James Baldwin - Stained Glass

The bluntness of the word and his strangely academic recitation made it all the more confronting. I said nothing – partly because what was there to say? Partly because for the grace of GOD went I.

“That went on for a while. He got me hooked, and once I was hooked, he started to sell me to others.” The pastor drew a deep breath, and sighed it out. “One night, I was taken to a warehouse where there were people getting ready for a Satanic ritual. I recognized a lot of these people. TV stars. Politicians. Police. They sacrificed a little girl and ate her heart and other organs in front of me. I wasn’t a virgin and therefore not an appropriate offering, so I wasn’t going to be killed – just used and made fun of.”

“The world is full of monsters,” I said.

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Father Zach found me when I was sixteen. I was still hooked on heroin and prostituting myself to feed the habit, though I’d escaped Thomas by that point. I catcalled Father Zach when he walked past me late at night, actually. Can you believe it?”

“I believe there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

He smiled a wry little smile. “He turned back to me, and he said: “Young man, you don’t have anything to offer that I want. What can I offer you?” I asked him for a cigarette and a cup of coffee, because it was cold that night. He agreed… we went to a diner and got talking. I told him I’d never trust a man ever again, and he said to me: “You don’t need to trust anyone yet. What you need to do is listen to the pain of your own heart. That pain is the voice of the Lord speaking to you, telling you that you need to get help.”

“To cut a long story short, I eventually went to his ministry in Chicago, and he adopted me into the church and gave me a home, a real home. He taught me the Gospel, how to get a job, how to drive, everything. He took me in for no other reason except that the Lord spoke to him that night and told him to save this one soul. That I could be saved. He purged me of my addiction and cleansed my body. When I told Zach that I felt the call to preach, he said to me: “Well, I knew that was going to happen! That’s why God told me to save you , and not just anyone!”

There was a pregnant pause.

“Well… that’s quite a story.” I cleared my throat, shifting forward on the chair to stand. “But I think that’s all I need. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”

“Wait a moment, Rex. I’d like to ask you something.” Christopher held out a hand, bidding me to stay seated. “The reason I’m willing to share that story with people, even strangers, is because so many people hide their pain from others. So I ask the same question to everyone I speak to. What do you relate to about what I just told you?”

It took me a second to process the question. I frowned, and eased back down. “Well… I didn’t have a wonderful time of things, if that’s what you mean. Not quite as bad as you. The alcoholic father, I suppose.”

“You downplay how hard that can be to deal with. You say it’s ‘not as bad’ as what I went through, but that’s not what I’m seeing.” I couldn’t make sense of his expression. “What did he make you do?”

My stomach jolted with a sudden shock of adrenaline that spread all the way to my fingertips. “What? My father?”

The resemblance to Vassily was no longer apparent in his face. Christopher’s mouth was quite small and narrow. His feature were a jumble of parts now, but his mouth was smiling as he spoke. “It’s… I’ve done a lot of work with people, Rex, some very injured people. I can’t help but notice that you’re a very neat man, a very confident man, but you have the look of someone who was forced to dirty themselves at some point in their life. You seemed to really connect with my story.”

Shock turned to irritation. “I wasn’t molested, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Christopher leaned in towards me. He had remarkably clear eyes, a deep, crystalline blue. “There are many ways you can experience abuse. Just remember that’s not who you are. There’s another way.”

“Religion, I assume?” I arched an eyebrow.

“Not necessarily. It’s my job to teach people about the Gospel, not bribe them or trick them. No, I mean purification. Cleaning of the body and soul,” Christopher replied. “You wouldn’t have to wear those gloves anymore.”

My fingers twitched for a moment. “I have sensitive hands.”

“That kind of sensitivity is very common in people who experienced trauma.” He held up a finger. “Before you go, Rex, I want to give you something.”

Frowning, I watched him rise and cross to his desk. For the first time, I noticed the signs on it. ‘Pastor Christopher Kincaid’ on a bronze plate, and a black and white sign next to it that read ‘Servant Leader’. He took out a pouch from the top drawer of his desk, and from that, he took a coin. He came back and offered it to me. It was a dime, worn smooth with age.

“ ’Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore, glorify God with your body’ ,” he quoted the verses with elegant ease. “The first step to recovery is ownership of your body, learn to smile despite the presence of darkness in the world. Take this, and use it to remember your price.”

It was as if time had stopped. I was vaguely aware of the sounds of the city outside the window, but Binah broke the trance. She was meowing at the door and pawing at it, looking back at me with an expression of long-suffering impatience. Reading the faces of animals was always so much easier than trying to do the same with people.

“Well, thank you.” I took the coin and stood up, and this time, I didn’t let him stop me. “I have to get going.”

He smiled, amicable and relaxed, and rose in turn. “Not a problem. You know where to find me. I think we’d have a lot to talk about.”

Not long after, I exited out of the building with several booklets and a lingering feeling of disorientation. Part of it was the foggy feeling brought on by the shock of adrenaline, part of it was the cognitive dissonance of hearing yet another person wax lyrical on how wonderful Lily and Dru Ross had been, and how they couldn’t have been involved in anything except one of the greatest semi-secret tragedies of the decade. But the paperwork with the address was there… somewhere. Or was it? I doubted I’d ever see it again. Ayashe had it now, and the Vigiles would make what they would out of it.

I checked my watch to discover that nearly an hour had passed in Christopher’s office, and it was already eight-thirty in the morning. Agitated and thoughtful, I stalked off down the street into the wind, turning the coin around and around in my pocket.

The next stop was Crown Heights. When I trod up out of the subway, the street felt taut with unspoken Cold War tension. Gangs of defiant young Hasidic Chabadnik huddled together on street corners, prickly and alert. On the other side of the road, equally defiant gaggles of Caribbean men clustered and talked beside cars and fences. It had been a month since the Crown Riots, but there was still a strong police presence, too – I spotted two blue cars nestled among the line up on the side of the road, and a pair of awkwardly Anglo-Irish officers walking around the block on foot. The weather was decaying into a storm, and the young oaks planted down the sides and center strip of Eastern Parkway fluttered in the cold north wind as it whipped through the buildings and made the fire escapes rattle and hum.

Dr. Yuzef Levental lived and worked in the same building: a white rowhouse block with a short spike fence, tall spiked window bars, and a short, immaculately groomed hedge. Two tiny juniper seedlings flanked the concrete pillars by the door. I buzzed his door, and waited.