by J. C. Davis
Wendy pats the grass next to her with one hand and gestures at Anna with the other, urging her to make room. Anna frowns but moves over a few inches. I’d have to be skinny as a stick bug to fit into that space.
“Nah,” I say, backing up a step. “I’ve got chores to do at home. I was just curious, no big deal.”
“I hope we see you next week,” Wendy says, offering another encouraging smile.
Not likely.
That evening, I have dinner at Gabe’s house. I’m here at least once a week so it’s a comfortable routine. His dad is late, and when the front door creaks open, we’re already in the kitchen, staring into the mostly empty refrigerator.
Gabe pokes a carton of eggs. “We could have breakfast for dinner.”
“How old are those?”
He shrugs. “I don’t think they’re going to hatch if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“What are you two up to?” Mr. Beaudean asks, coming into the room.
I look over my shoulder and offer a tentative smile. His tie is loose, suit jacket already off. He’s handsome for an old guy, with a round, friendly face and permanent laugh lines. Normally, he moves like there are springs coiled beneath his feet, but now his steps drag and there are dark circles under his eyes.
Gabe shuts the refrigerator and turns toward his dad. “Sizing up dinner prospects. It’s kind of bleak.”
“How about we order a pizza? Think I’ve got a coupon around here somewhere.”
Gabe grins. “Can you get extra pepperoni and sausage on half?”
“Don’t I always?” Mr. Beaudean heads for the phone, pausing to squeeze Gabe’s shoulder. It’s just a casual gesture, the sort of thing parents do all the time. The sort of thing my parents used to do all the time. I clear my throat because it’s suddenly too tight to breathe.
At the dinner table half an hour later, I lift a large slice of greasy pizza and slide it onto my plate. Maggio’s Pizza is the closest shop, and one of the few places that will deliver in Clemency. It’s New York–style pizza with huge slices, thin crust, and enough cheese and toppings that you could scrape them off and make an extra meal. Pure heaven.
Gabe groans appreciatively as he takes a bite. Some cheese catches on his bottom lip and I resist the urge to lean over and wipe it off with a finger.
Mr. Beaudean dabs at the top of his pizza with a napkin, sopping up the grease. He’s changed into an Oklahoma University T-shirt, the short sleeves frayed at the ends. Normally, Gabe’s dad chats about church stuff and interrogates us about our week. Tonight he’s quiet and spends most of dinner frowning at his pizza. It creates a weird tension in the room. In the background the drip, drip of the faucet punctuates the awkwardness.
Gabe glances over his shoulder at the sink. “We should get that fixed. Want me to call Mr. Hollis?”
Mr. Beaudean looks up. “I’ll take care of it later.”
“Seriously? Last time you picked up a wrench you dropped it on your foot.”
“It’s a leaky faucet, I’m not calling in a handyman for that.”
“You called Mr. Hollis this summer when the bathroom drain was blocked. And last year when the living room fan went into turbo mode and wouldn’t switch off.”
Mr. Beaudean gets up from the table, his pizza missing only two bites. “We need to fix that roof leak at Holy Cross. Money’s tight for everyone right now and tithes are down. Any spare money I can scrape together needs to go back into the church. I’ll take care of the sink.”
Gabe stops protesting and his dad leaves the room, shoulders slumped.
“Shouldn’t the church council be the ones taking care of the roof leak?” I ask.
“Yeah. But like Dad said, tithes are down and there isn’t enough in the church budget.” Gabe lowers his voice, looking at the kitchen entrance. “He’s been donating half his paycheck back to the church. He doesn’t know I found out, but he left his checkbook lying out the other day. We had to cut our elder care meal service down to twice a week last month and Dad’s taking it pretty hard.”
“I didn’t know things were so bad.” I put a hand on Gabe’s arm and he gives me a reassuring smile.
“It’ll turn out all right. Dad’s always said God provides whatever we need, we just have to be patient. Although it’s been a while since we’ve had to be this patient.”
