by J. T. Warren
“I know you’re scared,” he said. “I’ll drive you right back to the funeral home. Ellis and I are not going to hurt you. We are men of God.”
When Dwayne held out his hand (God’s in my heart and He guides my punches), Brendan accepted the help.
Ellis was standing outside the church. “Are we going in or going home?” he asked.
Neither Brendan nor Dwayne said anything, so Ellis unlatched the combination lock. Just because Dwayne had helped him, didn’t mean Brendan should trust these men, but he couldn’t run away again. There had to be another way. The metal grate that slid down over the glass front rattled when Brendan passed beneath it.
The place stank of flowers. He didn’t see any flowers, however. Past the entrance, the place opened up into a large structure that could serve any number of functions from pizza joint to modest theater. Rectangular card tables with metal folding chairs were arranged throughout the room like a cafeteria. On each table stacks of fliers appeared to be grouped in some kind of order. Religious posters, most depicting Jesus either on the cross, ascending to heaven, or offering a chalice of wine, decorated the walls. Fluorescent lights gave the room an unhealthy, almost alien glow. At a far table on the right, three people (two women, one man) all dressed in some sort of black suit, were folding fliers and building individual stacks.
“This is your church?” Brendan asked.
“Not quite,” Ellis said.
The three people folding fliers turned and one woman jumped to her feet and trotted toward them. Her ensemble did not hide her large, bouncing breasts. When she drew closer, she stopped, covered her mouth, and then ran the rest of the way to Dwayne. “What happened? Are you in pain? This is terrible.”
Dwayne waved her off. “Just one of God’s trials.”
She put her arms around him without clutching and guided him to a chair. “Let me help you.” She touched his hand and he lowered the handkerchief. She didn’t say anything for a moment, composing herself. “I’ll have to stitch it some. It shouldn’t hurt much.”
“So much for my pretty face, eh?”
She smiled. “It was never that pretty to begin with.”
Then he had her on his lap and was planting a large, powerful kiss on her. Brendan hadn’t been to many churches but so far this one wasn’t following the usual protocol. The woman laughed, batted him away playfully and then told him to sit tight while she gathered supplies. She went into a room on the left that might be a bathroom.
“She’s wonderful,” Dwayne said to no one in particular. “Only wish I’d met her first.”
Brendan opened his mouth to ask what he meant and Ellis said, “Let’s go into the Empowerment Temple, Brendan.”
“The what?”
His smile betrayed neither jocularity nor sincerity; with one hand on Brendan’s shoulder, Ellis led him through the room past all the tables and the only other two people there. Two large wooden doors stood closed at the end of the room. The smell of fresh flowers plumed from the other side of the doors like a smoke cloud pushing into a room. That smell was the odor of Delaney’s viewing room. Flowers crowded around her coffin in such potent colors that they seemed to taunt her with their vibrancy. He shouldn’t be here; he should be with Delaney. But what if whatever was behind these doors offered a more genuine path to safety than he had previously found? What if there really was only one true powerful God? That was worth a few more minutes, at least.
“This is your church, through here?”
“It isn’t much,” Ellis said, “but this is where we find God.”
He pushed where the doors joined. They swung open as if floating. They were thick doors, padded with insulation. The aroma of flowers rolled out, momentarily suffocating all other senses. This room was half the size of the first room and instead of florescent ceiling lights, candles provided the only illumination. There might have been hundreds of them, set up on small tables, in specially designed racks, arranged in some type of pattern across the floor or, apparently, placed haphazardly to provide additional light where the kneeling people needed it. There were no chairs, only small rugs on which the fifteen or so people in the room knelt. The only sound was the faint hungry crackle of all the flames.
