Cheesus Was Here

by J. C. Davis

  Two days ago Kit Spencer, the librarian, said she saw an image of the Holy Ghost in her bathroom mirror after her evening shower. Naturally by the time she’d grabbed her camera it had already faded. But she swears it was there. That same day, Andrew Carol, our quarterback, found a four-leaf clover on the practice field. I’m willing to admit there may be a miracle in there somewhere because I wasn’t aware Andrew could count that high. Yesterday morning, no less than three freshman girls all said that God spoke to them while they were in the girls’ bathroom. Of course, they also admitted he told them panties were optional clothing so I’m betting on a prank rather than any sort of divine fashion tips. Miraculous recoveries? Please. Half the town is claiming one of those—from cured colds to mysteriously disappearing allergies.

  The epidemic of crazy in this town is definitely on the rise.

  I don’t work Wednesday nights, so there’s plenty of time for Gabe and me to have our Google-off. I pull my laptop out and sit on the floor in Gabe’s family room. He scoots his chair closer to the desk, cracks his knuckles, and then powers up the ancient computer.

  “Ready?” I ask casually, already pulling a search engine up.

  Gabe grins. “Absolutely.”

  “Ready, set”—I tense, fingers poised—“go!”

  Gabe’s hands fly across the keyboard and the tap-tap of keys fills the air.

  I begin with the search term “holy food.” All that gets me are a bunch of recipes and some suggestions on restaurants close to Houston. The image hits seem more promising, however. There’s a weird-looking Cheeto and Jesus’s face in a frying pan. I click to view the full image results page and immediately regret it. Dog-wearing-a-bib I can totally handle. What that guy is doing to a Hot Pocket, on the other hand … I may need therapy by the end of this.

  A few more clicks bring me to a page filled with pictures of the supposed face of Jesus on various food and food-related items. Man, that guy gets around. Interesting, but not terribly helpful in the hoax-proving department.

  Gabe crows and pumps his fist in the air. “Score! Once again, my Google-fu kicks your butt.”

  “Please! I could smoke you any day of the week. What have you got?”

  “Oh, just a list of the six requirements the Vatican uses to determine if a miracle is genuine.”

  Damn. Round one to Gabe. I remain gracious. “Spit it out, then.” Fine, gracious might not be the right word, but I’m being provoked; that fist pump was totally unnecessary.

  “One, the facts of the case have to be error free. Two, the person receiving the message or miracle has to be of sound mind, moral fiber, and recognize the church’s authority.”

  “You realize Baby Cheesus doesn’t hold up to requirement number two, right? I don’t think Andy recognizes anyone’s authority and his morals are definitely questionable.”

  Gabe scowls at me. “Do you want to hear the list or not?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Three, the miracle can’t claim Jesus, God, Mary, or one of the saints says something that is against church doctrine. Four, any claims made involving the miracle can’t contradict church doctrine. Five, making money can’t be a motive in the miracle’s discovery. Six, the miracle must result in religious devotion, or acts of devotion, that aren’t a result of mass hysteria.”

  “See, that last one right there. I think you’re making my case for me again. Definite mass hysteria moments happening.”

  “But the miracles have brought religious pilgrims to town, church attendance is up, and there have been healings. So requirement number six is in the bag.”

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that one. But seriously, back to the moral fiber thing. You can’t argue that one. And this many miracles so close together? There’s no way!”

  “It’s definitely a bit weird. The miracles could still be real, though. What did you find?”

  While Gabe is talking I enter a few new search terms and score a win. “How about this. There’s a phenomenon called pareidolia. It’s basically the fact that people’s brains are hardwired to recognize faces so we see them even when they’re not there. The whole man in the moon thing? Or that face on Mars? Baby Cheesus and McJesus are like that. Our brains are just misfiring.”

  “That would blow your whole conspiracy theory right out of the water. Even if they’re both natural phenomena, that doesn’t mean they aren’t miraculous.”

  “It doesn’t mean they are though.”

