…
Far from new, the table passed through many generations before finally getting to theirs. Most homes didn’t have tables that even approached its size. People abandoned most of the old traditions long ago, having large families who dined together was one of them. The wood bore deep scars that previous generations obviously tried to sand out, seal, and reseal over the years.
"Smells incredible," Cole said, his stomach rumbling. He felt almost ill with hunger.
“Maria helped out today,” Amelia admitted, dumping a pile of fries onto his plate. “We’re so blessed to have such a fine cook. It’s been really rough, Maria, not having any help ‘round here.”
“Excuse me? Think I’ve helped plenty!” Michael defended himself, biting into his succulent black bean burger. His curly dark hair hung freely over his shoulders as he ate. Crumbs clung like tiny ornaments in his unruly mane, waiting for Amelia to teasingly point them out.
“Oh, really?” Amelia gave a sarcastic giggle, pulling her hair back into a neat ponytail as she edged her chair and sat down. “Where were you when the eggplant parmesan burned?”
“I thought you were watching it.”
“I was watching it, but then your cousin came home -- drunk -- and painted the bathroom walls in puke. That incident caused a bit of a distraction.” Everyone, especially Michael, voiced groans of disgust, clearly attempting to clear the image and enjoy the meal.
“I get no respect ‘round here.” Michael frowned mockingly, wiping his mouth with a large kitchen towel he grabbed off the counter. It seemed everyone else had proper napkins, probably due to the fact that he didn’t know where Amelia kept them and, honestly, because he didn’t care to look for one at the time.
“It’s okay, little brother. I’m happy to help, darling.” Maria’s sweet voice soothed the unwelcome thread of tension that arose between Michael and Amelia. Their entire family, and many friends too, considered her culinary skills legendary.
Growing up, Maria took pains to preserve all the generational family recipes. Each recipe was exactly as it had been for ages, except for the small tweaks she made to the main dish recipes, most of which called for meat. I wonder what I’m missing due to the ban on meat. Does it taste at all like the meat substitutes we eat in its place? I doubt it. She let out a deep, long sigh, pondering the mysterious taste once enjoyed by her Sicilian and Irish ancestors.
Amelia’s copies of the recipes sat on top of the counter. The ancient penmanship on them said so much, it seemed. In fact, not only were the swirls and twirls of each stroke beautifully created with full effortless intent, but many other notes were written page margins. Some quick mathwork in the corner for a deceased in-law’s bills and to-do lists here and there with ‘sweep kitchen’ crossed out.
She never had the opportunity to learn the recipes the proper way -- from a family matriarch. She imagined what a pleasure it could have been, to hear the stories of how the grandparents met while stirring boiling pasta. Often her thoughts imagined the bits of family history that would pour out of the matriarch as she drizzled olive oil over the steaming farfalle.
“Cole,” Maria changed the conversation, “have you talked to your brother recently?”
“Uh…,” he hoped his hesitation didn’t betray the lie. “No, I haven’t, not recently. Why?”
“Just wondering. It’s been a week now, hasn’t it? I wonder if he’s okay.”
“I’m sure he’s fine.” Michael’s calm answer elicited glares from the women at the table.
“Better hope he is. I’ll kick your ass if any harm comes to that child, Mikey." Maria’s mood darkened as she continued to nibble on her fries. Even with his sturdy frame, the barely detectable threat chilled his blood. Only a woman can cause that type of chill in a man. He didn’t care to experience any repeats of the plate-throwing wrath she sometimes perpetrated -- wrath that arose due to the temper she inherited from those Sicilian relatives.
"Honey," John, filled the short gap in conversation while picking at the tiny scraps left on his plate, "Stone's no child. He's grown. I'm sure he'll be okay.”
“Better watch it, sweetie. I’m not afraid of you either.” She gave him the same menacing woman-glare she gave Michael.
“Just saying.”
“I think I finished another piece today,” Cole announced, hoping to distract them from the topic of his brother. “Think you’d like it, Mikey.”
