54. Love Unknown

Kent got back from his run and kissed Jamie good morning in the kitchen. "There's my pretty boy. I get bacon today?"

"Plus home fries and a whopping omelet." Jamie checked his spuds, which were looking brown and crispy.

"Ooh, baby."

"Would you slice those mushrooms?"

"Wash my hands first, I'm kinda sweaty. It's gettin' warmer out."

"Thank God." Jamie threw some chopped onions and bell peppers into a hot pan.

"You'll like it here when the warm weather comes."

"I know I will, Kent. I love Indiana, I don't mean to complain all the time." Jamie broke eggs into his big measuring cup, beat them and added a tiny bit of water.

"You ain't complained once. I mean, I can't do nothin' about the weather, baby, but once you get warmed up, it's gonna be good around here."

"I love your optimism. That's a nice thing to wake up to."

"Summer's comin', buddy. A coupla months, you won't be wearin' no shirt when I come home. I'll be lickin' your tits 'n' everything."

Jamie laughed. "We're not there yet, bud."

"I know. I'm lookin' forward."

"Let's talk about tonight. It's Maundy Thursday, Kent. We're to be at the church in Lafayette, not Crawfordsville, by seven o'clock. This means you must be home by six-thirty."

"Okay. I'll be on time. Ready for the mushrooms?"

"Yes." Kent dumped them in the frying pan and Jamie stirred. Toast popped up. "Will you get that?"

"Yeah." Jamie already had the margarine out. "What should I expect tonight? Do I have to dress up?"

"No, this will be different; it involves supper, and Episcopalians don't do a lot of church suppers. I think the fare is probably just bland Hoosier chili and an iceberg salad. This rector has the idea that we're all these rich privileged Americans, so we ought to eat as if we're in solidarity with people in poverty. He's right, and it's still Lent for a few more days, but he'd get more attendance if we had better food. Afterwards he'll wash some people's feet."

"What for?"

"Jesus washed the feet of his 12 disciples before the Last Supper. Then we'll go into the church for a regular mass, after which people can leave or stay to watch the stripping of the altar; the sacrament is reserved in the chapel and some people will keep a vigil. Then tomorrow is Good Friday, a strict fast; no meat all day, no food or drink between noon and 3 p.m."

"I could do without the fasting part."

"Well, Kent, it's voluntary; it's between you and God. No Friday night date, okay? I'll make something vegetarian with a lot of flavor." Soon they sat down to eat and held hands. "For eggs and bacon and cheddar cheese, may the Lord make us truly thankful."

"Amen," Kent grinned. Then he dug in. "Mmm, good stuff. Makes me feel like I'm alive."

Jamie closed his eyes and memorized that. His husband kissed his cheek. Jamie savored it all, perhaps because of Rick; death has so much to teach us. Jamie was glad to be alive too, with this man.

"Went to Danville yesterday," Kent began.

"What did you find?"

"Jack Dawson's known as Jack Meecham there. Another set of wife and kids—which makes three if you count his ex in The Mud. He's a truck driver supposedly, so he ain't in town that often. But guess what, Darnay Meecham holds private parties too, the second and fourth Sundays. Gets $40 a head there, I guess Kouts is the discount operation."

"Well, Kouts would be," Jamie laughed. "But what does this mean, Kent?"

"It's some kinda sex cult; wife-swappin' and bigamy. No wonder he needs all the money."

"What does Bertha's daughter say?"

"I'm meetin' her at nine this morning. She's the one who ain't into it."

"How does this relate to Michael?"

"Maybe he saw the preacher kissin' the church secretary. Suddenly maybe he understood the whole thing."

"That poor boy."

"They're swappin' wives in Mud Pine, Indiana. Can you believe that? And Kouts and Danville, too."

Jamie looked away. "Murder's so revolting."

"Tell me. Maybe the drugs weren't enough to kill him. Maybe the wife-swappin's what killed him."

"As if men have female possessions they can swap."

"Well, that too. Thanks for sayin' that, baby, I hadn't thought of it. We ain't talkin' baseball cards here, but people's families."

"Who did it, do you think?"

Kent finished the last of his eggs. "I ain't got proof so I ain't ready to say."

"It wasn't the Guzmans at all, maybe?"

"Maybe not."

"Not the sheriff either?"

