Outside is missionary-white stucco and a Virgin Mary statue. But, inside are vaulted ceilings and widow's peak archways. It's stone and stunning as mosaic light streams through stained glass windows. The pastor stands at his podium, and speaks in his West Virginian drawl. And when he speaks, his voice sounds raspy, like a scratched record. He's talking about Jesus Christ and the apostles, about missed opportunities and the river's ebb. And he says that Paul, speaking to a jailer, asks "Where is Timothy?" And the jailer responds, "You did not hear?" And Paul did not. "Timothy has been dead for three months."
And the white-haired pastor, keeps chanting the phrase, "Come before winter," and it's harsh the way he says it. "Come before winter," he says.
I call him, when I'm in London. "I'm coming," I tell him on his answering machine. The next day she calls back. Faye, in her hoarse whisper, asks, "You did not hear?" "No," I tell her, "I did not." For three months, my uncle has been dead. And my bowling-ball gut drops down two stories, rupturing the polished wood floor.
"Come before winter," and the pastor's words spring back and forth, from one stone-cold wall to the other. And I'm out of place and I don't belong here.
There's the Christian twins with their white turtlenecks and curly bouffants, gold-chain necklaces and cross pendants, who carry clipboards and smile, and you can't tell one from the other. Four church members stand, two men and two women. They carry gold-plated trays, Jesus' flesh and blood. The holy communion. And wafer sticks to the roof of my mouth and sweet grape juice slips down the back of my throat.
And the white-haired pastor, keeps chanting the phrase, "Come before winter," and it's harsh the way he says it. "Come before winter," he says.
I call him, when I'm in London. "I'm coming," I tell him on his answering machine. The next day she calls back. Faye, in her hoarse whisper, asks, "You did not hear?" "No," I tell her, "I did not." For three months, my uncle has been dead. And my bowling-ball gut drops down two stories, rupturing the polished wood floor.
"Come before winter," and the pastor's words spring back and forth, from one stone-cold wall to the other. And I'm out of place and I don't belong here.
There's the Christian twins with their white turtlenecks and curly bouffants, gold-chain necklaces and cross pendants, who carry clipboards and smile, and you can't tell one from the other. Four church members stand, two men and two women. They carry gold-plated trays, Jesus' flesh and blood. The holy communion. And wafer sticks to the roof of my mouth and sweet grape juice slips down the back of my throat.
