Undoing: A Gallery

Where’s the funeral? I picture tears collaborating with the sad coos, which slide from a low register to a high pitch – like a child squeaking between sobs. Broken hearts, maybe?

“So that’s why they call them mourning doves,” I remember saying with the youth of a seven-year-old.

Riding my bike past the autumn leaves, I heard more of the mourning doves in the afternoon.

They must’ve been the ones that slowly made the sky blue. Oh, the things I at seven could imagine.

Then Clyde rode up to me. “Recrest Street corner Bastianne Drive, hurry!” he said, out of breath. “Four wheels and a tune. I repeat. Four wheels and a tune!”

We raced to the address and beheld the ice cream truck in all its glory. Shaking our pockets, we weighed what was left of our allowance, and then like little hitchhikers, we stuck out our thumbs to the middle of the road.

“One icy bubblegum on a sugar cone, please!”

With the tip of an ice cream cone jammed between my lips, I pedaled through the neighborhood’s streets, Clyde pedaling not far behind. Dana’s giggling slowed us down, and we found her playing fort in a pile of leaves.

We rang our bells to get her attention. “Is that any fun?” Clyde asked.

“No, don’t bother,” Dana replied, a big smile on her face.

We took the bait and proved her wrong.

They were just leaves, ice cream, bikes on the road, and doves with everlasting woes, but us three… We could tell the world how to live.

The corners of the empty walls around me and how the curtains shape daylight need no introduction. With no clues, I could point where my old bike once hung and name the colors of my Hot Wheels collection. It has been ages, but here I am, saying it again: “I’m home.”

You’re in a prison.

And nothing can take it away.

The buyers backed out.

The doorbell rings. My other foot nearly drags itself all the way. Then I find a bubble-wrapped package the size of a pack of gum lying on the carpet behind the door. They told me I could request a few things.

“Perfect,” I whisper with a straight face.

Torn bubble wrap on the carpet, I hold up a needle and some heavy-duty string. My thoughts push and pull till midnight. Then I sew my eyes shut, and the walls are empty no more.

“Hello, Elsie.”

Elsie R. Glisson’s jaw can’t cast a shadow. She looks straight at me, her lips stretching thin while carrying a big smile. Probably obsessed with curlers, she rocks brunette hair that stands on the line between curly and frizzy. Her round figure nearly occupies the whole canvas and can almost encircle the detailed frame.

This headshot of hers hanging beside my light switch was said to have been taken back when she was trying her luck in theatre. Lucked out, she went back to her studies. By nighttime, she hit the textbooks; by day, she attended to her duties as my secretary.

She looked up to me, I inspired her, and it always made my day when she reminded me of both. I reassured her that I looked out and prayed for her. Such a sweet girl deserved nothing less.

“How do you do, Andrew?”

Andrew H. Packard’s eyes stay strong despite the pixelated definition of the picture. Who would dare enlarge a photo from a driver’s license and have it framed? Me. The man has quite the cheekbones that might suggest a lack of nourishment. I promised he was well-fed but lacked the appetite and occasionally overworked himself.

Unmarried and childless, he witnessed a hurricane uproot his shanty from its foundations. As one of the few thousands of refugees our high ceiling housed, he showed us his light by extending a helpful hand to the others. I begged him to stay, stay beyond the relief operation. My heart was full when he finally agreed. Lights would have fallen, curtains would have crashed, and roaches would have taken over if it weren’t for him.

“Looking good, Mr. Reese.”

I never saw Herbert A. Reese without his glasses; his portrait here that looks at me with a silly side-eye doesn’t change that. Since I couldn’t grow anything below my sideburns, his beard often caught me in a fit of jealousy, and here, he lets it bask in the afternoon sun while he stands by a riverside view, a sky-high Ferris wheel in the rear.

He wrestled with this gambling problem that caused his marriage to hang from a thread. It was this brilliant man’s right to find a way out. I offered both rehab and monthly donations to help pay off his crushing debt.

“What’s the catch?” he asked.

“The Lord calls,” I replied. “Serve Him at Heaven’s Gate.”

Herb fiddled with the knobs, buttons, sliders, cables, and screens with expert precision. Technology yielded to his commands. He, a modern-day wizard, worked in the dark so that whatever the light touched would shine brighter.

