by K M Stross
“Never mind,” Cross said, waving any lingering questions away. “I don’t need to know.”
Phil shook his head. He stopped in the center of the motel parking lot. The motel stood away from the sidewalk, resting behind the empty parking lot. Thin, snake-like gray-green weeds poked out from between cracks in the asphalt.
“May I please ask you one more question, Phil?” Cross asked, pulling out a cigarette and handing it over. “Then I promise I won’t waste any more of your time.”
“Shoot,” Phil said, biting down on the butt and leaning over for a light.
“Where is St. Joseph’s church?”
Phil exhaled the smoke through his nose, looking into Cross’s eyes and not saying anything at first. “Due north, about two miles. Didn’t you see it coming in?”
“No. Thank you.” Cross handed Phil an extra cigarette and watched him return to the sidewalk, heading back in the direction of the café.
Cross walked across the motel parking lot. He followed the highway awhile longer, staying on the gravel shoulder and taking in the sparse ranches that peppered the landscape. It reminded him of the farmland in his hometown in Wisconsin, only instead of corn, there was only dry, thirsty dark red dirt, the occasional brown steer standing idly in no place in particular, grazing on whatever had managed to squeeze its way out of the earth.
Just as quickly as it had begun, the town ceased. It sat in the middle of the desert, plaguing the arid landscape with concrete and sunburned aluminum siding. The ranches scattered across the flat land seemed to hold no particular pattern, opting for open anarchy in the countryside with little regard for formulaic fencing. Much like the ranches, Cross had seen on his way into town, these dark one-story ranch homes and accompanying farmhouses had opted to retain as much nineteenth-century charm as possible.
He imagined he missed the church when he was riding in on account of his bad left eye. He’d been sitting on the right side of the bus, staring out the window and thinking about things. Wisconsin. Veneration. Strange miracles in the desert.
He returned to the motel, checking in and laying his large backpack on the bed. He unzipped the small front pack and pulled out four large orange prescription bottles, taking one pill from each and walking to the bathroom. On his way, his left foot bumped into the corner of the wall dividing the bedroom and the bathroom, and he leaned over to grab his sore toes, cursing his toes, his eye, God and anything else he could think of. Fuck this place, he thought. Fuck this town. Fuck their priest.
When the pain subsided, he let go of his toes and walked into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. The bright halogen bulbs seemed to pale his skin and push down his shoulders so that his body slumped under an unseen force. He let the water run for a while, but it remained lukewarm, unwilling to cool. He liked cold water. He wanted cold water.
Each pill coated his throat with a different flavor, a different texture. Prostaglandin tasted like cherry and went down smooth; Azopt tasted like raw eggs and crawled down his throat like a jagged rock. The water acted as a purifier, a broth for the medicine to stew in his stomach. It would, after a few minutes, temporarily relieve the terrible curse inflicted upon his eyes.
“Oh to meet Jesus with his mud,” he said to the water swirling around the drain.
When he was finished, he went back to the desk and took out the newspaper articles he had carefully put in the middle pocket of his backpack, unfolding each one and laying them out on the table in a chronological order. There was no point in trying to look at any of them today—his left eye was acting up too much. Maybe it was too late entirely. The pressure in his left eye had grown worse the closer he got to town as if it expected something from this place.
He grabbed his tape recorder from his backpack and stepped outside. He stood on the sidewalk and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply and watching an old boxy blue Honda pass. Every tire kicked up dust that had settled onto the hot concrete, creating a swirling vortex of brown clouds pushing toward the center of the town. A large gray GMC Tacoma passed in the opposite direction and sped up when it reached the end of the motel, squealing its tires and throwing specks of gravel onto the sidewalk.
Already, Cross could feel moisture gathering on his back. It was late afternoon now, but no one had told the Sun. He dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk, following the street that had been renamed Abaddon Drive, its old name lost somewhere in a metal recycling factory where the old signs could be melted down. He could feel the sun honing in on his body, sending a flare of warmth over his shoulders. The dry air kept his tongue parched, sifting through the sticky saliva in his mouth every time he swallowed.
