One

by J. A. Laraque

  It just stopped, what she was telling me didn’t make sense. She talked about what happened between Jonathan and me, but she should have known that I never blamed her for that. I searched her computer looking for anything to help make sense of her e-mail. After my father’s death I remember not seeing anyone for a few days, but she made it sound as if I had gone away for a long time.

  There was more now than just finding out where everyone was. I had to find out what Christine was talking about. She mentioned her parents as well as my mother asking her to stay away, mom would never do that. She often bugged me about not spending enough time with Christine so to try and keep her from me just didn’t add up. Maybe from her point of view I was too quick to accept what had happened. After she lost her grandmother Christine wasn’t the same for months. If she saw something in me based on how she thought one should grieve then perhaps that could explain some of it.

  If there was a reason for me being left alone then what Christine wrote had to be it. Nothing in her room would help me find an answer. The only thing I could do was search for the truth and pray that one answer would lead me to the other.

  In the absence of faith

  The absent of emotion can bring clarity, but one cannot understand the truth of a situation without first understanding the emotion. Christine said those words one night sitting on her bed watching zombie movies. I argued that in dire circumstances it was the irrational side effect of emotion that was the ultimate downfall of the people involved. She believed that while uncontrolled emotion could lead to panic and illogical decisions, it is also emotion, coupled with the will to live that led those who fought to survive, to survive.

  I never advocated being void of emotion, I asked for rational thoughts that would lead to rational decisions. What was the rational thought? I asked myself that as I continued searching the room. Stopping to smell the nightgown Christine wore to sleep, there was no way I could remove the emotional component from what I was experiencing.

  A world emptied of all life, it was not rational, and it was not possible. If I continued to focus on how everything around me was impossible then I would never be able to discover what Christine talked about in her letter to me.

  The best thing, I decided at that moment, was to try to find out if anyone else was left behind. Before any questions about my past could be answered I had to discover the truth of my present situation.

  I left the knife behind, left Christine’s home, and returned to my motorcycle. The air felt even colder than before and the sky seemed to darken even though it was not yet three o’clock. I looked at to the sky, I wondered if the military was monitoring Chicago from space, but that would be on the assumption that this phenomenon was localized.

  I started my motorcycle and took notice of how loud the sound of it was and how quiet my surrounding was. I decided to head back down North Avenue, east toward Clark Street. I could see the fire continuing to spread onto Wieland Street. I had my next destination in sight. Moody Memorial Church, across from the history museum it was the first and last church I ever went to. A towering monument to irrational thoughts and beliefs, if there were people left behind it would be there they would have found sanctuary.

  I climbed the steps of the church and could not help but stare at the architecture. Romanesque, I believe that is what they called it. I had a better word, extravagant. The red brick and custom stained-glass was not a monument to God’s love, but a golden calf signifying greed, vanity and false hope. I remembered being brought here with my mother and father as a child. I placed my hand on the copper door handle and could almost feel that day, it was so warm and I so happy.

  A Forgotten Soul

  As I child it was a joyous occasion to go to Sunday school. Running to the entrance I was so small I could not even open the large wooden door. That day, however, while I still enjoyed going to church I wanted something else.

  My father was a deacon. He would always stand out front talking to faces I could not see. My mother carried Ashley, holding her against her chest. At age eight the sea of legs and voices was the beginning of my understanding that you can feel alone even when surrounded by crowd.

  “Dad, I’m bored.” I whined to my father.

  Tugging on his pant leg finally got his attention. He knelt down next to me, even when busy my father would always take the time to listen to what I had to say, to talk to me, at least at first he did.

  “Timothy, you shouldn’t interrupt when I’m speaking to someone. It’s rude.” He said sternly.

  “I’m sorry dad. Nobody is talking to me. I wish Jonathan was here.”

  I had asked if Jonathan could come with us to church many times. I never got an answer, at least not one that I understood. Taking my hand and leading me toward the door I thought yet again I would not get an answer.

  “I wish he could be here as well, Timothy. I’ve talked with Jonathan’s father and he said that Jonathan couldn’t join us. Even though I know you wish he was here it is his family’s decision and we all have to respect that.”

  I did not understand most of what he said. All I could hear was that his father said no. Normally I would just accept it knowing I would see him after church, but that day it was not enough. I wanted to know why. My father opened the door to the church, but I did not walk inside.

  “Why, did his dad say no? Jonathan goes everywhere with us, why can’t he come here? Is he on punishment?” I asked adamantly.

  Pulling me to the side, I thought he was going to scold me, but instead he knelt back down and looked into my eyes. I saw a look that was unfamiliar, it was contemplation. He wanted to explain to me why Jonathan could not be there, but he wanted to do it in a way that I could understand.

  “Timothy, do you know why we come to church every Sunday?” He asked.