"I ain't got proof, Jamie."

Jamie folded his hands, put his elbows on the table. "Get 'em, Commander."

"I'm going to."

"The judge, the prosecutor? Who killed Michael?"

"I don't know, baby. But the deeper I get the more I need my waders. Thanks for the grub, pretty man. I got to hit the shower."

***

Mrs. Shuey was off that day, so Jamie found Purdue's department of agricultural economics website, including an annual survey of Indiana land rents that astounded him. He was just starting to get into a video about the trends in land rents when the phone rang. Aunt Nora said, "Oh, Jamie, I'm so glad I reached you! I've got a real problem here, and it needs a man. Is there any way you could come? Please say you will. Micah's at a farm show in Illinois, Joey's in school and I'm half frantic."

"What is it, Aunt Nora?"

"I've got some kind of creature flying around in circles in my living room! I don't know whether it's a bird or a bat, but oh my goodness, it just terrifies me!"

"How did it get in?"

"I suppose through the chimney; we had an owl get stuck in there once, but that was years ago. And now there's this… thing, whatever it is, and I can't stand it."

"Well, I probably can't do much, but I could keep you company until we figure something out. But I don't know where you live."

"Moundgrove. With the Indian mound."

"Is that the place on the highway?"

"Yes, you've been past it every time you go to Lafayette. Come over on the county road about five miles, make a right turn heading north and there we are." Then her voice changed, "Oh! Oh! Get away from me, you vile thing!" And she screamed, the sound a person makes when she's panicking.

"Oh, Nora, I'm not sure how to get there. I'm not allowed to drive, and…"

"Augh! Augh! I have to hang up, Jamie, I'm going to run in the bathroom and bolt the door and not come out until that bat's out of here! Augh, you goddamn bat!"

Click.

Now it was a fact that Jamie Foster was not the first person you'd think to call if you were being terrorized by a critter. He was scared to death of insects and any other living thing that invaded his space. But the sound of Nora's voice he could identify with, so he knew he had to go.

But how could he get there? He didn't have a bicycle; the car was obviously out, and he didn't have a key for Kent's motorcycle. No golf cart; he wondered about starting up the lawnmower. But the U.S. highway Nora lived on was far too busy to try getting there on a John Deere. Maybe he could park it at her corner and walk the rest of the way.

He ventured out to the carriage house to see if he could get the mower started. But before he got there, he saw the horse barn.

He changed clothes, including boots and his white hat, and decided to reintroduce himself to the horses.

There were three saddles in the barn and two horses. He picked out the saddle that he thought would fit him best, got his animal tacked up, and took off for Moundgrove on Bust Yer Chops. The horse was definitely feisty, and they started enjoying each other. Jamie dug in his heels just a little and Buster took off like a shot.

***

Jamie found the house, another American Foursquare, but bigger and nicer than Joey's; he rang the bell. When Nora didn't come he tried the door, which was unlocked. He started calling for her while also watching out for bats. He finally found her in an upstairs bathroom having a complete meltdown. "Oh, my dear God. Oh, save us from bats. Oh, why did Micah have to pick today to go away to that darn farm show? Oh, save us from bats."

He spoke to her calmly and she seemed to relax a little. He asked where the broom was; the basement steps. He told her she didn't have to come with him if she didn't want to, but two heads are better than one and they could buck each other up. She came out and they went downstairs; Jamie got the broom. They didn't hear anything flying around. "It's daytime, maybe he's gone to sleep."

"Then he could be anywhere! Hanging from the walls or something."

They looked all around the first floor and didn't find him. They searched the rest of the house too; no bats. Jamie said, "I suppose he could be in the attic, if he found a way to get in."

"I keep that door closed."

"Well, bats are kind of little, aren't they? Who knows."

"I don't want him waking up when it gets dark and flying around my bedroom at night! I'd die of fright."

"When does Micah get home?"

"This evening about nine. But it gets dark way before that!"

"Well, I can't find this thing. If he does come out, we've got our trusty broom."

"Lord have mercy, bats in my house."

"Maybe we should call a pest control place."

"And then wait how many days?"

"Micah will know what to do."

"He likes bats, they eat up all the bugs. A farmer never minds bats in the barn."

"But the barn is not the house."

"Exactly. Goodness, what filthy things."

"Let's try calling around. Got a phone book?"

