It was a church once, long ago. Your parents might have come here. The floor, if it was scrubbed, would display an elaborate mosaic, an exquisite depiction of some gruesome piece of Christian mythology that probably gave your parents nightmares for years. If you came here in the daylight, as I do some days, you could watch the sunlight trace a path down the middle of the church, like a stately bride, moving slowly till by 11:30 it lights up the place where the DJ is now. They say that the windows are original and intact, and so the light is rich and red, colored by the old glass to the thickness of blood. But hardly anyone ever visits in the daylight, which is good, because this place hasn’t been really clean in much too long, and the light only serves to highlight the dirt.
It was a church once, the family chapel of a family of money, who spared no expense to show this world, and the next, what they prized above all. The man who designed this church copied from all the great cathedrals—the rose window, most obviously, but they’re all here: Notre Dame, St. Germaine, St. Sophia, and San Vitale, among others. The windows are my favorite, but all this art interests me. It was intended to educate an illiterate audience. So each piece has to convey a story, or at least enough to help the audience remember the stories they were told. This fascinates me, and the idea of a story even I can read appeals. I’ve spent hours here in daylight, watching the light play across the windows, and the mosaics on the walls. Raleigh once brought me a book on the construction of the gothic cathedrals, and as he read it to me, we compared the details it discussed with the Church. It may have been built as a rich man’s toy instead of out of any sense of piety or obligation, but it was designed with exceptional attention to details.
It was a church once, but it’s not any more, not one your parents would recognize. Once people sat, dressed in somber hues, in orderly rows, in assigned seats facing a man who told them how to live their lives. Now there is no order in this worship, if worship it is, but the expressions haven’t changed. Your parents would have called it a religious ecstasy, but I would capitalize it.
It was a church once. Where once the confessionals must have stood, now is a bar, rich red mahogany, probably salvaged from the old pews. The bartender is good looking, but not my type, worse luck. She asks me my sin, and I answer. Not many people remember, but when this place first reopened (‘Under New Management!!!’ as the signs said), the bar served drinks named after the Commandments. The idea always intrigued you, so I toy with the idea of ordering a Neighbor’s Wife, but settle instead on a gin and tonic. I turn and lean against the bar, and watch the swirls of colors move across the dance floor. Naturally, the place is a lot more crowded on the weekends, but for a Tuesday—not a bad crowd.
It was a church, long ago. I’m almost done with my drink when I feel like I’m being watched, I turn, half expecting to see you there. Instead, I find myself staring at the bas relief behind the bar. It has the martyrdom of some saint depicted in graphic detail, and the saint’s eyes seem to be pleading with me for . . . something. For all that I know it is carved stone, the flickering lights from the dance floor make it appear to move, slowly, and give it an occasionally menacing mien. I salute it with the last of my gin and tonic, and decide to walk around a bit. None of our crowd seems to be here yet, so I wander, examining the works that adorn the walls, taking note of the ones that interest me. If I come back in daylight, tomorrow, or later this week, I’ll sketch the ones I like. I come here in daylight about every six months to look and see if anything that I’ve missed before stands out.
In the front corner, next to the stage, is a small, plain door. I don’t think I’ve ever really noticed it before, or if I did, I never wondered about it. But today, suddenly, I am gripped by a desire to discover what lies behind it. I probably wouldn’t have tried the doorknob any other day—perhaps the drink has had more of an effect than usual for I rarely act this impulsively. But it isn’t locked. And I can’t let the gin take the blame for opening it. Curiosity has always been a failing of mine.
I can’t see the interior very well, so I step through the door, and pull it shut after me. As the door closes, the noise level drops dramatically, and my eyes begin to adjust to the light that leaks around the edges of the door. After the flashing lights of the main room, my eyes aren’t adjusted to this level of darkness. They take several seconds, and I blink repeatedly, hoping to speed the transition. The room is small. No, actually it’s quite large, only vertically instead of horizontally. All it contains other than dust is a flight of stairs. I have nothing to lose and nothing better to do, so I start climbing. I stop at the first landing and open the door. I don’t step through, because there is nothing to step onto. Luckily, unlike you, I’m not afraid of heights. I look out over the crowd below me. I’m above the people, the sound, and the lights. I don’t know what this would have been, but I think it could have been the choir loft. I’m not at all sure though. Still, whatever it was, the view is entrancing. The music is not audible so much as tactile up here. I can feel the bass in my bones but I can’t hear the melody for the distortion and echoes. I am entranced by the view below my feet, which looks like a smudged painting. The colors blur together and are obfuscated by the cloud of smoke that drifts over them. I shut the door.
