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Chapel of Carrion

Timothy B. Dodd

    A most pleasant light wind helped carry the young man as he crossed the tiny white bridge, the waters of the creek gurgling below as they passed over large, grey stones and dirty, black pebbles layered in the sediment. Casually feeling for his wallet and car keys he walked briskly, looking back only briefly at the church he had just departed. The breeze added to the dizzying high he felt and a surge of thirst hit him as he stepped off the bridge onto the narrow road that headed up the hollow, dancing arm in arm with the creek. His car was parked a few minutes past the next curve, so he strayed out into the road for the short walk, the heels of his black boots clicking as he moved comfortably on the blacktop. It was an unusually cool day for late August, more like the feeling of mid-October, and the humidity had drifted away after a morning rain to leave the mountains and valleys free of the usual summer sweat.
    The young man, tall and broad-shouldered, pushed his hand through his light brown hair and looked across the creek at the church again. The white paneled church rested comfortably on the small crop of bottom land hemmed between the stream and the mountain crawling up behind it. Many signs pointed to the care bestowed upon the tiny spot by its parishioners: a recently remodeled white steeple and gray roof, trimmed grass, large, flattened stones pieced together as a walkway to the rear, fresh gravel laid in front leading to the stairs, and the updated sign that read “Candor Creek Methodist Church, Reverend Budd Steward—Always Welcome.” As the young man walked he read the verse again at the bottom of the sign: “And hath forgotten the covenant of her God: for her house inclineth unto death, and her paths unto the dead (Proverbs 2:18).” Contemplating the verse he grinned a hollow sneer.
    Leaving those thoughts momentarily, the young man glanced back up the hollow to see if anyone neared. Seeing no one, he put his head down and walked on at a steady pace until brushed by a honeybee. This reminded him of the natural setting surrounding him and he began to observe it more clearly. The tall grass spread out along the banks, headed off only by the muddy water of the creek. Blue Vervain and Boneset grew well, several feet in height in fact, adding additional color. His eyes then came to rest on the weeds beside him, just off the road, and he noticed a chewing gum wrapper, discolored and soiled. In the dust between the weeds and road he passed a small pile of feces and he wondered how long it would need to decompose. The young man hesitated as he passed it and a faint smell wafted towards his nose with the continuing breeze.
    Not to tarry, his mind turned to the larger setting of the hollow and community. Forested mountains dominated the area, towering over each side of the road. Cars motored through like ants in a sidewalk crevice. Houses were randomly built at the base of the hills or on a flat piece of land, where large enough, alongside the creek. The trees were tall and thick, and even the sun had difficulty finding a direct line to the earth which gave the road a cavernous quality.
    The young man swiftly turned the curve in the road and soon arrived at his Buick parked on the roadside and facing the mouth of the hollow. A rambling Chevy shot past, surprising him as he unlocked the passenger side door. Before getting in the car he changed his clothes, including shoes. He used the vehicle to shield his body from any additional traffic. Then, he placed all of the removed clothing into a garbage bag taken from his jacket and then placed the bag on the floor of the back seat. The young man smiled, went around the car, and got in behind the wheel. He pulled out onto the road quite contentedly and drove neither too slow, nor too fast. Indeed, he thought, his mother would be proud.
    It was six miles back to the entrance of the hollow. He observed the surroundings intently while driving, recalling what he had noticed both that morning and a decade earlier when he had visited the church each Sunday, his father its pastor. Back then, as a young teenager, he had never considered where the road went after passing the church, how much farther it traveled, or where it ended. Another time, he thought now with curiosity, he should drive up the hollow and see where it led. As he viewed the life of the hollow he remembered a few houses of certain people who had attended the church back then: Mr. Humphreys the choir director, Mrs. Faglot who taught him vacation bible school, and Ms. Shamblin the piano player who also taught 5th grade at his school but was a sinner. With his recollections the young man lost track of time and the trip seemed to pass much more quickly than ten minutes. Even the curves and one lane bridges did nothing to shake him from his reverie and soon he found himself at the mouth of the hollow.
    A convenience store rested below the embankment, five hundred yards before the entrance of the hollow. The young man remembered the store, still called J and T Beverages. He pulled off the road and parked in the gravel, craving a Dr. Pepper. Some Gummy Bears, Lemonheads, and Atomic Fireballs would be good too. Nothing new, just candies from childhood. This is what the trip was all about, he thought to himself. He remembered the Bit-O-Honey that his father had liked, the laughingstock of all candies, and thought he might even buy a couple just to see if they were really as bad as all the kids had thought back then.