"I never use it anymore."

"The ads in a phone book are better than listings online."

"Should I make us some coffee?"

"Would you, please? That way we can both get hyped up."

"Jamie, dear, thank you for coming."

Before she could get started, they heard a noise, wha-wha-wha-wha-wha, wings beating at a furious rate.

"Oh, God," Nora shuddered. "That's it. I don't know where he is, but he's down here somewhere, and if he comes after me I'm going to have a nervous breakdown."

Jamie gripped his broom. "At certain times in life," he said for his own benefit as much as hers, "it all comes down to me and him. Since I'm not going to die, he doesn't get a choice about it."

They went to the living room and there was the bat flying around in circles, lickety split.

Jamie tried opening the front door and shooing the bat outside. He swung his broom overhead like he was hitting a baseball, but the bat was faster than he was and the damn thing wouldn't leave.

Jamie realized he was the picture of ridiculous, swinging wildly at some poor frightened animal, with only a broom between the humans and total Armageddon.

Then all of a sudden it folded its wings close and disappeared through a ventilation grate near the ceiling.

Jamie stared up at the grate; original equipment on a house built before air conditioning. "Those openings are only an inch square," he said in amazement.

"He looked a lot bigger than that when he was flying around."

"Where does this grate go?"

"The attic, I expect. It's so heat can escape in the summertime."

"Cover the grate with wire mesh and he can't get back again."

"Then I'd have a stinky bat in my attic."

"Well, it's either the attic or the living room. Put up a screen, you'll cut off his escape route."

"Let's go the hardware store!"

***

They bought some wire mesh, cut to order by a helpful clerk at Schultz's, but when they got home they heard that noise again. Nora cowered while Jamie frowned and picked up his broom.

It was flying around the living room again. He opened the front door and hoped to steer the stupid thing outside. He swung and swung and swung, "I thought they had bat radar! Why won't he leave?"

Nora ran around trying to protect the table lamps; Jamie with the broom was more dangerous than the bat was. He could do some damage with that thing.

Then at last he kind of grazed it a little and the bat fell down dead.

Nora raised her hands to heaven and said, "Thank you, Jesus Christ."



Jamie poked at it with the bristles, but it was lifeless. "I barely touched it," he said.

"Just get it out of here. I don't care if he's got a broken leg, that's his problem."

"I don't want to pick it up."

"No, I don't think I would."

"A shovel maybe? With a nice long handle?"

"Micah keeps them in the shop a mile away."

"Well, I brought the horse."

"I don't want a shovel for all the time it takes to go there and back. What else could we get?"

"I'm not picking it up. Some tongs? That's all I can think of. And the dustpan."

"Ew. But honey, have I got tongs." Nora went to the kitchen and brought back a pair; they were only ten inches long, which meant he'd have to get close to the bat. What if it came back to life, bit him and turned him into a vampire?

But Nora had a dustpan too, and so with fear and trembling, he got the little bat by a wing—it was clearly dead—deposited it into the dustpan and promptly ran it outside. Where to put it? He threw it behind the garage so he wouldn't have to look at it and scurried back to the house before it could revive and give him rabies.

He handed the tongs back to Nora. She threw them in the trash. They laughed about it finally, a crazed Gay bull in a china shop while Nora tried to save the lamps.

***

Kiera Kessler, age 16, got home from school in time to find Cowboy Jamie on a stepladder in the living room, armed with a staple gun; the broom was still nearby, just in case. They'd never met, but she'd heard from her brother Joey about the Gay guy who'd taken up with Kent. She said, "What are you doing?"

"Saving us from flying rodents," he chuckled, stapling away.

"What is it, a squirrel?"

"No, it was a bat. We're hoping we don't have more of them."

"Oh, bats are so nice. I love bats."

"Good. You get to handle the next one."

"You didn't kill it, did you?"

"I guess I did. It was either me or him."

"Indiana bats are on the endangered species list! It's illegal to kill a bat."

"I barely tapped him. He probably died of nervous exhaustion. One of us was bound to."

"Wait till my Dad hears about this. Killing an endangered bat!"

"You don't know that it was an Indiana bat; it's not something you can determine by ZIP Code. Most Indiana bats live in the southern part of the state. And I highly doubt, if your father cares to save his marriage, that he approves of bats in the house."

