She didn’t.
An uncomfortable silence ensued.
“Well, then. It’s nice to make your acquaintance.” Father Walker decided not to shake his hand. “Perhaps next time we’ll see each other under better circumstances. Come along, Yellow.”
No movement. Not even an acknowledgement he’d addressed her.
“Yellow.” Father Walker’s lips stretched over his white teeth. “Vamos.”
She slid out from the pew.
Father Walker patted her shoulder like his hand was wood.
“Father? May I stay in the church?” Drayton asked.
“Why certainly. The chapel is open to the public until 9:00. There are prayer candles in the back if you choose to light one for Father Gordon.”
Father Walker felt better the farther away he got from the youngster. It was nice that he was going to stay and pray for Father Gordon. If he was honest, he preferred he do it somewhere else.
VI
Despite the method of grueling punishment the cross was meant to deliver – until death – the image of Jesus was one of serenity. His arms out wide, not nailed to the wood, and a slight smile on his lips. It was comforting and loving. Not excruciating.
Drayton had seen many crucifixions in his life, where criminals were left to bake in the sun and die, their bodies left to warn others what would happen if they behaved as such. People were creative when it came to killing each other.
Drayton had never met Jesus of Nazareth. He was somewhere in the Orient when the man was said to be alive. Those were Drayton’s dark years. When he savagely stalked his prey, sometimes tore their throats open with his bare hands and drank the blood as it spilled. During Jesus’ short life, Drayton was touring the countryside, walking as he usually did, encountering farmers and having fun. Many called him a demon, and why not. No matter how many times they stabbed or shot him, he just kept coming.
In the dark days, he got stabbed a lot.
He could recall hearing of Jesus many years after his death as his apostles began to carry forth his word. Drayton even served in the church during the 12th century. You want to talk about power. He started out as a priest and had become a bishop before getting bored. He was a roamer.
Drayton had lingered in the South Carolina Lowcountry for quite some time. He enjoyed the wetlands and the coast, being close to the water. The Charleston area was rich with history. Not like Europe, but for America it was.
No matter where he went, there was never a shortage of death.
He had no intention of stopping at the church. He was merely walking through the country and came near a small town north of Charleston. He intended on going north, perhaps visit the Piedmont. (When you’ve lived for thousands of years, you’re never in a hurry.)
But then he caught a scent.
It was a familiar one. The metal tang of blood clotting. The whine of a heart straining. Drayton could sense an impending heart attack from miles away. When the priest’s heart seized and his eyes rolled back, Drayton was there to absorb the waning life force, the silky essence, as it seeped from the body. No more tearing of throats and drinking blood. Drayton simply took the essence of life when a human was done with it.
Much more sophisticated, indeed.
But it wasn’t the opportunity to feed that drew him to St. Michael’s. The ache wasn’t upon him, not yet. This seemed to be something more… unique. More interesting. Drayton was always looking for opportunities that piqued his curiosity. Some might say he was enjoyed delivering swift justice. Some might even call him an angel.
Angel. This thought always brought a smile. If they only knew the savagery in which he slaughtered during the dark years, no one would think him an angel.
This time there was an impending death falling upon a dark soul and Drayton was there to witness it. He could see the ugliness that clouded the heart and mind of Jon Gordon. Drayton sat in the front pew and watched the man called Father Gordon go about his priestly duties until Death reached into his chest.
Father Gordon, at that moment, knew that his secrets were exposed.
He felt the strange sensation of Drayton looking directly into his mind and sweeping through the dark corners. He knew, at some level, that Drayton didn’t need to be told one’s secrets. Drayton knew a person’s thoughts. He looked into their souls.
He knew.
Father Gordon asked for forgiveness. Drayton had every intention of letting him pass from the world, but perhaps that last request changed his mind. As Drayton inhaled Father Gordon’s silky essence as it wafted from his body, he blew it back.
Father Gordon was meant to die, but Drayton gave him life. If he asked for forgiveness, then he would have the opportunity to receive it. Forgiveness, though, is not an easy hill to climb. Asking is the first step of many.
Perhaps that’s what intrigued Drayton. If he was honest, he rather enjoyed providing these opportunities. He didn’t experience emotions as people did, (he wasn’t human; he didn’t know what he was) but there was something that brought him… joy.
Father Walker was nothing like Father Gordon. He was a rigid man that adhered to the church’s doctrine like a mighty soldier. He smiled like a ventriloquist pulling a string on his back and shook hands like a puppet. He was a good man, but he was not without sin.
Drayton would allow him the opportunity to repent, as well.
Sun beamed yellow, red and green through the stained glass, slicing dusty beams across the church. Under the watchful eye of Jesus, Drayton dipped his fingers on the sponge of holy water. He wondered, as he made the sign of the cross, if anyone prayed for Yellow.
VII
The sign out front of Paradise Estates was chipped and faded. One of the posts had rotted at the base and broke away, causing the sign to lean to the left. Paradise Estates was written in pretty cursive. Palm trees were used instead of the letter t. Music danced from somewhere deep in the rows of mobiles homes where someone argued and something broke and a door slammed.
