A Graveyard for Lunatics

I touched the cross, swayed, and called up, blindly: ?J. C.!?

Silence.

I tried again, my voice trembling.

A small tumbleweed blew by, rustling.

?J. C.!? I almost yelled.

And at last a voice came down out of the sky.

?Nobody by that name on this street, up this hill, on this cross,? the voice murmured, sadly.

?Whoever you are, dammit, come down!?

I groped up trying to find rungs, fearful of the dark around me. ?How?d you get up there??

?There?s a ladder and I?m not nailed in place. Just holding on to pegs and there?s a little footrest. It is very peaceful up here. Sometimes I stay nine hours fasting for my sins.?

?J. C.!? I called up, ?I can?t stay. I?m afraid! What?re you doing??

?Remembering all the haylofts and chicken feathers I rolled in,? said J. C.?s voice in the sky. ?See the feathers falling down like snowflakes? When I leave here I go to confession every day! I got ten thousand women to unload. I give exact measurements, so much backside, bosom, groan, and groin, until the priest grabs his seething armpits! If I can?t climb a silk stocking, I?ll at least get a cleric?s pulse so hyperventilated he ruptures his turn-around collar. Anyway, here I am, up, out of harm?s way. Watching the night that watches me.?

?It?s watching me, too, J. C. I?m afraid of the dark in the alleys and Notre Dame, I was just there.

?Stay outa there,? said J. C., suddenly fierce.

?Why? You been watching its towers tonight? You see something??

?Just stay outa there, is all. Not safe.?

I know, I thought. I said, looking around suddenly, ?What else you see, J. C., night or day up there??

J. C. glanced swiftly off at the shadows.

?What,? his voice was low, ?would there be to see in an empty studio, late??

?Lots!?

?Yes!? J. C. turned his head south to north and back. ?Lots!?

?On Halloween night?? I plunged on??you didn?t happen to see?? I nodded north some fifty yards??a ladder on top of that wall? And a man trying to climb??

J. C. stared at the wall. ?It was raining that night.? J. C. lifted his face to the sky to feel the storm. ?Who?d be nuts enough to climb up there in a storm??

?You.?

?No,? said J. C. ?I?m not even here now!?

He put his arms out, grasped the crossbars, leaned his head forward and shut his eyes.

?J. C.,? I called. ?They?re waiting on set seven!?

?Let them wait.?

?Christ was on time, dammit! The world called. And He arrived!?

?You don?t believe all that guff, do you??

?Yes!? I was astonished with what vehemence I exploded it upward along his limbs to his thorn-crowned head.

?Fool.?

?No, I?m not!? I tried to think what Fritz would say if he were here, but there was only me, so I said:

?We arrived, J. C. We poor stupid human beings. But whether it?s us arriving or Christ, it?s all the same. The world, or God, needed us, to see the world, and know it. So we arrived! But we got mixed up, forgot how incredible we were, and couldn?t forgive ourselves for making such a mess. So Christ arrived, after us, to say what we should have known: forgive. Get on with your work. So Christ?s arrival is just us all over again. And we?ve kept on arriving for two thousand years, more and more of us, mostly in need of forgiveness of self. I?d be frozen forever if I couldn?t forgive myself all the dumb things I?ve done in my life. Right now, you?re up a tree, hating yourself, so you stay nailed on a cross because you?re a self-pitying pig-headed dim-witted thespian bum. Now get the hell down before I climb up to bite your dirty ankles!?

There was a sound like a mob of seals barking in the night. J. C., his head thrown back, sucked air to refuel his laughter.

?That?s some speech for a coward!?

?Don?t fear me, mister! Beware of yourself, Jesus H. Christ!?

I felt a single drop of rain hit my cheek.

No. I touched my cheek, tasted my fingertip. Salt.

J. C., above, leaned out, staring down.