Cross passed the café and the knitting shop and the general store, glancing at the hours posted on the door. In black magic marker, “8am-8pm” written in typeface had been replaced with “8am-1pm” in black cursive. “New hours until further notice” was written on a piece of plain white paper under the OPEN sign. Below that, on another piece of white paper and written in bold black marker: “Nuevo horas hasta nueva aviso.”
He crossed the street to the park and turned right onto Main Street, the only road running north and south. He ducked under the tall Glory Maple trees to take advantage of the sprawling shadows, returning to the sidewalk only at the very edge of the park. Most of the buildings lining either side of the north end of Main Street were either two-story homes or apartments split like duplexes, all made of either red bricks or covered with blue aluminum siding, all the shades in the windows drawn. To the northeast, he could see a thin, brown steeple off on the horizon. It stood surrounded by empty land, away from any commotion or controversy that might pop up in such a small town. Cross took his time, letting his legs determine the pace based on just how much sweat was beginning to soak into his jeans. He picked up the pace every so often when the clouds overhead would temporarily block out the sun, and his body felt comfortable moving more quickly. This kind of dry heat was new to him. It made his lungs itch.
The town’s two northernmost buildings—two-story homes with rusty-looking water stains between their wide windows—gave way to open desert cut in half by two straight lanes of asphalt. Cross kept walking, and his thoughts grew dark, anticipating some sort of confrontation here or at the church, wondering how convincingly he could play the role of a priest if questions began arising. Wondering if he’d finally be able to use the knife tucked away in his right boot.
He broke off from the highway at a green mailbox and blacktopped road, following the road a hundred yards to the small parking lot of St. Joseph’s. He stopped in front of the church. It was plainer than he had expected, with small dark windows lining the white wooden siding and a very pronounced brick steeple jutting out of the long breadbox making up the rest of the building. At the top of the steeple, Cross could see a very small brass bell hanging between the four wooden beams diverging higher up.
He reached the small, unassuming entrance and something inside his body awakened, a mealworm of fear that was wriggling through his stomach and preventing him from taking another step. It was as if the church sent out a silent warning that pierced his skin and dug into his nerves. He could picture Father Aaron Abaddon standing in front of the doors, greeting people with a smile on his face and enveloping each person’s hand with an aura of holiness strong enough to warrant its own beam of sunlight. Even though Cross had never seen a picture of the priest, he had a clear image of the man’s face, a face that looked familiar and unsettling.
“You’re losing it,” he said quietly to himself. “Take the first step.”
He did. The next step was easier. By the time he reached the dusty brass handles of the church’s front door, the feeling had passed. He pulled the door open, surprised to find it unlocked, and stood for a moment in the greeting room, taking in the rusty walls on either side, both of which were littered with old community flyers that had already begun to yellow and brown around the edges. They hung on the corkboard from white-colored tacks. Everything looked a
ged, from the layers of dust settled on the old red carpeting to the black snake-like water marks along the ceiling tiles between rows of dusty tube lights.
There was a closed book sitting on a thin wooden podium between the two open doors leading into the chapel. Cross stepped up to the book, reaching into his pocket for the flashlight on his keychain. He turned it on and shined a narrow bright blue beam of light on the book. The heavy leather cover read “Visitors Log” in silver letters that bubbled out of the surface.
He stepped through the foyer’s open doorway and into the chapel, running a finger along the back of the rear pew. A layer of thick dust clung to his index finger, leaving a streak of shiny brown wood in its wake. The pews must have been new, and even the purple cushions lining the seats had no visible wear and tear. What had to him looked like tinted windows on the outside were, in fact, beautiful stained-glass windows featuring a variety of biblical figures wearing white and red robes. Only a handful of them remained intact—the majority had at least one rock-sized hole, leaving sharp rainbow-colored shards around the frames. Light shined in through the holes, cutting through the dust in the air. The beams did little to illuminate the church, and Cross could feel his chest beginning to tighten as his left eye tried—and failed—to take in the left half of the chapel.
