The Drayton Chronicles

by Bertauski, Tony

  Father Gordon sat up.

  No one seemed to notice the young man, his skin as black as a plantation slave’s, dip his fingers in the holy font and cross himself before walking right down the middle of the church. No one paid him any attention as he came all the way to the front—

  Tap. Tap. TAP.

  —right in front of Father Walker, not more than an arm’s reach, and genuflect.

  Even stranger, each step that youngster took turned an imaginary vise that squeezed Father Gordon’s chest. Tighter.

  Tighter.

  He sat in the front pew a mere five feet from Yellow’s foster mother.

  Father Walker’s homily didn’t skip a beat.

  No one turned an eye.

  They didn’t see this… this kid… sit in front… staring.

  Father Gordon’s breath was shallow. Sweat stung his eyes.

  And his chest was very, very tight.

  II

  It was Sunday.

  Time for Father Walker to shine.

  Some priests raced through service to get the sheep home in time for kickoff, to appease the fidgeting and the yawning and the sleeping. But not Father Walker. He came to priesthood to lead humanity to heaven through the only begotten Son.

  Father Walker prepared his homily by walking dutifully through the church gardens with his hands folded and his mind open to God. He would walk carefully, mindfully, eyes on the ground, letting the Lord’s grace rain down on him. His drops of wisdom formed words that linked into sentences that fell into the chalice of Father Walker’s heart so that he may deliver them to the sheep.

  Father Walker was not going to rush through Sundays. Not when he was shining with God’s grace. The children weren’t hearing what he was saying, but the words would take root. That’s what he told parents that cared not to bring their children to mass because they were too disruptive and not really understanding what he was saying.

  But the Lord’s Word is like a mustard seed that may lay dormant for many years, awaiting water and sunlight to germinate in the soul.

  So Father Walker spread the Lord’s seed unselfishly, that all may bathe in its glory. That all may experience the wonder that Father Walker had to offer. On that particular Sunday, they would understand the importance of giving.

  “Let us pray.”

  Father Walker raised his arms until they ached. He held them not so much above his head but out to the sides like his savior that hung on a cross attached to the ceiling above him, watching over the congregation. Sometimes Father Walker liked to imagine spikes driven through his palms. Sometimes, he wished he were given the opportunity to die for his Father, so that he may offer salvation to all of humanity.

  He recited the Prayer of the Faithful, pausing for the congregation to respond Lord, hear our prayer. He put an extra beat into the pause to really let his prayers sink in.

  Take root.

  Father Walker began preparing for the Liturgy of the Eucharist by receiving gifts of bread and wine to be placed on the altar while the organ played from the balcony. Sometimes he closed his eyes to let the pipes vibrate inside him.

  Father Gordon’s hand was shaking.

  His complexion resembled wet clay.

  “Father Gordon,” he said, hardly moving his lips, “are you well?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Would you like to sit during the Eucharist?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Father Walker did not want to alarm anyone. Father Gordon was a stubborn man. He did not listen to Father Walker. Would not. A scene would be most inappropriate at this most holy of moments. Father Walker cupped the chalice with both hands and bowed his head.

  Father Gordon wiped his forehead.

  “Yellow.” Father Walker spoke without turning to the altar server. “Would you please help Father Gordon to his chair?”

  Yellow looked at Father Gordon.

  He hissed without expression. “Hacer tal cosa, niña.” Do no such thing, girl.

  She dutifully stood at her post, awaiting the Prayer over the Gifts. Father Walker paused an extra beat and then continued. What else could he do?

  Father Gordon was a very stubborn man.

  III

  Father Gordon felt sweat racing down his legs.

  He felt that black kid in the front pew staring at him while he assisted in the preparation of the Gifts. He felt naked, like somehow he was exposed, standing on the altar for everyone to see him for what he was, secrets and all.

  He trembled.

