The first sacrament
“And they came to the place which God had told him of; and Abraham built an altar there, and laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and laid him on the altar upon the wood. And Abraham stretched forth his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.” – Genesis 22:9-10 |
Part I
|
Prologue
Standing at the kitchen counter, Emily Wilkins-Cain poured a very liberal amount of iced tea from the pitcher into her glass without hurry. An elderly woman nearing her seventies, she was no longer burdened with the hustle and bustle of the young. Throughout the years, she had simply learned to slow her activities; even the most trivial, to a near crawl. Savor the moment, she always said in passing, as if she was the starlet of her very own television show spouting out her catchphrase. Turn to Camera Two, give us a wink, a hearty smile, and cue for the break. Meanwhile, she was merely a lonely old widow, spending much of her time alone in a large empty house filled only with silence.
Not a worry, she would insist, abating her solitude with late-night scripture readings, local broadcast programming, and; from time to time, the dusting of old family albums containing the memories of her extensive life. It was a rather mundane existence, one she had no qualms or regrets with in the slightest. Simply put, she had earned her dullness. She had earned the aftereffects of a life well-lived. A quiet home, a quiet neighborhood, a quiet town, a quiet presence; all of which she had earned.
The only person she had for occasional company was that of her ward; her grandson, Sawyer. His was a life quite opposite hers. He was young; eighteen in the coming fall, dark-natured, and rather conflicting in his moods. In truth, Emily suspected that he was the constant target of many others’ harassment; to which she would have not been surprised. Where other boys his age were strong, athletic, or even the creative archetype, Sawyer was weak, diffident, and sulked about as though he was her age; simply awaiting the day the Lord came for his soul. At least others with his certain unsightly characteristics could channel their demons into art. But alas, her poor grandson could not. Instead, he spent his days at school, followed by lonesome nights in his room, with weekends used for the occasional involuntary sessions of Bridge or Spades, only to rinse and repeat for the following week.
She could sense his demons, understood his reasoning, and yet, what she couldn’t quite grasp was his inability to move on. Certainly, she had moved on; not easily mind you, but she had nonetheless. For that was what one must do after the loss of a loved one: you grieve; you remember; you celebrate life; you rest your faith in the divine and His will; and you move on. But not Sawyer. He took the loss of his parents with a heavy heart; never recovering from their shared demise. She wished she could do more for him; spiritually that was. He needed the faith, the guidance, the healing of the Holy Father; of such she was certain. However, it was with pained failed attempts over the years she had come to realize that his heart was simply not ready. He, as countless others, could not be pressured or convinced of such an idea as God. To him, an overseeing, omnipotent, being was as intangible as his dearly departed parents. One day, she continually reminded herself, one day he will be ready. Her glass full, she opened the refrigerator door, placing the pitcher on the shelf inside with care, and closing it behind her. Looking to the cross hanging on the wall, she simply nodded in silence, thinking, one day.
At that, she took up her glass from the countertop, bringing it to her lips and taking a refreshing sip as she walked briskly to the family room to watch the local evening news. The newscaster, Kip Baker, was a simply dreamy man, the likes of which she had never seen. My, how she fancied him. If I were thirty years younger, she would think, watching him give his reports with tingles afloat throughout her body as if she were straddling an electric fence. As the program continued the set without consequence; a rerun of some mid-nineties sitcom she always found rather unpleasant, she took to the recliner with ease. Setting her glass to the end table at her right, she let herself down gently into the simple comfort of the engulfing fabric. Easy, old girl, she thought, relieved for the release of tension on her burning joints. Arthritis, another aftereffect of a long life, though not desired or in any way pleasing.
Breathing out a sigh of relief, she massaged at her aching knees, grimacing at the pain of the affair. “Goddammit,” she whispered, briefly removing her hands and marking the Trinity with her index and middle fingers in gesture. “Forgive me,” she gave in consideration, “but the pain, oh, Lord, the pain.” As she looked about, speaking to her maker, she ensured Sawyer hadn’t wandered out of his room. She did not appreciate the judgmental looks he gave whenever she conversed with God. Who in the hell was he to judge, she thought, returning to rub at her kneecaps with both hands as if scrubbing out an old rag upon a washboard. It wouldn’t work; she knew that. The pain never completely subsided, yet if she reclined in her chair for the half hour or so of the news program, it would help.
