Thread by @JuliusGoat

CHAPEL—6

Julius clears his throat. “How long has he been going?”—gesturing toward the confessional, where Tennessee is still prattling (Julius tries not to overhear) about the boxes, and the generations of love, and bird and spade, and his lost boy gone forever….

“Hours. Never have I been so glad for Monseigneur Ex. He was getting on Pretty’s nerves, and Biscuit’s, too. They were trying not to show it, but … well. They weren’t trying hard. I sent him into the box to work it out there.”

“Well then, thank Christ for Monseigneur Ex,” Julius mutters.
“Yes, Jules,” Nettles says—indulgently, but he can hear telltales of concern. “But you were just about to tell about whatever happened to you today—weren’t you.”

It’s not quite a challenge, but it’s not a question, either. Julius gives her what he hopes is a charmingly rakish look.

“Maybe I found a lady friend.”

“Maybe you didn’t, though.” Still, she raises one eyebrow.

Julius marvels at his strange reluctance—didn’t you come to Nettles seeking her reaction? It’s just so hard to know what to say about what you saw. Perhaps it would be better to say what you *didn’t* see? Jesus, what a day.

Finally, he says. “Trying to think how to say it.”

She smiles, still concerned, but also now a little annoyed and a little amused. “Lips tongue and mouth are my recommendation.”

“I was at the Wales this morning.”

“You’re at the Wales every morning.”

“I saw someone there. A patient, I think.”

“Still pretty normal so far.”

“I saw him … until I didn’t see him.”

“He left?”

“He disappeared.”

“He …”

“I mean sometimes he’s there and sometimes he’s not. Physically. He flickers in and out. Like a lightbulb.”

He sees her try to hide her reaction, but it’s no good; Nettles is obviously thinking the same thoughts that have been occurring to Julius all day.

Perhaps this is a manifestation of some clot, the first telltale fissure in the concrete of an unsound brain, or perhaps this visitation is the first loose thread tossed from an unspooling psyche ...

... an early indication that after years of trying to make a difference in a place the world has marked for indifference, Julius has finally begun losing his marbles…

But Nettles doesn’t say any of that, she only takes a long slow intake of breath, adjusts her posture almost imperceptibly, and gives a short circular gesture with her needle, *go on, go on, please go on* …

Slowly, he begins to explain. Nettles keeps mostly still, listening, thumbs pressed together, unnaturally shortened fingers steepled. Occasionally she looks quizzical, occasionally she interjects.

In particular she’s concerned about the loonies; there’s no way the Fritz Act was written to simply push hundreds of mental patients out on the streets, and the fact that’s what’s been done speaks to some as-yet unseen malfeasance.

As Nettles notes, it doesn’t take a gardener to see what way the vine grows. Mostly she lets his silences hold until he’s ready again to fill them. At last he arrives, haltingly, stumblingly, to the conclusion.

“He said something to me,” Julius tells her.

“What did his voice sound like?” Nettles asks.

That’s Nettles; anyone else would ask what he *said,* she wants to know how he *sounds.*

The question surprises him into answering more honestly than he might have. “Scared,” Julius says flatly. “He sounded scared.”

“What do you think he’s scared of?”

“God,” Julius says, surprised once again into the truth.

That—explaining to Nettles—was the whole problem. The flickering bastard had gone and gotten God involved in the mess.

Nettles listens to all this without comment until it’s clear he’s said all there is to say.

At length she picks up her needles and takes up knitting once more. Julius keeps still. It’s clear to him he’s not being dismissed; rather, she’s keeping her hands busy while she thinks.

Finally she says: “Well, Jules, obviously you need to help him.”

“You believe he’s real?”

“Of course he’s *real.*”

“But the flickering—”

She waves his objection away impatiently. “I don’t know about that part. You’re nuts or something. Or really, you’re nuts in a new way, because—” she gestures around the Neon Chapel “—you’ve *been* nuts.

He’s probably nuts, too. But who cares? The guy obviously needs your help, Jules, and that’s what you do, is help people.”

“But I just don’t kn—ow!” She’s poked him lightly with a needle, and now she’s looking at him very kindly and very impatiently.

“Listen, guy. You came here because you want to help this fellow and for some reason you need to hear it from somebody else that it’s all right to do it. You picked me for that weird job, and I told you, and now you have to go do it. This isn’t hard. What are you waiting for?”

“That sounds just like my boy!” shouts Tennessee, making both Julius and Nettles jump in their chairs. They hadn’t noticed him leave Father Ex’s confines; he’s been eavesdropping.

“My boy gone forever and missing, he said God talked to him,” Tennessee says. “Back in Pigeon Forge. My boy bought a lottery ticket and it won—big time. The prize was power over everything in the universe. That’s why Morris was chasing him, and how I wound up in this mess.”

Julius and Nettles exchange glances. One good thing about having Brother Tennessee around, the priest thinks, is I’ll never have to worry about sounding like the craziest guy in the room.

He’s trying to formulate a response to Tennessee’s odd proclamation when there’s yet another disturbance, just as unusual in its own way.

A throat ostentatiously clears. Someone is standing in the middle of the central room, someone who’s never been in the Neon Chapel before. It’s Bailey, looking serious. She has her baton out, and her eyes scan the room restlessly, as if she anticipates a sudden attack.

“Father J,” Bailey says. “Donk needs to talk to you. Tonight.”

Julius stands. “What’s the rhubarb?”

“Something very weird is happening at the Wales. We’re thinking you can help shed light.”

“I’m coming too!” Tennessee shouts. “I’ve got light to shed!”

Bailey glances his way, gives her tight-braided head a curt shake. “Invite-only deal, sorry.” Strange; Julius thinks he sees some familiarity there, as if she’s making note of a person already known to her. What the hell—has this loony met everyone in the neighborhood already?

He looks to Nettles. “Appears I have to go.”

“Then you’d better get,” Nettles says.

—A.R. Moxon, THE REVISIONARIES bookshop.org/books/the-revi…

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