by P. J. Day
A heavyset woman wearing a ragged USC Trojans sweater, with mismatched jeans two sizes too small, screamed into the microphone. “My son was killed in the desert. I no longer have my son, and for what? What have I gained out of this? I’m poorer now than I was when my son first joined the Marines. There is a huge hole in my heart. I want these men hanged,” she declared, in an East L.A. accent.
The scarlet-haired woman cut her off. “No, we cannot hang these men. The young man who gave me this message expressed that we must seek the truth through peaceful means. Like Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., and the Son of God. Through love and knowledge, we shall overcome. Let truth sort them out. We must forgive.”
The woman who claimed the loss of her son’s life hugged the scarlet-haired protester and began sobbing on her shoulder.
Resigned, Cindy continued walking furiously toward the church. The thought of Logan causing the upheaval that had poured out onto the streets of Los Angeles gnawed at her for a brief moment.
She dialed Keelen’s phone as she wiggle-waggled through the protest.
“Kee, are you near a television?”
“No, I’m on the bus on the way to Matt’s gym, why?”
“There’s a huge protest on Sunset, like right now.”
“Really? What are they protesting?”
“I think it has to do with Logan—have you talked to him?”
“I can’t reach him, he wasn’t at the apartment.”
Cindy was running on adrenaline. She managed to carry a conversation while a squall of shoulders and arms came straight at her small frame. The church was just one block away. She picked up her steps and continued to juke the crowd like an all-pro running back.
“I hope he’s safe. There’s a burgeoning revolution happening and you need to start watching your back. You and Matt were in that video.”
“Now you’ve made me paranoid, thanks.”
“This is getting serious. I’m just looking out for you. If you get a hold of Logan, let me know.”
“I will.”
Cindy panted and huffed as she reached the terracotta steps of the Blessed Sacrament Church. She looked up and marveled at the church’s frescoes. They weren’t magnificent-looking by Old World standards, but for Los Angeles, they were like staring at the Vatican.
A statue of Ignatius Loyola stood in a niche on the main wall at the front of the church. Sparrows used his shoulder as nesting grounds; spiders used his feet as death traps.
She stood at the top of the steps and gazed down Sunset Boulevard as hordes of Angelinos continued to march in an endless stream of flesh. Inspired flesh. LAPD, in riot gear, began assembling on the sidewalks. Some held their nightsticks with both hands, eager to push the protesters away from private property and shops. Typically, protests of this nature required a permit from the city; however, this protest was much too large and was very quick to assemble. No one was to be arrested for violating code, there were no leaders of the movement, it was as if the collective consciousness of the people instinctively gathered, like a hive of bees, or a colony of ants. Swarming.
Cindy walked through one of the four heavy chromed doors of the Blessed Sacrament. An empty marble lobby greeted her. Above the main center door, an inscription read, “I am the bread of life; The bread that I will give is my flesh for the life of the world.”
“Sacrifice,” Cindy muttered to herself.
A spiral staircase was at each end of the vestibule. She fought the impulses of her inner child by not rushing the stairs. Instead, she placed the mysterious ball on the cold, hard floor. The ball rolled, feeding off the energy from the engraved, metal rod. It didn’t go toward either of the two staircases, or outside the church. Rather, the ball approached the left door that led into the chapel. Cindy pushed through the door and waited for the ball to spin through before entering herself.
The high ceiling was the first thing that caught her eye when she walked into the chapel. The wooden beams above drew her eyes upward. Impressive celestial carpentry held up the majestic high-arched ceiling without effort. Slack-jawed, Cindy stared above at the wooden engravings and gold trimming on the beams; it reminded her of a hull of an ancient ship.
She looked to her left, and there stood a four-foot stone statue of what she at first perceived was the Virgin Mary, with a set of praying candles at its front. Cindy narrowed her eyes at the Madonna’s visage. The lips were thicker than the usual representation of the Virgin, and a sliver of curled hair protruded out from the static, stoned veil. She held what looked like a single lily in her hands. The traditional statue was familiar to Cindy, but increasingly eccentric when scrutinized further.
Cindy looked across the darkened chapel, a small congregation gathered in front of the afternoon service the church provided during weekday afternoons. The unremarkable priest, with the receding gray hairline, thin-framed glasses, and green polyester smock, spoke about staying true to the Word, despite the recent clamor that was taking place outside the church.
The ball continued unimpeded down the left aisle. Cindy took off her shoes. She didn’t want to disturb the service nor the draw the parishioners’ attention to her footsteps. The ball came to rest at a set of steps that led to an entrance behind the sanctuary, where the Mass stewards prepared for the main service. Cindy glanced at the small service across the chapel; no one made eye contact with her. She picked up the ball and placed it on the carpeted walkway that led behind the sanctuary; the ball continued its predetermined roll, while Cindy sneaked quick intermittent glances at the small service.
She stood in the large room behind the sanctuary. Her heart beat fast, her eyes widened with nervousness. Although Catholic churches were notorious for their openness and liberal approach toward random visitors, she knew that being behind the sanctuary, where gold chalices and bottles of wine sat on tables unattended, would, at worst, be considered trespassing.