At that, she removed her hands, reaching to the left of her chair and pulling at the large-handled lever. In an instant, the footrest sprung upward, simply lifting her bare wrinkled feet from the hardwood and suspending them into the air. Smiling, she reclined slightly, reaching for her glass and gracing herself with another sip. Well done, old girl, she thought, a smile forming on her face with accomplishment. Well done, indeed.
Suddenly, laughter broke from the studio audience upon the television, signifying the program was nearing its end; at least she hoped. She never much cared for it. A shoe salesman, his red-headed tart of a wife, the dopey blonde harlot and her horndog brother. The whole bit was wholly unsatisfactory to her, so distasteful and unholy. Twenty-something minutes of a blatant misogynist, his idiot children and his lazy-ass wife. To Emily, programs such as; whatever it was called, was the epitome of the issues grappling the decency of the American youth. Behavior was learned, and if one were grown on such filth, they too would become filth—simple as that.
Another sip, another sigh, she returned the glass to the end table and glanced at the picture frame beside it. The photograph was old, perhaps two or three years; a forced portrait of sorts. Displaying her; a vision of Bea Arthur herself, in a white sweater embracing Sawyer—an axiomatic poster boy for the American Gothic Poe Appreciation Society (if there truly was such a thing). Both were smiling in the photo, but, in truth, she could sense it was feigned by both parties. In all appearances they were convincing, to the camera and each other. Yet, she knew her feelings that day. She knew she was unhappy about the unappreciative attitude and downward spiraling of moods her grandson emitted.
What was more, she knew Sawyer was faking that day as well. It was merely a charade, an attempt to abate her concerns. The sentiment, though sweet in concept, upset her nonetheless. Another moment of wishful thinking, an attempt to bring him out of the dark, life-draining, abyss and immerse him within the basking, warm, light. An invitation he had once again batted away with both hands without concern. Strenuous efforts falling to the pine once more. Though, as she glanced at the photograph she realized it still brought her joy, fake or not. She enjoyed the two of them sharing embrace, appearing happy and normal within each other’s company. Smiling once more, she returned her gaze to the television in simple consternation as the program yet continued.
A rudimentary display of apologies between the characters, some jesting and most certainly the end of the show approaching as the credits rolled and the score began. As the audience applauded and cheered upon the screen, so too did Emily—mentally at least. They for the sake of their enjoyment of the program, and her simply for the sake of its completion. Rejoice, she thought, reaching over to her large glass ashtray on the coffee table to her left, grabbing her pack of Virginia Slims and retrieving a slender concession. Placing the cigarette to her lips, she reached into her apron pocket and produced her lighter.
Flipping back the lid with ease, she gently thumbed the flint wheel, watching the wick ignite, placing the dancing flame to the end of the porous paper and inhaling deeply. A plume of smoke swayed without concern into the air as the business end of the tobacco-filled stick glowed as red as a barbeque coal. Closing the lid of the lighter, she took the cigarette within her index and middle fingers, inhaling slowly, then exhaling a steady stream of smoke toward the television.
Regarding her lighter; a past present from her departed husband, she looked to the inscription with a smile.
To the love of my life. Our love is like a fire, and baby yours is like a sweet, sweet cigarette. I will love you always and forever.
No matter how many times a day she read the words; at least ten on average, it never failed to gift her a rather girlish smile. He had always been the silver-tongued sort; her late husband, and even in his passing he had not disappointed. Tracing the etched words with her fingertips, she nodded with a mixture of joy and sorrow, placing it back to her apron pocket and continuing with her sinful pleasure. “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God,” she said to no one, taking another drag and reaching over to ash on the table. She knew that smoking was a form of self-harm, a sin to the Almighty. She was damaging her temple, willingly at that. And yet, she could not for the life of her buck the habit. Try and try as she may over the many years to quit, she continued without so much as a minor sign of strangling her addiction.
