
It was true what he had spoken. We did have others to tend to. However, his voice was curt and callous, as if these deaths were annoying him. I am not sure what to think of this.
Sunday, April 07,
The coughing from the child awoke me. It is pneumonia, and it is progressing at Godspeed. Death is coming for him, and there is nothing that I can do. That any of us can do. An orphan he was as of two days ago. I hold my tears so that I can weep twice as hard for him when his soul departs. I look around. This place where I sleep has become a waiting room for heaven. There are seven of us now, where two months ago there were twelve. The two Polish tunnel diggers sleep head to head. Both I would guess are in their mid-fifties, and neither has much grasp of English. Whatever their reason back then for not learning, it was time well spent as it is useless now. Suffering is universal. It needs no spoken language. A woman is sitting up in the corner. I know she is also asleep because when she is not, she is either softly singing or combing her hair. The gray strands lie all about her as if she was in a stable. It is not dementia that has taken her. It is nostalgia, which is all the more horrifying of an affliction. The other two are lovers. Young men. They do not copulate here. I would not mind if they did. They are in training to be soldiers. Neither are fit for what awaits them. They will be meat to the lions.
Wednesday, April 10,
This afternoon I went to visit Father for a little comfort. My mind muddled, I walked into his quarters without knocking. There I saw him cleaning a gun. He asked what manners had I been taught that I should walk into the room of a man unannounced or unaccompanied. I said I was sorry, but still kept my eyes on the weapon.
“Has a priest no right to protection?” he asked of me.
I said that surely he does.
“Good, then. The world is still upright,” he replied.
I wasn’t sure what to say next. I had even forgotten the reason I had come. I said I was sorry to intrude.
I feel something is not right. I, though, will not say a word until my proof is definitive. God strike me dead if I am wrong. For who am I to bring accusations upon a priest.
Friday, April 12,
I cut my hair last night and then shaved my head this morning. It seemed to have angered Father. As we were handing out food to the breakfast line, Father spoke loud to me because I was standing at least ten feet from him. I was menstruating. My body stank. And getting any closer would have made me feel even smaller in his presence.
“Are you now a monk?”
“I am now a woman without lice,” I said.
My retort seemed to have angered him even more. As if he was upset that I had even dared to return a reply. He appeared to be gathering more words for me when a fight suddenly broke out in line. That was not unusual. There were always minor skirmishes in the food lines. What was unusual though, was that this time Father slammed the ladle in his hand down and rushed over to where the altercation was taking place. By the throat, he took one of the offenders and threw him up against the tunnel wall. If not for the intervention of other men, I swear he might have choked the man to death. When they gently released him, I looked into his eyes for an answer to his actions.
“Order, or chaos. Only one of these can be chosen,” he said to all of us.
“They are hungry,” I said.
“Be sure we shall test you with something of fear and hunger,” I remember Father saying. I remember it as if it was my own name.
Saturday, April 13,
I met with the Historian today. That is the title he
prefers. Though most here refer to him as the librarian. He is in charge of the books that were found when one of the excavation crews accidentally tunneled into a sub-basement of a library. It is quite an impressive collection, and while there are no shelves in the vault where he keeps them, they are stacked high like stalagmites, and the columns are numerous. The columns are not marked, but are sorted accordingly that I know. And the reason I know is that they do not need to be marked. He has the memory of a computer. When I had come before and asked for Saint Augustine’s “Confessions,” he rose from the desk that sits outside of the vault and went directly to it. The book he handed to me before a minute elapsed. I looked around for a log of some sort in which he could write my name. There was none. He said he would remember. And that he did when I returned the book one month later.
“Have you come again for another book by your saint? The only other work I have of his is “The City of God.”
“I have not,” I said as I stared down at him as he sat at his desk. He again had on a hard hat with a lamp affixed to it, making him look more like an archaeologist than either a historian or a librarian.
“Then what is the title you seek?”
“Be sure we shall test you with something of fear and hunger,” I said.
“Ah, the Quran. We have plenty of those in stock,” he replied and began to push himself up from the desk.
“Wait.”
“Yes?” he replied and eased himself back down into his chair.
“Are you certain it’s from the Quran?” I asked, hoping he could not see the horror stretching across my face.
“Be sure we shall test you with fear and hunger, and a loss of wealth and lives and fruits, but give good tidings to the patient. It is from Chapter 2, entitled ‘The Cow.’ Shall I get it now?”