“Hello?” he called out to the empty room, turning his head so his right eye could ensure no one was standing in the shadows. His voice echoed along the walls, bouncing into the empty pulpit. The pulpit looked more like an empty stage than a place of worship, with only the large, man-sized brass cross resting against one corner to serve as a reminder of what the church had once stood for.
He turned back to the greeting room and opened the book sitting on the podium. He leafed through the pages to the middle, scanning the far-right column for a date and waving his hand in the air to disperse the dust particles his movement had kicked up. The most recent date was two years ago, almost to the day. He turned back two more years and let his eyes flow over the most legible names. The signature he was looking for would be neat, not in cursive, and every letter “S” would bump up next to the next corresponding letter. The name might not be familiar but the handwriting would.
Suddenly the entire room was bathed in light and Cross pulled his finger away from the book. He turned around and instinctively dropped his hand to his side, his heart thumping under his sternum. His eyes adjusted to the overweight figure leaning in the bright doorway. Behind him, the sun had snuck out from behind the clouds again.
“Church is closed, son.”
The man was wearing a flat cowboy hat, arms crossed with a hardened expression on his shadowed face that changed when his eyes landed on the white under Cross’s collar. The man’s rough, tanned face smoothed out and he unhooked his arms to reveal the copper badge over his left breast pocket. His uniform was gray like the dust of the church; the badge looked brand new and polished, shiny even without the orange early evening sunlight directly upon it.
“I apologize, Father,” he said with a smile. “I thought you might be another one of those damn New York reporters come snoopin around some more.”
“No … it’s okay, sir,” Cross said. “You just surprised me that’s all.”
The man laughed, resting one hand on his protruding stomach. “Now that’s a first. I make so much noise when I walk, and I’m surprised you didn’t hear me before I even got up the steps outside.” He took a large step across the cramped gathering room and extended a hand. “Name’s Sheriff Taylor.”
Cross took Sheriff Taylor’s large hand. “Chandler Cross. I apologize if I was trespassing—I didn’t realize the church wasn’t in use anymore. I just assumed another priest might …”
Sheriff Taylor let go and shrugged, holding up his hands. “You’re definitely not trespassing, Father. It belongs to you just as much as anyone else, I figure. Cross, was it? Your parents name you knowing you’d be a priest?”
Cross forced a laugh. “No, purely coincidence. Although I’m sure it looked good on my resume when I applied for the job.”
Sheriff Taylor smiled, revealing white, crooked teeth. He walked up to the open doorway next to the podium, glancing inside before turning back and admiring the bulletins on the corkboard with familiar eyes that recognized the names and events. “They call the chapel part the nave. Not a lot of people know that anymore.”
“Because the ceiling looks like an upside-down ship,” Cross said. “No, the word’s been lost to time, I think.”
Taylor turned back to the doorway leading into the nave. He seemed hesitant to step inside, keeping the tip of his boot off the invisible line dividing the nave from the greeting room. “So you’re here on official business, then? Still tying up loose ends?”
Cross nodded. “Fact-checking, mostly. I’m the Devil’s Advocate for Father Abaddon’s canonization.”
“What’s that then?”
Cross cleared his dry throat. “The Beatification and Canonization process is … bureaucratic. While the Church completes its investigation of the miracles, a tribunal examines documentation and testimony.”
“Has plenty of that. The last priest who came through collected all of it.”
Cross nodded. He hadn’t heard much about that. “My job is to act as the party pooper. I’m the fresh pair of eyes who comes in and attempts to find evidence that would suggest Father Abaddon isn’t … saint material.”
The sheriff didn’t answer.