Nicotine was a chemical dependency, one she had worked up for over forty decades—not an easy fix. Instead, she had decided to embrace it, take the journey and resolved to beg God for forgiveness once she arrived at the gates for judgment. Can’t hurt my chances, she would insist, explaining her cares away to others as though it was nothing to be concerned over. And to her, it simply wasn’t. What was would be and she could no more change the path than she could write it. Small vices were; and always had been, the devil’s crutch. And though she both knew and appreciated her compulsion as such, she had not the ability to abate it.
Carry on, she thought, exhaling another stream of toxic cloud through pursed lips and glancing to the screen with anticipation as a commercial came drawling to a close. Suddenly, a three-tone signal; ascending in scale, sounded through the speakers as a three-dimensional globe twirled and the call sign, KRPW, appeared around a solid Channel 9 emblem on the lower right side of the screen. “Showtime,” she stated with glee, the smile returning to her face with force. As the screen faded to black, a deep-baritone voice announced with gusto, “You are watching K-R-P-W news at 6 on channel 9, with local Rosemont anchorman, Kip Baker.”
At that, the black faded out to a frame of the delectable heartthrob, Kip. Sitting at his station, his shoulders and chest appeared broad and well toned under his eloquent black suit jacket. His hair, a ravenous dirty blonde, was slicked back and tapered. His eyes, a piercing blue paralleling that of the most beautiful of oceans, looked up gently from the papers within his grasp and straight into the camera as it continued to zoom closer with effective dramatic intent. His mouth slowly turned from stern sincerity to a gracefully gorgeous and dimple-infested smile. His jaw was of iron, and his voice of soothing silk. Flutters began in her lower stomach as she looked upon the face of a modern-day Achilles. Simply stunning, she thought with another drag, another ash into the tray, and another sip of tea.
“Good evening, Rosemont. Its currently six P-M and seventy-two degrees. I’m Kip Baker, for local K-R-P-W Channel Nine news in the evening. In tonight’s top national news, the C-D-C has cited a controversial, yet, fast-growing epidemic plaguing the youth of America. Suicide, according to one C-D-C official, has become the third largest risk for children between the ages of ten and twenty-five, behind accidents and homicide.”
Emily withdrew with force, having been daydreaming while staring at the model before her and not expecting such a dark topic of conversation. Stunned, she simply gasped, throwing her free hand to her gaping mouth and uttering, “Oh, my word.” Sawyer, she thought, afraid of her own thoughts, shooing them away as if an opossum hissing on the back porch.
“Some of the common causes relating to the rise in teen suicide are,” as he listed a font accompanied beside him on the screen in visual aid, “divorce of parents, loss of loved ones, violence—both in and out of the home, rejection by peers, feelings of inadequacy, and suicide of a close friend—online or personal.” As Emily perused the list, she realized in horror as several motives were shared with her grandson. “He couldn’t,” she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. She knew he was a little troubled, but to think; suicide. Her Sawyer. Impossible.
“According to the same C-D-C official, the typical signs exhibited by such teens are relative to depression; IE dark and shifty moods, general malaise, a sense of self-doubt and unworthiness when tasked with something either simple or difficult, forced happiness…” As Kip Baker continued upon the screen, Emily simply tuned him out, looking to the direction of Sawyer’s room with stupefied realization. Feeling a tinge of pain, she grimaced and looked down to see her cigarette had burned to the filter, the cherry resting within her grasp. Pressing the butt into the ashtray and stamping it out in a convection of smoky twirls and twitters, she simply sat and pondered the report.
Sawyer would never do anything like that, she thought, he just wouldn’t. As she adjusted in her seat and once again looked down the hall to his bedroom door, she took up her glass and drank with heavy thirst. He couldn’t, she thought, returning the glass to its home on the end table and glancing at the feigned photograph once more. Would he? She concluded he wouldn’t, couldn’t and there was no way he was capable. At that, she returned her attention to the program, attempting to expel the thought from her mind. I’ll have a talk with him in the morning, she thought, just to be certain.