He gets up from the table and dumps his empty plate in the trash, then yanks hard on the faucet handle. The spout continues to drip.
“Want help cleaning the church tonight?” I ask. I may avoid the services, but I usually help Gabe with cleanup duty on Sunday nights. It’s part of our routine.
“Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
The sun is just dipping past the trees and the world is purple gray. Sunset is my favorite time of day because it’s like the world is watching me with sleepy eyes, everything mellow and calm.
Holy Cross used to be a bank. The front is all heavy stone arches framing a set of truly obnoxious wood doors. There’s a statue of a cross out front to clue anyone passing by into the building’s status change.
Gabe unlocks the church door and we step inside, flicking on the lights. After the church purchased the building, the interior was gutted and a wall built to divide the worship area from the lobby where they serve coffee and doughnuts each Sunday morning from the front desk. I can already see a coffee cup stashed behind one of the potted plants and a service program lying by the women’s bathroom door.
“Ten bucks says I find more coffee cups than you do,” I say.
Gabe grins. “You’re on.”
We race off, Gabe breaking left, me right. It’s amazing how many people abandon their cups, or deliberately hide them, before heading into morning services.
Fifteen minutes later I have five cups to Gabe’s four. A third of our usual haul.
“Count them and weep,” I crow, shoving the cups into Gabe’s hands. I already dumped the leftover coffee into the water fountain from the two cups that were half full. No way I’m sloshing coffee all over the floor, even in the interests of winning. I don’t do mop duty.
“Did you plant these?” Gabe narrows his eyes at me.
“I was working? Remember?”
“I suppose. But I don’t entirely trust you, Delgado.”
“I’m wounded, Beaudean.”
I spin on my heel and sashay into the main worship area. “Come on, slow poke, lots to do still.”
In the far corner, past the pulpit, the ugly water stain that appeared on the white ceiling tiles a few months ago is bigger. Reverend Beaudean is right, they’ll have to take care of that before the next big storm hits. Fall in Texas always brings a monsoon or two.
Gabe and I walk down each pew row, straightening Bibles in their chair back holders and picking up crumpled programs. It doesn’t take long. I like Holy Cross at night, when it’s just Gabe and me. There’s a different kind of quiet in here that feels comfortable. The frenetic energy from the day is gone.
“Dad seemed better tonight, don’t you think?” Gabe asks when we’re done.
“Than what?”
“I think he’s finally dealing with the Baby Cheesus situation. Maybe we won’t have to dance around the subject anymore.”
“You really want to talk about it with him?”
“No, but it’s better than not talking about it with him, you know? Like it’s taboo, so it’s always there.”
We lock up the church and swing back by Gabe’s house to grab a cup of coffee before I head home. It helps me unwind at the end of the day and Gabe’s taken up my bad habits.
As soon as we hit the front porch, we can hear his dad yelling somewhere inside the house.
“Don’t tell me that wasn’t underhanded!”
Gabe eases the door open and we tiptoe inside, stopping in the entry hall. His dad must be on the phone in the kitchen.
“You’re luring people into St. Andrew’s under false pretenses to see that stupid cheese wheel,” Mr. Beaudean snarls.
Pause.
“You know exactly what I’m accusing you of. If you want to tout that thing as a holy relic I can’t stop you, but stop displaying it during services. You may as well be running a side show.”
Gabe and I share a guilty glance. How mad will his dad be if he catches us eavesdropping? But neither one of us moves.
“You want to come over here and say that to my face? Tricking people into attending your service is unchristian.”
After another long pause, Mr. Beaudean’s voice gets even louder. “First it’s name-calling and now you’re going to start insulting my church? We’re not five-year-olds. And don’t you dare imply that a grocery store reject gives your church some sort of holy seal of approval.”
Mr. Beaudean slams the phone down and Gabe and I jump at the sound. We bolt for Gabe’s room, shutting the door behind us as quietly as possible.