  But he stayed his post. That’s what he was called to do, stay the post and serve up the body of Christ. Father Walker wanted him to sit. It was an empty gesture, but if he could see how Father Gordon’s knees quaked beneath the robes, if he felt the icy shivers drain the strength from his legs, he might have stopped mass and insisted.

  Yellow stood next to him, hands dutifully folded in front of her chest. She stared, dead-eyed, at the boy in the front pew. She must’ve felt the strangeness, too. Father Gordon broke protocol and stroked the ponytail her ribbon held in place.

  “Usted preocuparse demasiado.” You worry too much.

  Her expression didn’t change.

  Father Walker piously paused for the final incantation.

  Father Gordon pressed his hand over his chest in lieu of a prayer pose. The silence hung far too long. A weight pressed against his chest.

  “This is the Lamb of God,” Father Walker called.

  Pain shooting down arm.

  “Who takes away the sins of the world.”

  Heat prickling between shoulders.

  Father Gordon kept his gaze down and forward, focused on breathing while Father Walker continued to break the bread and prepare the vessel. Father Gordon would typically assist but he felt it necessary to conserve his strength. Mass was almost over and he could get out of these dreadful robes. He could do this. In 40 years, he had never abandoned his post. He had done what God had called him to do, regardless of how he felt.

  “Happy are those who are called to his supper.”

  “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you,” Father Gordon muttered along with the congregation, “but only say the word and I shall be healed.”

  He swallowed back the pain, blinking away the salty sting. Father Walker offered him the Body of Christ. He held the white wafer in front of him, pausing long and hard. Father Gordon closed his eyes.

  “Amen,” Father Gordon muttered.

  The wafer stuck to the roof of his mouth. Father Walker offer the chalice of Christ’s Blood and Father Gordon washed it down with three healthy gulps, relieving some of the discomfort. He could’ve downed the whole thing.

  Father Gordon took his share of the Eucharist. He held the wafers up, one by one, and placed them in the congregation’s cupped hands. He felt sweat trace his fingers and soak into the dry white wafers. Still, he offered it.

  “The Body of Christ.”

  “Amen.”

  He avoided wiping his face. He kept his knees locked. But his hand was not steady. It quivered more with each parishioner. Each came with hands cupped, some with tongue out, some with eyes closed, giving themselves to his ability to funnel Jesus Christ to the roof of their mouth.

  The church was getting dark. His nub was numb.

  Then the boy stepped up.

  A dark shirt. Jeans and worn boots.

  His hair was cut near the scalp. His skin was smooth and ebony, as if dipped in the blackest of ink.

  Father Gordon’s teeth began to chatter. He looked into the boy’s eyes. His teenage eyes so limpid, so placid.

  Wise.

  He felt so exposed. As if the boy could see who he was, what he had done all these years.

  The clattering of knee rests began to fade. A dark tunnel tightened around his vision until it was just the boy.

  Just the boy looking at him.

  The boy, seeing him.

  Father Gordon held up the wafer. It fluttered to the floor.

  Words dribbled from h
is lips. “Forgive me.”

  God reached inside his chest and squeezed his heart like a lemon. Pain radiated sparks. His knees broke.

  Father Gordon dropped like a dishrag.

  IV

  Yellow could smell Father Gordon through his robes. She knew he wore nothing when it was hot, that his skin was oily and got moldy beneath the folds of his belly. She could smell that.

  It was podrido.

  He was 70 years old. His body was not ready for weather extremes, he would say. When it was cold, his joints would ache. He would bring coconut oil and have her massage his nub. The weather made it itch where he couldn’t scratch. He would close his eyes and let Yellow rub the oil into the bald knob on his arm. When it was hot, he would need his chest powdered. Sometimes he would run two fingers beneath a fat-fold and the smell would waft up like sun-dried cottage cheese.

  Repugnante.

  She didn’t want to look at him. She didn’t want to make eye contact, not during mass. She could feel him staring but if she looked back, he might make it worse. Once he interrupted mass to tell the congregation that she had gotten straight As at school. Father Walker was giving a homily on doing God’s work without expectation of reward and Father Gordon brought her to the front of the altar.