“It’s been a while, Marcus?”

Marcus H. Baxter’s portrait is a mirror selfie. He and his iPhone face a smudge-free reflection found in what seems to be a swanky hotel lobby. I admire the precision of his eyes. Often in these kinds of photos, the model fails to look the viewer deep into their soul. He didn’t fear any eye contact that may come after. He didn’t fear mine.

He and his shade of ebony glistened in the bright future right before him as an accounting graduate—good job, great friends, spirited volunteer work. As one of the many volunteers of Heaven’s Gate, the young man assisted in the logistics and even in camera work with pride.

“Such an honor it is, sir, to be able to work with you,” he kept telling me.

He mentioned much about the charities I’d partaken in, the inspiration I’d spread via our online platforms, and even the outreach programs I’d conducted. I never wished to repeat what he’d said about him being a “fan.” I’d only done the work the Lord had laid out for me and more.

Then he met Gertrude, my darling Gertrude. Those wide eyes and that smile with the teeth hanging slightly ajar meant something. His heart had awoken. Conversations sprang between the two here and there. Gertrude said they were just friends, but others seemed to catch a different scent, one with roses and butterflies.

“Lily. Beautiful as ever.”

Long flowing raven hair, round blue eyes, pointed chin—Lily S. Macy is a doll, a model in and out of pictures. Here is her portrait, straight out of a magazine cover, hanging by my window where I viewed the best of childhood sunsets.

And why wouldn’t she look at me? She listened, eager to gain wisdom, and kept her eyes on me standing behind the pulpit. And why couldn’t I give her a ride home in my Porsche? I knew she could afford the bus, but I did have seats for the taking.

I happened to pass by her place of internship. After rolling my window down and a surprised greeting, I told her I’d come from a meeting with the outreach groups. She mentioned how touching it was for me to remember her name.

“Don’t you think it’s worth remembering, my dear?” I replied. “Something as God-given as that?”

Her lips pouted as she looked out the window, doubts probably circling her head.

I smiled. “Your mom asked a prayer from me more than once. She couldn’t stop talking about you.”

She giggled, her hand over her mouth. She was probably embarrassed.

All five of them still stare. What is it? What do they command and demand? From whom? Me? Why me? I retrace my steps.

Elsie… a theatre hopeful, my sweet and studious secretary. Andrew… an unparalleled laborer with the most diligent set of hands. Herbert… a genius, a master of many paraphernalia who has broken free from the gambler’s plague. Marcus… a bright young man and spirited volunteer who has fallen for my darling girl, Gertrude. Lily… a lovely intern and avid learner.

They keep staring.

Wait. Elsie, Andrew, Herbert... Wait. Marcus, Lily...

Elsie deserved more—ten thousand dollars, to be exact.

The cash was just a gift for keeping the peace on her lips. The sweet girl didn’t wish to be a witness, but the Devil intervened. The Bible speaks against judging your neighbor. So, I pocketed the cash and threw away the prayer request. How sure was she that I didn’t read it? How sure was she that I didn’t receive a vision of the letter’s content just by touching it? How sure was she that it happened more than once?

I’ve explained to her the price tag on my prayers. It was my time and faith spent for each one, and to promote a fair world, I have asked for such. You can’t steal what is given.

Things change. Her eyes barely shrank whenever she smiled at me. She couldn’t even face me during conversations, couldn’t aim her words. Bless her, still. My gift was not in vain.

Andrew once asked me if what was being said within the staff was true: that I fired three people days after he agreed to stay. I may have raised my voice at him and forced him to take me at my word.

“Deception will be the downfall of this family, Andrew. Learn to hear the right voices, son.”

He nodded at me, teary-eyed.

This laborer of the Almighty couldn’t make me any prouder. People within the congregation thought the word “slave” befitted him better, and so did the words “unpaid” and “overworked.” In the hopes of protecting him, I had him stay in his room during all the services. Of course, he needed to hear the hope I declared, so I brought the recordings of the services over to his room.

I spoke healing every time he got sick, then sent him back to work with full faith that he could soldier on. He was like a son to me, a son I scolded out of love. And I didn’t spare the rod, no.

