Page 62 - WTP VOl. X #3

Unto Thee (continued from preceding page)
The eyes were as fierce as when he had first seen them during that bus tour. They had stopped early
in the morning at a double spired, stone and adobe church downtown that was surprisingly sparse in- side, save for what was behind the altar; a fifteen foot Jesus Christ, carved from dark, reddish-brown wood. This Jesus hadn’t been in the throes of crucifixion, as most Christ statues he’d seen in churches. This one had been ascendant, floating, right arm soaring into the sky, the other reaching forward, clothed in a full robe that was frozen in mid-billow that corresponded to its wild mane of hair, freed of the crown of thorns. The statue’s body didn’t betray any of the Romans’ sadism; the holes in feet and palms had been under- stated afterthoughts. That Jesus had already died and been resurrected. The statue appeared expectant,
and to Jerome’s mind, a bit pissed off.
That same Jesus statue stood before him now, hands
on hips, frowning. Shit. I’m hallucinating.
The Jesus statue tilted its head and squinted at Je- rome, who couldn’t help but think of old stairs with every creak that escaped from the rippling robe and hair that bounced lightly in the breeze. It appeared
as that same dark, solid wood, but acted as if it were flesh. The Jesus statue opened its mouth and spoke in that same deep, vibrational voice.
“What? I don’t understand,” Jerome panted, con- fused by words that were vaguely familiar but did not compute.
The Jesus statute pointed at him and spoke again. Jerome caught a hint of an accent and realized the problem.
“I don’t speak Spanish.” Shouldn’t Jesus know that? He wondered for a moment if there was some kind of mix up, that it assumed Jerome was Mexican and not a tourist? “I can’t understand you. Are you here to help me? You even real?”
The Jesus statue sighed, a sound that irritated Je- rome. It raised a hand, pointing towards the sky, and made a declaration that probably would have been meaningful to anyone fluent in Español. Before he could react, the Jesus statue was striding forward, the wooden groans as it moved simultaneously fascinat- ing and maddening. Jerome felt suddenly afraid of the statue’s giant size, vulnerable, not in the best position to protect himself. It bent down and placed a tire-size hand on his forehead. The hand was warm and firm on his skin.
“It’s my chest...and...,” Jerome started to say but the 55
Jesus statue shushed him. It closed its eyes and a whisper of Spanish escaped its mahogany lips. There was a sudden gust of wind, and despite the clear evening, a crackle of thunder, a charge in the atmo- sphere. Its voice grew loud as the wind whipped furi- ously, and Jerome thought he felt the hair on his arms stand up, but the show ended just as quickly as it started, almost as if it had never been. Jerome’s body appeared no different, but the discomfort was seem- ingly gone. The Jesus statue stepped back, gesturing for Jerome to stand.
“Th-thank you...,” Jerome said with genuine awe as he gently started to push himself up, shocked to have been rescued by God—but the thought was cut off by a searing pain that sent him reeling backwards. His ankle was torture, leaving him withering, unable to focus on anything else except desperate grasps for a breath that he couldn’t seem to fully inhale. There was nothing to do with the pain by channel it into a full, raging anger. “What the fuck? I’M STILL IN PAIN! HEAL ME!” Screaming caused the vice to clamp down further in his chest, which in turn just fed the fury.
The Jesus statue furrowed its brow, frowning and muttered something low.
“I CAN’T UNDERSTAND YOU!” He tried to breathe deep, to push the pain out of his mind, out of his body. “I don’t speak Spanish,” Jerome explained through clenched teeth. “I took German in school. Don’t you know that? Möchten Sie in die Diskothek gehen?”
The Jesus statue stood tapping a finger on its lip, producing an almost musical sound, seemingly puzzled by this turn of events. What if he can’t under- stand me? It was an odd thought. Him not being able to understand God, or whatever this thing was, okay, Jerome could get that. But shouldn’t God be able to understand me?
The Jesus statue snapped its fingers, a broad smile forming creakily on its face. It called forth in that deep, vibrational voice as it raised an outstretched hand toward Jerome. A sudden cone of light ap- peared from above, illuminating them both. There was a sound, a buzzing of some kind that filled the air and Jerome had to shield his eyes from the inten- sity of the light.
“This better work,” he mumbled as the buzzing grew louder.
The Jesus statue’s mantra grew in intensity, as did