  “Yes, we come to church to learn about Jesus and God and how he died for our sins and loves us.”

  It was an auto generated robotic response programmed into my subconscious by my Sunday school teacher to be regurgitated perfectly when a specific verbal structured sentence was spoken to me. I was nothing more than a relay beacon.

  “We believe in God and we love him, but not everyone believes in God. There are many different beliefs and Jonathan's family has a different one than we do. Just as your mother and I teach you our beliefs, Jonathan's parents teach him theirs. That's why Jonathan isn't with us here today.”

  It was more than that. Jonathan’s parent’s believed that religion was a major cause in the suffering of humanity. What I did not know was that they told Jonathan that at a very young age. It did not register for him until he got older and that is when he shared it with me. My father believed in the word of God and wanted his children to share in the love he felt, to tell me the reasons for Jonathan’s parent’s beliefs would destroy all that.

  “Does that mean Jonathan doesn’t love Jesus?” I asked.

  He smiled at my question and quickly washed it away. I often wondered what that smile truly represented. Was it that I was so well conditioned to believe that all who did not conform to religious fundamentalism were God haters or was it watching an innocent child trying to understand a complex issue.

  “No, it just... well, it means that on Sunday mornings Jonathan is with his family worshiping in their own way and we must respect that okay?”

  It wasn’t okay, not then and still not now. They should have talked to me if not at that time then soon after. My mother knew as well and after I ran into the church still calling for Jonathan, she told him that I should be told the truth.

  Faith of the Blind

  I entered the empty lobby of Moody Church; I heard nothing but the sound of my own footsteps and immediately knew this was not a place where truth would be found. The marble floors I am sure cost twice what was installed in my apartment lobby, it was here that people would congregate after morning classes before what we called main church.

  The lobby led to all points in the church. West led toward the lower
rooms which held the classrooms for the toddlers, children, and young adults. By going south you would wrap around the hallway outside the grand auditorium. Going southwest you could either go up to the second and third floors that held more rooms and led out to the balcony overlooking the auditorium or head down to where a full kitchen and dining area was built.

  I headed downstairs and thought about how blind faith could be comforting especially at a time like this. I also thought about what would happen if I did find people there, what would they be able to tell me? I assumed they would believe this event was caused by God, if there is one thing religion is good at its spreading fear. Why else would one believe?

  The church kitchen was empty and immaculately clean, it did not look as if anyone had been there at all. The dining area was the same. Here my family attended banquets for various events. I hated being forced to sit here with these people I did not know or care about talking about their wealth and businesses and now here I was searching for those very people hoping they would be there.

  A long carpeted corridor ran underneath the main hallway outside the auditorium. All the rooms were empty. I stopped at the last room on my left. My father was part of a study group in the small classroom with the large glass window. Here married men would discuss their faith and how it applied to their marriage and family.

  In our home religion did not play a large part in our day-to-day lives. We were allowed to play just like every other kid in the neighborhood. There was not any specific television show or music we could not listen to within reason. Even for most meals we did not say grace. I believed that for our family religion was more of a safety net. A moveable comfort zone that allowed us to feel protected and loved at all times.

  Continuing my search I headed upstairs to the second floor. Again another long carpeted hallway. Directly to the left of the stairs was a large room. This was my first Sunday school classroom. It was divided into three sections. There was what they called the rest and reflection area. Posters with various bible verses and pictures of biblical figures adorned the walls. It was there the younger children would sleep awaiting their parents to return from main church.

  A large open area near the back of the room next to the windows was the play area. Carefully selected toys were given out to children allowing them to believe they were having fun, being independent, but in reality even during innocent play religious dogmas were being fed to them.

  In the center of the room was a circle of small plastic multi-colored chairs. As a child I would rush from the play area when the Sunday school teacher would ring her tiny brass bell with the wooden handle. I wanted a blue chair, my favorite color. Miss Grant would sit in a large wooden chair in the center of the circle. Holding her bible close to her she would tell us stories about good versus evil and how God and Jesus loved us all.

  I just stood there staring at the chair. Miss Grant was long gone, but that wooden chair was still there. I could feel memories creeping to the front of my mind. Then I could see it, the classroom was no longer empty. Fourteen chairs with fourteen children seated in them and there I was focused on Miss Grant.

  Left Behind

  Only twelve years old and already I was questioning my faith and everything I was taught by her and the others. Her sermon was on the rapture, a horror story to a young child to be sure. It was to be the last year I would be in that specific Sunday school class. I would be joining the other teenagers tackling more complex issues of faith.

  She did not censor anything. Reading directly from the bible she would clarify the most horrifying parts. All those who did not accept Jesus Christ into their hearts as their personal savior would be left behind. As a child afraid of the dark and of being alone, the thought of being left behind could turn sinner to saint.