"This is terrible. Is that all you men ever think about, killing things?"

Jamie thought about defending his gender, then he didn't bother; Micah's woman was the one he defended. "Yup, we're all wanton killers. Comes with the testosterone. It was either that or take your mother to Logansport."

(That's the state mental hospital. If Jamie ever had to live with bats at Hickory Grove, he and Nora could share a treatment plan.)

Finally he was done; Kiera's mother thanked him and he put his tools in the kitchen. "I bet the horse is getting bored."

Buster did look at him crossly when he finally got back, but they rode home with a lot less stress. Buster wasn't one to walk sedately, he liked to run and was great at a light gallop.

Jamie found a couple of apples and a carrot for him and tossed them in the stall. He wasn't going to hand-feed a horse that barely met him that morning. Horses don't know your fingers from a turnip, and he'd had all the wild animals he could deal with that day.

When Kent got home he said, "You rode Buster to Aunt Nora's? Man, Buster's a terror on four legs. You've got to control him, he's a maniac!" Then, "Where'd you learn to ride?"

"A horse farm in Virginia, for a modeling assignment. Ralph Lauren, his Polo line. I like horses; all they want to know is that you're not mean, and you've got food."

Kent smiled, took him in his arms; "Brave little man, saving Aunt Nora. I will keep you safe and warm."

Jamie fell for it just like always. He needed that hug, because he wasn't brave at all.



***

Kent and Jamie found a place to sit in the Commons at church, where paper-covered tables were set up for chili, bread and iceberg lettuce. Kent tried the soup; no kick at all. People started to eat and the priest gave a little speech, which only the pious tried listening to. Jamie said, "It really doesn't help the poor just because you eat like them; you have to couple that with donations to the food pantry."

"Well, we donated four grocery bags last week. How much are we payin' for this?"

"It's free, part of the holyday observance. If we all brought our own food we'd eat better than this. Or if there were a charge for it and we wanted to keep the cost as low as possible, it would make sense to eat cheap food. But this is so middle of the road it's got white stripes down the center."

"I didn't think you liked spicy food."

"I don't; I'm a Hoosier. The chili would taste better if we had a decent salad. Episcopalians can't afford some romaine?"

Kent laughed, "You guys are such snobs."

"I know; we don't mean to be. It's because of The Hymnal, the Book of Common Prayer, the King James Bible. We've gotten used to having the best of everything; it's because of the language, Kent, this art form called English, the language of Shakespeare and Cranmer and Austen, an expressive tool like a painter's oils or a sculptor's chisel. When you grow up with the Prayer Book you can't stand ill-composed utterance. It's like watching someone run the bases the wrong direction; have they no respect?"

Kent had to hand it to Jamie; who else could work in a baseball reference while discussing the Book of Common Prayer? "Whatever communicates to the peasants."

"The peasants of England know good writing when they hear it; they helped invent it. Shakespeare wasn't the Duke of Stratford, he was nothing but a bloody actor."

Kent suppressed a chuckle. He thought he married Jamie Foster, not the Archbishop of Cranmer.

Chairs began to be set up as people cleared their places. A silver basin was brought in, with a gleaming antique cruet and a bunch of pure white towels. In a few minutes those who agreed to submit to the ritual moved into position; the air turned solemn.

The rector returned, dressed in a white alb, with two other priests, a white-haired fellow of retirement age and a much younger woman.

Someone read a brief passage of Scripture:

"So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them."

And with that Father Ed, Dean Carroll and Mother Anna knelt and began their preparations, as the 12 disciples removed a shoe and stocking.

They were a diverse group; White, Black and Asian, elderly, of middle years and a 14-year-old boy. Kent was suddenly glad he wasn't asked; what if his feet were stinky?

He decided it was a very good idea to arrange the participants in advance.



The rector knelt and placed his bowl, took a foot, poured warm water over it, massaged a little, then took a towel from his shoulder and dried an old lady's foot. She looked grave and couldn't watch, while Kent was riveted.

He'd never seen a thing so humiliating.

It was abasing to perform; it was awful to have to sit there and let some guy do it. It was even painful to watch. But Father Ed had a little smile on his face as if he enjoyed it. He spoke a few quiet words to the older lady to put her at ease, then dried that foot as thoroughly as any foot's ever been cared for.