“It’s mostly a formality,” Cross added, forcing a smile. He sensed the sheriff’s annoyance and quickly tried to dissolve it. “One I’d rather not be a part of, in all honesty. The Devil’s Advocate process is a step no one takes seriously. But this is God’s work, and he’s my employer.”
Sheriff Taylor chuckled. “Amen to that, Father. I feel the same way.”
“So I’ll collect some interviews, make my case, and then the process continues.”
“Well, I don’t think you’ll have much luck with interviews. This town clammed up the moment fancy big-city reporters came by looking for stories. They don’t get a small town like this. They’re from another world, you know.”
“I understand,” Cross said. He mentally scratched one mystery off his list: the lack of information from the newspaper archives. “I’m sure Father Abaddon would appreciate any help you can give me.”
“Aaron.”
“Excuse me?”
“We just called him Father Aaron.” Sheriff Taylor took a deep breath, expanding his heavy stomach, causing the leather belt to groan under pressure. “The Mexicans call him Father Abaddon because they think he’s Mexican, on account of his last name. But everyone around here just called him Father Aaron. He was that type of guy, you know? He deserves everything that’s coming to him. I just wish the bastards would go ahead and canonize him already and get it over with. No offense, Father.”
“None was taken,” Cross said. “I’m sure I’m going to be wasting everyone’s time asking the same questions over and over.”
Sheriff Taylor turned around. His face was leathery, dark from being out in the sun every day even with a hat, wrinkled around his mouth where bristles of gray whiskers poked out of the skin. “I don’t envy your job, Father.”
They were silent a moment, letting the church speak for itself. The dry outside air slipped in through the broken windows, whistling through the smallest cracks. It spoke of God and of a lack of God, Cross thought. Potential. The word came to Cross’s mind and stuck there, and he wasn’t sure why.
“Can’t imagine why the doors were unlocked,” Sheriff Taylor said. He hooked his thumbs around his belt loops, letting his right hand rest on his gun holster. “But I ain’t surprised nothing’s damaged. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to squat here. It’s got a feeling to it, you know?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
Taylor smiled. “Well, the locals think it’s haunted. That help?”
“Ah,” Cross said, licking his lips. “I suppose any old
building with this much history can evoke strong feelings in a person.”
“Yeah,” Taylor said, turning back to the chapel. “Something about it, though. I don’t mean to scare you or anything … I like to propagate the rumor. Keeps nosy people away. God, but we got sick of those big-shot reporters snooping around stirring things up.”
“Do you believe Father Aaron deserves sainthood?” Cross asked, trying to take advantage of the sheriff’s lack of attention. He could sense some reservation with the middle-aged man. There was a trustworthiness that came with the white piece of cardboard around Cross’s collar—it affected different people in different ways.
Sheriff Taylor nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off the rows of empty pews. “I ain’t been surer of anything in my life. The man changed this town.”
Cross reached into his pocket and pulled out the small tape recorder. “You mind if I ask you a few questions about it, just for the record?”
“I’d be honored to help you out, you know.”
Cross took a step into the chapel, and Sheriff Taylor immediately stopped him with one meaty arm pressing gently against Cross’s chest. “Let’s stay in here, how about it?” Taylor asked.
“Oh.” Cross stepped back. “Of course.” He turned the tape recorder on and placed it on the wooden podium next to the Visitors book. “Where did Father Aaron live while he was in town?”
Taylor rubbed the bridge of his nose, thinking. “Oh, I do believe he stayed right here in the church.”
Cross’s eyes widened, only briefly. “I’m sorry, I think I remember reading about that.”
Taylor nodded. “He was a very simple man, never really needed much. Then again, on his salary, he probably would have been stuck living with the spics on the south end of town, so I don’t blame him.”
“Who?”
“Mexicans,” Taylor said. “Sorry. It’s just a word that gets used here now and then. I pick up some bad habits from neighbors.”
“Did anyone find Father Aaron’s body when he disappeared?” Cross asked.