Antioch: Ch. 1

Thomas pressed the palm of his hands over his eyes and stretched the tips of his fingers into his hair, looking for something to grab on to. He relaxed and ran his hands along the top of his head, then examined his palms. A few strands of ashy blond hair had come out effortlessly, as if it had been their intention to flee. It crossed his mind to pull out every last one, singly, and count them. At least then, he felt, he’d know something that God knew. As with most of his notions, Thomas dismissed his whim into the air, where his father’s ghost lingered. Perhaps one day his dad might tell him what to do with them in a dream or in the sand or through a messenger of his choosing, or perhaps they might waste away like entropy, a chill in the wind.

A green kitchen constituted most of what he invariably considered his entrapments. The table he sat at was a cherry wood upheld by four whitewashed posts, elegantly scratched, unlike him. There were four chairs, four placemats, and three empty spots. He surveyed the kitchen. Whereas the sink, stove, and refrigerator may have once evoked a memory in Thomas, today he simply saw them as they were. Rather than reminiscing, he sat acutely aware of a tension this moment, one that he had not noticed before. It ate at Thomas that everything he could touch was so real, so solid, and all that he saw was, most physically, just light. This notion was one that did not depart from Thomas. At times, he felt haunted by it, others bothered, still others comforted. He traced the wood grain on the table, feeling each divot and tiny splinter, and it seemed alive. Each divot was the moment of existence, fleeting with sliding of his fingers.

The boy was fresh of 18, and his dad was dead along with a number of his dreams that had died along the way. A few may have fallen off from neglect, though his own hand undoubtedly executed others. He had stayed around his town for no other reason than he felt like he was supposed to, though rumors ran around that his distressed mother needed him, or that they lacked the money for university. Neither was entirely true. Either way, Thomas wasn’t the boy anyone really ever told what to do, because nobody assumed they had to. Besides that, people weren’t quite sure what to think about him. He was not imposing, nor particularly handsome, but he had a quality about him that was constantly pensive and unsettlingly charming, so people simply let Thomas be, because he seemed considerate enough to figure things out. In consequence, Thomas was afforded much time alone with his dreams and reasons.

“Don’t let them in on your dreams, Tom. Quite often, in fact, you see your own demons in the reflection of other people’s dreams.” Thomas recollected the conversation from one night his dad had taken him for a drive and let him have dinner at a fast food joint with good milkshakes that he could never get his mother to go to. It was followed by a dissertation on Joseph and his brothers. He understood what his father meant. He knew that inside his own chest was the potential to keep others from realizing themselves. He knew he had that evil in him, because he felt his blood pulsate through his veins at times when he saw people harness the back of their dreams and prepare to let them take them where it willed. It angered him at times that his ambitions were tethered in iron, which he might have one day rusted with enough tears and breath if it weren’t for the constant forging of more links by hands that were not his own.

He finished his milk. It was the only thing he found himself capable of consuming lately, though his mother was a least glad to see him put something good into his body. She hoped he would start eating more real food soon. As he finished his last sip, she came down the stairs, looking more cheerful than Thomas had seen her in a while.

“I’m ready. Does this look alright?” She did a half turn to show the detailing that encircled the dress, and its general modest fit.

“Looks great, really,” Thomas said.

She was wearing a knee-length orange dress, with an overlay of white-lace. It fit her form, thinned from fatigue and a renewed focus on her own well-being for once. Her shoulder-length blonde hair framed an oval face, perfectly made up. Thomas had started to look like her more with age, as long as he didn’t smile a certain way or make any number of expressions, which instantly transformed him into his father. Thomas was broad-shouldered, but not imposing, because he was rather flimsy in some ways also. His features were a perfect blend of indecision, with eyes that were splattered blue and brown and hair that was golden in the light, but brown otherwise. The light had a way of making things better than they were.

“It has been quite a while. I’m sure everyone will just be dying to…excited to see us, you know?” He hid a smirk, one inspired by his mother’s tenderness with her words and the implication that the word “dying” had been what had changed everything, and not something much more painful. “Dying” was consequential, because since breath was breathed, people had to call it something. Thomas was perfectly fine with “dying.” The knife twisting in his side was called something else, something Thomas hadn’t found a name for yet.

“Maybe. Or maybe…they’ve forgot our faces like our phone numbers and address. You know, we really don’t have to do this,” said the boy, introducing a faint tone of desperation to what he resignedly knew was an ineffectual plea.

“We can’t stop going to church, Thomas.”

“I don’t want to see those people.”

“You know, once upon a time, you were one of those people, one of the best of them.” His mother raised an eyebrow, pushing the consideration of that all-too-true thought.

“And now I know better.”

“I forgot you have the world figured out now. Get in the car.” There was a subtle mixture of understanding, compliance, and sternness in her voice. He winced every time someone used the word “now,” because it reminded him absolutely how he had a division of time in his life.

