JACOB
I was invisible where I stood. Surrounded by the city, people milling around me, they made wide circles to remain out of my sphere. My boots were planted to the newly powerwashed sidewalk, my eyes glaring up at the intricate carvings on wood doors that were polished to a gleaming shine. Six broad steps rose up before me, a silver handrail running up their middle promising safety and a helping hand to the unsteady who climbed. I didn't need that damn rail, didn't care whether the doors were polished or rough, because, inside, the parish would still be ugly.
Not ugly in sight, but ugly in spirit. No. I knew the treasures that awaited the weary inside. I knew the serenity of the stained glass, the flicker of candles. The artwork that stole the breath from the lungs of the faithful. Every damn image would be more depressing than the next as we were blamed for the pain of our Savior.
Even though I was standing there as people moved around, in front, in back, to my sides, I was really falling down a long, black tunnel leading me closer and closer to the truth of my life.
The serpent had always been so sneaky.
It spoke to me within shadow, slithering back just enough to let me think I could be saved. And here again, it waited patiently for me to go inside, walk between the pews, find a seat and stare at the symbols of a God who had never listened. I knew while I sat there and regretted each action, each thought, each hidden desire that was another lash of the whip across Christ's body, evil would sit beside me and laugh.
Only this time, I had a different mission. I wasn't running to God for salvation, I was running to him for revenge. The serpent was welcome to tag along, welcome to coil himself languorously around me.
I moved forward, and like a school of fish parting for a shark, the people around me changed their paths to avoid being anywhere near me. The mindless sheep going about their day knowing better than to approach a man doomed to the fires of Hell.
Taking the steps two at a time, my hand wrapped around the large handle of the door, my forearm clenching and releasing as I turned it. The well-oiled hinges gave no indication I was walking inside, the serenity and silence finding me instantly. A faint scent of incense lingered in the air, the flicker of candles just barely noticeable in the distance. I walked forward until I was standing at another doorway, my eyes wide and staring at the large open space before me.
One man sat in a pew to my left, his head bowed and shoulders hunched. I watched him for several seconds, followed his movement as he swung a hand down to lower the kneeling bench, lowering his body as he held his posture in silent prayer. Pitying him for his ignorance, for the desolation he would feel when he realized the being to which he prayed didn't care, I stepped farther inside to see if any other person existed in the room.
Just one. The priest. Father Timothy Simmons from what the plaque said near the front doors. The name wasn't familiar to me.
Cutting a hard right, I weaved between the pews until I was close to where he stood. Watching him light certain candles and blow out others, I knew he was lighting new prayers and extinguishing old ones. The practice wasn't maintained in every modern day parish, but some still held to the older ways.
Clearing my throat, I drew his attention in my direction. His eyes widened almost instantly. "Are you Jacob or Jericho?" he asked. I may not have known him, but he certainly recognized me.
"Jacob. How did you-?"
"You bear a striking resemblance to your father," he answered before I could even finish the question. "Have you left your own parish to come visit mine?"
"I'm not a priest anymore."
His brows pulled together. "Let's sit and talk. I happen to know you're a long way from home."
Long way from home? Hardly. More like I'd returned to it, even if I had no desire to stay. This city had been my home for the first eighteen years of my life. I'd spent twelve at the parish in the Appalachians, and all the time in between I was lost. I was lost at that moment once again, floating on some turbulent breeze that ensnared me and dragged me back here.
The priest sat in an empty pew at the front, twisting his body around to face me when I lowered down next to him. His dark brown hair was cut short to the skull, hints of grey peeking through to denote his age. His tan skin was unlined, however, unmarred by age or time, his brown eyes observant and focused. I assumed he was of Hispanic descent, possibly Italian, but I couldn't be sure. Most striking was his demeanor. Although calm and collected, he had a fire about him that was obvious in the manner in which he moved, a purpose that I could only conclude came from the God he worshipped. Not all priests were as conflicted as I had been, and his purity of character was a blatant truth in the manner in which he spoke and moved. Unhurried, this man knew without doubt it was his task to lead the weary to what he believed was the light.