I have two choices on the second landing. There is a door, or I can continue climbing the stairs. I know which one you would pick. The door sticks. I tug it open. The room is black as night. I automatically reach for the switch, and flinch when the lights actually do come on. It’s a library. I’ve never seen this many books together in one place. I pick up a book at random. It’s dusty, but beautiful—smooth leather cover, engraved title. At this particular moment, I wish I could read. There will be no picture books in with these books—I don’t even bother looking. Other than the books, this room has little. A couch and matching armchair are arranged cozily in the center of the room, but I think the mice have long since made themselves at home in them. A china cabinet is set against the wall by the light switch, and the windows are covered by some once elegant drapes. The room is dominated by the large wooden desk and chair in the middle of the floor. I can’t figure out why no one has stripped this room for sale. It is possible that the sticking door deterred them, or maybe they just don’t care. I would care. But I don’t have anywhere to keep it all. I settle for a lone book. I can almost read the cover—it has my name on it. And it’s about a dog. Or maybe a god. I have trouble with words. But it’s a beautiful book. Deep brown leather, and the gold lettering still intact. I judge too much by appearances—it’s a failing of my profession, I suppose.
I leave the room, turning out the light and pulling the door firmly shut after me. I decide to continue up the stairs. They are steeper now, and there are no more landings. I climb in silence and in darkness. Even the music feels muted and faraway now. When I reach the top of the stairs, there is a door. As I climbed the walls shrunk in around me and are now barely bigger than the door. I open the door and step through into a small room. Well, not really a room. It does have walls and a floor and ceiling, but the walls only reach to about your chest, though the ceiling is well out of my reach. This would be the bell tower, only there are no bells. Over the sides, I can see the city below me.
It was a church once. This steeple, as an architectural element, was intended to act as a funnel, channeling the prayers of the people to their God above. I’ve never been able to decide if they thought of Heaven as a physical place, if they truly believed that if they built a ladder—or a tower, as I remember from my grandmother’s stories—tall enough, they could climb up to heaven. Oh, I know that recently, my grandparents, and their parents before them, those who saw man step onto the surface of the moon, they believed in heaven as an astral plane, if they believed at all. But before them, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, when churches like this were built out of piety, not pride, did they then believe that by standing where I am now they were that much closer to God? I don’t feel closer to anyone, or anything. I feel distanced and isolated, knowing that while I’m up here, life goes on without me. I fold my arms across my chest, and lean against a support beam, thinking and observing. My dad says that the cities before had so many lights in them that the people who lived there could never see all the stars. Now as I linger in the cold and look out over the city, I can see only a few lights—small and distant like the stars above.
I’m not all that high off the ground, according to stories my dad has told me. I’d guess probably no more than eighty feet—miniscule compared to the buildings that used to be near here, across the park—but higher than anything else around. And between the height and the hour of night, I’m effectively isolated from all other life in the city. Was their God fond of isolation? I rummage through the stories my grandmother used to tell me, but I can find no conclusion. Though I can’t imagine someone, anyone wanting to be alone all the time. I watch the stars above and the lights below and think more along the same lines for a while—I don’t know how long—until I get too cold.
It’s warm back inside on the steps, and the trip down is even warmer, because it’s a lot faster than the trip up, and I’m sweating by the time I make it all the way down. The speed is partly because going downstairs is always easier, but partly because I scare myself into hearing footsteps following me down. I always do that to myself. Before I know it, I’m back at the foot of the stairs, by the door to the dance floor. I figure that by now the rest of the group has gotten here. While I wait to catch my breath, I tuck the book—my book—into one of the deep pockets in my coat so that no one will comment on it.
Once through the door, I am momentarily stunned by the light and the noise. My ears haven’t adjusted to the volume when someone I recognize dances up to me and yells something I don’t understand. She yells it again, and then just grabs my hand and pulls me along with her. We cut across the floor weaving between the oblivious dancers. We seem to be heading back to the bar, but she’s using the dance floor as a shortcut. Sure enough, when she stops we’re at the bar again, about three feet down from where I started. Most of the group is here. Emily hugs me dramatically and says something. I can hear now. “Where did you go?” she asks.
“Upstairs,” I reply. “When did you guys get here?”
“Right after you. We came to join you at the bar but you disappeared while we were ordering.
Holly pouts. “The bartender’s new. She didn’t know how to make me a Graven Image. I had to settle for a False God.”
“Ah baby, I’m sorry.” I pull her close for a hug. “I didn’t see you. I was just looking around and I wandered upstairs.”
“Anything interesting?”
I lie without hesitating. “Just dust and stairs and mouse droppings. What’s been happening out here?”
It was a church, once. Now it’s one of the hot spots in town. I’ve been here since before it was a hot spot, but still long after its days as a holy sanctuary ended. We always come here during the week. Weekends at the Church are crazy, it’s packed full of preteens and losers. And they never have any good music either. Those days, we just stay at the Alley, or hang out at someone’s house. We eat at the Alley a couple times a week, but we’re usually here from 9:30 on every night. It’s where most of us met. I’ve been coming here for, oh, nearly ten years now, ever since I was scarcely more than a grimy little preteen myself.
Tonight is a really good night. I forgot that the Alley closes early tonight, so Angela and Emily are here, as well as Holly. She’s distracted though, and insists on telling me a convoluted tale about work, that I follow absently, while trying to see what’s on her mind. I’ve known her for six years, nearly as long as I’ve known Emily and Raleigh, but she’s always been better than them at not telling us everything. Not good enough though. I may not know what’s wrong, but I know something is bothering her.