  We’re at a stalemate again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Gather All Ye Faithful

  Sunday morning, I drag myself out of bed and stare dolefully at my closet. I pull out a couple shirts, none of which feature cartoon characters, settle on one, and then grab a nice pair of slacks. After the service, I’ll need to head straight to work and there won’t be time to change. I’m not stocking shelves and scrubbing down the soda machine in a skirt.

  Mom is sitting at the dining room table nursing a coffee when I get downstairs. I tiptoe past but she turns and catches me, frowning at my outfit. “Don’t you have a dress for services?”

  How the hell does Mom know I’m headed to church and not work? She must have rejoined the town gossip chain. Maybelle’s probably telling everyone who’ll listen how she’s saving my soul by making me attend church again.

  I pause with one hand on the front door, looking back at her. “This is fine.”

  Mom gets up and straightens the pale blue sundress she’s wearing. “Let me grab the keys and we’ll head out.”

  “I can walk.” The words are sharper then I meant and Mom flinches, but pastes on a smile.

  “Don’t be silly, what would people think if we didn’t arrive together?”

  “I’m not going to St. Andrew’s.”

  Mom glances at my black slacks and cream top, eyebrows drawing together. “But—”

  “I’m going to Holy Cross.”

  Her mouth forms a little oh. “But they’re Baptist!”

  She says it like Baptist is a four-letter word and I’m off to cavort naked and sacrifice a goat. I can’t help laughing. Mom’s shocked expression dissolves into a glare.

  “Did Gabe talk you into this? You belong at St. Andrew’s with your family.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, holding in a sigh. “My choice, Mom.” Before she can protest again I duck out the front door and pull it closed behind me.

  The streets are busy despite the early hour. Moms in floral hats, little girls in frilly dresses, and dads in casual suits walk or drive on their way to church. Most of the cars are headed to St. Andrew’s, and there’s a traffic jam in the parking lot. I turn toward Holy Cross on the opposite side of town.

  The St. Andrew’s bell rings triumphantly and Holy Cross’s speakers sound tiny and small in comparison, the gospel song more plaintive than enticing. It’s a good fifteen-minute walk to Holy Cross and I pop headphones into my ears, turning on the latest track from Screech Monkey. The noise washes away the world and it’s just me and the crash of drums, the snarling wail of a guitar. The lyrics are an unintelligible rush of syllables and I relax, not having to think about anything.

  When I finally reach Holy Cross, I feel weird stepping inside for an actual service. Like I might burst into flames or giant angels will appear barring my way and saying, “Halt, unbeliever.” Neither happens. The reality is much worse.

  Gabe is waiting at the front of the church, greeting people as they come in and handing out programs for the morning service. His face lights up with a huge smile when he sees me. I am a fake. A phony. The absolute worst friend in the entire world. I should have told him the truth about why I asked to come this morning.

  “I didn’t think you’d show,” Gabe says, still smiling.

  He hands me a green printed paper. On the front, a dove rises from a group of clouds, and the date is printed below: Sunday, September 24.

  “And yet here I am. Where should I sit?” I curl the program into a tight tube and fiddle with the e
dge, glancing past Gabe at the greeting area and the sanctuary beyond with its rows of pews. The rooms look so different with morning sunlight streaming inside and people milling around.

  Gabe gestures at the sanctuary. “First row, on the right. I always sit there.”

  I smile nervously and shuffle inside.

  “I’ll be there in a few minutes, just have to finish passing these out.” He hands a program to a couple standing behind me and they begin chatting.

  St. Andrew’s has padded seats on their pews, a lush tapestry-like material that’s all puffy and still somehow uncomfortable. Holy Cross’s pews are bare wood, red-brown with a bright lacquered finish. I pass down the regimented rows. Half are empty.

  Audrey Mills, one of those old people who always seems to be around, is perched at the church organ, enthusiastically punching out a tune. Ellen Martin stands beside her wearing a purple and gold choir robe so wide it could double as a church tent.

  Ellen’s cheeks are flushed as she sings for all she’s worth into a tiny silver microphone. In the pew across from me, two old ladies nod along with the music, one of them knitting a neon green scarf. I’ve never seen anyone knitting at St. Andrew’s.

  I glance at the other people in the sanctuary and spot a baseball cap in the back row. A few people are casually dressed, others decked out like Jesus is holding a reception and they’re the guests of honor.