  She wanted to die.

  She never wanted him to do that again. So she didn’t look at him, even when he whispered in Spanish. She wasn’t supposed to use her native tongue. You’re in America, chica, her foster mother would say. You’re going to speak English, 24-7. If God wanted you to talk Mexican, you would be in Mexico.

  But Father Gordon didn’t listen.

  She liked that he spoke Spanish. It reminded her of home, someplace she would never have again. At first he hid it from the foster mom. Our little secret, he said. But then he did it right out in the open, like he was teaching her who was boss. Still, Yellow didn’t like to participate in front of her. Father Gordon didn’t have to go home with her. He didn’t know what it was like to kneel on pencils.

  But now something was different about him. He was rojo. Caliente.

  He swayed when he gave her communion, holding the wafer out to place on her tongue. (She didn’t cup her hands; Father Gordon said that was sucias. Impuro.) His fingers waved beneath her nose and she closed her eyes. She didn’t open them until the smell was gone.

  The boy that walked in late was still in the front row. He was all by himself, wearing regular clothes. He sat so calmly. She tried not to stare. Father Gordon would scold her for that, it was descortés to stare at individuals in the congregation. They were there to hear the word of the Lord, not to be gawked at by a misplaced chica. But she couldn’t help herself. He was just so… so…

  Bonito.

  He felt so perfect.

  When she looked at him, she felt so limpia.

  Clean.

  She forced herself to look away. Once communion had begun, Father Gordon was occupied and could no longer see Yellow watching the boy sit so gracefully. She watched him stand in line with his hands folded in prayer. He stepped up to Father Gordon and cupped his hands to receive the Body of Christ.

  Father Gordon shook.

  He said something in English.

  Then he crumpled.

  He was a pile of sleeves and scarves on the bottom step of the altar and people were shouting 911 and a crowd was huddled over him. Two people came rushing up the aisle – one man, one woman – both shouting for them to step aside because they were doctors. They gave the pile of holy clothes room to breathe. Father Walker was the only one allowed to kneel next to him.

  “Get a cold, wet cloth!”

  Yellow didn’t move. Father Walker turned and looked right at her. His big wire glasses had slid down his nose.

  She backed up the steps and moved to the exit at the rear of the altar. Yellow went to the bathroom and pulled paper towels out of the dispenser, running them under the cold tap and squeezing the excess into the sink. She walked back through the anteroom with rows and rows of prayer candles flickering in the draft.

  Yellow draped the damp towels over a hand rail.

  She looked at the unlit candles, each one awaiting a match for someone in need. She knelt in front of the Virgin Mary, her hands out and welcoming, and bowed her head.

  She didn’t pray for Father Gordon.

  She just listened to the calls for help.

  V

  The siren’s warning had faded.

  The church, empty.

  Father Walker shook Doctor Foreman’s hand with two hands. He held on a bit longer than a normal handshake, hoping it would convey gratitude for her expertise in this emergency.

  “I should’ve known,” he said. “He was not himself, I offered him a chair but he wouldn’t take it. He’s from the old school of suffering and penance, you know.”

  “I doubt that would’ve stopped it, Father Walker.”

  “Yes, but he wouldn’t have fallen so hard.”

  “Did he complain of symptoms earlier in the week? This morning, perhaps?”

  Father Walker shook his head. “Father Gordon never complains.”

  “When was the last time he saw a doctor?”

  Father Walker started walking down the center aisle. Certainly, Doctor Foreman didn’t have time to spare talking about this. She had done more than he could’ve asked and he was certainly grateful. He hoped that was clear to her. She didn’t need to stay any longer.

  “Father?” Doctor Forman asked.

  “Yes, um, I was thinking. I don’t think Father Gordon has been to the doctor.” He rubbed his chin. “Ever.”