He looked up at her, saying everything that always made her melt without even opening his mouth.

“Get in the car.” Devotion, piety, or responsibility had won.

They drove a short distance from their house, passing trees and gates, and people living their lives with their dogs and children. The sky was blue today, so Thomas would not let himself feel the absence, but perhaps in a week when the clouds inevitably rolled in, he would be quieter than usual as he retreated into the safety of mental seclusion.

The church was not close, though it couldn’t be called inconveniently far, and his mother’s car needed gas. He had somewhat proudly adopted the role of pumping it for her, as his father used to do, so as they rolled into the Chevron, he unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Will thirty dollars do?” Thomas asked.

“Sure.”

When Thomas stepped out, he instinctively put the card in the slot and unscrewed the fuel cap as he waited for the pump to ready itself. Unarmed and vulnerable in his expression, he looked up and saw on the other side of the pump the face of someone he had seen a thousand times and never spoken to, and he wondered why. There was an urge to acknowledge the mutual recognition, but nothing moved Thomas or the acquaintance to action. The boy on the other side of the gas pump was his age, a fellow Antioch congregant, and he undoubtedly knew Thomas’ “story.” Nevertheless, the two pilgrims chose ignorance at that moment, and somehow Thomas felt their bond grow instantaneously.

“Don’t you know that boy?” his mother questioned as he got back into the car.

“No, I don’t think so.” He didn’t feel guilty; it wasn’t really a lie.

In many situations, it had all become a feigning game for Thomas and his mother, too. Thomas was the boy who had handled it all “extraordinarily well,” who really “made the best of it.” He wondered often if people would have respected him at all had his father not died. Had it not been cancer. Had he not been so young. It was a strange question, to wonder whether or not he could garner any favor he so pleased because they all felt guilt and pity for him and his mother. Often times they’d tell him how strong he was, how proud they were, and how his father was beaming in heaven. Thomas often wondered why he among the townspeople was not gifted, if he was destined for these bastard circumstances, with such divine privileges as an awareness of the emotional state of the dead as a consolation. Furthermore, he could not understand why anyone, even his father, would even momentarily abandon his gaze of Beulah Land for a glimpse at what must look infernal in comparison.

At Antioch Fellowship it was both sinful and prideful to ask such things. Thomas never understood the distinction, since pride was a sin, but he figured it a contention not worthy of pursuit. What was beyond question, however, was the scene outside the church on a Sunday morning. One woman, Edith Carrington, was always wearing a mid-calf length floral print dress and carrying a basket of roses, free of thorns as they expected all things to be at Antioch. Elijah Davies was the door usher, wearing his brown vest over a white shirt, and he somehow managed to display a surprisingly authentic smile for all who submitted to the yoke of Reverend Axel Ingersoll.

Thomas used to assist Davies before he had entered a “time of mourning,” in which congregants were not expected to serve the general assembly, but only to receive “the love, grace, and support of the brethren.” Thomas categorized this prescription as another one of Antioch’s anesthetic measures. It was placatory enough to those in pain to alleviate them of an extended spiritual responsibility, but lacked the enforcement to foster any real manifest encouragement.

“Agatha? Agatha Abbot, is that you?” A voice from across the parking lot made Thomas clench his teeth and shut his eyes for a brief moment of escape. Those seconds he could pretend he was elsewhere were the seconds that facilitated his being there. The voice unmistakably belonged to Juliet Hawkins, Antioch’s very own bookkeeper on all things personal, private, and, once in her hands, seemingly well-known.

“Incarnate.” His mother had a way of putting just enough ice on her words to be both polite and vaguely disgusted, which is what most people were when talking to Juliet Hawkins.

“Well isn’t it a good day in the Lord’s house, amen? I have just been telling Arnold that we must come see you and Tommy, but things have just been so busy that I have hardly been able to fix my own children dinner.” Juliet laughed like they were supposed to be amused by her alleged business, but both Agatha and Thomas were hardened to such excuses.

“Is that so? Well, some time soon then. Thomas and I really must run, I’d like to say hello to Reverend and Elaine before the service,” Agatha said, placing her hand firmly on Thomas’ shoulder blade, as if she were about to lead him in some crucial steps to a very delicate dance.

“So nice to see you Mrs. Hawkins,” Thomas said, and flashed that unsettling and unquestionable smile.

“Aw, you too sweetheart.” Juliet rubbed his shoulder.

The moment he turned away, Thomas’ face released the expression that was artfully undisclosed in the conversation. Such skills were perhaps to be admonished or even averted by purer hearts, but Thomas had found that his ability to transfer himself between two worlds in his mind gave him the strength he needed to withstand the inauthentic ritual conversations he had to endure almost daily since his father died.

As they walked through the pane-glass doors, Thomas could see the reflection of the car from the gas station pulling into the church parking lot.

“Hello there Abbot family, welcome back to Antioch,” said Elijah Davies, smiling of course.