The Praying Well

Prologue ii

Prologue ii

On that day after breakfast, the Johnsons had decided to walk down Avers Avenue instead of their usual stroll down Lawndale street (three blocks out of the way) where their home was nestled. They would walk past that strange church after breakfast that morning – at least to get a glimpse of the place – see what all the fuss was about.

Once they arrived, the church itself seemed as normal as any other catholic church, except it was significantly smaller than the cathedrals that were popping up all over the city. The top of the front tower was barely above the three flats that saddled to the north of it. However, the thing that did stand out was the enormous black gate that surrounded the grounds in their entirety. It wasn’t something that screamed “welcome” as any place of worship should. Instead, the gate was seemingly made of a thousand black spears pointing skyward. Their points as sharp as anything an African tribesman would hold in his hand during the hunt. It was an army of guards standing at attention ready to pounce at the first sign of trouble. But on this morning, the gates were open, welcoming the world, and the only guard on duty was none other than the priest himself.

Mr. Johnson made his way in through the front gates and Father Sandoval turned and welcomed him with a smile and a wave of his hand. Mrs. Johnson, meanwhile, was reluctant to pass the threshold. She stayed behind just beyond the gate opening with her heels straddling the parkway.

"Good mornin' sir, how are you", said Mr. Johnson removing his brim from his head. "Are… you the pastor of this here church?" His voice stuttered a bit, though he felt confident inside.

Father Sandoval, noticing Mrs. Johnson's trepidation at entering the gate, smiled in her direction while he approached Mr. Johnson.

"Hello friend", said the Father, placing his hand on Mr. Johnson's shoulder. "Have you and your lovely wife come to join us this beautiful Sunday morning for prayers? We may have room for you today, you’ve come just at the right time!” He motioned to Mrs. Johnson with another wave of his hand. Her face went cold, and he could see her color was instantly gone but she still managed a broken smile.

His timbre voice reached out to her like a lure in the river. She shuddered, but didn’t take the bait. She was half surprised by his accent, or lack thereof. She was expecting a blurb of broken English out of this middle aged Mexican man, but the deep voice and educated speech made the hairs on her neck stand on end. She took a step back -- almost tripping on the overgrown grass. Mr. Johnson was visibly uncomfortable with Father Sandoval's arm on him, but he didn't want to pull back away rudely, instead he remained cordial, with the jitters building in his gut like small eruptions.

"This here church, I hadn't seen none like it before.” Mr. Johnson managed to muster. “What type is it? Don't see no cross, no crucifix up top.”

Father Sandoval glanced at the pointed top of the front tower as if he just heard some news he hadn’t heard before. "A crucifix, you say?” he replied. “Is a sigil all that would bring you to my church? I'm sure you and your wife are devoted worshippers, and I'm sure you are well versed in scripture. Is an idol really what guides your heart and your soul?" He paused and gave Mr. Johnson a grave look, peering deep past the curtain of his eyes.

Mr. Johnson pulled away abruptly from the Father, suddenly finding himself very uncomfortable. “Why no, no that's not it" he demanded, "that's not it at all. We Catholics don't revere the cross, we just use it as a symbol of our faith… of our faith in the one true God, Jesus Christ".

With this, Mr. Johnson had retrieved his composure and felt confident again, he glanced at his wife and she nodded rapidly in approval.

Mr. Johnson continued. "What I mean to say is, is the church Catholic? As you are probably aware, most of us here are Christians. Why, there's no Jews or any other sects on this side of town for some miles from here. And don't tell me you're one of those Jehovah's seers, or witnesses, or whate'er. 'Cause we don't want that here in our part of the woods either". He glanced back at his wife, and she gave him a little smile as if to say you give it to him, honey.

With this, Mrs. Johnson had taken a few steps forward on the sidewalk on the strength of her husband, but not quite at the front gate yet. She stood there in her finest dress and pinned hat, clutching her purse close to her body with both hands folded over it.

"My my my, Mr...Mr. Urr.. I'm sorry I did not have the honor of your name sir," said the priest.

"The name's Johnson, Gus Johnson. My wife's name is Dorothy." He glanced at his wife, and he saw that the look on her face had deteriorated, as if her husband had just given up the key to her soul with the submission of her given name.