When he was done he moved down the line to the teenage boy. The old woman carefully replaced her sock and shoe—new shoes, Kent noticed; she knew everyone would look at her shoes.

The boy stuck out his bare foot with that familiar pretense of cool-no-matter-what, but when the water hit his foot and it was all between him and Ed, his face changed. He took it so seriously; anyone could tell that boy was going to seminary someday. He was thrilled to get chosen for this job, though he tried to hide his excitement.

Kent started to worry about the older priest in the middle, having to kneel down and show the congregation he wasn't repulsed by his task; as an athlete Kent knew the knees are the first joints to go, and he hoped the old man wasn't in pain. Why was a 70-year-old man down on the floor washing someone's foot? He should be the one to sit back and get his foot splashed. But he wasn't.

Kent couldn't see the woman priest at the end of the row that well, but there she was laving a Black man's foot. The sexual symbolism, if you wanted to take it that way, was incredible; but Anna looked calm and knew what she was doing.

Kent wondered which was worse, having to get your foot washed or having to do it. It was embarrassing no matter what.

Kent could have washed Jamie's feet without great emotion, but these people were doing it without an intimate relation.

With three priests on duty and only 12 pedals to deal with, the ritual was over in ten minutes; it wasn't that bad. Kent whispered to Jamie, "Why did they do this again?"

"Because the Savior of the world washed his disciples, including the one who betrayed him an hour later. It was a lesson in love, in humility and service. Those folks wore sandals, Kent; their feet were caked. But he took away their dirt, and loved them, and gave us an example."

"Gee whiz."

The priests finished up, the altar guild took away the materials, and Fr. Ed invited everyone to mass in the church, which Jamie called the "nave."

Kent rubbed his face. "That was hard to watch."

"Yes, it was."

They went to the church, found a pew and looked at their programs, custom-printed and letter-perfect. The organist offered a quiet prelude, mostly to get people settled in and give the ministers time to assemble.

They walked in behind the choir and processional cross in silence. The older priest sang, which Jamie called chanting. "He has a better voice and he likes doing it. It's a pleasure for him." He wasn't the full-time guy, just a retiree, formerly dean of a cathedral.

The congregation chanted psalms, which Kent found was easier than he thought; they only had a refrain to keep up with. Luckily he could read music, though the notation was very weird. But he listened to what the sound should be and picked up the scheme soon enough; pause at the comma, that is, the asterisk. E-pis-co-pa-lians.

Then it happened.

Somewhere in the Bible readings it was time for a hymn; Jamie recognized the number of it immediately and started cooing before he found the page. Kent had never heard the tune before, but it sounded both beautiful and tragic; so they began to sing.

My song is love unknown,
My Savior's love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O who am I, that for my sake
My Lord should take frail flesh and die?

He came from His blest throne
Salvation to bestow;
But men made strange, and none
The longed-for Christ would know:
But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.

Kent felt a tear rolling down his face. It was something about that exclamation point, that capitalization; he felt that English like a sucker-punch. He reread the last two lines.

But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.

Then it only got worse.

Sometimes they strew His way,
And His sweet praises sing;
Resounding all the day
Hosannas to their King:
Then "Crucify!" is all their breath,
And for His death they thirst and cry.

They rise and needs will have
My dear Lord made away;
A murderer they saved,
The Prince of life they slay,
Yet cheerful He to suffering goes,
That He His foes from thence might free.

He couldn't listen anymore about the murderer they saved when he was investigating the murder of Michael Guzman. He broke into sobs, which he tried to suppress. But then came another damn verse. Episcopalians sang them all apparently; they think their hymns are poetry, and it's disloyal to the poet to cut his work of art.

Here might I stay and sing,
No story so divine;
Never was love, dear King!
Never was grief like Thine.
This is my Friend,
in Whose sweet praise
I all my days could gladly spend.

Kent worried that he was making a scene and told Jamie, "I gotta get out of here." Jamie took one look at him, guided his arm to the aisle and walked him into the parish hall. They headed toward Sixth Street and the old part, called the Bishop's Parlor with its portraits of the ancients—which reminded Kent of Hickory Grove. Jamie pulled him to an antique sofa and Kent sat there crying his eyes out.

Why? He didn't know why.

But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed.

