Precious Memories

Walter wanted to meet his mother. He heard a choir singing.

“In the stillness...

A summer breeze east of the river cooled the hairs on his neck. Tears rushed to his amber eyes. They were unexplainable. Massive cherrywood doors, splintered in the corners, with golden handles introduced the Freedom Temple of Good Hope. As a boy, his authority figures brought him here. To witness, to warn. They were never truly his parents. They raised Walter, yes, but his blood beat elsewhere. The first time they took him to the churchhouse, he was five. He sobbed until his eyes burned red. They could barely tear his tiny frame from the threshing floor. Walter was tethered to something there and not there.

Seventeen years later, the heat was getting to him. Walter bit his tongue hard, hesitant before the worship house’s neatly manicured carpet spilling from the foyer to his feet. Dark red. He surveyed his satchel contents. Three white candles, a lighter, a slip of parchment and a picture of a woman. He breathed deeply. The first step was the hardest but he took it anyway.

Harmonies rang anew.

....of the midnight..

A guest ledger rested in a glass case in the corner. A placard was affixed to a yellowing wall. It read:

“The Good Pastor James and First Lady Charity Johnson took the lives of their 200 parishioners and employees and themselves on August 9, 1998 in this sanctuary. There were no survivors.”

The placard was decorated with a bronze sailboat, modest and unassuming. Elaborately carved waves caressed the vessel’s keel. Beneath the boat and the waves read the quote. “Are you free and separated from sin? Like the boat to the sea?” Anonymous.

He stepped inside, furrowing his brow. The harmonies had ceased.

The building had two-levels: the sanctuary maintained its original red carpeting, wooden pews topped with red cushioning and the pulpit. The pulpit was six feet higher than the parishioner seating. It was adorned with white wood paneling, red carpeting and a massive white podium lined with mahogany. Behind the podium sat three throne-like chairs, high-backed, red cushioning, the middle seat higher than the rest. Choir risers, dusty and worn, stood behind them. A jet black baby grand piano resided to the far left of the podium. Magnificently colored stained-glass windows ornamented the walls.

An elderly man entered from the rear. He wore his baldness well. His attire was simple-- short-sleeved blue and green floral print shirt, linen pants, sturdy black shoes. Walter sucked in a sharp breath. It had been years since Walter’s last visit but this man felt familiar. He gait, he toothy smile, even his smell. Some people, like the places they inhabit, never change.

“You lost?”

“Found.” Walter said.

“Nice to meet you, Found. I’m Harold.”

“Walter.”

Harold studied his visitor. Walter fingered the seams of his satchel.

“I’m the sexton.” Harold broke the silence. “You know what that is?”

“Harold James, the caretaker.”

Walter’s eyes glazed over with recognition. Harold steadied himself. This visitor was familiar, seemingly too familiar. Walter was hungry to know more and Harold could smell it.

“How long have you been the care--sexton?” Walter asked.

“Oh...some 20 years at least. Top of 1999. When they tried to reopen.”

“What made you want to work here?” Walter prodded.

Harold took a deep breath, sighing through his nose. After that, an even longer pause.

“My wife and two little girls....they...they, uh.” Harold choked on his words.

Walter understood.

“Were they here when...?”

“They were.” Harold distracted himself by gazing upon the stained glass.

“My mother was here too.” Walter said.

Harold blinked slowly, knowing and not knowing this stranger. Memory was a captor and thief.

“Harold, I need to go to the altar.”

“Cast your cares.” Harold began to leave. “Something told me to stay at home that Sunday. Everything felt off, you know? And, well, your mama. She didn’t bring you that day. I wonder if she knew too, somehow.”

Walter lingered fighting over what to say next. The best thing he could ever say was the truth.

“I was here that day, too.” Walter said.

Harold smiled feebly. "So was I, in spirit."

“Right.”

They wanted to say more but didn’t or couldn’t. Harold went to the foyer, Walter to the altar.

He moved viciously. First, he lit the candles, propped the picture of the woman up against the base of the altar. The woman was dark brown with amber eyes. He removed the slip of paper. Walter looked behind him. He heard Harold sniffling. He unfolded the paper and began an incantation.

Earth and water, fire and air

Skin and bone, teeth and hair

Giver of life, creator of all

Hear my cries, hear my call

I want to see my mother, my one

Let the fate of life be undone.

Three times. Louder each time.

Nothing.

He closed his eyes, nearly crying blood. Walter wailed from a source beyond himself. His soul burst open. Every part of him tingled. The fleshy part of his ears sizzled, his eyes rolled back to reveal the veiny fleshy parts below. He could feel his blood beating in his throat, his stomach turned and his arms outstretched, threatening to break from their sockets. Flames from the candle continued to burn. Walter’s breath returned, his skin was still intact.

The choir sang:

“Sacred secrets

He’ll unfold.”

He opened his eyes, amber and wet. The church was rocking, swaying. A soloist in all black belted from the choir stand. Mothers in white, overcome by the spirit, rolled their heads and feverishly clapped their hands. Walter’s breath was coarse. Tears clogged his throat. Every soul was alive. Happy souls, lost souls, souls longing and weeping and jumping. Walter raced from person to person, screaming with no sound. No one heard him. He looked to the pulpit. The pastor stood, the first lady by his side, the woman in the picture.

“Mom.” She was real, spirit made flesh. If only for a moment.

Everyone held tiny plastic cups filled with dark liquid. Communion wine. Men in nondescript, black suits stood in the back of the church, looking upon the pastor and first lady. She swallowed hard, losing color in her face.

Harold entered from the foyer wearing the colorful shirt and summer pants. He searched, seeing everything and no one. Walter rushed to him, noiselessly begging for a response. They stood in front of each other. Harold walked into the stranger and beyond him. He felt a chill.

“Walter, you there?” Harold called.

“I never left.” Walter squeaked.

He fell to his knees. Everyone smiled, deacons and deaconesses, liturgical dancers, eldery woman with curved backs and walkers. There were children, so many children.

The choir fell silent. The pastor spoke.

“Church, take this drink.”

He bit his tongue, thinking. His mother held death in her eyes. She looked toward the congregation and Walter could’ve sworn she made eye contact with him. Pastor continued.

“Church, take this communion wine. A special, second Sunday communion. Together, we shall live...Live a new life. A life free from this place. Let us free. Let us be...reborn.”

Before he finished, Walter ran toward the altar jumping onto the pulpit. How do you stop the inevitable? He hopped onto the platform standing before his mother, pleading with the woman not there.

Harold was at the lip of the stage spooked by the abandoned seance. He picked up each of the candles and began to blow them out. First, the second. Walter was waving his arms frantically. Harold blew out another. Walter was desperate. He couldn’t be left here, lost here. He would need to be reborn, to begin again.

His mother and father hesitated to receive their communion. A little girl screamed in the congregation. Men in suits were gone. A woman in white ran in from the foyer. Walter stepped before his mother, his eyes avoiding the blood spilling from the choir members lips. He wailed one last time. For a brief moment, she saw him just before taking her wine. As she swallowed the poison, Walter stepped forward. His mother clutched her stomach before falling to the ground.

Harold blew out the third candle.

The pews were empty. Smoke billowed about him. Then he heard the cries, piercing and sorrowful. Harold slowly ascended the steps of the altar. There, between the podium and the throne-like chairs, lay a baby with amber eyes, covered in blood.