Gabe shakes his head and drops onto his bed. “I take it back. Dad isn’t handling Baby Cheesus well at all.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Not Exactly a Picasso
That week things are pretty tame. There’s lots of talk about Baby Cheesus, and even the kindergarteners have seen Andy’s picture of the cheese wheel. But there are no more miraculous cures, not according to Wendy anyway. Mom’s back to skulking in her room and heading out for her night shift early. Business as usual.
Pastor Bobby has the cheese wheel on lockdown and rumor is it won’t be back in its plastic case in the church until Sunday. Where he’s keeping it in the meantime is anyone’s guess.
Saturday night, Emmet and I wait at the dinner table for half an hour before finally giving up and going our separate ways. Mom never even pokes her head out of her room, and when Emmet knocks on the door she tells him she’s too tired to cook.
Sunday comes and goes. The attendance at Holy Cross is still down. Gabe’s dad is still upset and Pastor Bobby has switched the sign outside St. Andrew’s to read home of the holy cheese. I snapped a picture. My Cheesus-related snapshot collection is growing steadily.
Tuesday, when I go on shift after school, Ken is standing by the door with an impatient frown. Not a good sign. I dart a glance at the clock hanging on the back wall, but I’m five minutes early.
Ken is paunchy and short, with a ring of hair clinging above his ears like the fat friar in a Robin Hood movie. He always wears Hawaiian shirts, even in the middle of winter. Today’s shirt is orange with green parrots and salt-crusted margarita glasses printed on it. If there’s ever a natural disaster in town, we could use that shirt as an emergency beacon.
Ken nods at me as I step around the counter and tuck my backpack onto a low shelf. “We need to discuss the front window.”
I dart a look at Santa and then back at Ken. How’d he find out about my plans to add a cowboy hat to Santa’s ensemble? I haven’t done it yet, but I’ve got the paints stashed in my bag.
“You got a decent hand with a brush,” Ken says. “I saw that ribbon you got at the art show. I think it’s time we replace the window display with something more timely.”
“Sure,” I say, eager now. I’ll get to paint and I won’t have to worry about Ken freaking out over his window display being ruined.
“I want it to say ‘Cheesus Was Here’ in big red and yellow letters, and below that a picture of Baby Cheesus. Can you manage that?”
My shoulders droop and I sigh. I wasn’t expecting to recreate a Picasso, but still.
“Yeah, I can do that.”
“Great!” Ken pulls a folded paper from his back pocket and smooths it out to show a grainy picture of Baby Cheesus. “I should sack Andy for selling that cheese wheel to Bobby. It was found in our store, it shoulda stayed in our store. That boy’s brain is full of holes. But we can still get some mileage outta the cheese. I ordered two cases of Babybels for this week, and with this in the window, we might need to go to four cases.”
“When do you want me to start?” I try not to sound as disgusted as I feel.
“Now. I bought some paints and brushes. They’re in the back. You let me know if you need extras. You can paint between customers.”
“Am I getting a bonus for this or something?”
Ken laughs and pats my shoulder. “You’re on the clock and besides, you did say you’d do whatever was needed around the store if I let you clerk.”
“I figured.” I shrug it off and go looking for the paints. Good-bye, Santa; hello, Cheesus. It’s just trading one fictional character for another.
CHAPTER NINE
Jesus and a Side of Fries
There are a lot of things you miss out on when you live in a small town: malls, big concerts, endless shopping and dining opportunities, comic book shops, and casual crime. Fast food, however, is one of the few universal institutions across America.
On the way to school Thursday morning, Emmet and I notice a dozen cars filling the McDonald’s parking lot and a small crowd of people surrounding the drive-through window. There’s no such thing as fast food rush hour in Clemency, at any time of day, let alone breakfast.
Emmet is so distracted, Rust Bucket’s front wheel hits the curb and he overcorrects, swerving wildly before getting the car under control.
“What the hell! Cars go on the road, not the sidewalk.” I rub my right shoulder, tender from slamming into the door panel.
Emmet ignores me and mumbles, “Someone must’ve been murdered.”