  That morning however, my thoughts were not about myself, but of someone I cared about. Almost falling out of my seat I stretched out my hand toward the sky. Closing her bible and setting it upon her lap Miss Grant took notice of my pending question and called on me.

  “Yes, Timothy, you have a question?”

  “Miss Kimberly my friend Jonathan doesn’t come with us to church, but he’ll be able to go with us to heaven when God comes right?”

  She knew who Jonathan was and what he meant to me and knowing that made her hesitant to answer. The other children appeared interested waiting to hear the answer. It was something she did not want to speak about without being sure that what she said would not take away from what the Church wanted us to hear.

  “We will cover that next week Timothy. However, with God’s children taken from the earth all that will remain is evil. I don’t think anyone would want to live in a world such as that. This is why we teach the word of God and why we ask you to tell your friends about us and invite them to Sunday school. This way they can learn about God and be saved.”

  Next week would give her more than enough time to confer with the others on what to say. I did not want to wait until next week. What rang in my mind was her use of the word evil.

  “But Jonathan isn’t evil he just believes in something different. I asked him to come, but my dad said we need to respect his beliefs. Why would he be left with the evil people because of that?”

  Standing she collected the bibles handed out to the children with their corporate logo stamped on the inside cover. If only evil would be left behind then anyone who did not believe would be evil. That statement was clear enough for even our young minds to understand. Approaching me she smiled as she took the bible from my hands.

  “You have a lot of questions and that’s good, but they will need to wait until next week.”

  Condescending, it was her way of telling me to shut up until she had a company approved answer. She placed her hand on my head brushing her fingers through my hair. My mother would do the same when she was letting me know that I should just let something go. That woman was not my mother. I felt a well of anger build up inside me. Angrily I pushed her hand away and stormed out of the room.

  “If God doesn’t love Jonathan then why should I love God?”

  The Auditorium

  I did not return to church for two years against my parent’s protests. I continued down the hall. The more I remembered of this place the less I wanted to find anyone there. Maybe I did want to find them, huddled together, praying, and crying like the characters in Christine’s zombie movie. Raising their hands in the air asking their God why they were left behind. Perhaps evil was all that remained, then what did that make me?

  Eight small steps and a large wooden door led into the grand auditorium. I opened the door and a rush of cold air blew though me. A defining silence permeated throughout the massive auditorium. My eyes searched though the thousands of seats, but found no one. My thought at that moment was if this was the rapture God’s standards for entry into heaven was at an all-time low.

  Embracing anger did little to bypass my true feelings. My memories of my father and mother and the events at Moody Church only caused me to feel more despair over what was happening. I did not want to accept the fact that yet again I was unable to find any signs of life. I began to wonder if I was even in the same world or was I taken in my sleep and placed in a box to be studied. At that time I could not say if the thought of this world being only for me and loved ones being safe brought me any comfort.

  I moved toward the front of the auditorium and climbed down the steps toward the pulpit. I looked out across the crimson colored carpet up to the antique chandeliers. I could understand how anyone standing here addressing a wanting congregation would feel like a God themselves. I stared toward the front row at the wooden pews and thought about the last time I stood in this auditorium.

  Losing Religion

  After my father’s funeral my mother asked me to bring her to church. Ashley and Aunt Jackie remained behind to meet us later for dinner. Arriving at the church I did not want to come inside, but for my mother’s sake I walked with her into the auditorium and sat looking up towar
d the pulpit. I could not understand what sitting here staring up toward the choir seats could possibly do for her. She just sat there holding one of the hymn books periodically closing her eyes and whispering a prayer.

  The pastor of the church walked up to my mother and the two began talking. He looked over at me as if he did not recognize who I was. It did not matter to me. His words to my mother were just as hollow as the words he spoke standing on the stage every week. If it was up to me I would have made him leave, but whatever he said seemed to comfort my mother or maybe she was just being polite as she always was.

  My mother closed her eyes and bowed her head with the pastor. I did not want to be part of that. None of our prayers were answered and there was nothing prayer could do for us now. I stood and walked over to the steps leading to the pulpit. Watching them my thoughts turned to my father’s funeral. I could not remember much of it. It was like a dream quickly fading from my mind once awakened.

  I did remember standing there looking toward his coffin, then a sea of black shadows, faces I could not see and voices I did not recognize. Everyone had a well-rehearsed statement to deliver to us. Fulfilling their obligation to pay their last respects to someone they knew nothing about only to disappear after that never to be seen again.

  I felt agitated watching my mother hold hands with the pastor as they finished their prayer. All I wanted to do was leave this place. As he walked away I stepped forward hoping my mother was ready to go, but she just sat there holding on to that hymn book staring at the floor.