Cindy lifted the rod. The ball stopped its roll in the middle of the large room.
“Come on,” she whispered. “You gonna keep moving, or what?”
She gave the ball a gentle kick. It stood firm against the black carpet. She got on her knees and grunted as she pushed against the metal sphere with her hands and the thrust of her small hips. Cindy stood up and began tapping the floor with her foot, hoping for an echo or a variation of sound within the floor’s acoustics. Only the sound of hard concrete reverberated against the walls.
“Think, Cindy, think,” she said to herself while tapping the side of her head. She immediately regretted not making a copy of the church’s floor plan from the Bradbury Library.
She inspected every corner of the room, and began lightly tapping the walls—nothing but solid masonry.
She checked the cupboards, the drawers, and all the closets. Right as she began opening the last closet door by the other entrance, the faint tap of slow footsteps channeled through the walkway and into the room. Cindy stared at the ball in a panic. There was no time to get it off the floor. She hid in the closet and closed the door.
Her heart raced faster than ever and planted her cheek against the cold door. The parish’s youngest priest came to the room looking for one of the main containers of holy water.
“What’s this?” he muttered to himself, with a quiet laugh.
As he crouched to the floor, Cindy heard his knee joints crack.
“Hmm,” he huffed. “I wonder if Rogelio put this here.”
After inspecting the curious ball, the young priest left the room in search for answers. Cindy waited until it was completely quiet before stepping out of the closet. She wrinkled her brow and stood still and contemplated leaving the ball behind. It was only a matter of a minute or two before the young priest came back with a custodian she assumed was Rogelio. She bounced with anxiety and her eyes darted for an answer, any answer to the riddle of the brass ball stuck in the imaginary muck.
“Kufikiri hekima moja kufikiri,” she chanted to herself, in Swahili. A go-to prayer she kept in her spir
itual hip pocket whenever faced with adversity. She crossed her arms and took a step toward the exit. Then something small caught her eye. In the corner of the room, the carpet lipped upward. She walked toward the corner and tugged at the woven edge of fabric and it pulled up with ease. No stapling. There was no foam pad underneath the carpet either. Just the old, concrete floor the church had had since its construction over a hundred years ago.
Cindy stutter-stepped backward, while tugging the carpet. It peeled away easier than peeling a strip of tape. She yanked and pulled, until finally, the carpet curved on top of her chest and over the metal sphere, which still stuck to the ground. She tucked the carpet beneath her feet and inspected what was under the ball.
She made out a large gold ring sealed to the ground. Or at least three fourths of it, since the carpet still concealed most of the area underneath the sphere. She then used her small fingers to dig deep in the area below the sphere. The top of her fingers scraped and burned against the harsh underside of the carpeting. She wiggled her tips and found a metallic, circular indentation.
Cindy covered the floor and began kicking the ball with her foot. She bore down with her entire body, all 104 pounds of it. After her third stomp, the carpet sucked the ball into the hole beneath it with the force and pressure of a deep sea vacuum tube. A loud clack followed and the ball began to spin in place.
Cindy curled the carpet up to her chest again, and saw the gold ring recede. She was able to grab the ball, which spun wildly. She threw back the carpet and revealed the source of the circular indentation, which turned out to be some sort of keyhole for the sphere. The gold ring receded fully, revealing a circular crease in the concrete. She noticed a gold lever that had been fixed into the cement. Cindy pulled the lever and to her surprise it popped out with ease. The circular crease emitted white, chalky dust into the air. She pulled the lever upward, revealing a manhole-sized entrance, with a succession of iron grips acting as a makeshift ladder that led down toward the dark opening.
There was no light below; the faint light from within the church stopped at the sixth iron grip. She heard multiple footsteps closing in on her. She noticed another circular indentation on the other side of the concrete cover. “I might as well go all the way,” she murmured, through her teeth.
Cindy went in feet-first and closed the cover over the hole in the concrete, just as the priest and the custodian entered the room. She placed the sphere into the circular indentation on the inside of the cover. It made the loud clacking sound, as the cover locked itself from the outside. She heard the men mumble through the floor.
“Who’s in here?” asked the priest, loudly. “Show yourself.”
She heard the men scrambling above. They banged on the circular cover. Not a shred of light entered the secret entrance below the Blessed Sacrament Church. Through the agony of instant claustrophobia, she prayed for an eventual exit to wherever the darkness took her.
25
Don’t Look Back
Keelen entered the old ratty gym off Figueroa. The musk of old wet socks slammed her nostrils and the chirps of sparrows nesting inside the wooden beams above the center ring greeted her ears.
Jacob Jacobs’ gym wasn’t world class, however, Jacob the trainer was one of the world’s best. He was responsible for training four of the last seven gold medalists, and continued training two of them to welterweight and heavyweight championships.
Matt sat shirtless in the corner of the gym next to his favorite punching bag. His hands were taped, and he still wore the padded head guard. Keelen looked at him with slight pity in her eyes. Matt’s eyes stared straight toward the ground, unmoved and focused. He sat hunched over, his muscular shoulders almost hanging below his chest. A group of reporters shoved their smartphones up to his face, nipping for answers to their questions, like seagulls squawking at each other fighting for scraps on a pile of garbage.