That was why. He thought of Randy Weishaar, ten years old and lost his friend. It was wrong. It was cruel. Kent cried.

Jamie just sat there and held him, whispering, "Don't be afraid. I will help you."

Kent had cried before; it wasn't like he didn't know how. But it didn't usually last very long; now here he was weeping like a flushed-out fire hydrant. And he didn't know why; just all the grief of all the years. His Dad, losing baseball, Michael, Jamie and the Incident; he sat there like a fool and bawled. And there didn't seem to be an end to it, so all he could do was go where his body took him.

He really loved that Jamie sat with him. Jamie didn't try to make it better; he didn't tease him or try to argue him out of it. They just sat together, touching, in Jamie's parish church, a stop on the Underground Railroad.

In the Bishop's Parlor. With the ancients. Jamie'd had Confirmation class there years ago. He gazed at a portrait of the beloved bishop who confirmed him.

In a few minutes the older priest slipped out of the sanctuary to the sacristy, and from there to the Bishop's Parlor. He approached the weeping man and his friend. Old knees and all, he crouched low and asked if they were all right.

"I think so," Kent groaned. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to mess up what you were doing in church." Then he had to cry a little more for the shame of that.

"Thank you, Father," Jamie said softly. "He's just been kind of slain by Love Unknown."

Dean Carroll touched Kent's shoulder, "That can happen to anyone. It's a sign of real faith."

"It's so beautiful," Kent said.

"Yes, it is. Be glad that you feel it so deeply. Let the Spirit move within you."

"I didn't mean to mess things up."

"You didn't. It's an emotional night."

"Footwashing," Kent said, "what was that?"

The Dean asked after Jamie, who assured him he was all right. "He's a police officer, investigating a child's murder. And this is a night that remembers someone else's murder."

Kent said, "I've never thought of Jesus as my Friend before." He still couldn't stop crying, though he was getting really disgusted with himself.

The old priest looked at them, gave a silent blessing and the sign of the Cross, and said, "Take all the time you need. If you can't come to the Communion, we'll bring the Communion to you."

"Thank you, Dean," Jamie said, lifting up a couple of fingers to make a blessing back. In some quarters that's a controversial gesture from a layman, but he knew he had the power to bless, and he dispensed it often.

The Dean withdrew; Kent and Jamie sat together a few minutes more, then Kent finally felt ready to show his face again, so they went back to their pew and tried to pick up where they left off.

***

He was calm for the rest of mass, pleased and grateful to make his Communion, and sang the final hymn in good voice.

At the end Jamie said, "We can leave now if you want; you've been through a lot tonight. But you might like to see the stripping of the altar at least once. It doesn't have to be this year; but I do think everyone should see it if they have the chance."

Kent shrugged, "Okay," and from there they watched as the altar guild came, wearing their blue work smocks, and started tearing the altar down—no frontal, bare wood, no candles, and the Celtic cross wrapped in black. To Kent it was almost the most shocking thing yet.

When you strip an Episcopal church of its ornamentation, its beauty, its pride, its riches, its humble and tearful faith, it's like you're declaring the end of the world.

That was exactly what those ladies declared. Kent got sniffly again. "I don't want those things to go!"

Jamie held him again there in the pew; only a fourth of the congregation was left, and everyone knew and understood that Kent had gone through something important, so no one paid any mind. The bareness of the church was the sight to behold.

When the altar guild ladies were done, Father Ed came back in his street clothes, white Anglican collar, black shirt, and said, "The work is done. The betrayal has happened. It is proper for us to mourn our Savior. But now the thing to do is keep vigil in the Garden of Gethsemane. So we invite those of you who can stay to walk with us to the chapel where the sacrament is reserved, and just sit quietly for as long as you like. The church will be open till midnight—we'll close the front doors, but leave the chapel exit open—then tomorrow morning we'll come together again at 8 a.m. to watch and wait; just a few of us, whoever's able, until the Good Friday service begins at 12 noon."

"Maybe a few minutes?" Jamie told Kent. "Not till midnight. You have a job, centurion, and you deserve your rest."

They walked to the chapel with the other people, and waited there a few minutes with the flowers and candlelight. Jamie didn't attempt any instructions about the reserved sacrament; they just sat with their Lord in his garden.

But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.++

© 2011 Josh Thomas, All Rights Reserved.