    He parked, stepped out of the car, and walked down the four stairs to the door of the store. Inspecting the building carefully, he laughed about how the whole place needed a good wash. He thought how some of the places in the hollow looked like they grew right up from out of the soil. A barking mutt walked out from the side of the building, chained and wagging its tail. The young man looked at it pathetically. He turned back to open the screen door and read the large sign posted on it: “Cold Beer Real Cold.”
    Inside J and T Beverages the wooden floor boards creaked like something was dead in them. The aisles were narrow and the shelves were stocked high, but no one else was inside except for the heavy man behind its counter. Wearing a flannel shirt and a ripe beard, the young man looked closely at him and realized it was Jesse’s older brother, Lyle. The beard and pot belly were new, but he could tell by his eyes. Quickly he calculated Lyle’s age and knew he had to be much younger than his appearance showed. He also knew Lyle couldn’t recognize him, wouldn’t even remember him unless he presented himself. That did not stop Lyle from looking him down real good, however.
    The young man gave a simple greeting and continued on to the aisles that were stocked just how he remembered ten years before, down to the product itself for the most part. Enjoyment came instantly as he began to gather up the candy. There were even a few items that he had forgotten himself such as Boston Baked Beans, Watermelon Laffy Taffy, and Hubba Bubba. The strawberry and grape Nerds were his favorite surprise and Lyle could undoubtedly hear his good-natured laugh upon finding them. There was so much to choose from that the young man returned to the front door to take a shopping basket. After fifteen minutes of filling it with candy he went to the back of the store and saw the first Dad’s Root Beer and Dr. Nehi he had seen in ten years. He placed a few of the sixteen ounce bottles inside his basket and then contentedly proceeded to the counter.
    As Lyle counted up the candy and sodas, the young man had a number of questions in his mind, but he kept quiet and waited for Lyle to do the interrogating.
    “Lotta candy yer buyin’,” Lyle said as the total quickly passed a hundred dollars.
    “Yeah, we’re havin’ a couple of birthday parties,” the young man lied as he slipped back into the local accent, the accent of his childhood.
    Lyle left it at that and completed his job packing the candy in bags. The young man was surprised that there were no further questions, but he knew by Lyle’s body language that Lyle wondered who he was and from where he came. If there was a next time, maybe he would reintroduce himself and give Lyle some more to talk about.
    In a few minutes the young man was back in his car, popped open the Dr. Nehi, and ripped open a packet of Nerds. Enjoying their popping fizz he quickly started the car and immediately turned out of the hollow onto Route 60. He picked up speed going east, but made sure he didn’t go faster than the state’s speed limit. There were quicker ways to get to the state line, but he wanted to drive through Hawk’s Nest again, wanted a more scenic route. It would probably be years before he returned, maybe not until the next high school reunion ten years forward.
    As he settled into his driving and steadied his speed, the young man began to think about that strange feeling of satisfaction. There was a feeling of invincibility that seemed to come every time. He could still feel it, but he knew the rush was already beginning to wear off. He realized a part of his ability to reason clearly turned off as well, but this too was part of the high that kept him returning again and again. Anyway, he rationalized, by the time they found it, probably on Wednesday evening, discolored in green, he would be long gone. He remembered again how he left it: angelic, ethereal, softly asleep, and freshly painted.
    The road was as majestic and swirling as he remembered, a smooth artery cutting through the blotted land. For awhile the road was closed in by the mountains and the car floated inside them, hidden under the canopy of trees. Moments later the road crawled out and moved openly amidst a wide panorama. Green slopes cascaded under a free sky that was a crisp light blue with touches of smoke. Engaged in the scenery of his land, its beauty confirmed he had made a good decision to come this way. In less than an hour he had reached the New River Gorge. He drove on to Fayetteville where he crossed the gorge’s bridge and then decided to turn back to stop at a scenic overlook.
    Stepping out of his car, the air was fresher than back in the Kanawha Valley. He approached the railing and looked out over the mountains and down at the gorge below, formed by a river at least ten million years old, maybe thirty times as much. He thought about some of his old friends he had seen for the first time in years at the reunion over the weekend. It had been fun, great fun, but none of them were worth keeping in touch.
    Not so far in the distance he could see the v-shape flight of three turkey vultures soaring gracefully and he remembered studying them as a Scout. Feeding solely on carrion, the young man recollected the hisses and grunts of their limited vocal capabilities. He also recalled seeing their defensive tactic of vomiting up a recent meal to scare away enemies and thought about the disgust of the smell. Then he remembered seeing Vince, Sarah, and Cassie over the weekend for the first time since graduation. He saw others he despised as well, but now they all seemed plastic, pieces of a biologically, pre-determined puzzle, nothing to really get angry over.
    He did not remain at the overlook for long, but was soon back in the car heading toward Virginia. He would drive on to Richmond before heading south to Wilmington.
    He reminded himself that on arrival he would need to burn the clothes. High above him, the turkey vultures spied on his car as it cut down the veins of the mountains.