“Well, I’m finished with lunch, if you want to take me down now,” Michael responded, excited to escape the eyes boring into him like little daggers.
“Cole isn’t finished!” Maria shouted. “He’s barely touched his fries.”
“That burger filled me up, seriously.” Cole sat back and patted his ultra-slim stomach. “I really just can’t finish them.” No matter how starved he had been just moments ago, his belly truly was fully stuffed, and he desired no more.
“I’ll take ‘em.” John smiled as he motioned with his hand and snatched the plate from Cole.
…
He stood to head down to the basement with the other two men after quickly scarfing down the leftovers. “Never had a chance to check it out down here.”
“It’s not much, really. Pretty disgusting, honestly. I don’t know how you can spend so much time down here, Cole,” his cousin chided as they descended to the cool, subterranean level. “Freaking depresses me.”
“I don’t know. It’s my own space. Everybody needs personal space and this is mine. It’s not too bad, once you get used to the smell.”
"At least the temperature is amazing." John sweated constantly, in all conditions, in all environments. The cool draft breezing through chilled him, giving him a comfort he rarely experienced.
“Yeah, in the winter I have to layer up when I come down here.” Cole switched on the light so they could actually see. In an instant, it illuminated all of his finished work.
“Wow, Cole, I didn’t know you were an artist. Very impressive stuff you got here.” John looked around the room at the various scenes of decapitated saints and angels with flaming swords. The most pleasant painting was of the Blessed Virgin Mary, but even its subject matter looked rather disconcerting to his fresh pair of eyes. She stood on a crescent moon, nothing new there, but beneath her lay piles of skulls with serpents slithering throughout eye sockets and bony jaws agape. “What’s that one’s meaning?” He pointed to the Virgin.
“Just like most of the others. Had a dream about it and thought it looked cool. I think maybe it represents those entangled in their sins. People die praying, but rarely ever make an effort to make real changes in their lives, or that’s what I think it means.”
“How comforting.” John laughed uncomfortably, thinking of his own problems. Struggles he held secret from everyone, only hinting at them in sacramental confessions.
“Is this the new one?” Michael asked, indicating the painting still on the easel. Its paint still glistened in the light; not fully dried on the canvas.
“Yeah, been working on it since Stone left.”
Michael felt responsible for the art, having directly caused Stone’s flight from home. To him, the flaming church represented his disagreement with his cousin; the destruction depicted his regret and the flames blazed hot with his rage-filled reaction. One of the shadowy figures in the foreground might be Cole. Not quite sure who the other one is supposed to be. Perhaps it’s the priest, he thought.
“What’s it mean?” John asked again, his mind clearly not practiced in perception of symbols and analogies.
“Just the current state of the Church, I guess,” Cole offered, chewing his nails as he studied his own work. “No one’s trying to put the fire out. The stained-glass windows represent broken traditions.” At this point, he hesitated, not wanting to reveal it’s true meaning. “…and I don’t know, maybe the mystery figures started the problems. The godless and angry?”
“No, I don’t think so.” John was unwilling to admit to the gravity and hopelessness of
their situation.
“It’s his painting, John.” Michael laughed, shooting a strange look in his direction, shaking his head.
"No, it's fine. I like to hear other interpretations. Sometimes they're more insightful than mine." Cole listened, eager to hear John's take on the art. Maybe I’ve finally got the decipherer I need in John. He perked up interiorly as he considered this possibility. No one ever seemed to fully understand his pieces and neither did Cole at times. Who can blame me? His thoughts began to race. Visions come to me in my subconscious, uninvited. My brushes simply act as the messengers. He refrained from telling anyone that he actually had very little to do with the final outcome of his pieces.
“I think it’s just a church on fire.”
“How remarkable, John,” Michael teased with a tinge of disappointment. “Truly, that’s some honest-to-God prophetic analysis. Thanks for sharing. Job well done, Cole. I really like it. Don’t show it to Amelia, though. I’ll never hear the end of it.” Laughing as they climbed the basement steps, they left Cole alone to further ponder any deeper meaning to the work.