Drayton stood outside the fifth one from the entrance, on the right. It was white with green trim. The wooden steps were lined with houseplants and a chain link fence that boxed a black dog sleeping in one of many holes. It didn’t bark or stir when Drayton approached. It was dark and only a few street lights were working.
He looked inside the bay window where Yellow was washing dishes. Past the kitchen was a darkly paneled room with a giant man laid back in a reclining chair. His face fluttered electric blue, white and pink as he switched through channels. Nothing moved but his eyes and his thumb.
Theresa, Yellow’s foster mother, was on the couch playing a game of solitaire in a cloud of smoke. The ashtray – holding down a black bible with well-studied corners – was smothered in a pile of lipsticked butts. It was reasonably clean.
Reasonably home.
Yellow washed and cleaned pots and dishes, bowls and cups. She dried them and put them away.
“Brush your teeth.” Theresa played a card. “I’ll be back in a second.”
Yellow did that.
When she got to her room, Theresa was kneeling at her bedside with a rosary binding her hands. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Yellow took her place next to her. When her hands were folded, Theresa began to pray out loud while Yellow’s lips silently moved. When the prayers were finished, they recited the Holy Rosary.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
They crossed themselves in unison.
“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth. And in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary…”
They said the words out loud, as if rehearsed a thousand times, touching a bead and reciting each memorized prayer. When they were finished, Theresa pulled back the cover and tucked Yellow into her bed. Without a word, she turned off the light and closed the door.
Yellow lay on her back, arms at her sides.
Somewhere, a
bass-driven song rattled her windows.
She remained still for several minutes and then, quietly and carefully, pulled the cover off and padded across the floor. She took a brush off her desk and, in the dark, brushed her hair in the mirror. The yellow ribbon was tied on the post of the old mirror. A ribbon she found a year ago when it fluttered off the antennae of a passing Escalade when she was walking home from St. Michael’s. Yellow picked it up and watched the vehicle go down the road. Far, far away.
Drayton watched until she returned to bed and fell asleep. He stayed outside the window that night and the next. On the third night, he walked to a hospital.
VIII
The music never bothered Yellow.
She stared at the ceiling, warm and cozy in her bed. She remembered what it was like to fall asleep in alleys or park benches or on the floor of a stranger’s house where her mother – her birth mother – did weird things with scary people. She remembered how cold it could get at night.
This is a bed.
Theresa prayed every night and every morning. Sometimes after lunch. That night, Theresa prayed for Father Gordon. “Dear God our Lord and Savior, please watch over the health and well-being of our beloved Father Gordon that has given his life so freely and so unselfishly that he may lead us in your grace. Please, Lord, save him from the ill health that afflicts him now and see that he mends painlessly and quickly, that he may return to the church where he belongs.”
Yellow didn’t pray for Father Gordon. She moved her lips, but she didn’t pray for him.
Gracias a Dios por sentirse bien, para sentirse limpio.
Yellow still felt good and clean ever since she saw the new boy. That feeling was still with her and she thanked God for that. Maybe he had answered her prayers, after all. Theresa made her recite the Holy Rosary out loud, but not her personal prayers. Yellow prayed for an angel.
Perhaps he came to church today.
Gracias a Dios.
IX
The beat was steady.
Father Gordon didn’t realize he was listening to anything, there was just boom-boom, boom-boom. There was nothing but the sound. No eyes, no mouth. No flesh.
Just boom-boom.
He wasn’t sure when the next sound joined the boom-boom. It was long and breezy. It went in, then out. A rise and fall. Like the wind blew through a window and back out again.
And then he felt it.
It was the rise and fall of his chest. He was breathing. His heart was beating.
And he felt the floor beneath him.
He opened his eyes to… darkness.
He was on his back, staring into a starless night like he was beneath a lone streetlight. But there was no streetlight above him, no source of light of any kind. Just Father Gordon and the hard, blank floor.
He rolled onto his side, throwing his stump across his body to get up on his elbow. The sleeve of his priestly robe flapped. He sat up and groaned, rubbing his face. He was so foggy. Too much wine, perhaps. He’d been known to sample the Eucharist outside of mass so he could sleep soundly. This might’ve been one of those mornings where his memory would come back on its own schedule.
But he always woke in his own bed.
Where the hell am I?
He got to his feet after a series of grunts. His head was stuffed with cotton and his joints ached like winter arrived.
“Hello?” His voice didn’t echo. It just died in the dark.
His wingtips clapped against the floor. No matter what direction he went, the light followed him into more emptiness.
“What’s going on here?” he shouted.
More nothing.
Just the clacking of his dress shoes and limitless dark.
He shouted and shouted. He stopped to rest. It was difficult to get up. He wished for a chair. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
Until something on the edge of the dark.
“Hello?”
He took a tentative step. The figure took shape.
It was a young man.
“You.” Father Gordon covered his chest.
“Jon Gordon,” Drayton said.
“You may address me as Father Gordon.”
Drayton stepped into the light.
Father Gordon rubbed his nub. “Where am I?”
Drayton turned his head. Something swirled in the dark. There were shapes out there. Flashes of color.
And then he remembered.