  The doctor frowned.

  Father Walker smiled, showing all his teeth. “He’s too stubborn to get sick, you see.”

  Doctor Foreman didn’t grin. She was nodding. Thinking.

  Father Walker noticed the church was not empty, after all. There, in the back pew, was a young man. He had not seen him in mass before. He sat near the aisle, hands neatly folded on his lap. He watched Father Walker and the doctor approach.

  Yellow was sitting next to him.

  “Father?” Doctor Foreman said it sternly this time.

  “Yes, mm-mmm. I’m sorry, Doctor. I’m a little… distracted. A lot has happened this morning.”

  “I understand. Do you know if he was on any medication?”

  “I, uh, don’t know that.”

  “Can we check his room? They’re going to need that information at the hospital—”

  “Father Gordon is a very private man. I don’t think he’d appreciate us going through his things.”

  “Father Gordon just suffered a serious heart attack. I think he’ll forgive the trespass, Father.”

  Father Walker was lost in thought but, if you asked at that moment what he was thinking, he wouldn’t be able to answer. He just didn’t want anyone going into Father Gordon’s room. That was made clear when Father Walker first arrived at St. Michael’s.

  “Yellow?” he said. “Do you know if Father Gordon takes any medicine?”

  The young girl, still dressed in appropriate server attire, only stared.

  “Medicina?” The doctor pretended to feed herself pills.

  “She can speak English, Doctor.” Father Walker tried to soften his tone with a cheerless smile. “Yellow, do you know?”

  Again, silence.

  “Look, Doctor, I’ll look in his bathroom and call if I find anything.”

  There was a little more chat. Dr. Foreman wrote a number to call on the back of a business card. There was no handshake before she left. Father Walker watched her leave before turning to the young man and flashing a mechanical smile.

  “Hello,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m Father Walker. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Drayton.”

  The young man took his hand without standing. He didn’t shake Father Walker’s hand, merely held it. A cold shiver traveled through his palm and up his wrist. Father Walker had the mild sensation of being transported in an elevato
r. Up or down, he couldn’t say. Only the queer drop in his belly.

  Perhaps it was imagined. Like having an x-ray taken, one imagines feeling exposed but really there’s only a short click.

  “Drayton, huh?” Father Walker dropped his hand, resisted the urge to wipe it on his sleeve. “You are from around here?”

  “Recently, yes.”

  “I see. Well.” Father Walker spread his arms. “Welcome to St. Michael’s. You have arrived on a very peculiar day. Father Gordon has taken ill. I suppose it’s a miracle that he is still alive.”

  Father Walker crossed himself.

  “Quite lucky members of your congregation are competent physicians.”

  “Perhaps. But God made sure they were at the 11:00 mass.”

  Father Walker raised a finger to correct the young man. He frequently tightened up when someone doubted the all-knowing grace of God. And the power of prayer.

  “He works in mysterious ways,” Drayton said.

  “We’re mere mortals. Who are we to question his intent?”

  “Quite.”

  It was an odd inflection this young man spoke. Father Walker wasn’t a racist, but he expected a little more slang, see him driving a flashy car with booming speakers, not sitting in repose at the back of a church saying things like quite.

  “We have many activities here at St. Michael’s. There’s a pancake breakfast next Saturday to raise funds for our annex and several prayer groups that meet throughout the week.” Father Walker looked around. “Were your parents here?”

  “They were not.”

  “I see. An adventurous young man, huh? Well, there is a young person’s group that meets on Friday nights for games and movies. Perhaps you’d like to come by and get to know some of the teens?”

  Drayton nodded.

  “Or you could volunteer in the garden. We have quite an extensive botanical garden, you may have seen on your way in. Several of our parishioners are Master Gardeners and developed quite a beautiful landscape. I must brag, it would compete with Clemson’s, I’m told.” His chuckle was rushed and mirthless, as if right on cue. “Yellow could tell you about it.”