On the far wall hung a full-sized, three-dimensional Jesus on the cross. It was so life-like that for a moment Brendan thought it was a person standing up, arms wide as if welcoming everyone in a big hug. In fact, this Jesus was larger than life. Brendan walked into the Empowerment Temple, Ellis shutting the doors behind him to block the fluorescent light, and Jesus grew bigger. The statue (stone or wood?) was taller than Ellis, which meant the sculpture was at least six-feet tall, maybe closer to seven. Because of Jesus’ stage of emaciation, the figure was barely as wide as Brendan but the detail attended to the face, especially those pained eyes, bespoke not only talent but something less concrete than that, something otherworldly. This was a god you could speak to, not simply a symbol or some imaginary figment in the clouds. This was a god who understood pain. No wonder so many people were in here; they knew that if they asked hard enough and for long enough, this god, this Jesus, would answer. It had to, it was so damn real.
“Wow,” was all Brendan could say.
Ellis chuckled. He spoke in a quiet voice, yet everyone in the room probably heard him. “This is where we find God, but it is also where God finds us.”
“You just pray in here?” He hadn’t meant to sound so baffled, almost suspicious, but he was confused. If all these people had to do was kneel and pray to the giant Jesus then what the hell were all those other people doing going to church services every week and sitting through dull sermons? Most of Brendan’s friends at school were forced to attend church and all said it was hell.
“It’s more than prayer. It is a connection with something beyond rationalization. It’s a sound-proof room, so we can spend hours in here with no distractions.”
Jesus twitched his head. Trick of the light.
“We perform all sorts of services in here, but the most important one is this: simple prayer. How can we grow empowered if we do not ask God what we want? We must declare firmly what we want and only then will the path be revealed. He will show us the way when each of us is ready.”
Brendan was nodding, but he wasn’t entirely following what Ellis said. The people in this room were so still and silent that they might be dead. They were so far lost in their own prayers they didn’t even realize other people had entered. They were in trances. No, they were hypnotized by God. Perhaps they were communicating with Him.
“I know what I want from God.”
Ellis knelt next to him, hand on Brendan’s shoulder. The “stranger danger” fears had slipped away and now the man’s touch felt warm and comforting. “Are you sure you believe in God, as in one god?”
Whatever works, Brendan thought. “I’ve been confused, but now I … see.” Jesus’ head moved again.
Ellis smiled. “You really are special, Brendan. I’m so happy you’re here.”
“I want God to protect my family. That’s it. He’ll do that, right?”
“Have you heard of Ezekiel?”
“Was he a disciple?”
“He was a priest and a prophet. He was exiled, pushed out of his homeland, much like the Jews. Exile is a terrible thing; it is a torturous period of loneliness that may never end. But only in exile can anyone truly find God and then find their way out of exile. You see, Brendan, everyone is in exile in one form or another. You are here while your family grieves over your sister. Each of you is in exile. You are in exile. Why?”
“I want to protect my family. That’s all I want.” And I fucked it all up, he wanted to add, but cursing in a church would be pretty bad.
“You are here because you are on the wrong path. You are not empowered, but God can help you. Ezekiel declared that everyone will be judged individually. Your actions, your salvation, does not, cannot, save others. They must seek to be saved themselves. More so, they must seek empowerment.”
&n
bsp; “So, there’s no point? If God can’t help my family then why should I turn to Him?”
“Ezekiel also said that exile is a time to start over, to renew faith, to discover faith. It is not a time to lose hope. Today is Passover, Brendan. It is a Jewish holiday, but more than that, it is an example of how God can empower if only we believe. Ezekiel said that even in exile it is vital to not ignore God. You must recognize Passover; you must heed the Commandments. You must still practice.”
“This is a Jewish place?”
“No, Brendan. This is a place of God. There are no sects here, only believers.”
He needed to tell this man, this priest, what he had done. The words bubbled up from the place where he had buried them and he knew he would not be able to keep back the flood of truth. He didn’t want the other people in the room to hear but the giant Jesus with the eyes that could almost blink and the head that twitched every time Brendan turned to Ellis assured him that he could speak the truth here. He might never be able to tell his family (how could he?), but he could say it here. Besides, God already knew the truth. He wanted to see if Brendan knew it, too.