  At the front of the church the piano falls silent and Ellen puts down the microphone. Gabe slides in next to me a moment later. On cue, Reverend Beaudean steps up to the podium, a smile pasted on. His cheeks look sunken and worry lines tug at the corners of his mouth and crisscross his forehead. He takes a deep breath and his eyes sweep the sanctuary, taking in everyone. The lines deepen.

  “Welcome on this fine and beautiful morning,” Reverend Beaudean begins. “I know that many of you have seen the miracles that have been visited on our town.”

  The word “miracles” surprises me, considering Reverend Beaudean was yelling at Bobby about setting up a sideshow last week. Sure, the Reverend tried to get McJesus, but he can’t actually think it’s a miracle, can he? The rest of his sermon quickly proves me wrong.

  “We live in miraculous times,” the reverend continues. “I am grateful to be here, at this moment. To be a part of something truly extraordinary. These humble signs point us back to our Father and to his service. But there is a danger in those signs as well. If we focus on them, and not the one who sent them, then we worship falsely. God is the center of our faith and how we worship him should not falter in the face of such miracles. Go and see the image, this McJesus, as it’s being called. Whether you believe in it or not, you must believe in the Maker, Our Lord, who through his compassion and love saves us. Let us take glory in Our Heavenly Father and his unending love. Let us remain true to Him.”

  Several people in the congregation nod and I hear a heartfelt “Amen” from the back of the room. The sermon rolls on with Reverend Beaudean talking about faith and belief, about what miracles mean to each of us.

  Gabe’s face shines as he watches his father, hanging on every word. Did I ever look like that, watching my parents? Before our family fell apart? My dad was a mechanic, the king of cars. He could fix anything. My mom was master of a thousand things—able to fix cuts with a kiss, make bake sale cupcakes with no notice, and lull a scared little girl to sleep at night with a story. They were giants when I was young, invincible. Until they weren’t. Until they couldn’t fix anything. Not Claire, not our family, and not even themselves. Their prayers and their faith weren’t enough to save anyone.

  Gabe touches my elbow, urging me up, and I focus on the service again. Everyone is standing and the first notes of a hymn come from the church organ. Gabe frowns at me, looking concerned, but I shake my head. I can’t say all the things I want. I thought coming here, I’d be able to see things through his eyes. Discover some secret that I’ve missed. But faith is a gulf I’m not sure we’ll ever bridge.

  All these people, maybe they believe in God even more because of the miracles. I think of Mom, across town at St. Andrews, probably staring at Baby Cheesus and fixating on Claire. Some lies are tiny and small, they don’t hurt anyone, and some lies are so big they tear apart families and lives.

  The songs go on forever, five in a row. I stare at a battered hymnal, words catching in my throat. Beside me, Gabe’s hands are free—no hymnal needed because he knows the songs by heart.

  “Go with God,” Reverend Beaudean says after the last song ends. All around us people shuffle and gather their things, edging out of the pews.

  Gabe glances at the sanctuary doors, but remains in place, laser-focused on me. “So, what did you think? Great sermon, right?”

  I nod and smile, putting on a show for Gabe. He’s clearly hoping one sermon’s going to make me reconsider my whole “God doesn’t give a shit” attitude. Sorry, bud. But he looks so eager, I say, “Your dad’s amazing.”

  Gabe beams.

  Reverend Beaudean stands twenty feet away, cornered by half a dozen people all vying for his attention. He patiently listens to each one and pats an arm or offers a smile, a concerned frown.

  Gabe mutters “Damn” under his breath. I turn to see what he’s looking at and notice the trickle of water snaking down the wall in the far corner. Gabe hurries to the front of the room and pulls a bucket and a wad of towels from behind the altar. I join him and help mop up the small puddle that’s already formed on the warped wooden floor. We position the bucket and use it to hold more towels in place. It’s a temporary measure at best; the towels will have to be switched out in a few minutes.

  “There weren’t even any clouds this morning. Maybe it’ll just be a quick storm.” He glances furtively at the handful of people still in the room and then catches Reverend Beaudean’s eye and nods his head at the bucket.