"Your father was quite proud of you," he said without giving me even a second to remind myself why I was there, without giving me the opportunity to collect my thoughts. "He told me you'd been ordained, but couldn't remember the name of your parish."
My lips tipped up to think that this man believed giving me information about my father would ease me into a sense of trust. That's what priests do: open you up and calm you down so you can dump out all your sin for their naked eyes to inspect. Too bad for Timothy my father was one of the worst demons of all. Nothing about him would soothe me into trusting this conversation.
"Our Lady of Serenity. Not that it matters. And I didn't come to talk about my father."
"Maybe you should," he answered, pinning me with his brown gaze, the flecks of gold in his stare highlighted by flickering candles. "You never returned to see him before he died. Didn't even bother showing up for his funeral. You or your brother."
This is not how I envisioned our conversation going. I was losing control - wondering if I'd ever had it in the first place. "I'm came to talk about Jericho."
His expression softened, his eyes glimmering with knowledge. "Ah. Well, then I was right to say we should discuss your father. It was through him that I learned of Jericho's failings."
Failings? I scoured my thoughts for what little information Jericho had told me during the days he'd played and won his game. There was no failing during our small battle and I highly doubted he'd failed against my father before running out of town. Curiosity sat up to slap me across the face and I found myself asking a question that should have been left alone.
"What did my father tell you?"
"Too much, I'm afraid." He looked away, his round face sharpening as he mulled over what to say. I could see the indecision popping out in the tic of his jaw, the furrow of his brow. "You're a priest-"
"Was a priest," I corrected before he could finish whatever thought he wanted to voice.
"Why did you leave the Church again, Jacob?" his voice softened to a whisper, "After finding your way back?"
His question smacked me across the face. What was I supposed to tell him? That my brother was a cult leader? That I'd killed a woman while fucking her in the ass? That I'd berated a grieving father by telling him his daughter was a whore? There were too many things to say, so I chose a blanket statement to cover them all. "I figured out that no matter how hard I prayed, God wasn't listening."
His eyes darted to mine, pinning me in a gaze that was as intense as it was angry. “You know better than that.”
“Do I?” It was a bad idea coming to this parish, returning to a place where they would berate me as thoroughly as my father had. He had been the reason for my departure as a young adult, and this priest was reminding me of the hours I’d spent repenting for every sin my father believed I’d committed. I wouldn’t regret the dark side of me, wouldn’t spend the next twenty years doubting whether I could be redeemed. There was nothing left to redeem, nothing left to do but give in to the creature God had created in His image – if any of that could be believed.
“You attended seminary. You grew up under the watchful eyes of God, and now you sit here questioning Him. A man like you should know better.”
Laughing, I settled back against the pew, my eyes scanning the altar and pulpit in front of us. So much glitter and gold infected this place, the cost must have been astronomical. How many starving people could be fed if these treasures were given to God’s creatures rather than being hoarded by the very place that should have been an example of God’s love for His people?
If I’d been ordained and assigned to a parish such as this one, I would have left the service within the first year. Something didn’t sit right with telling a person to pray for God’s assistance when that very assistance could be given by the Church. How many had been denied the help they needed? How many had sat in prayer, starving while they spoke to a being that cared little to help?
“I’m not here to discuss God, Timothy. I’m here for answers regarding Jericho.” My voice was rough was anger, gritty with the truth I carried inside. The organized religion to which I’d once been devoted was nothing more than a farce – a lie told to appease the masses while their livelihoods were sacrificed to men using God as a power play and tool of building their own wealth.
It wasn’t the Faith I condemned, it was what had been done with it when left in the hands of man.
Timothy settled back, taking the same relaxed posture as me. Neither of us looked at each other, our eyes trained to the symbolism arranged before us in the candles and stained glass, the relics and glimmering gold.