“You’re pregnant, and you don’t remember who the father is?” I guess at last, hoping to shock her out of her distraction. I do, but with some rather alarming results among the rest of the group. Angela, who still hasn’t figured out our sense of humor, drops her glass in surprise. Emily chokes on her drink, and then starts laughing. And Holly blinks twice, and then smiles slowly.
“No, no, it’s worse than that. I’m pregnant, and I know who the father is.” She pauses dramatically, then clutches my arm with both hands. “It’s your child, you bastard, and I demand that you take some responsibility for your actions.”
“My child?” I play along for a minute, glad to see the teasing light back in her eyes. “Fine, I’ll take responsibility for it, but only if I’m allowed to name him.”
“Oh, glorious day. And I was thinkin’ you’d be shirkin’ yer duties.” She pauses suspiciously. “And what would you be naming m’ sweet baby girl?”
“I’d be giving my bouncing baby boy a respected family name. Hiermonious Xavier Blake. If it’s a girl, we can call her Wilhemina Louisa Blake.”
That does the trick. She starts laughing so hard she gets the hiccups. And then she starts crying. Emily, Angela, and the rest of the group had drifted back towards the bar when we’d first started our exchange, and were now out of earshot. Not that they’d know what to say any better than me, but I tend to freeze up when my friends start crying. You can never say the right words, and any you do say sound trite and stupid. I pull her close, and wrap my arms around her, rocking us slightly, and rubbing her back gently. She wraps her arms around my waist, under my coat, lays her head on my chest, and cries harder. I’ve never seen her cry like this. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry, period. “You aren’t really pregnant, are you?” I ask, startled.
“No, silly. I’m not. How could I be? You need someone else to get pregnant, and I don’t have anyone else. That’s why I’m crying. I’m so lonely. What if I never find the person I’m looking for? What if he isn’t out there to be found?”
“You’re lonely?” I ask. I deliberately misunderstand her to buy myself time, while I think of an acceptable response. “How can you be lonely? You hang out with us all the time. What are we anyway, chopped liver?”
Her weak laughter is muffled by my sweater, and is still rather damp around the edges, as though she might start crying again at any moment. “Silly boy, that’s not what I meant, and you know it. I’m not usually lonely with the group, but when I’m by myself, sometimes I’m so lonely I could cry. When I’m lying in bed, and I hear Emily and Josie come into the apartment, laughing together, I feel like I’m the only person in the world without someone to love. Even you have Terra to love, and she loves you back, even if she won’t tell you.”
“Even me, eh? Listen to me. When you start feeling lonely, remember that someone somewhere is just as lonely as you, because they haven’t found you yet. You’ll find each other someday. I know how lonely you are. I was that lonely until I met Terra, and I still can get pretty depressed from time to time about her. I think that the loneliness is to help us appreciate love when we find it.” I pull her back from me a couple inches, and turn her face to the wall next to us. “Look at this. This was a church. The church preached that there was good in the world, and so there had to be evil. Without one, the other can not exist, for you never know what you have if you can’t compare it to something. If you aren’t lonely now, you will never be able to appreciate love when it finds you.” I stop for a minute, trying to collect my thoughts. “I lied earlier. Upstairs is much more than just dust and mouse droppings. There’s a whole different worldview up there. I climbed clear up to the top of the steeple, and looked down at the world below my feet, and thought about things. Sometimes a little distance helps. It doesn’t have to be literal, but then again, maybe that would help. Go for a hike or something, and think about what you have and what you want. Who knows, maybe love will find you there. Did that make sense? Did it help any? Or do I have to keep explaining something I’m not even totally sure of?”
She laughs again, and leans into me once more. “It makes sense, I think. If I don’t think about it too much, it’ll do. But just talking about it makes it feel farther away. Still…could we have a mini-sleepover tonight? I don’t want to see a happy couple tonight, it will just depress me further.”
I reluctantly dismiss plans to coax Terra over for a glass of wine before bed—it’s probably too late for her anyway—and agree to an impromptu sleepover. “I suppose you’re going to want to sleep in my bed too, aren’t you?” I growl at her in mock irritation. “My own fault for getting one the size of a small room. We’ll have to get your stuff though. Should we leave now, and beat the rush?” She nods in agreement, and heads over to the bar to pay for our drinks. I watch her as she goes. I used to wish there was a spark between us; it would have been convenient for us both. But I don’t regret it, and she doesn’t seem to either. If we’d ever slept together, I think we would have lost the friendship we have, and I would have regretted that more than anything. You can get sex anywhere, but you cannot buy a best friend for anything. She rejoins me, and refuses to let me pay her back for my gin and tonics. “Consider it rent for the night,” she says, slipping her arm through mine, and heading for the door.
It was a church once, years ago. I linger at the doors, looking back on the dark blue arched ceiling, where the gold stars are still visible, though they shine dimly through the smoke. My mother once tried to explain church to me. “You’d go to church to find comfort, to seek solace, to unburden yourself to someone who you knew cared about you.” I didn’t really understand what she meant, but after tonight, I guess I’m getting a better grasp on her meaning.
It was a church, once. Maybe it still is in some way.