He let out a long breath and dipped a brush into the red paint left on his color palette earlier. The hairs of the brush caressed the bottom of the painting as he signed his name in a style of calligraphy unique to him and his paintings. The mark signified the completion of a painting. Done, even if no one could fully interpret the true meaning of the work.
CHAPTER FIVE
Storms raged throughout the night of Stone’s initiation, but he awoke the next morning to quiet, yet overcast skies with a thick fog clinging to the ground. The cool air made him fully awake, sobering him for the things in store for him later. He kept his wounded and bandaged arm still, so it didn’t swing while he walked. Stiffening it, he held it out and away from his torso in an attempt to prevent any rubbing against his body. He knew this probably made his gait look amusing -- like an ape.
The bandage covering his new markings aggravated him. He eagerly awaited the big reveal -- the moment he could first lay eyes on the branding, healed, scarred, and void of pain. He fantasized about wearing it uncovered for all to see.
“Where is this workshop, anyway?” Stone asked, his tone terse. Walking uphill for so long made his breathing labored. The steep road stretched toward the top of the mountain He watched as an acorn fell from a tree and tumble down the road, nothing to stop it, just as he felt he would if this trek went on much further.
“Decided we’d start the day differently, bud," Jeremy puffed over his shoulder, glancing back at him.
“What? What are we doing then?” Stone didn’t know whether he felt curious or irritated.
Jeremy didn’t answer him; he kept walking until he finally stopped outside of a dilapidated, kudzu-covered chapel. The weight of the invasive vines caused the roof to cave in. Green, winding fingers of kudzu continued on to reach through the shattered stained glass windows as well.
Stone followed him to the backyard of the little church. Since the front door was chained shut, the backdoor served as the only entrance. Stone detected the pungent, stale scent of mildew and other rotting debris, still out of breath from the unexpected hike. Jeremy knelt to make the sign of the cross before walking past the altar. Stone followed and did the same, still confused as to why they were there.
“My family attended Mass here when I was a child. We always sat in the front pew there.” Jeremy pointed to a mostly incinerated pew, most of it black with soot. “My mother spent a month painting the crucifix that hung here before. A lot of her is still present within these walls. I sometimes imagine her, now, on a ladder, painting the crown moulding.”
Stone glanced over to where the crucifix had hung, only then realizing it wasn’t hanging, instead it lay under the cover of shadows upon the floor like a large piece of worthless refuse. Flooded with sadness, he stared at Jeremy for a moment. It dawned on him that whatever happened here was unbelievably awful. Jeremy had never spoken of it.
“You can still find holy things on the floors and under the debris here,” Jeremy broke the growing weight of silence as he stopped Stone’s hand from picking up a rosary melted and fused into a twisted shape. “The things belonged to the parishioners, but I always leave them exactly where I find them.” The two of them sat in one of the few pews with enough structural integrity to hold them. "I come here from time to time when I forget what it is we've set out to do."
“What happened?”
“Officially, it just happened to catch fire that day, during the Easter Vigil.” Stone could see tears pooling in his friend’s eyes, on the brink of rolling down Jeremy’s cheeks. “They said it was because of the bonfire, from the blessing of the fire. Officially, the doors were locked from the inside, but I remember the deacons. I remember the noise they made trying to bust down the doors. Officially, there was no way out for the parishioners. All of them burned to death in the supposedly freak accident and nobody even attempted to help.” Jeremy made air quotes with his hands as he spat out the words, freak accident. “Only those of us small enough to fit through the narrow stained-glass windows escaped.” The pool of liquid in his eyelids broke and tears rained down from them, landing hard against the mudded floor.
For many people, childhood memories become dull by the time they reach adulthood. But he remembered everything vividly, as if it happened yesterday. His small five-year-old body stood tall that day -- a little man -- at his mother’s waist. His grandmother took photos of them because she said they looked so sharp in their best clothes.