“Your father,” he stated, his voice careful, hesitant, “he told me that between the two of you, Jericho had always been the most faithful. Often he described a set of twins standing on opposite sides – one light, one dark. He was the hardest on you, was he not?”
A grunt escaped me, my lips curling with disgust to remember just how hard my father had been on me. Although, it wasn’t me alone. Often, though, I was blamed for the sins committed by Jericho. Our father assumed it was by my influence that Jericho partook in any act considered unclean or foolish. That may have been true when we were young, but by the time we were teenagers, Jericho was just as culpable as me.
“What do you know of my father?”
The parish priest when I lived in this town was an older man with silver hair. Father John Clarke was short of stature and had one foot in the grave the entire time I attended the parish. I’d always hated confessing to him because I could never tell whether he understood the issues and problems faced by youth. He was too old – too far on the side of the past that the present I experienced in the Church was lost to him.
“Your father confessed much to me in the weeks before his death. He didn’t blame you or your brother for not coming to say goodbye. He’d expected such a rejection. However, prior to dying he wanted the weight of his actions off his shoulders. He wanted to walk through Heaven’s gates having no secrets or burdens to carry. I know of the abuse, Jacob. Of the standards to which he held his children, and I don’t agree with what he did to either of you.”
I didn’t comment on his response, didn’t so much as look at him. My mind was trapped back in that house, in the rooms where I’d been locked away listening to my brother cry out in pain for the punishments he’d received. Father never punished us in front of each other, especially not after we were old enough to defend one another. Even though childhood abuse could explain why Jericho became the man he did, I highly doubted that was the true reason. We both endured it and yet, my anger and hatred had been with myself more than the religion jammed down our throats at every opportunity.
No. Something else warped my brother, it was like pulling teeth trying to find the answers.
“What my father did,” I finally said, “was wrong. I still carry the scars of his lessons and punishments, but it’s not the reason Jericho was cast from the Church.”
Timothy’s head swiveled in my direction, the speed so quick I assumed he must have pulled a muscle in the act. “Have you spoken to your brother recently? Your father assumed that not even the two of you communicated any longer.”
Laughter barked over my lips. “He was right to assume that. Jericho only reached out to me recently.”
“How is he?”
Turning to stare at a man who was a practical stranger, I hated the manner in which he acted as if he personally knew my brother and me. “He’s changed.” Leaving it at that, I waited for Timothy to finally get to the point of the run around we were playing in this conversation.
Timothy nodded his head, his eyes searching my face for more information than I was willing to give him. I wouldn’t turn Jericho in, wouldn’t call out the cult he was running, nor lead the police to the town in which I’d once been priest. Revenge was mine and I wasn’t willing to give it up easily. It was better if nobody knew.
Letting out a deep sigh, Timothy flicked a piece of lint off his pants, turned his head to see how many other people sat in the parish around us. Once he returned his attention to me, his expression was tight, hard with the truth of what he knew about my family.
“You need answers, Jacob. That I can see easily in your eyes. But I’m not the one to give them all to you. I have duties to which I must attend this afternoon, but I’m available for a more thorough conversation in the morning. I can’t give you the answers you seek, not without the right questions being asked first. You should return to your old home, dig for the answers there first and then come back. If you ask the right questions, I can fill in the details without breaking my vows as a priest to hold my tongue.”
I knew my childhood home had stood exactly as my parents left it after death. Left to both Jericho and I, the house hadn’t been touched for many years. My father’s estate had managed the taxes and other such tasks to maintain the inheritance left behind. I didn’t want it, and had never responded to any of their correspondence or phone calls. But perhaps, the answers could be found lingering behind the walls of the place I’d once called home.
“Tomorrow morning, then. I’ll be here at nine.”
He nodded again and reached out to lay a hand over my shoulder. It took effort not to shrug off the contact, but I didn’t want to distance the only person so far who seemed to know more than I realized.
“I’ll see you then. Have a good night, Jacob. Hopefully, God can lead you to the answers you seek.”