*    *    *    *    *    *


    In his mind he held the tan, finely-chiseled flint and he pushed it hard between his forefinger and thumb until the arrowhead drew blood. The new find glistened, freshly pulled from the headwaters of the creek a short walk from his home. Surrounded by woods thick with deer up until the day they cleared the area for the new interstate highway, no one could see him there. He had a sense that the thick trees also protected his imagination from modern interference, allowing him to see his own visions whenever he went to roam over the crevices of the mountain’s slopes or sit on the large boulders that jutted from the ridge. Looking closely at the arrowhead he thought hard to imagine the last hand that had touched it. With the thought, he began to shake. He saw a hand that was smooth yet sharp, hard but almost soft, like the tool itself, and then he understood why the body he carried reminded him of that time in his past, that day he had found his first arrowhead.
    A trace of light carried itself through the lone window, the only vestige of opposition to the darkness. He could see the dust dance in its rays as it pushed down to his ground of gray. There was no sign of motion or other light during his glance back to the front door. Kneeling down at the altar he felt the butt end of the flashlight he had placed inside his jacket. In front of him on the floor lay what was both his prize and burden, and he thought overconfidently how easy it had been to bring her here. Instinct and adrenalin left his mind spinning, the feeling that pushed him each time.
    The eyes were still open when he carefully removed the body from the bag. He had breathed for the both of them and moved each limb so that it was laid out at full extension on the ground just in front of the altar. There was not sufficient light to notice the twitching finger or the pallid flesh, but the hands were placed carefully across the abdomen and the hair brushed back from the forehead. The cheek bones had seemed to grow and as they jutted out the face became more beautiful, less a stranger. She had talked big last night, but then could do very little.
    “Just as I am, without one plea. But that thy blood was shed for me.” He could again hear the depressing intonations, the gloom of the melody, and the heaviness of the song, still slamming him into the ground even in memory. He had sat in these pews fifteen years ago until his insides were ripped and torn and it had taken a long time for the pressure to even begin to subside. A congregation, a culture, a family, all still pressed on his skull, still chastised and confused him, still expected him to follow their stifling self-righteousness. There was no place to escape or find an alternative when the full backing of eternity supported their tension, pushing him in a direction he did not want, did not feel, did not believe in.
    He remembered the many altar calls that he suffered through, even down to the exact spots where he sat and what he wore on specific days. He remembered the pressure that shot pains through his temples as he struggled with the morose force of their singing. He remembered the seconds moving slowly while he felt their “join us or be damned” stares. He was a good boy he had believed, but a good boy condemned.
    “I come,” the young man said to himself. “I come,” he repeated again, just as each verse ended to the song. In his recollections he saw them cutting his hair, taking off his green pants, telling him who to vote for, and preventing his date with the Korean girl. He heard them damning the homosexual as well as the Hindu, felt the tension of their exclusion, and saw the beautiful paradise only for those who agreed. He saw his return trips home after the services and heard the pastor gossip with mother once they arrived home, badmouthing people who had looked at him wrong during the sermon, who had questioned his authority, or who paraded the wrong dogma. God’s redemption hid behind the screen to validate as needed. This was his father, with all the pettiness of a man, believing he was close to God.
    “Life will be better now,” the young man said to her. “We are saved.” He bent over and looked down at the face, difficult to see except for its contours. Touching her forehead he tilted the head sideways and ran his finger through each of her eyebrows. Behind him he knew the pews were full, rejoicing over another soul that had come to the altar, saved on arrival. “Save us from hell,” he said, closing her eyelids. “Give us life eternal, Lord.” His hand petted her hair, then moved down to her cheek as he looked up at the wooden cross hanging behind the pulpit. He heard his father’s call to the altar again, voice raised and pleading. He saw his tiny eyes peering out into the crowd, even into his own heart like a bloody blade, and saw the formation of his mock tears. Finally, he had decided to come. Finally he had accepted the invitation, bringing his sins with him to the altar, bringing with him a fresh sin.
    He took out some foundation makeup and carefully applied it to her face, followed by a brick red shade of lipstick. He smoothed it over her lips slowly despite the darkness hampering his vision. Then he took out his flashlight and shined its beam on her face to see his progress. Feeling content, he made some final touches and then removed his hand, turned off the flashlight. The congregation behind him had stopped their singing. Now he would not touch the face again.
    He stuffed the garbage bag inside a light jacket he wore and stood up. Finally, he looked at her one last time and felt a mixture of discordant emotions, different but every bit as confusing as the ones more than a decade earlier. Then he departed the sanctuary through the small door behind the altar. In the hall outside, he turned on his flashlight again and made his way down the stairs. The air conditioner in the basement had kicked off, leaving complete silence. Once downstairs he went straight to the door with a busted window, unlocked it, and went out.
    There was a pleasant light wind as he turned the corner from behind the chapel, and he headed for the bridge.



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