The Body Departed (2009) Read online

  I sat back, stunned. “But I was told by you, in the Bible, and by my priests, everyone.”

  “My words were misconstrued.”

  “I think you’re the Devil,” I said suddenly.

  “You may think what you want, my son, but the path you are on surely leads to hell.”

  “Fuck.”

  “You can say that again.”

  But I didn’t. Instead, I was mulling over his words. “And what would happen if I chose not to believe you?” I asked. “What would happen if I really did go to hell?”

  “Well, then I would imagine you would be highly uncomfortable.”

  “And when I was done being uncomfortable?”

  “Then you would leave,” he said, patting my hand, “and go to your intended home.”

  “Intended home?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of home?”

  “Let’s call it a place of healing. A place of respite. You need a lot of healing, my son.”

  He patted my hand again, and his warmth radiated through me, and I suddenly wanted to hug him, whoever he was.

  “Then hug me,” he said.

  And so I did. I hugged him with all the strength I had, I hugged him with all my heart and soul, I hugged the man I had been raised to love and to worship. I hugged the man who was even now giving my heart hope.

  While I hugged him, he whispered into my ear, “My son, heaven awaits.”

  And that’s when I wept.

  “You have other questions for me,” said Christ.

  Morning light came through the stained-glass windows and alighted on him. His skin shone milky white, pure, untouched. He had an elbow propped up on the back of the pew.

  “I do,” I said. “Just a few.”

  He looked at me steadily, love in his eyes, a touch of humor. “You want to know if I answer prayers. If so, you want to know why I seem to answer some prayers and ignore others. You want to know if I did indeed perform all those miracles in the Bible. If so, you want to know how I performed all those miracles in the Bible. You want to know all of this and more. Much, much more.”

  “No,” I said. “I just want to know if the Lakers will win this year.”

  He burst out laughing, slapping my shoulder. His hand, amazingly, did not pass through my shoulder. It was a real slap. Real touch. Real interaction.

  “Not this year,” he answered, “but soon.”

  I savored his touch. Savored his laughter. I felt like a son sitting next to his father, like a younger brother sitting next to his older brother, a friend sitting next to his best friend—all rolled into one.

  “Yes,” I said, when the laughter had subsided. “Yes, I have all those questions and more.”

  “Then I ask you to wait for the answers. Your answers will come soon enough. All of them and more.”

  I sighed and nodded.

  He asked, “Would you care to know why you experienced my touch just now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you chose to, James. You wanted to feel my touch, and so you did.”

  “Just like that?” I asked.

  “Just like that.”

  He leaned back on both elbows and closed his eyes and seemed to relish the warmth coming from the colorful beams of sunlight. I had a sense he had not taken a human form in quite a while.

  I said, “I’m going to have to journey through the tunnel.”

  He nodded. “That would be your first step, yes.”

  “But I have business here,” I said. “Unfinished business. With the boy and his brother.”

  Christ regarded me with his dark-brown eyes, and some of the humor left, replaced by deep love and even deeper concern. “Ah, yes, Jacob,” he said. “May I ask a favor of you, James?”

  “Of course.”

  “Will you help me bring him home? He trusts you, you know.”

  “But I killed him.”

  “You are going to have to ask for his forgiveness.”

  “Will he forgive me?”

  “Try him. He’s a good kid.”

  A wave of new guilt threatened to overwhelm me. I fought it back. “I’ll do my best to bring him…home.”

  “It’s okay to feel guilty,” said Christ. “You did end his life, James. But his life was not ended prematurely. Remember that. The two of you are bound together, to the very end—or at least to the end of this story.”

  “And where does this story end?”

  “Wherever you want it to, James.”

  “What about his brother? What do I do about him?” I asked. “He did, after all, kill me.”

  “What do you think you should do?”

  I thought about that. “I don’t hate him, nor do I wish him ill. I know I caused his current mess. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him to lose his brother at such a young age—especially a twin.”

  “Eli’s guilt threatens to overwhelm him, too,” said Christ. “He feels responsible for his brother’s death. At the very least, Eli feels he should have been the one to fall to his death rather than his innocent brother.”

  “’Tis a tangled web,” I said.

  Christ smiled at me. His teeth, I noticed, were small and white. “Not as tangled as you might think.”

  “So what do I do about Eli?” I asked.

  “You’ll know when the time comes.”

  I had suspected he would say that. I changed the subject, as I sensed my time with him was coming to an end. “What happened to the three guardians?”

  “Ah,” he said. “Although they did an admirable job watching over their brother’s painting, the time had come for them to return home, too.”

  “But how did you convince them to go?” I asked.

  “I told them I would watch over their painting. Their work here was done.” Jesus suddenly stood and stretched his arms. “Now, will you help me back up on the cross?”

  “Back on the cross?” I asked, perplexed.

  “Yes, James. It’s time for me to go, too.”

  But I didn’t want him to go. I wanted him to stay, and comfort me, and keep telling me everything would be okay.