“There were many prophets,” Ellis said. “Isaiah was the first to prominently declare monotheism as the only true path. Though it is God’s first Commandment to Moses, many people still worshipped many gods. These people had not been empowered. You see, Brendan, God didn’t say he was the only god; he said he was the God—the only one that mattered.”
“You mean there are others?”
“Of course, and people create new ones for themselves all the time, sometimes out of greed and want and sometimes out of hope and peace. Yet, these gods are nothing but extensions of our limitations. We can worship these other gods but we will only experience the pain of failure and even misery. Isaiah said that this god, the God, is the god of the past, the present, and the future. This god is mightier than all others and this god wants peace. You want peace, don’t you?”
Brendan nodded, unable to open his mouth, knowing his story would spill out.
Ellis touched Brendan’s cheek. “It’s okay, son. You’re here. You’re in The Temple and it’s time to seek God’s forgiveness and understanding. He will show you the path, if you are willing to search for it. He will protect your family, but before He can do that, you must enter into Him fully and without reservations.”
“There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Not me,” Ellis said, “Him.” He pointed to the giant Jesus who blinked.
* * *
Brendan relayed the entire story and was stunned by his inability to hide even the smallest details. He hadn’t cried when he realized it was dad’s car he had hit; he’d been too horrified to do anything but run. That wasn’t completely true: he hadn’t cried or screamed or done anything but run back to the bowling ally because he knew he had crossed a moral line. It was the line that, once crossed, changed, inherently changed, who he was as a person. All the rest of his life would come to be known as THE TIME AFTER THE INCIDENT. When Brendan crossed that line, the only way to survive was to shut it out. If he faced what he had done, he might as well have jumped off the bridge with the bowling ball. He thought he had been prepared for the ultimate result of his actions, of someone (a stranger, goddammit, a stranger) dying, but when he saw those bumper stickers on Dad’s car he knew he’d seriously fucked up, that the gods had seriously fucked with him. Either confess and die or bury it and endure. There was no time to cry. Crying was the gateway to confession, which was the path to suicide.
Now, however, he could cry and he did. It was okay to do so here, in this temple before the Giant Jesus and Ellis the Priest. He let it all out, or so he hoped, sobbing and moaning with pain that wracked his body. If the other praying people in the room noticed, Brendan didn’t know and didn’t care. This crying, this purging, felt so good. It was like jumping into a freezing pool on a scorching summer day. First there was shock and then relief.
Ellis placed a hand on Brendan’s heaving back and rubbed slowly in circles. This touching was wrong—Ellis was a stranger (danger!)—but it helped soothe Brendan’s tears. He knew the stories about priests who molested altar boys, but wasn’t that just in the Catholic Church, all those unmarried men seeking sexual pleasure? He wanted to ask Ellis if he was married, but that would ruin this moment which, at least to spectators, would appear to be a soul-wrenching exchange between sinner and priest. What was it really? Just a chance for Brendan to get some very heavy shit off his mind before it cracked.
So, Brendan told Ellis everything. He started with his ideas about the gods which, he admitted, now seemed silly before this Giant Jesus. He talked about his baby brother who died before he even reached a week old, some type of sudden infant death thing, was all his parents had said. He talked about his mother. How he worried about his father. How his brother had done something stupid and Brendan was afraid things were only going to get worse. And then, he yanked the final ton of weight off his brain and confessed to killing Delaney.
Ellis took it all in without a trace of surprise. His face spoke of empathy and pity, not shock and ridicule. How could he not think what Brendan did to Delaney was unspeakably horrible? While waiting for Ellis’s response, Brendan began to worry that the other people in this room were not deep in prayer, but were spies with hidden recording devices. They had caught everything he said and now they were going to run to the police and the cops would run to Dad and Brendan would be in prison by morning, maybe sooner.
“You have paid a terrible price,” Ellis said. “Yet, there is hope. With God, there is always hope.”