  His dad’s shoulders slump and he nods back.

  “Need more supplies?” I ask Gabe, holding up the last few towels.

  “Yeah. We’ve got a pile of extra towels in Dad’s office. Can you grab them?”

  “Sure thing.”

  I jog to the row of offices in the back of the building. While the rest of the church is shabby but clean, Mr. Beaudean’s office looks like an episode of Hoarders. There are boxes piled in the corners, books and papers litter every surface, and three coffee cups are on his desk, one on its side leaking coffee sludge over several envelopes.

  Not a towel in sight. Taking a deep breath, I plunge inside.

  The papers and ecclesiastical books I expected. The egg decorating kit on the other hand, not so much. I shift a couple of boxes and glance beneath them, before surrendering to the inevitable and opening each box in turn. There’s a box filled with toilet paper rolls. Another has a mishmash of tools, a small soldering iron, and some tiny jars of wood stain. A few wood chips and part of a wood slat lay beside them. In the box beneath that I discover a leather-working kit, complete with awls and metal stamps. Is this Gabe’s old junk? I swear we used that leather kit back in sixth grade to make ourselves a couple holsters for our water guns.

  Finally, in the fifth box, I find the towels.

  “Can I help you find something, Del?”

  I jump and turn back to the door. Reverend Beaudean is standing in the hall, frowning in at me. His cheeks are flushed and he darts a glance at the mess covering his desk, the boxes I’ve already searched. Guess he wasn’t keen for anyone to see what a wreck his office is.

  I plunge a hand into the box and pull out a wad of terrycloth, holding the towels up for him to see. “Just looking for these.”

  He doesn’t move.

  “For the leak?” I add. “Gabe and I are trying to mop up the water before it does any more damage.”

  The frown disappears and Mr. Beaudean nods, smoothing a hand over his face. He looks exhausted. “Of course. I forgot we had those in here. Spare dish towels for the kitchen when we do our elder meal service.”

  “I’ll help Gabe wash
them when we’re done. They’ll be back in service by tomorrow.”

  “Hmm?” Mr. Beaudean glances over his shoulder, toward the church entry, and then straightens. “Don’t worry about it, Del. We had to cancel this week’s meal. I need to call Bobby and see if he can take on an extra day. I was just looking for a notepad to jot down a few notes.”

  I look at the desk and then back to Mr. Beaudean. Yeah, good luck with that. I keep the words to myself and skirt around his desk, clutching the towels.

  Back in the sanctuary I thrust the towels at Gabe and flop down beside him. The trickle of water has slowed to a drip and Gabe is busy tossing wet towels into the waiting bucket. He presses a dry towel against the wall and wipes away the water.

  I glance at my watch. Damn. “Sorry to mop and run, but I’ve got to get to the Gas & Gut. Ken will kill me if we open late.”

  Gabe nods, wedging a few more towels against the baseboard. “Sure. Thanks for the help.”

  “No problem. You coming by after my shift? We need to go over our notes on the miracles again.”

  “You helping me clean up the sanctuary tonight?” Gabe counters.

  I narrow my eyes and rest my hands on my hips. “There better be chocolate chip cookies involved afterward.”

  “Of course,” Gabe says with a wounded look. “I might even be able to rustle up some ice cream. There’s a Godzilla marathon on tonight.”

  “Nice. I’ll see you at six, then. But I’m bringing my notes. Miracles before radioactive lizards.”

  Gabe hides a grimace, but not quickly enough. So far, we haven’t made much progress and he’s getting tired of going over the same notes each night. So am I, but I’m not giving up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Our Lady of the Wishing Well

  Wednesday morning, I wake up an hour before my alarm goes off. Claire died a year ago today. I try to get out of bed but can’t find the energy. Instead, I stare up at the ceiling. Above me a pattern of glow-in-the-dark stars is arranged like Capricorn, my birth sign. Mom put them there when I was eight. Two years later I helped her add a constellation for Claire’s eighth birthday: Pisces. Claire’s stars are gone. She took them down when she turned twelve and tacked up a picture of a cat peering down from a ceiling tile.