Thomas, But She Called Me Paul

Thomas Koenigs

The lights from her house left an orange hue in the sky and the moon did its best to peer through. Any light that split the clouds split the trees as well. The crooked branches looked like her ancient bony fingers. The tips just barely touched the orange blanket and she desperately tried to hold it there. Covering the darkness, afraid of what lay beneath.

We wouldn’t want to be late, would we? Oh no, not late.

Then she said, “Smile Paul, we are visiting the Lord.”

No one called me Paul. It was my middle name, but Aunt Jude insisted. Two thousand years ago, a fellow named Thomas doubted another named Jesus. Paul did not.

When we arrived at the steps of the church, I offered my arm. She clung to it but I felt nothing. The wind blew and her old body creaked and swayed to and fro. We took each step moments at a time.

LORD REMIND ME HOW BRIEF MY TIME ON EARTH WILL BE REMIND ME THAT MY DAYS ARE NUMBERED — HOW FLEETING MY LIFE IS. (Psalm 39 or something like that.)

When we reached the final step, she let go of my hand. She would walk the aisle alone. Above us were skeletal figures captured in the marble arches. They flew too high and lost their wings.

I must have been looking up in admiration and Aunt Jude scolded me for it. She slapped her hand against my back and led me towards the altar. The pastor came in, dripping with sweat or rain. I couldn’t tell which. He held a glass vessel in his hand, filled with wine– or the blood of Christ– or something like that.

“Sanguine” he said.

I could tell just by looking at him that he had never drunk enough of it to clear his head. But seeing him hold it in his palm gave me hope anyway. From what I knew, he was a quiet man. His attire matched his persuasion.

He hadn’t always been this way, God bless him. His wife had died and left him childless and penniless. God bless him. He didn’t sell his soul to the devil but he did to his God and all the words he spoke from that point on were not his. What I could make out began “His word” and ended with “good.” God bless him.

Aunt Jude bowed her head reverently at him and so did I. We continued to the door leading out into the cemetery. There was a woman crouched atop the mausoleum roof. She was trying to convince people to put their gold coins into a warm hand instead of a cold one.

She leapt from her perch and whispered in my ear. She told me my name. She told me how old I was, how much I weighed, and how tall I was. She told me that someone I knew died and that someday I would die too. In return, I was to pay her a fee, but I wasn’t buying. With luck and practice, a fortune-teller might be able to tell you something you already knew.

Aunt Jude had wandered far, though I was sure she hadn’t lost her way. We had walked the path together a thousand times and she had walked it alone a thousand more. I passed that small child as I always did. He was lighting a candle in the grotto. A statue of the Blessed Mother stood nearby with an outstretched hand.

A box sat beside her with a brass plaque that read:

GIVE LIGHT TO THE LORD. $2.00 FOR BOTH MATCH AND CANDLE

Aunt Jude stopped at his resting place. Three wooden planks stretched from one end to the other. His body lay there, covered in an orange shroud. She lowered herself and whispered to him, as if he could still hear her. She missed him and told him so. Her ancient bony fingers touched the cloth.

Spring 2018 Issue

Fiction