The feeling of disquiet only grew stronger with each passing day until, finally, today, he realized he was empty of all feeling for the Church, for the religion… and for life.
Standing under the stone arch of the doorway that would take him from the transept to the vestry, he paused and looked back into the cavernous interior of Saint Bartholomew’s, his fingers hovering over the bank of switches that controlled the multiple sets of lights within the church. Forty-five years of his life spent in service to God in churches around the country, the last twelve years here at Saint Bartholomew’s.
Looking out across the rows of pews which, until minutes earlier had seated hundreds of parishioners, the priest waited — hoped for — a flicker of some low smoldering spark of belief that might remain, hidden away deep in his heart, a final chance at redemption, a sign he was not forgotten.
Instead, a bitter draft skulked through the doorway on frosty feet, sweeping any hope of salvation with it as it blew over him.
With a final sigh of resignation, the priest turned off the overhead globe lights and then flicked the remaining switches one by one, extinguishing the rows of footpath lights and the spotlights beneath the crucifix, plunging the church into darkness.
A row of dove-gray filing cabinets lined one wainscoted panel-wall of the vestry. The metal cabinets held the parish records for the last sixty-five years, all meticulously recorded by Father Pike and his predecessors. A history of the priests and people who had lived, loved, and died in the parish. A rack of three simple shelves above the cabinets held various administrative supplies; reams of paper, pens and pencils, file folders and tabs, all needed for the day to day running of the church.
An ancient oak armoire, the original veneer long eroded, its dark wood scuffed and scraped through years of use, stood against the opposite wall. The squat simple dole cupboard next to it originally contained bread and other supplies the priests would have distributed to the poor and needy of the parish, but the needy far outstripped the capacity of this simple wooden cupboard. Now it held a few blankets and a pillow for when the Father felt the need to spend the night.
Father Pike removed his chasuble and vestment, folded them neatly one on top of the other before placing them on the second shelf of the armoire. Stepping out of his cassock, he draped it over a metal coat hanger and hung it on a hook next to the door. He pulled on a pair of black loose-fitting Lee jeans, slid his arms through the sleeves of his shirt, buttoned it and then pushed his clerical collar into place. A mirror fixed to the back of the vestry door allowed him to check his dress; he straightened his collar with stiff, arthritic fingers. Tufts of gray hair had puffed up when he pulled off his cassock and now protruded from his liver spotted pate.
“You look ridiculous,” he said to his reflection as he removed the plastic comb from his shirt pocket and forced his rebellious hair back into place.
In the center of the room, he placed the chair from his study. Plastic, with a high back; lined with comfortable foam and covered in a stain-resistant cloth that had faded over the years to a dull purple instead of its original red. He had written many sermons seated at this chair, he thought as he ran his hand slowly over the ridge of its back. Each of its four supporting legs had a caster fixed to it, allowing the chair to roll easily.
Kneeling slowly, his knees popping in complaint, the priest pushed in each of the four thumb—shaped plastic locks, securing the chair’s casters in place, stopping it from moving.
Satisfied the chair would not move, he raised one foot up onto the seat and again tested its stability before cautiously heaving the rest of his sixty-eight year old body up. He was no longer as spry as he once was, he reminded himself, so he kept a firm grip of the armrests with both hands. The chair wobbled a little, not designed to take so much awkwardly positioned weight. Instinctively, he threw out one of his arms to steady himself, while he held grimly to the other armrest, catching his balance before he toppled over. Sure his balance would not betray him, the priest raised himself gradually to a precarious standing position.
Earlier in the morning, he had secured a length of strong hemp rope to one of the ceiling beams, fashioning a noose at the unsecured end. He slipped his head into it and tightened the hangman’s knot until it sat snugly against the bones of the nape of his neck, then reached a hand up to give a final tug on the rope. Satisfied it was still securely fastened to the heavy timber beam running the length of the room, he dropped his hands to his sides.
“God forgive me,” he said, then kicked the chair from beneath his feet. He jerked spastically at the end of the rope for over a minute until blackness finally claimed him.
Four
There was a certain gaudiness to Bourbon Street at this time of year, which, while it repulsed him with its cheapness on one level, was also a strange attractor, drawing Jim Baston towards it, like a priest to a potential convert.
Sitting at a street-side table of an out-of-the-way café, he waited for a waiter to fetch his drink. It was a kitschy little theme café, with fake lampposts and piped accordion music, attempting — in vain, Jim noted — to recreate the ambience of a Parisian street cafe. But it was the only place he could find with any space left for him to sit; all of the other restaurants and clubs were filled to brimming, and he was averse to elbowing himself through a heaving body of youngsters, just for the sake of some company.
The waiter, a tall twenty-something with a stubbly goatee and dressed in a long white bib and apron, brought his drink; whisky and soda, on the rocks.
“May I get you anything more, Monsieur?” the man asked with a half-decent French accent.
Jim shook his head “Thanks, but this will be fine for now.”
Spiraled black bars of wrought iron, set firmly in a red brick base, separated the sidewalk from the table area Jim now sat at. Perhaps this was why the cafe was less popular? People liked to be able to walk — or stagger — freely between bars in this town. Jim was glad of the space, he could sit unobserved with a clear view of the street and watch the world and its inhabitants wander by undisturbed thanks to the cage like bars.
From the breast pocket of his jacket, Jim pulled the cigar he had bought earlier at a small tobacco vendor he’d come across as he strolled along Bourbon Street. A hand—rolled Churchill maduro; Cuban, clothed in a clear plastic wrapper that crackled as he rolled the cigar between his fingers. Cuban cigars had become widely available in the United States, the trade embargo finally lifted after Castro’s eventual death back in 2018. The owner of the store had been kind enough to give the cigar a cut and supplied him with a complimentary book of matches, the shops logo and address printed in colorful relief on its cover.
Flipping the cover open, he tore a match from the book and struck it against the safety bar on the backside. The match flared, casting shadows on the ivy lined bistro walls, as the sulfurous smell of the match’s ignition filled Jim’s nostrils, and he felt his mouth begin to salivate in expectation.
Tearing away the plastic wrapper, he placed the cigar between his lips, twisting it close to the flame of the match while taking quick deep puffs to ensure the cigar lit evenly. When he was certain the tobacco was lit, he took a long draw from the maduro and allowed the smoke to fill his mouth, exciting his senses.