The Body Departed

“Wherever you want it to, James.”

“What about his brother? What do I do about him?” I asked. “He did, after all, kill me.”

“What do you think you should do?”

I thought about that. “I don’t hate him, nor do I wish him ill. I know I caused his current mess. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him to lose his brother at such a young age—especially a twin.”

“Eli’s guilt threatens to overwhelm him, too,” said Christ. “He feels responsible for his brother’s death. At the very least, Eli feels he should have been the one to fall to his death rather than his innocent brother.”

“’Tis a tangled web,” I said.

Christ smiled at me. His teeth, I noticed, were small and white. “Not as tangled as you might think.”

“So what do I do about Eli?” I asked.

“You’ll know when the time comes.”

I had suspected he would say that. I changed the subject, as I sensed my time with him was coming to an end. “What happened to the three guardians?”

“Ah,” he said. “Although they did an admirable job watching over their brother’s painting, the time had come for them to return home, too.”

“But how did you convince them to go?” I asked.

“I told them I would watch over their painting. Their work here was done.” Jesus suddenly stood and stretched his arms. “Now, will you help me back up on the cross?”

“Back on the cross?” I asked, perplexed.

“Yes, James. It’s time for me to go, too.”

But I didn’t want him to go. I wanted him to stay, and comfort me, and keep telling me everything would be okay.

“I’m always here, James,” he said, reading my thoughts, patting my back. “Always. You need only to look up.”

He then strode quickly across the raised stage and, once under the empty cross, in a surprising feat of dexterity, pulled himself up onto a brass light sconce and grabbed the crossarm of the cross.

“Be a good man, James,” he said, looking over his shoulder, “and get me one of the nails. I laid them out nicely for you.”

I stared at him briefly, then rose up from the pew and fetched one of the nails. I drifted over to his side.

“This next part might be a little difficult for you, James, so I need you to be strong for me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I need you to drive the nails back in.”

He waited. I looked at him. He smiled at me. His eyes twinkled, but he was serious.

I nodded.

“Yeah,” I said. “I can do this.”

“Good,” he said. “Then let’s do it. Now.”

46

And so I did.

Christ braced himself. He wrapped his left arm around the crossbeam of the cross and positioned his right hand over the hole in the wood, the same hole the nail had been removed from earlier. He nodded to me. Already, there were small beads of sweat on his brow and upper lip.

I felt sick as I positioned the iron stake in the center of his palm. As I did so, the tip briefly touched his flesh, and his hand spasmed slightly.

I can’t do this.

I gathered my wits. He watched me carefully, sucked some air, then nodded.

It was time.

Using the heel of my right palm like a hammer, I drove the spike straight through his hand and into the wood behind him.

He jerked and arched his back and cried out loudly.

I wanted to run. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to be anywhere but here. Blood seeped immediately from the new wound in his palm, around the edges of the thick spike. Sweat now poured down his cheeks. His skin was clammy; he looked deathly.

“The other nail, James,” he said, gasping. “Please.”

I knew he could choose to experience pain, and I also knew he could choose not to experience pain. So why did he choose to feel pain now? I suspected I knew.

I quickly fetched the second nail. As I moved over to his right hand, he shook his head. Amazingly, he smiled through gritted teeth.

“No, James. The feet are next.”

I drifted down to his bare feet. He had positioned them already, the left over the right. Both feet were shaking, perhaps with anticipation of what was to come.

“Now, James. Do it now. Please.”

Once again using the flat of my hand, I drove the stake as hard and as deep as I could through the top of his left foot. But the nail went only so far, and I was forced to keep pounding and pounding until it punched all the way through his right foot and into the wood behind. All the while, he cried out, and blood poured over my hands and knuckles and down the center beam of the cross.

He gasped, hyperventilating.

“Are you okay?” I asked, looking up, completely shaken.

“Always,” he said, sucking air. “Always.”

I quickly retrieved the third and final nail. His right hand was already in place, and without hesitation, I drove the spike through his palm and into the cross. He screamed and convulsed, and when he finally found his voice again, he gasped, “The crown, James. Mustn’t forget the crown.”

“Please, I can’t—”

“It’s okay, James,” he said through clenched teeth. “I promise you. It’s okay.”

The crown was still caked with dried blood and bits of skin. I held it in both hands and brought it back to Jesus Christ.

He smiled at me weakly. “Don’t feel bad, okay? I’m just a statue, remember?”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“There are people coming, James.”

Indeed, I now heard voices approaching, too. Morning Mass was about to start.

“Will I see you again?” I asked.

He took in some air, and his ribs pushed out against his bare chest. I noticed that the bloody slashes and gashes had returned. The spear wound in his side was back as well, dribbling blood and water.

He looked at me and winked. “I’ll see you on the other side.”

And with that, I lowered the crown of thorns down onto his scalp. At his insistence, I pressed it all the way down to his forehead, just above his eyes, opening deep and ghastly wounds along the way. Blood poured into his eyes and down his face and into his ears and nose and mouth.

“Thank you, James,” he said.

The heavy oak door behind me creaked open, and I turned and saw a priest nervously step into the sanctuary. He flipped on some lights.

And when I turned back to Christ…

He was gone, replaced by an ancient painted wooden statue, complete with cracks and dust and cobwebs.