  “I’m always here, James,” he said, reading my thoughts, patting my back. “Always. You need only to look up.”

  He then strode quickly across the raised stage and, once under the empty cross, in a surprising feat of dexterity, pulled himself up onto a brass light sconce and grabbed the crossarm of the cross.

  “Be a good man, James,” he said, looking over his shoulder, “and get me one of the nails. I laid them out nicely for you.”

  I stared at him briefly, then rose up from the pew and fetched one of the nails. I drifted over to his side.

  “This next part might be a little difficult for you, James, so I need you to be strong for me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I need you to drive the nails back in.”

  He waited. I looked at him. He smiled at me. His eyes twinkled, but he was serious.

  I nodded.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I can do this.”

  “Good,” he said. “Then let’s do it. Now.”

  And so I did.

  Christ braced himself. He wrapped his left arm around the crossbeam of the cross and positioned his right hand over the hole in the wood, the same hole the nail had been removed from earlier. He nodded to me. Already, there were small beads of sweat on his brow and upper lip.

  I felt sick as I positioned the iron stake in the center of his palm. As I did so, the tip briefly touched his flesh, and his hand spasmed slightly.

  I can’t do this.

  I gathered my wits. He watched me carefully, sucked some air, then nodded.

  It was time.

  Using the heel of my right palm like a hammer, I drove the spike straight through his hand and into the wood behind him.

  He jerked and arched his back and cried out loudly.

  I wanted to run. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to be anywhere but here. Blood seeped immediatel
y from the new wound in his palm, around the edges of the thick spike. Sweat now poured down his cheeks. His skin was clammy; he looked deathly.

  “The other nail, James,” he said, gasping. “Please.”

  I knew he could choose to experience pain, and I also knew he could choose not to experience pain. So why did he choose to feel pain now? I suspected I knew.

  I quickly fetched the second nail. As I moved over to his right hand, he shook his head. Amazingly, he smiled through gritted teeth.

  “No, James. The feet are next.”

  I drifted down to his bare feet. He had positioned them already, the left over the right. Both feet were shaking, perhaps with anticipation of what was to come.

  “Now, James. Do it now. Please.”

  Once again using the flat of my hand, I drove the stake as hard and as deep as I could through the top of his left foot. But the nail went only so far, and I was forced to keep pounding and pounding until it punched all the way through his right foot and into the wood behind. All the while, he cried out, and blood poured over my hands and knuckles and down the center beam of the cross.

  He gasped, hyperventilating.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, looking up, completely shaken.

  “Always,” he said, sucking air. “Always.”

  I quickly retrieved the third and final nail. His right hand was already in place, and without hesitation, I drove the spike through his palm and into the cross. He screamed and convulsed, and when he finally found his voice again, he gasped, “The crown, James. Mustn’t forget the crown.”

  “Please, I can’t—”

  “It’s okay, James,” he said through clenched teeth. “I promise you. It’s okay.”

  The crown was still caked with dried blood and bits of skin. I held it in both hands and brought it back to Jesus Christ.

  He smiled at me weakly. “Don’t feel bad, okay? I’m just a statue, remember?”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “There are people coming, James.”

  Indeed, I now heard voices approaching, too. Morning Mass was about to start.

  “Will I see you again?” I asked.

  He took in some air, and his ribs pushed out against his bare chest. I noticed that the bloody slashes and gashes had returned. The spear wound in his side was back as well, dribbling blood and water.

  He looked at me and winked. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

  And with that, I lowered the crown of thorns down onto his scalp. At his insistence, I pressed it all the way down to his forehead, just above his eyes, opening deep and ghastly wounds along the way. Blood poured into his eyes and down his face and into his ears and nose and mouth.

  “Thank you, James,” he said.

  The heavy oak door behind me creaked open, and I turned and saw a priest nervously step into the sanctuary. He flipped on some lights.

  And when I turned back to Christ…

  He was gone, replaced by an ancient painted wooden statue, complete with cracks and dust and cobwebs.

  Many days passed after that incident, and still I had not worked up the courage—or nerve—to speak with Jacob.

  My memory seemed stronger since my encounter with Christ, and often, I drifted up to the statue to study it more closely. Had it really come to life? Was he really in there somewhere? Or had my mind played a massive and not very kind trick on me?

  The wooden statue looked as ancient as ever. Hell, it was even rotting in some sections. Interestingly, the nails themselves were made of wood, too. Definitely not the iron spike I had driven through the soft flesh of his palms.

  You single-handedly crucified Christ.

  Lord, help me.

  Real or not, trick or not, I had come face-to-face with something overwhelming and powerful, something that had given me peace of mind. And something that had given me the promise of heaven.

  Also, the three red-eyed sentries were gone, so that fact alone was proof that something had indeed happened.

  Maybe it was the Devil, come to collect their souls?

  I doubted it. I would always remember Christ’s love, his overwhelming and powerful love for me. Could the Devil even love? Could the Devil even fake love? I doubted it.

  Was the Devil even real?