"Ah yes, Mr. Johnson" continued the father. "I know how you feel. We all know in these trying times, when our sons are dying overseas, that we can take notice that any new folks we see around our homes may be, uh, what do you call them... snake oil salesman. We are very cautious of who we let into our homes and into our hearts. Our lives are under attack, our way of life has been postponed, and may not resume as it once had been. I understand that very well, Mr. Johnson. To see a newcomer who looks different, as I must to you. You see, I am from Mexico, I've come a long way-- and I can assure you that this church follows the teachings of the Bible. I can assure you that the lord we pray to is the same one you do.”

At this, Father Sandoval gave a wry smile, but no smile was returned. Mrs. Johnson had finally mustered the courage and had slithered across the threshold of the gate to stand beside her husband. She clutched at his arm and spewed forth from a strong voice.

"Father, if that is what indeed you are, my husband and I already have our little church. We attend the church of Blessed Agnes on 26th and Lawndale." Now that she spoke, Father Sandoval knew who was in charge in this marriage.

"If you are a proper priest,” she said, “then you should know Father Howell who has been our pastor for the last thirty years. We have no intention of leaving our church, and we are deeply disturbed that you promote your church from the sidewalk, like a carnival barker!" Mrs. Johnson glared at Father Sandoval. Her breathing was harsh, and she had become red faced.

She continued, "I don't know where you came from, but in these parts, we don't need a foreigner coming into our neighborhood. A few have gotten through and are living among us, but we're working on that. I don't know how you escaped our attention before, and I wish I had come here months ago, but I can tell you that you need to leave our people alone. You need to go back to where you came from and take your church with you! I will make sure your freak show here... lord, the things I hear about this place...is closed down for good! Heathen!"

She tried to pull her husband towards the gate satisfied she had said what needed to be said, but Mr. Johnson was so surprised by her outburst that he couldn't move fast enough and she was anchored where she stood. Father Sandoval reached out and grabbed Mrs. Johnson by the elbow before she got too far. At first it was only a gentle squeeze, bit then it turned into a vice. She twitched her unbelieving eyes and froze where she stood.

Father Sandoval, still smiling and very amused at this woman’s tenacity, leaned in close to her face. "Mrs. Johnson," he said, and as he opened his mouth, she could see his teeth were meticulously clean and white and his beard and goatee were trimmed to the finest precision. She could also see his skin was young and without blemish, no wrinkles wore on his face, not even the first inkling of hollows of where they would normally form around the mouth and the eyes. But by all accounts he at first seemed to be in his fifties – maybe even sixties. This was striking enough to Mrs. Johnson, but the thing that struck her most was the breath that came from this man.

It was a repulsive odor of earthy soil, and the smells of a thousand rotting corpses. From this odor, a vision came to her as clear as a picture on a postcard: Piles upon piles of bodies, simmering in the hot sun; naked, dirty, and covered with blood. Unknowable entrails peaking from beneath the skin of the myriad corpses. Bodies rotting and emitting unthinkable smells; the c*****e that would only be found in the fields of battle across the ocean. Mrs. Johnson shuttered to her core.

"Mrs. Johnson", the Father said. Your son, Jeremy, he is an officer stationed in Japan, is he not?”

Her eyes widened and her strength drained. She felt her body shrivel up inside, and she ceased her effort to pull away. Her eyes glassy, but too proud to tear up, she whispered, "how do you kn...kn...know? How would you know about that, you don't even know us?"

"It is a very dangerous situation, this war, don't you think?” He said. “Your son is probably in the thick of battle right this minute. You know how those j**s are, they kill themselves for their Emperor. Did you ever know anyone who would be willing to die, to literally blow themselves up for their country? These j**s are very different than your Americans, as it is a very different thing to be drafted and forced into battle as your son was, or at least as he thinks he was. The Japanese soldiers are not merely fighting for a flag flying back thousands of miles across the ocean, no Mrs. Johnson. They are not merely fighting so that their mother, who is home thousands of miles away, can proclaim that she is a proud card carrying member of a son-in-the-war. No, no. The j**s aren't fighting for that, Mrs. Johnson, they are fighting for their very land, and their very God, the Emperor.”

He paused for a second for her to sulk in her dismay. “It is very difficult to defeat these types of forces, Mrs. Johnson. It is very likely your son will not make it out off the Island of Iwo Jima, where he is at this very moment. Isn’t he? Sitting in a deep dirt trench with his eyes closed and knees held closely to his chest, praying to his God. His fellow soldiers straddled over the mounds of dirt, with bullet holes in their helmets, and rifles in their hands. Waiting to take the life of one of these Jap soldiers, or waiting to take a bullet for their country. The sound is awful for a young man, the ringing in young Jeremy's ears from the countless explosions all around him, he hears his fellow soldiers falling and crying out in the uttmost pain... falling and dying, while he himself is frozen in his little world. He may as well be sucking his thumb."