“What should I do?”
“First, we will pray and then I will take you home.”
“Pray for what?”
“For the path, of course.”
Ellis faced the Giant Jesus on both knees and Brendan followed likewise. Some tears still trickled from his eyes, but he felt so much better than he had only minutes earlier. He felt he could return to the wake and look Delaney in her dead face and tell her he was sorry and not feel like some psychotic kid in need of therapy. He had been misguided, he saw that now, but Ellis would show him the way. Ellis would open the true path and Brendan would finally be able to keep his family safe.
Brendan waited for Ellis to say something, but he simply kept his eyes shut, hands folded together before him, head tilted toward the flickering Giant Jesus, who twitched again. It’s like he’s trying to break free from the cross and come down. If he did, wouldn’t he be slightly upset about being nailed to a cross in the first place? How could God be so kind and forgiving after what Man did to Him?
These thoughts trailed after Brendan while he dove deeper and deeper into the darkness of his own mind where he assumed prayer occurred. He was quite good at finding this place; it was where he went when he took Pilly Billie, where he imagined the stories in his composition book and where he went when he invoked instruction from the gods.
Almost as an afterthought, Brendan wondered again about the potent flower aroma. He hadn’t seen any flowers. Were they being kept someplace, perhaps for some type of ritual? No, he knew where the smell was coming from. Mom used to buy Yankee Candles, which burned different smells for different holidays—Christmas Wreath, Candied Apples, Jellybeans. Some were foul. Some smelled of fresh flowers. Like this smell. It disturbed him that a temple of God would have scented candles. When you closed your eyes, you’d think the place was full of flowers. When you opened your eyes, there was only flicking flames. It was like they were playing make believe.
Then Brendan was deep in prayer, begging for a way to keep his family safe.
7
He had to stop thinking about Sasha (naked, legs spread) and her deranged mother (sac rice luff chide). It had been stupid going over there. What had he been thinking? Well, he hadn’t been thinking. Simple as that. But no, that wasn’t true. He had been thinking and now he had to accept that his thinking had been wrong, hell, totally off the mark. Before he could do that
, however, he would have to admit what those reasons, no matter how stupid, were.
He had expected a simple face-to-face with Sasha and her mother and hoped that such an interaction would put all the messiness away, like shoving dirty clothes under the bed. He would say his peace, they would protest a bit but ultimately realize he was right, and then he’d walk away, leaving Sasha with her fucked-up mother. That hadn’t happened, of course. Instead, he had walked into another world, an insane one where mothers offered up their daughters on home-made witchcraft altars and chanted morbid tones while their naked offspring waited spread-eagle for someone to penetrate them.
He hated to admit that such a situation seemed enticing, even erotic, while sitting here in his bedroom, elbows on his thighs, hands juggling his cellphone back and forth like a game of hot potato, but being front and center for the actual event hadn’t been arousing in the least—it had been horrifying. Thinking on it now, Tyler wanted to vomit. Small tremors of cold raced through his body every few minutes and he shook off each one like an un-welcomed touch.
What had he been thinking?
It was time to be honest, now if ever, and especially with himself. He couldn’t sit here in his silent room and try to rationalize his way out of his own thoughts. The problem wasn’t that he hadn’t been thinking or that what he had been thinking was idiotic. No, the problem was that the motivation driving his thinking had proved unbelievably and horrifyingly correct. He couldn’t deny it. With a sister in a coffin waiting for burial, a mother in a pill-induced coma, and a father sitting in the car in which his daughter had died (Dad didn’t think anyone knew why he had had his car towed back to the house but Dad was fooling himself more than anybody; he was in the garage right now, probably sobbing in the front seat where Delaney’s blood still looked fresh), Tyler couldn’t turn away from the truth. To do so now, after all the damage that had been ravaged would be like trying to drink a glass of water while underwater. He either acknowledged what was going on or he drowned in his own madness of denial.