He saw this boy in the 11:00 mass. Father Gordon’s arms were shooting with numbness and sweat dripped in his eyes.
The darkness whirled like he was standing in the center of a carnival ride. He clutched his chest, staggered a step left and right until the ride slowly stopped and he was standing on a carpet with a pulpit to his left and rows and rows of pews in front of him.
Jesus looked down on him from the cross.
“What the hell is happening?”
“Jon Gordon,” Drayton said, calmly, “you asked for forgiveness. I guarantee you nothing, I can only offer you the opportunity.”
“I have nothing to be forgiven.” He straightened up, still holding onto his chest. “I have served God my whole life, he heard my confession. He has forgiven me. Now, get me the hell out of here.”
The scenery changed.
The pulpit shifted and pews faded. He was in his bedroom.
Jesus was still above him.
“STOP IT!” Father Gordon threw up his hand and closed his eyes. “The Lord gives me absolution, I don’t need your approval! You… you… DEMON!”
He cracked open his eyes and the scenery had changed. This time he was in the confession cubicle. There was an altar girl with him, this time.
And Jesus still looked down.
He covered his face.
“Demon, demon, demon…”
“Jesus may have died for you sins,” Drayton said, “but he did not relieve you of your responsibility.”
Father Gordon peeked through his fingers. The images were gone, Drayton stood on the edge of darkness.
“Burn in hell,” he uttered.
“YOU WERE THEIR SHEPHERD!”
Drayton swelled in size, charging the priest that cowered on his knees. He towered over him, his black eyes deep and fiery. Father Gordon tried to cover his face, protect himself from the blows.
But there were none.
Drayton could destroy a man without raising a finger. Father Gordon only wished for such a release. But death would be an injustice to the universe.
X
The tables were full.
It was such a success that Father Walker requested ten more tables for the pancake breakfast event and they were occupied, too. There wasn’t even room for them under the blue awning. People ate griddle-fried pancakes with maple syrup in the sun. He had a feeling attendance was going to be booming. It had been almost a week (6 days, exactly) since Father Gordon dropped. Word got around.
He hated to admit it, but Father Gordon had done more for their fundraising efforts with a near fatal heart attack then anything he’d ever done. God works in mysterious ways.
Still, he would’ve liked to have had Father Gordon mixing it up with the crowd. Father Gordon knew how to work an event. Father Walker watched how he would go from table to table, never seeming to be in a hurry but somehow always talking to everyone. At every stop, people would laugh. He didn’t really have jokes, he just knew how to point out the humorous.
Now it was just Father Walker and boxes of gallons and gallons of pancake batter.
“How’s everyone doing?” Father Walker expounded as he walked between the tables, patting folks on the shoulders and waving and smiling. “There’s plenty here so eat up and get more when you’re ready. Eat up. Eat up.”
He couldn’t suppress a smile — a real, honest-to-goodness smile — until he noticed the near-empty table at the far corner. The young man was sitting there. He wasn’t eating the pancakes or sausage, just sitting there with his legs crossed. Sipping coffee.
“Father W
alker,” someone said.
“Yes?” He watched Drayton.
“How’s Father Gordon?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I said how is Father Gordon?” Jack Johnston said.
The Johnston family — boasting nine children — were just getting seated. Cheryl Johnston was cutting up Sandi’s pancake and dipping it in a puddle of syrup.
Father Walker plied a grin on his face.
“You know what we used to call those when I was growing up?” Father Walker squatted next to Cheryl and placed his hand on Sandi’s shoulder. “Flapjacks.”
Sandi had a look of silent terror before crying, reaching for her mama.
“She’s a little tired, Father Walker.” Cheryl lifted her onto her lap. Sandi stuck her hand in her mouth and nestled into Cheryl’s bosom, eyeballing the priest.
“Yes.” He patted the little girl on the back. “Flapjacks are funny.”
He couldn’t think of anything else to say. It clearly wasn’t funny.
“How is Father Gordon?” Jack Johnston asked, again.
“Well, he’s stable. There have been some complications, but the doctors say it’s a miracle that he survived.”
“We heard he’s in a coma.”
“He’s resting comfortably. You folks enjoy your flapjacks.”
Father Walker tried to rustle the youngster’s hair and she whined. He needed to keep moving. There were others eating pancakes, not just the Johnstons. Certainly, there were rumors about Father Gordon. And, most likely, there was talk that it had been a week and Father Walker still had not been to see him. It only took one person to know a fact and it would spread like a common cold.
It was true. He had not gone to see him.
There were things to do in the church. There was the pancake event and the day-to-day business and homilies to prepare. Besides, Father Gordon was in a coma. Father Walker didn’t need to be there. He could get updates about him from the church’s secretary.
It wasn’t like he wasn’t doing anything to help. He had gone into Father Gordon’s room like Dr. Forman had asked. The heavy curtains were drawn, sinking the room into dank darkness. Piles of clothes looked like mounds of refuse. He threw open the window to let it air out, avoiding the cluttered desk. He would look through that stuff if there was nothing in the bathroom, he told himself. But he found a few bottles of pills in the medicine cabinet and, proudly, called Dr. Foreman.
The Drayton Chronicles Page 15