Herbert became debt-free. Hallelujah. He showed more of this hunger to go all out in serving the Lord. I had this challenge for him: make some miracles. Heaven’s Gate encountered this sudden power outage during my preaching. I always spoke against darkness, and this time, I shouted within it. “Light, arise in the Lord’s name!” In a snap, everything was as radiant as before. Miracle.

Amid a time of day when a thunderstorm was expected, thunder roared right after my most powerful words of the preaching. I could see defenses break and skeptics yield in Heaven’s Gate. Miracle.

We even garnered a TV audience through the news. The congregation more than doubled, and we had to open another service at a different timeslot on Sundays. Miracle!

Then the unbelievers attacked, reporters uncovering any technology-based explanation. With Herbert being the head of technical, he took all the heat.

“Glory of God.”

“Miracles from the Almighty.”

“Just believe, people.”

He couldn’t think of anything else to say, but they kept asking, their mics crowbarring into his chest.

The time came when he would come to Heaven’s Gate drunk, eyes red. Another addiction had barged into his door; he couldn’t shake it. I told him I could give him a way out like last time. He didn’t answer. Maybe he feared another debt. Till today, his wife asks anyone from the congregation if they’ve seen him.

Marcus got wind of my upcoming talk about the favor of God, and he stood on tiptoes, excited to the bone. For him, the nearest Sunday took forever to arrive. But after the preaching, his face lost all blood.

I asked him to put into words what was bothering him.

“Monetary investments?” he said.

The plot twist, then.

He and the other volunteer workers were the ones who collected the hefty sums.

“The Lord needs to know if His people can trust him,” I replied. “And His favor is upon those who can.”

The open hand for monetary investments persisted for weeks. Then those who crawled into selfish thinking started to protest, but those who were loyal were many, those who were loyal stomped on such ominous beliefs, and those who were loyal may or may not have planted rumors about the defiant ones.

“It’s time to choose a side, lad,” I told Marcus. “Gertrude has chosen her father’s.”

He slowly opened his mouth. “I know where the money goes.”

Our conversation drained hours. He barely spoke to me after that and barely looked at Gerty at church or anywhere else. His volunteer work persevered, but the passion had been snuffed out, and much of what made him Marcus was no longer where it should be. Badly hit by the change, Gerty witnessed her med school duties grow into a steep climb.

“The Lord is your strength, sweetie,” I told her.

She stormed off without a reply.

Lily found it interesting that my evening meetings happened every Tuesday and Thursday when she clocked out late from her work as an intern.

“Can’t say no to whatever help our God offers, can we?” I said.

“Guess not, sir,” she replied, smiling.

It was such a joy to talk to her. Hearing about her taste in music, pastimes, and the new genres of books she was into was a voyage to new shores.

Somehow, the rides got longer whenever she fell asleep in the passenger’s seat; sometimes, the ride would stop without red lights or traffic jams. I didn’t want to wake her. And under the roof of my car, safe from the streetlights, my wedding ring refrained from glinting. Nothing can in the dark.

*** 

My right hand has reached below her portrait, below Lily’s neckline.

Wait. Did her portrait cry before or just now? How?

I pull my hand back as if it burned, the air jabbing my throat.

Blind fated steps hurry to the nearest door. Its edge is still sharp, and so is that of the doorframe. I slam the door against my right wrist. And again. And again. Then again till it could close—with no bone in between.

The five portraits triple, all looking at the one curled up on the floor, a metal brace on his ankle.

I retrace my steps once more.

Kids’ bikes riding across autumn leaves. Too far.

Thoughts arrive at a family of three. The family prays before partaking in picnic food by a lake, enjoys a silent car ride home after the late-night Christmas shopping, and sings songs by the grand piano amid candlelights and a brownout. We could have told the world how to live. We could have told me.

It’s a Saturday morning. I pick up on the ice cream truck’s tune, the bike bells, the kids giggling. But it’s the mourning doves’ coos that echo in my head. Louder. And Louder.

The puddle on the floor grows. It stains my last fingers and burns cold the skin where a ring used to be. I try. But I still can’t tell the blood and tears apart. I try again. I can’t…