A Strange Interlude

This is part six in my ongoing series of fiction. In case you missed parts one through five, CLICK HERE. Or HERE. Or HERE.



Harpo frowns for the first time since we scaled the building. He nods towards the altar, and I follow him. Walking down the aisle together. A wooden strip, surrounded by soft green carpet. I want to curl up like a lamb on a field and take a rest. A nap beneath a pew; beneath the feet of the invisible old ladies. They'll ask me, Wouldn't I like some hard candy before sleeping? And I'll suck on something sweet, and when I wake up, it'll be tangled in my hair, and I'll have cavities.

I scurry to catch up with Harpo.

He seems quite determined to grab his hat and find a darker exit.

I don't know why, but I can't seem to shake the feeling we're being watched.

I look out amongst the pews again, and there they are: all laid out in straight red lines, like cat scratches on a child's knee.

Mahogany and empty.

I wonder who is mourning here? The invisible old ladies, sucking on hard candy, their purses heavy on their laps, knees shaking, they blow their noses into lacy handkerchiefs, and drop 'em to the floor to grab the collection plate with empty hands, and in drops the dime. In drops the nickel. In drops whatever the little old ladies can afford. Perhaps a Life Saver! Here, Jesus, have a butterscotch! Have my last peppermint. The collection plates rolls around, and each lady goes back to mourning, and how inappropriate to take up a collection during a funeral. Don't they know these little old ladies are grieving? Grieving the loss of their youth, and life, and every ounce of energy they extended on this earth has vanished except for their ghostly shapes upon these pews. I can hear their noses sniffling. Their knuckles cracking. Candy wrappers opening, crinkling. I can hear the metallic pomp of coins falling into a dish. Candy clattering against false teeth. False hopes, and unfilled wishes of ever leaving this place! Of rising from the pews and marching out on their own funeral. The last day of the last day of the last day.

They spend it watching flowers rot.

We reach the altar.

Harpo picks up his hat and folds it into a neat square, and slides it into his pant's pocket. He then removes his long jacket, and drapes it inside-out over the podium. I watch as he unbuttons a secret panel of lining...inside are a few leftover props.

"I guess it's hard to get 'em all out," I whisper.

Harpo nods.

I think he's less irritated with me now. A slight smile, and his eyes look less tired.

Perhaps Harpo is gearing up for a grand finale. God will remove the last souls from this room, as Harpo removes the remaining props from his jacket, and builds for us a tandem bicycle out of flatware, so we can escape this cave of candle wax and hard candy. Holy Bibles. I wonder if our antics aren't upstaging this invisible procession? Harpo's hat trick, and my sudden need to tug the top of this waterlogged dress...I don't know if a church is like a theatre; if the lobby or the altar is the front or the back; the lobby, where Harpo left watermarks on the walls and curtains -- where I left pools of water, foot-shaped pools, blood-red, on the Mahogany strip; they won't dry, because the floor is already in place. The wood is dead! It can't absorb...the flowers can't drink...the ghosts can't leave. We're interrupting the sanctity of this quiet institution with our dripping wet attire, at the altar. And if a church is like a theatre, a flashing sign outside would attract some living costumers of the non-Vaudeville variety. Come one, come all, to watch the latest feat of magic performed by a Preacher! He'll save your soul, and leave it glued to a pew...

Harpo quits rifling through his jacket, and hands it to me: eyeing my body; the near see-through wet bedsheet.

I feel like we're playing a perverse game of Sunday School Charades!

Taking the hint, and his jacket, I climb the steps on the right side of the altar, and weasel my way through the choir pit.

I turn to wave, to let him know I've found a place to change, but either Harpo isn't here, or I can't see him.

A disappearing act...

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