Down the hallway, the door shut tightly, the room lay barren of life—a tomb. Clothes were strewn upon the bed and desk in unsorted fashion, a lamp still burned by its owner’s command, and a chair sat empty and unused. All electronics were dead and quiet, nothing making a sound. No trace of Sawyer at all. The only thing missing from the room; save for Sawyer, was his cellphone. Upon the desk sat a small, handwritten note.
Hanging out with some friends. Don’t wait up.
Love,
Sawyer
Not a worry, she would insist, abating her solitude with late-night scripture readings, local broadcast programming, and; from time to time, the dusting of old family albums containing the memories of her extensive life. It was a rather mundane existence, one she had no qualms or regrets with in the slightest. Simply put, she had earned her dullness. She had earned the aftereffects of a life well-lived. A quiet home, a quiet neighborhood, a quiet town, a quiet presence; all of which she had earned.
The only person she had for occasional company was that of her ward; her grandson, Sawyer. His was a life quite opposite hers. He was young; eighteen in the coming fall, dark-natured, and rather conflicting in his moods. In truth, Emily suspected that he was the constant target of many others’ harassment; to which she would have not been surprised. Where other boys his age were strong, athletic, or even the creative archetype, Sawyer was weak, diffident, and sulked about as though he was her age; simply awaiting the day the Lord came for his soul. At least others with his certain unsightly characteristics could channel their demons into art. But alas, her poor grandson could not. Instead, he spent his days at school, followed by lonesome nights in his room, with weekends used for the occasional involuntary sessions of Bridge or Spades, only to rinse and repeat for the following week.
She could sense his demons, understood his reasoning, and yet, what she couldn’t quite grasp was his inability to move on. Certainly, she had moved on; not easily mind you, but she had nonetheless. For that was what one must do after the loss of a loved one: you grieve; you remember; you celebrate life; you rest your faith in the divine and His will; and you move on. But not Sawyer. He took the loss of his parents with a heavy heart; never recovering from their shared demise. She wished she could do more for him; spiritually that was. He needed the faith, the guidance, the healing of the Holy Father; of such she was certain. However, it was with pained failed attempts over the years she had come to realize that his heart was simply not ready. He, as countless others, could not be pressured or convinced of such an idea as God. To him, an overseeing, omnipotent, being was as intangible as his dearly departed parents. One day, she continually reminded herself, one day he will be ready. Her glass full, she opened the refrigerator door, placing the pitcher on the shelf inside with care, and closing it behind her. Looking to the cross hanging on the wall, she simply nodded in silence, thinking, one day.
At that, she took up her glass from the countertop, bringing it to her lips and taking a refreshing sip as she walked briskly to the family room to watch the local evening news. The newscaster, Kip Baker, was a simply dreamy man, the likes of which she had never seen. My, how she fancied him. If I were thirty years younger, she would think, watching him give his reports with tingles afloat throughout her body as if she were straddling an electric fence. As the program continued the set without consequence; a rerun of some mid-nineties sitcom she always found rather unpleasant, she took to the recliner with ease. Setting her glass to the end table at her right, she let herself down gently into the simple comfort of the engulfing fabric. Easy, old girl, she thought, relieved for the release of tension on her burning joints. Arthritis, another aftereffect of a long life, though not desired or in any way pleasing.
Breathing out a sigh of relief, she massaged at her aching knees, grimacing at the pain of the affair. “Goddammit,” she whispered, briefly removing her hands and marking the Trinity with her index and middle fingers in gesture. “Forgive me,” she gave in consideration, “but the pain, oh, Lord, the pain.” As she looked about, speaking to her maker, she ensured Sawyer hadn’t wandered out of his room. She did not appreciate the judgmental looks he gave whenever she conversed with God. Who in the hell was he to judge, she thought, returning to rub at her kneecaps with both hands as if scrubbing out an old rag upon a washboard. It wouldn’t work; she knew that. The pain never completely subsided, yet if she reclined in her chair for the half hour or so of the news program, it would help.