  I didn’t know, but what I did know was this: Jesus Christ was here. He spoke to me, reassured me. Died for me.

  I would often find Jacob alone at night in the various classrooms, raising his hand to answer unasked questions, pretending to drink from the classroom water fountain, playing games alone, singing alone, coloring and writing alone. He also did this when school was in session, and a couple of very sensitive kids watched him from the corner of their eyes. And, of course, they would watch me, too.

  Perhaps a week after my encounter with Christ, Pauline came by one evening to see me. She wasn’t alone.

  She had brought Jacob’s twin brother, Eli.

  My killer.

  Pauline and Eli sat together at the far end of a pew about halfway down the center aisle.

  They were the only ones in the chapel, but I knew that could change at any given moment. As they sat, Pauline spied me watching them from the stage. She whispered something in Eli’s ear. He nodded imperceptibly, and she left him there in the pew and came over to where I was standing, near the altar.

  “I see you brought a guest,” I said.

  Pauline dropped to her knees and bowed her head as if praying. Maybe she was praying, but certainly not to me. She was, I saw, feigning prayer.

  “You seem somehow different, stronger,” she said. As she spoke, her lips barely moved. To the average person, she appeared only to be whispering a prayer.

  “Well, I had a little talk with someone,” I said.

  She glanced up at me sharply, scanning my thoughts, then flicked her gaze up to the statue of Jesus Christ hanging above us. Her mouth dropped open. “You have got to be kidding.”

  “The one and only,” I said.

  She shook her head, grinning, then looked at me some more. “You look better, James. Brighter, iridescent.”

  “Iridescent?” I laughed. “Yes, I feel better. And my memory is coming back, too.”

  I looked over her shoulder at the young man sitting alone with his head bowed and hands clasped before him. He could have been any other worshipper, except I knew for a fact that he had shot me in cold blood and murdered Mrs. Randolph with his own hands. Seeing him again, in the flesh, was fairly emotional for me.

  “I take it your private investigator was successful,” I said.

  “Oh, yes. Found him still living at home. His mother is a wreck. Whole family is a wreck. All of it dates back to the death of Jacob.”

  Great. Killed a kid and ruined an entire family in the process. How the hell was I not going to hell?

  “Get a grip on yourself,” she said, listening to my thoughts.

  I did and focused instead on Christ’s last request of me: to help Jacob move on.

  I can do this, I thought.

  Pauline continued. “Yes, the family is in a helluva mess, a mess they can’t seem to climb out of. The father divorced the mother a decade ago, and the surviving twin, our boy Eli, has been selling drugs and stealing cars ever since to support her.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  “It gets worse.”

  “Great.”

  “Hang in there,” she said. “He was caught selling drugs in his early twenties and spent five years in jail. He got out two years ago.”

  “Two years ago was when I was killed,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Which would explain why he had waited so long for his revenge.”

  “I suppose so,” she said.

  “And what about my partner in crime?” I asked, and amazingly, his name was coming back to me. “Dustin something or other?”

  “Yes, Dustin Hicks, the boy who helped you drag Jacob up to the rafters. He was murdered outside his apartment two years ago, too. Unsolved.” />
  “So Eli got us both.”

  “Appears so,” she said. “But that didn’t necessarily make things any better for him. In fact, it probably made things even worse. My PI friend says that word on the street is that this kid owes a lot of money to the wrong people and is in some serious shit.”

  “Which explains why he came looking for a wad of cash he remembered hiding on that fateful day,” I said. “The cash in my wallet.”

  “And hocking the church relics,” added Pauline. “By the way, what were you doing with all that money in your wallet, anyway?”

  I remembered. I remembered with almost perfect clarity. Wonderful, electrifying clarity.

  “I was on the high school football team,” I said. “Part of being on the team meant we had to sell advertising for our weekly football program. One of our sponsors had given me cash the day before. I was going to turn it in.”

  “And you probably showed it off to someone.”

  I nodded. Seemed about right.

  “And Eli probably saw you do it,” she said. “You must have left your wallet lying around—”

  “It was in my gym locker. He busted into it.”

  “Fine. He breaks into your locker, steals it. Someone spots him do it but fingers the wrong twin. And you go after the wrong brother, and…”

  She stopped for a breath. Thank God. I looked over at Eli, who was still seated with his head bowed, a miserable wreck of a man. A drug addict, a drug dealer, an ex-con, a killer, and now an only son…

  “And the rest is history,” I finished.

  “So how did you get him to come here?” I asked Pauline. “And why, exactly, is he here?”

  “You know why he’s here, James.”

  “I do?”

  “If not, then you will,” she said. She was still on her knees and still subvocalizing beneath her breath, her voice audible only to God and me. I felt special. “And as far as how I got him here—easy. I confronted him about the murders.”

  “Confronted alone?”

  “No, the private investigator was with me. Luckily, the guy doubles as a bodyguard. He’s waiting in the foyer, by the way. Anyway, I approached Eli about everything. To say he was shocked was an understatement.”

  “How did you explain catching him?”