He pulls into the McDonald’s parking lot and parks sideways, blocking a line of three cars. There are trained monkeys that can drive better than my brother. We get out and join the crowd. I recognize a couple kids from school, and most of the adults, but there are a few new faces—people passing through town on their way to Houston or Dallas, or maybe religious nuts here to see Baby Cheesus. Despite the Sunday-only viewing schedule, a few people show up each day trying to get a peek at the miracle cheese wheel.
Ahead of me, the drive-through window is blocked by the jostling crowd, and I stand on tiptoe trying to see.
“Is it real?” someone asks from the front of the crowd.
“It looks genuine.” That sounds like Bill Henderson, the McDonald’s manager. “Jim said it was on the window when he opened the store this morning. He called me right away.”
I jab Emmet in the ribs a bit harder than necessary. “What is it? Can you see?”
Emmet shakes his head and shoves forward, aiming for the out-of-towners. They won’t be around later, and any fallout from trampling them will likely be minimal. Occasionally, my brother is smart. We shimmy and elbow our way to the front of the crowd.
The drive-through window has some sort of whitish stuff obscuring the glass.
Emmet sucks in a breath. “Holy shit.”
Mr. Henderson’s head snaps around and he gives Emmet a narrow-eyed look. “That sort of language is uncalled for, especially under the circumstances.”
I duck around Emmet and come up on his other side, trying to get a better view.
“Holy shit.” I stare at the window.
“Del!” Mr. Henderson snaps.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
The white stuff is semi-opaque; I can see the dim outline of the grills and cash register through it. But more importantly, the white forms a negative image: a guy’s face with a beard and long hair. It looks uncomfortably like that famous shroud thing, the one that Jesus was supposedly wrapped in. The Shroud of Touring or something. Even I know what that looks like.
“Is that—” My voice trails away.
Emmet nods. “Jesus.”
Mr. Henderson darts a glance at Emmet but evidently decides he isn’t cursing this time. “Looks like Jesus to me.”
“How is that even possible?” I ask.
“It’s a miracle. Another miracle,” someone behind me says. Cell phones are held aloft and the whirr-click of pictures being snapped u
nderscores the growing whispers. Beside me, a lady in a pink jumpsuit bumps my arm as she tries to get a better angle with her camera phone.
I edge closer to the window. “What is that stuff?”
Mr. Henderson shrugs. “No idea. Seems like the image has been oxidized into the window pane.”
The word miracle gains force like a wildfire, jumping from person to person. The whispered conversations and exclamations are getting louder too.
The pink-suited woman bursts into tears and I turn to look at her, only then realizing she’s my second grade teacher, Mrs. Keller. Her phone is pink as well, with little jewels on the case, and she’s staring at the picture on her screen, sobs catching in her throat. “God is with us!”
I purse my lips. “It’s on a drive-through window. That’s hardly divine.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with our food,” Mr. Henderson says in a loud voice. “Even God approves of a good meal.”
“It’s probably someone playing a joke.” I raise my voice, gesturing to the window. “Someone could have painted that thing.”
Someone gasps, and I turn to face the crowd of people. Most of them are glowering at me and a few look ready to burn me at the stake. One of the out-of-towners, a large man with a fanny pack bisecting his beer gut, is nodding, however.
“Girl’s right,” fanny pack man says. “This is probably a publicity stunt or some advertising thing.”
Mr. Henderson clears his throat. “I can assure you this is not a marketing campaign. That image is real. Just look at it.”
“You shouldn’t question God, Delaney,” Mrs. Keller says. She’s done crying but her face is blotchy and red. “It’s blasphemous.”
“Everyone knows that girl’s turned her back on the Lord,” someone calls from the back of the crowd. Is that Maybelle? I can’t tell, but it sounds like her. Old bat.
Emmet stands behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Del doesn’t mean any harm, let her be.”
I jerk my head up and stare at him. He’s glaring at the crowd with an I-dare-you-to-say-something look. Why would he defend me? Most days we barely talk. My chest squeezes tight and I have the sudden urge to hug my brother.