At that, she removed her hands, reaching to the left of her chair and pulling at the large-handled lever. In an instant, the footrest sprung upward, simply lifting her bare wrinkled feet from the hardwood and suspending them into the air. Smiling, she reclined slightly, reaching for her glass and gracing herself with another sip. Well done, old girl, she thought, a smile forming on her face with accomplishment. Well done, indeed.
Suddenly, laughter broke from the studio audience upon the television, signifying the program was nearing its end; at least she hoped. She never much cared for it. A shoe salesman, his red-headed tart of a wife, the dopey blonde harlot and her horndog brother. The whole bit was wholly unsatisfactory to her, so distasteful and unholy. Twenty-something minutes of a blatant misogynist, his idiot children and his lazy-ass wife. To Emily, programs such as; whatever it was called, was the epitome of the issues grappling the decency of the American youth. Behavior was learned, and if one were grown on such filth, they too would become filth—simple as that.
Another sip, another sigh, she returned the glass to the end table and glanced at the picture frame beside it. The photograph was old, perhaps two or three years; a forced portrait of sorts. Displaying her; a vision of Bea Arthur herself, in a white sweater embracing Sawyer—an axiomatic poster boy for the American Gothic Poe Appreciation Society (if there truly was such a thing). Both were smiling in the photo, but, in truth, she could sense it was feigned by both parties. In all appearances they were convincing, to the camera and each other. Yet, she knew her feelings that day. She knew she was unhappy about the unappreciative attitude and downward spiraling of moods her grandson emitted.
What was more, she knew Sawyer was faking that day as well. It was merely a charade, an attempt to abate her concerns. The sentiment, though sweet in concept, upset her nonetheless. Another moment of wishful thinking, an attempt to bring him out of the dark, life-draining, abyss and immerse him within the basking, warm, light. An invitation he had once again batted away with both hands without concern. Strenuous efforts falling to the pine once more. Though, as she glanced at the photograph she realized it still brought her joy, fake or not. She enjoyed the two of them sharing embrace, appearing happy and normal within each other’s company. Smiling once more, she returned her gaze to the television in simple consternation as the program yet continued.
A rudimentary display of apologies between the characters, some jesting and most certainly the end of the show approaching as the credits rolled and the score began. As the audience applauded and cheered upon the screen, so too did Emily—mentally at least. They for the sake of their enjoyment of the program, and her simply for the sake of its completion. Rejoice, she thought, reaching over to her large glass ashtray on the coffee table to her left, grabbing her pack of Virginia Slims and retrieving a slender concession. Placing the cigarette to her lips, she reached into her apron pocket and produced her lighter.
Flipping back the lid with ease, she gently thumbed the flint wheel, watching the wick ignite, placing the dancing flame to the end of the porous paper and inhaling deeply. A plume of smoke swayed without concern into the air as the business end of the tobacco-filled stick glowed as red as a barbeque coal. Closing the lid of the lighter, she took the cigarette within her index and middle fingers, inhaling slowly, then exhaling a steady stream of smoke toward the television.
Regarding her lighter; a past present from her departed husband, she looked to the inscription with a smile.
To the love of my life. Our love is like a fire, and baby yours is like a sweet, sweet cigarette. I will love you always and forever.
No matter how many times a day she read the words; at least ten on average, it never failed to gift her a rather girlish smile. He had always been the silver-tongued sort; her late husband, and even in his passing he had not disappointed. Tracing the etched words with her fingertips, she nodded with a mixture of joy and sorrow, placing it back to her apron pocket and continuing with her sinful pleasure. “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God,” she said to no one, taking another drag and reaching over to ash on the table. She knew that smoking was a form of self-harm, a sin to the Almighty. She was damaging her temple, willingly at that. And yet, she could not for the life of her buck the habit. Try and try as she may over the many years to quit, she continued without so much as a minor sign of strangling her addiction.
Nicotine was a chemical dependency, one she had worked up for over forty decades—not an easy fix. Instead, she had decided to embrace it, take the journey and resolved to beg God for forgiveness once she arrived at the gates for judgment. Can’t hurt my chances, she would insist, explaining her cares away to others as though it was nothing to be concerned over. And to her, it simply wasn’t. What was would be and she could no more change the path than she could write it. Small vices were; and always had been, the devil’s crutch. And though she both knew and appreciated her compulsion as such, she had not the ability to abate it.