…
Everyone wore black, so the faithful always dressed for Easter Vigil, as if they were about to go to a funeral. It’s only fitting to wear somber clothes to the Mass commemorating the day the first Christians placed Christ in His tomb. Stone stayed quiet, slowly looking around the chapel. Jeremy allowed his mind to wander further into his memories.
His grandparents had a beautiful grotto in their backyard with a weathered and aged statue of the Virgin Mary. The statue stood beneath an expansive magnolia tree surrounded by cut stones. As if it happened yesterday, Jeremy remembered hearing birds chirping and playing in the nearby bird bath. Elizabeth, his mother, loved it there. She grew up in that same house and they spent most of their time there during holidays. His grandparents cooked a delicious meal -- one that followed all the Lenten restrictions. They all ate it heartily, as if starved. Afterward, the four of them took a taxi to the church.
An only child, going to Mass always excited Jeremy because he got to see his friends. They played between parents on the pews, amid pinches and slaps from irritated mothers and fathers. An only child, going to Mass always excited Jeremy because he got to see his friends. Debra, the girl Stone seemed to have a crush on, was one of them. Her parents immigrated from a faraway land and their accents both captivated and terrified him.
Sometimes she got into trouble. This made Jeremy afraid he was next, always inspiring him to straighten up immediately. That terrible night, Debra got scolded, so they both stood straight and calm next to the adults gathered around a small bonfire located a safe distance away from the front of the tiny chapel.
And so, the two children were calm that night and stood next to all the adults gathered around a fire pit that had been assembled in front of the chapel. The sun dipped its liquid golden globe below the horizon, leaving a soft purple-blue glow to the darkening sky. Only the brightest stars showed their brilliance in the gloaming. Elizabeth held Jeremy tightly during the outdoor portion of the Mass, the warmth of the bonfire and the sight of it filled him with excitement. His eyes waist-level, glanced up at her and he mimicked her as she made the Sign of the Cross. He watched the priest as he paced between them and the fire, his arms outstretched while he recited a special prayer to bless the fire.
The Paschal Candle, lit from the flames of the bonfire, led the way into the building. He vividly remembered everyone following its tiny light inside where they reclaimed their spots. He and Debra sat next to each other, betw
een their parents, Debra’s eyes grew heavy and she soon fell asleep. She was only four and he remembered each time she fell asleep in Mass because she often laid her head on his shoulder in the pew just as she did that night. Only candles lit the sanctuary and the altar. No lights. The soft glow and dim ambience made his eyes heavy too, but he stayed awake. This unusual Mass interested him greatly. The candles looked beautiful to him and uncommon. He lived his entire life beneath thousands of lumens in school and at home. The candles sparkled just as brightly as the stars that greeted them outside as they stood by the bonfire. The altar appeared just as shadowy and dim as the church building looked once the sun dipped below the horizon.
…
At one point during the Mass, Jeremy remembered a horrific change in the priest’s face. He leaned up so he could turn to look behind them toward the front door. The sacred lighting in the sanctuary became overpowered by a much brighter radiance in the back and he heard a great commotion -- a shouting woman, then many shouts from men, women, and children -- the entire congregation. Debra’s eyes flew open, wide awake, at that moment too. Jeremy had forgotten about her. Someone screamed, "Fire! There's a fire in the balcony!”
Above them, in the choir balcony, great licks of orange, gold, and yellow flames spread along the walls and curtains, already singeing the white ceiling and wooden beams. The black smoke rolled along the A-framed crest of the ceiling and filled the air like swirling clouds.
“Fire! Dear Christ!”
An elderly woman prayed on her rosary beads with shaking hands and in a shrieking voice that rang out in many keys and tones, “Hail Mary, full of grace…”
The fire spread far too quickly, leaving no time to find an escape route. Chaos ensued as the congregation frantically tried to beat down the massive wooden doors. Others checked the exit doors in the back, finding them locked as well. Then they joined the rest of the parishioners in their vain attempt to dislodge the main entrance.
Sowing Season Page 7
