Blood and Bread [justin]

“It’s sacrilegious, I tell you, feeding the precious flesh of Christ to ducks. We’re probably bringing curses upon our parish because of it, you know.”

Henry always listened to my Monday morning rants while catching up on his Sunday paper. He took his coffee black–I knew this–but for 35 years I made it with a half teaspoon of sugar–he knew this. Black coffee connotates something strong, which Henry was, but he was also something of the endearing kind.

“It’ll be okay, Maggi. Besides, it's better than throwing it away and wasting it.”

Right after Henry served his time in the service, we got married and moved to the south side of the city. It was a more rundown part of town at the time, with little to do besides church events, porch dwelling, and the occasional 10-cent matinee where Cary Grant or Rock Hudson would keep us company for a bit, but we liked it. It wasn't long before my Henry was asked by the 5th Street parish to do some light janitorial work in his spare time and to also prep and set up the communion elements once a month.

Every second Saturday afternoon I would go with him to the market to pick up some low-alcohol content wine from Ginny's and then walk across the street to the bakery for some wafers. The Rector had specific instruction on what to buy, from whom to buy it, and how much to get. It would take only five minutes but be drawn out to nearly an hour as we talked with Phylis and Paul and Mabel. We only saw them once a month and this was our time to catch up. Nothing much changed in our stories, in fact Henry had a knack for attracting conversations that we had heard ten times before, but that others didn't remember telling. My Henry always listened as though it was the first time, even though it was rote to him, able to say it better than the originator. He did that with a lot of things in his life. Afterward, we went back to the parish, made sure everything was set for the morning and then took our place on the davenport in the sitting room for a moment and sat quietly before going home. There was something about the church that made it seem alive when it was only the two of us sitting there.

Back at breakfast I continued my discourse. "I just don't understand why Reverend John insists on the same amount of wafers every month. He knows we don't use half of them."

"Maybe he's hopeful that more people will come one communion Sunday and join the church. We wouldn't want to run out on them. How would we feel if that nice young couple who just began coming showed up and there was no supper for them? That wouldn't be very hospitable. Besides, the ducks like the bread." Henry said this with his half smile that would make me want to pop him if it didn't look so good on him.

"Henry, you know as well as I do that as soon as a family joins the parish, two people die within a month's end. The congregation has been the same size for the 35 years we’ve been there."

I remember this conversation because it was the last one I had with my Henry. He shuffled to his part time job later that morning and was hit by a car who never looked back. The injuries themselves were bad, but in the end it was the loss of his somewhat rare blood type that took Henry away from me. The doctors could possibly have saved him if they had more of the type in storage, but they didn’t. We didn't even get to say goodbye to each other. That's all I have to say about that.

Once things settled down from the funeral and family visiting, Reverend John thought it comforting to hand over the communion setup to me. Around this time he also decided to change from wafers to bread chunks, saying that he liked the imagery of the pieces all knowingly coming from one loaf, a very unifying symbol that we share in the same body that is Christ. All I know is that it was two dollars cheaper for a tedious amount of extra work.

Just like the what, whom, and how much, there was now a certain way to cut the fresh bread, according to the Rector, into “perfect sized” chunks; if too big it would take more than one bite, if too small it would be difficult to dip in the communion cup and not enough wine would be present. On top of this, no crust was to be present (that would require extra chewing, God forbid) and the bread was not to be smashed in the process as to make it more dense. This is how communion was prepared and served for the next 20 years. In a church like ours, it took some time for the parishioners to make the change, but once we got used to it, it was like it had always been this way.
Until today.

I sat alone in the second last pew on the east side of the building where the stained glass window of Jude, patron saint of lost causes, illuminates about mid morning and, like clockwork, right around the time we sing a hymn of response to the message. Communion starts and people slowly go to the front to partake of the wine and blood, the bread and flesh of my Jesus. I look down and to the side, as though I’m meditating or praying, but am really focusing out of the corner of my eye, noticing the reactions to the bread that is cut bigger than usual.

I notice multiple faces with strange looks on them, knowing something is off, but not quite sure what it is. I see a few people make a gag reflex or hear a cough signifying that the flesh of Christ was too hard for them to swallow today. They keep themselves well composed as to not disturb the service or bring embarrassment upon themselves. We all got used to the blood-soaked bread going down easy after one chew. We didn’t expect it to choke us; we did expect it to follow routine.

All of this, though, was mere shenanigans, an appetizer to the main course.

You see, Bill Simeleck was a deacon at the 5th Street parish. He was a mostly well-mannered, lifelong bachelor who owned his own paint business outside of town. We went to high school together, though never really knew each other except for the time or two he tried to get in my trousers. I always had the feeling he had a something for me. Henry would say, “Of course he has something for you. You’re beautiful Maggi.” He stopped making any subtle flirtatious moves once Henry passed.

About 5 years after the accident I heard by way of the Main Street Hair Parlor gossip that Bill Simeleck was in the hospital and wasn’t doing well. Apparently, for religious reasons, he was refusing any blood transfusions, though “it probably didn’t matter”, according to Betty Sue, who worked at the hospital, because “of his rare blood type.” He ended up recovering fine, but I later came to find that he had the same type as my Henry. I put two and two together and figured out that if Bill Simeleck wouldn’t receive blood, he wouldn’t give any either.

When you spend any decent amount of time with a person, you pick up on patterns and nuances of life. This goes the same for a small group of people if you pay attention close enough and this attention to the parishioners is what started the main course on its way.

I knew that Mary wouldn’t be here today because Friday night bingo was a blowout for her and she wouldn’t have money to put in the offering plate. I knew that the Checkets were visiting their son’s church this weekend, and that the Murphys were on vacation. I also knew Phillip wouldn’t take communion because he weaseled his way into a few extra pain meds at the pharmacy last night while I was picking up milk. Even weasels have consciences. There was somewhat of a guess as to how many other oddballs might be missing. I simply chose one hoping to be right.

I also knew that I wouldn’t be taking communion that day.

All this mattered because Bill Simeleck was always the last one to take communion. He waited until everyone else had gone. Some type of humble pride in putting others before himself and letting others know.

I stopped counting after the first few people, and just listened and watched those before him wrestle with the enormity of communion that day. Then, on cue, like a stage play, it happened. Bill Simeleck looked into the bread basket and exchanged views with Reverend John and everything fell into place. Still composed but confused, the Reverend leaned in and whispered, “I’m sorry William, there’s no more left for you.” Nobody else noticed, but the verbal damnation is crisp and clear to me in perfect view of the pronouncement from lips to ears.

I look toward Saint Jude and touch my lapel where the broach that Henry bought me for our first anniversary resides. My rings no longer fit my withered hands, though I can still feel them at times. The service finishes as usual and I sigh to myself that I’m tired of this place. I want to go see my Henry.

Reverend John makes his way towards me now, in no such rush.

“Good morning, Margaret,” he says in his nice, normal, pastoral tone. “Would you mind having a word with me in my office?”

I’m going to miss feeding those ducks this afternoon.