Carry on, she thought, exhaling another stream of toxic cloud through pursed lips and glancing to the screen with anticipation as a commercial came drawling to a close. Suddenly, a three-tone signal; ascending in scale, sounded through the speakers as a three-dimensional globe twirled and the call sign, KRPW, appeared around a solid Channel 9 emblem on the lower right side of the screen. “Showtime,” she stated with glee, the smile returning to her face with force. As the screen faded to black, a deep-baritone voice announced with gusto, “You are watching K-R-P-W news at 6 on channel 9, with local Rosemont anchorman, Kip Baker.”
At that, the black faded out to a frame of the delectable heartthrob, Kip. Sitting at his station, his shoulders and chest appeared broad and well toned under his eloquent black suit jacket. His hair, a ravenous dirty blonde, was slicked back and tapered. His eyes, a piercing blue paralleling that of the most beautiful of oceans, looked up gently from the papers within his grasp and straight into the camera as it continued to zoom closer with effective dramatic intent. His mouth slowly turned from stern sincerity to a gracefully gorgeous and dimple-infested smile. His jaw was of iron, and his voice of soothing silk. Flutters began in her lower stomach as she looked upon the face of a modern-day Achilles. Simply stunning, she thought with another drag, another ash into the tray, and another sip of tea.
“Good evening, Rosemont. Its currently six P-M and seventy-two degrees. I’m Kip Baker, for local K-R-P-W Channel Nine news in the evening. In tonight’s top national news, the C-D-C has cited a controversial, yet, fast-growing epidemic plaguing the youth of America. Suicide, according to one C-D-C official, has become the third largest risk for children between the ages of ten and twenty-five, behind accidents and homicide.”
Emily withdrew with force, having been daydreaming while staring at the model before her and not expecting such a dark topic of conversation. Stunned, she simply gasped, throwing her free hand to her gaping mouth and uttering, “Oh, my word.” Sawyer, she thought, afraid of her own thoughts, shooing them away as if an opossum hissing on the back porch.
“Some of the common causes relating to the rise in teen suicide are,” as he listed a font accompanied beside him on the screen in visual aid, “divorce of parents, loss of loved ones, violence—both in and out of the home, rejection by peers, feelings of inadequacy, and suicide of a close friend—online or personal.” As Emily perused the list, she realized in horror as several motives were shared with her grandson. “He couldn’t,” she whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. She knew he was a little troubled, but to think; suicide. Her Sawyer. Impossible.
“According to the same C-D-C official, the typical signs exhibited by such teens are relative to depression; IE dark and shifty moods, general malaise, a sense of self-doubt and unworthiness when tasked with something either simple or difficult, forced happiness…” As Kip Baker continued upon the screen, Emily simply tuned him out, looking to the direction of Sawyer’s room with stupefied realization. Feeling a tinge of pain, she grimaced and looked down to see her cigarette had burned to the filter, the cherry resting within her grasp. Pressing the butt into the ashtray and stamping it out in a convection of smoky twirls and twitters, she simply sat and pondered the report.
Sawyer would never do anything like that, she thought, he just wouldn’t. As she adjusted in her seat and once again looked down the hall to his bedroom door, she took up her glass and drank with heavy thirst. He couldn’t, she thought, returning the glass to its home on the end table and glancing at the feigned photograph once more. Would he? She concluded he wouldn’t, couldn’t and there was no way he was capable. At that, she returned her attention to the program, attempting to expel the thought from her mind. I’ll have a talk with him in the morning, she thought, just to be certain.
Down the hallway, the door shut tightly, the room lay barren of life—a tomb. Clothes were strewn upon the bed and desk in unsorted fashion, a lamp still burned by its owner’s command, and a chair sat empty and unused. All electronics were dead and quiet, nothing making a sound. No trace of Sawyer at all. The only thing missing from the room; save for Sawyer, was his cellphone. Upon the desk sat a small, handwritten note.
Hanging out with some friends. Don’t wait up.
Love,
Sawyer