Now the Johnsons were both frozen. Tears were running down Mrs. Johnson's face – no amount of pride could hold them back now. She stood confused -- though she wasn't staring at Father Sandoval, but staring past him. She was limp in his clutch. Father Sandoval continued.

"Young Jeremy sits there, reciting aloud this prayer that you gave him, because instead of sitting at home caressing the young soft skin of Donna Clemson, you sent him off to fight. Yes, you could have kept him home Mrs. Johnson, you knew quite well he would not be allowed to serve on the account of his mental shortcomings, but instead you wanted to be the proud mother of a fine soldier, just like the other ladies from the bridge club. He didn't want to go, he begged you not to send him off, but you were determined, and you got it done. And instead of being home at your side, he sits in this dirt, waiting for the inevitable, Mrs. Johnson. Jeremy recites your prayer over and over:

"God almighty, may not the evil that dwells beside me, consume me, nor divide me, for I will come to you lord, when you choose to take me, but let it not be by the hands of my enemies, for they are evil and I am your servant".

Father Sandoval remained quiet, but loosened his grip on her elbow. He saw the tears, he saw the pain in her face. People create their paths in this world, and ultimately are not strong enough to face the final destination they've paved. The eerily quiet morning was suddenly broken by loud sobs. Mrs. Johnson was bawling loudly. Finally she let out a cry and whimpered:

"Who are you? Who are you, you monster? How do you know about my son? How do you know me? You are no man of the cloth, you're a monster! "You'll not decide if my Jeremy lives or dies, you will not! You will not!" Mrs. Johnson reached out for Father Sandoval, she grabbed a piece of his black suit Jacket, but quickly let go. She had no idea what she would do if she would have held on. Mr. Johnson was quick to hold his wife back, though he was in a semi trance himself. He would later describe this event as a bad dream, that it never really happened -- to everyone except himself.

Father Sandoval, rubbed his hand over the spot where she had tugged his jacket, examining for any tears or imperfections, and he glanced at his watch. "Now, now Mrs. Johnson, I have no idea why you are saying these things. "I only wish to be left alone in my own abode. I am not bothering anyone, but rather, I am the provider of faith and comfort to those who cannot, or will not gain it from the common teachings and blessings of their current faith, including your Blessed Agnes. Now is that a bad thing, Mrs. Johnson? To provide comfort to those who need it?”

He smiled at her, a deep delightful smile that showed his true feelings at the moment. “See, you are someone who definitely requires some comforting now, Mrs. Johnson. Will your Father Howell provide it? Or will he provide it when your son comes home to you in a casket as you stand beside him in a black veil? Again, I implore you that I only wish to be left alone as I have been for these few years I have been here."

Her tears flared up again, and she was unable to speak. Mr. Johnson finally uttered: "We don't want any problems, we didn't mean anything we said. We are good people, we believe in our dear lord". The words came out in a whisper all the while his head hung low. He guided his grieving wife towards the exit gate. "We are good people and not looking for trouble or to cause any for anybody else. We'll be on our way now and I, and I bid you, God bless you..."

Mr. Johnson grabbed his wife with both hands and escorted her to the front gate. Father Sandoval could still here her sobbing and sniffling as she walked away.

"Mrs. Johnson, one more thing". The Father shouted behind them, but they didn't stop or turn to look at him. "You are still welcome to attend my church any time. My main purpose is to provide comfort, and... and, yes...comfort. I wouldn't worry about your boy, Jeremy. I think he takes after you -- tough and purposeful. I'm sure you'll be seeing him again soon"

With that, the Johnsons quickly disappeared across the street.

She did see her son soon after that, as she had a fatal heart attack that night and it was the last image she ever conjured in the living world.

And at the very moment she had gripped Father Sandoval’s suit jacket, her son Jeremy was shot in the head in the very bunker he had described.

A few weeks after that day, Father Sandoval was surprised to see Mr. Johnson approach him outside the locked gate. Mr. Johnson broke down in tears as he explained what had happened to his wife and son. He fell to his knees and asked for mercy. Father Sandoval picked him up off of the ground, and led him into the church. Since then he had attended each and every Sunday.