Keelen walked up to the ring and rested her shoulder against it, listening closely to the words emanating from the dark corner of the gym.
“Matthew, your opponent was sanctioned by the IOC today for mocking your current mental state,” said the reporter. “Do you feel mental illness is properly treated in America?”
Matt shook his head and smiled. “I’ve already told you, what’s in the video is some sort of trick. My girl was there. She can vouch for me, I’ve got witnesses—is there any way you can ask me questions about the fight? Geez...”
Another reporter fought his way through the collection of arms and was now the one who had his smartphone closest to Matt’s lips.
“A lady who claimed to be in the video, who witnessed the fight, said that she was chosen to spread the message now responsible for multiple protests around the country. Did you see her there? Who gave her this message that apparently includes highly classified material, according to the AP,” the well-dressed reporter asked, wearing a suit, and clearly not part of the sports media.
“Look, guys. I can’t worry about what is going on out there,” Matt paused, “I have a fight tomorrow and that is all I’m focused on.”
Jacob Jacobs, wearing a decades-old, blue Adidas track outfit, shoved a couple of the reporters away from Matt. “Listen, guys,” he said loudly, his voice as rough as sandpaper. “We have a big day tomorrow. I’d like to give my fighter a good rest. He’s not crazy; he had a rough night, is all.”
The reporters whined in discontent as Jacob pulled up Matt from his stool.
“Is there a history of mental illness in your family?”
“Is this because your dad is in prison?” asked another.
Jacob turned around and faced the throng. “Fellas, I’m serious. Please see yourselves out of the gym.”
As Matt was being led to the other side of the ring by Jacob, he caught Keelen’s eyes, as she leaned against the ring with her arms crossed. Matt then smiled at Jacob, patted him on the shoulder and approached Keelen with boyish haste.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” he said, his blue eyes lowered in humility.
“What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know...I had a little too much to drink, I guess. Maybe I am the jealous type.”
“Logan and I were just eating dinner after work, nothing more.”
“Yeah, but how many girls have had a relationship with their bosses?”
“You can’t trust me?”
“I do, it’s just that...”
“It’s just that what?”
“It’s just that...that…you know? Maybe he likes you; he did before, why wouldn’t he now?”
“What difference does it make if he likes me? First, he’s my boss and partly responsible for me still being in the States, and second, I’m an independent human being who can make responsible choices for myself.”
Matt sighed and took off his head guard. Beads of sweat were released from the cushioned rubber sauna and streamed down his forehead.
“Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
Always a sucker for his pleading eyes, Keelen wrapped her arms around Matt’s glistening torso. She put her head on his chest briefly before immediately pulling away.
“Yeah, you’re all sweaty, she said, grimacing at his chest. “Your sweat and my blush, not a good mix.”
Matt put his hands on Keelen’s shoulders.
“Listen, I’m going to get one last word with Jacob, I’m gonna shower, and then we’ll leave. Can you wait?”
“Sure, but don’t be long.”
Matt leaned down and put his forehead against Keelen’s and eased into a kiss while maintaining eye contact.
Keelen relented and connected with Matt’s mouth. Both their lips moistened quicker than a thought process. Even though Keelen felt a tiny smidgen of resentment toward Matt after the previous night’s fiasco, she felt a need to support him throughout his training and eventually, his big fight. Why wouldn’t she? She promised him that no matter what happened, she’d be there ringside.
Matt pulled away from Keelen and ke
pt her at arm’s length, and noticed her dour blue eyes. “What’s wrong? Was my kiss that bad?” he asked.
“No, I’m just worried right now.”
“About what?”
“I can’t get a hold of Logan.”
Matt pulled away and grunted. “Really?”
“I’m sorry, but I kinda depend on him for work...”
Matt turned around and headed straight toward the shower. While strutting away in slight agitation, he sarcastically said, “I’m taking a shower. If you want to wait… you’re more than welcome to. If not, you can go search for Logan.”
Keelen puffed a breath through her lips. She surveyed the gym for a chair. There were a row of multicolored banquet chairs ringside and she picked the yellow one.
She pulled out her phone and felt compelled to check on Cindy. She dialed, but Cindy’s phone went straight to voicemail.
A touch of despair entered her mind, as she began massaging her scalp in an act of self-consolation. Although she repeatedly prided and boasted to others about her independence, she immediately realized how dependent on others she really was. A hypocrite in her own mind.
26
Blessed Sacrament
Cindy stretched her foot down into the darkness. She bit her lip, maintaining a hardened squint, hoping she’d feel solid ground whenever she lowered herself into the underbelly of the church, one grip at a time. Cindy counted to 25 before her foot made contact with a hard surface. She lowered herself, and planted her entire sole, before deciding to release her other foot from the ladder.
“There,” she said to herself. “I’m on the ground, I think.”
She grabbed her phone and used the camera flash as an impromptu lantern, waving it around the immediate proximity. There was only three feet of space between her and the walls of the tunnel, and another three feet of space between her head and the ceiling. She whistled loudly and used its echo to see how far the tunnel bore through.