In the cool shadows that dwelt under the roof of St. Michael's Church, Ralph Wilkson demanded an audience with God. He sat without reverence, his body loose at all its joints, his knees spread in a wide 'v' and both his feet planted on the worn kneeler. Above his bare head, the light dropped down into the church from six beautiful stained-glass windows that ran along the east wall of the building. Ralph studied the tattered card in his hand, oblivious to flicker of votive candles, the subtle perfume of lemon polish, or the dewy breath of the wind as it glided over his face.

His gaze lingered on the picture of the Madonna. Her halo reminded him of the fine china his mother laid out on special occasions. The gold pattern consisted of intricate little lines that turned in ninety-degree angles, gliding across the white background like a narrow road that led to nowhere. The Madonna held a baby in her arms. A smaller halo, with even tinier gold roads, crowned his head. Although barely legible, Ralph could read the two dates that followed. More importantly, he understood what the two dates meant--the start and finish of a mortal life.

June 1981- Dec.1985.

The little dash between those two dates made a mockery of the whole process--just a little running dash perfectly suited to get the message across. Plop. You drop into life, run the sixty-something year dash, hit the finish line and whomp!

So long, marathon man, thanks for participating in the race. Too bad we can't all be a winner.

Ralph imagined himself hitting the yellow tape, his mouth dry as bone, his brow slick, the dull ache of his breath filling his chest while his feet dropped like dying birds to the earth. It would hurt, yes, probably hurt like hell, but oh what a rush! A guy had a right to finish the way he wanted, hot, weak, and smarting from the slap of that ribbon against his chest.

His gaze locked onto the dates once more.

That was one hell of a short race little buddy.

Ralph's thumbs pressed the wrinkles out of the Madonna's crown. His mother hung the card on the tree every year, this bloody card with the foreign name and the dates that proved that God had no mercy for the runners he dropped into the race.

Two years ago, in the winter of '98, seventeen-year-old Ralph took the car and drove to the library to check the obituaries. His head ached with the possibility that he might have a half brother. It was a time when infidelity reigned over the television and dozens of wildly independent teenagers learned commitment ended when the sex was over. It was the year he broke his mother's best serving dish and punched his father because they wouldn't let him go to a big concert in upper New York.

Ralph went to the library because he had hoped to uncover something awful--something that would rock his parents and shatter the infuriating "togetherness" that kept them unified no matter what he did. Ralph wanted a secret, sharp as an ice pick, to plunge into each of them so they'd feel his pain.

To his immense disappointment, there wasn't any skeleton in his family closet. The little kid's name was Christopher. He wasn't a half a brother. He was just a little Polish kid who died a week before Christmas when a coal truck backed over him as he played in the family driveway.

The whole thing spooked Ralph because, deep inside, he thought his parents wished that God had yanked him out of the race,instead of little Christopher Zivolk.

His parents didn't yell at him for prying into their affairs. They didn't punish him for taking the car. His dad told Ralph to give the card back to his mother and he did. The following year, there it was again, hanging just below the gold star on the Christmas tree. By that time, he was furious enough to skip the preliminary shouting match. Cornering his mother in the kitchen, he demanded she tell him about the card.

"It's about connections," she had said, her voice squishy with feelings.

Ralph couldn't understand her emotions. His hormones, those crazy little soldiers invading his bloodstream, wouldn't let him. They were too busy pushing him out the door, rushing him onto the street so he could catch a glimpse of the other boys his age who were already well into the race. He could hear the muffled thunder of eager feet, smell the heat given off by straining bodies, and taste, ever so faintly, the exquisite nectar of conquest.

He left home six months later. His father shook his hand, something Ralph found incredibly stupid at the time, and wished him luck. His mother hugged him quickly and handed him a thick envelope. Ralph thought it was full of money. He stuffed it, unopened, into his back pocket so he wouldn't have to thank them.

Hours later, as his bus left New Jersey, Ralph opened the envelope. He discovered a mini-Bible tucked inside some tissue paper. When he discovered there wasn't any cash hidden in the it, he tossed the thing out the window. The pages of the miniature bible fluttered like frantic wings before it struck the hood of an oncoming car, bounced, and flew into the night.

Ralph returned three months after he had left, minus his suitcase and the leather jacket his parents had bought him on his sixteenth birthday. His parents were still clinging together like two shriveled grapes on a vine. His mother's silence shredded his heart. His father stared impassively beyond Ralph's left ear.

"You can have the room over the garage," his dad said. "There's a job at the store if you want it."

"Yeah," Ralph said, hating himself.

"Chili's on the stove," his mother offered.

He took the job, went to work, and tried to be satisfied. A year later, both his parents were gone. Not dead--Gone. He didn't know how or when they left. He didn't know a damn thing, except that one day, when he came home from work, he found the keys to the old station wagon on the kitchen table. Next to the keys, they'd left a platter of neatly sliced ham and a pan of homemade corn bread. Ralph found the note they left on the countertop. He immediately recognized his father's meticulous handwriting.

Dear Son-What you want from life isn't what we have to offer. We're leaving you the car, house, and the store. Your mother thinks this will make you happy. One can only hope-love Mom and Dad

Ralph was astonished. His forty-something parents had run away. How could they do this to him? He went to the telephone, intent on calling the police, but hesitated when his fingers touched the receiver. What would he say?

The doors at the rear of the church rocked gently on well oiled hinges. He heard the jingle of keys, the tread of hurried feet, then the sharp click of a door latch. Ralph straightened his spine and looked around at the empty church. Off to his right, the door to the confessional booth had been shut. The circular light above the door frame blinked red.

Ralph's gaze snapped back to the Tabernacle.

You're supposed to take care of things, Ralph thought, glaring at the sanctuary light.

A whisper slipped through the metal vent at the base of the confessional door.

"Bless me, Father…"

Ralph listened, unabashed, to the torrent of sins that floated toward him. The voice spoke roughly, stumbling and catching over words like a needle forced to pierce coarse cloth. Now and again, a deep sigh broke the litany. It was followed by several beats of agonized silence. Finally the voice stuttered and died.

"My son, God gave you an imperfect world to teach you how to strive for perfection," the priest replied.

My parents never loved me, Ralph thought.

"It's all about connections-between you and the people God places in your life," the priest said. "Forgiveness builds the bridge. Walk across the bridge and you'll discover understanding."

Ralph shut his eyes and thought of Christopher Zivolk's parents. How had they felt when their son died? He thought of the day he had struck his father and remembered, for the first time, the naked pain mirrored in eyes as gray as his own.

Ralph shivered.

"I absolve you…" the priest mumbled. "Go and sin no more."

Ralph stayed for a little while. He watched the light streaming down into the church. With great surprise, he saw that each bright shaft cut through the shadows in the ceiling and landed solidly upon the carpet. A fragile beam of light fell upon his face and warmed him.

It's a bridge, Ralph realized, fingering the prayer card, to bring me home.  

Copyright ©2000 Laurel Wilczek.  All Rights Reserved