The Big Gold Box
Pete did not understand anything about the service that played out in front of him.
He’d first stumbled upon this place when he’d been in between homes last January. The early morning cold drove him into the first public building that looked open. It happened to be a church.
He was a good ol’ Baptist boy, so the colorful images on the walls of a man carrying a cross, the stained-glass windows depicting haloed people, and the enormous, crucified man were all almost too much for him. But it was warm, and no one hustled him out. After the service, the old guy with a minister’s collar, named Father Roberts, treated Pete to breakfast at Smith’s Diner.
After that first, frosty morning, Pete dropped in from time to time, either to get out of the weather or for another free meal. His luck had changed a little over the months. He’d scored a temp job with the road workers and got a room in a crowded apartment over on Billiard Avenue. However, rent was due, and he’d lost that temporary job.
He watched Father Roberts close the door of the big, gold box. It shined in the light of the chandeliers. Rain tapped against the windows in a steady drum.
As the rest of the prayers and motions were made, Pete contemplated the box. Bread was put in it and taken out. Even from the back of the church, Pete could tell the lock would be a simple pick. He could take out the bread, leave it on the big table, and then make off with the box. It was small, so shouldn’t be too heavy.
The way it shined in the light: it had to be gold or at least part gold. He bet he could sell it to Jeannie down at Roadside Market. She would buy anything.
Pete’s gaze roved over the sanctuary. No cameras.
The weekday service came to an end. Pete lowered the kneeler and knelt, pretending to pray as people, chatting, filed out. Upfront, Father Roberts spoke to a pretty redhead. The pair made a weird knee-bob to the gold box before going to a door to the side and disappearing through it. Pete got a glimpse of an office before the door closed.
He stood and left with the last person, making sure to walk with a small clutch of old biddies. The rain had stopped. The air smelled like wet earth and flowers. He parted ways with the biddies in the parking lot. Pete walked a lap around the block.
By the time he returned, the parking lot was empty, except for a silver Ford Fusion circa 2010 and a blue Toyota Camry of around the same year. The Fusion was the minister’s car. Pete remembered riding in it to Smith’s diner. The Camry must belong to the redhead, who was probably the church secretary.
He walked away, going two blocks over to where he’d parked his beat-up 90s’ Chrysler. It took three tries before the engine began. Pete scowled.
“You better not do that shit at the church,” he told the steering wheel.
Putting the car in gear, he drove back, stopping short of the church and parking under a holly tree. If there were cameras he hadn’t seen, they wouldn’t capture his car. Once he had the box, he could pull a U-turn.
Pete approached the front door of the church. Part of him expected it to be locked. It wasn’t.
“Huh,” he said under his breath, letting himself inside. Catholics were really trusting.
As he stood just inside the door, that trust became a burr in Pete’s chest. Father Roberts had been very nice to him. It was a crap thing to do, steal from someone who did you a solid when you were down.
His gaze went back up to the crucified Man hanging above the sanctuary. He figured that was supposed to be Jesus. Pete wondered if anyone had told the Catholics that Jesus hadn’t stayed up on that cross.
It bothered Pete, seeing all that blood on the near-naked Man. It felt like he was supposed to have some sort of response, as if the sight of this Man obligated Pete in some way that he did not understand.
The eyes of the Crucified were closed, which made Pete feel only marginally better. He didn’t need to be watched while he stole from a church.
Everyone knows Catholics got loads of money, he thought. They’ll just buy a new one. I need rent. Father Roberts will be glad I left the bread behind.
And once he got a new job, he’d pay the church back. Yeah. He’d put it in an envelope and leave it in their mailbox, maybe with a little apology and explanation.
Rain began pattering against the windows again, covering his footsteps as he walked up the center aisle. He glanced at the door that led into the office. He thought he could hear a voice speaking. A woman on the phone, maybe?
Pete took a deep breath and ascended the three steps into the sanctuary. He rounded the big table where the priest had stood, waving his arms and reciting words over bread and cup.
Closer to the box, Pete saw that it was decorated with pictures of wheat sheaves and clusters of grapes. There was no sign of the key. He pulled out the small leather wallet that held his lock-picking set.
Heaviness filled the air. For a moment, he thought he smelled incense. The hair on the back of Pete’s neck stood on end.
A memory came to mind. His mother combed through her large, black pocketbook. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray on the table at her elbow. She pulled out a pack of crackers she swiped from the local gas station for no other reason than she could. She looked at him and smiled.
“Petey,” she said, “when you feel like you’re about to get caught, that’s when you stop.”
Pete looked over his shoulder. The distant woman’s voice droned on, mixing with the steady fall of rain. He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry.
He was taking too long. It needed to be now or never. And, dammit, he did not want to end up on the streets again.
Turning back to the big gold box, he studied it. It looked like a simple panel lock. Anyone with a paper clip could unlock it.
Maybe they think God is protecting it, he thought, selecting a pick. He stepped forward.
BRIGHT BRILLIANT LIGHT. WIND AND THUNDER IN HIS EARS. ENORMOUS WINGS COVERED IN EYES, FRAMING A FACE WILD WITH JUDGMENT.
PETER, YOU ARE ON THE THRESHOLD OF HEAVEN.
Pete screamed and the world went black.
“Well, the good news is that he didn’t urinate on himself.”
The voice was full dry humor and belonged to a man.
“Should I call 911, Father?”
Woman’s voice. Must be the redhead from earlier.
“No.” Father sighed. “In fact, I think he’s already awake.” Something nudged Pete’s leg. “Come on. Open your eyes.”
Pete opened his eyes. Father Roberts looked down at him, his facial expression fitting the tone of his voice: like he was on the verge of laughing at someone else’s stupidity. The redhead clutched a cell phone against her chest, her brow furrowed in a frown.
“Hey, Pete,” the minister said.
“Hey,” he replied.
“You should know that the tabernacle is bolted to the stand.” He nodded toward the big gold box.
“Oh.” Pete slowly pushed himself into a seated position.
Father Roberts held out a hand. After a moment, Pete took it, letting the older man help him to his feet.
“Adela,” Father said, “why don’t you go make this gentleman a cup of coffee? We’ll be in the office in a moment. How do you take your coffee, Pete?”
“You remember me,” Pete said.
“Of course, I do. We went to Smith’s Diner back when it almost snowed in January. But I can’t remember how you like your cup of Joe.”
“Black with a little sugar.”
“Good man.” He clapped Pete on the shoulder and gave Adela a nod.
She looked from Father to Pete, gave him a skeptical once over, and then walked away.
Once the office door was closed, Father said, “Why were you trying to steal the tabernacle?”
Pete stuck his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“There’s a set of lockpicks on the floor and you were found lying directly in front of it. Now, either you were going to steal it or the Sacrament.”
“What’s a Sacrament?”
“Let me reword. I meant the Consecrated Hosts.” He smiled at Pete’s blank expression. “The bread, my friend.”
“Oh. No. I was going to leave that behind. I, um.” He looked at the priest. This guy was taking a near theft very easily. Were the cops about to show up? “I needed rent money. Did you call the police?”
“No. Do I need to?”
“No.”
“Good. Grab your lockpicks and we’ll have a nice chat in my office.”
Pete did as Roberts said. As he straightened, he shot a dubious glance at the box. But it looked just as it had before. He looked around the church. There was no sign of any winged creatures with too many eyes. Still feeling a little spooked, he walked ahead of Father Roberts into the office.
Father Roberts’ office was cluttered, the walls covered with pictures of foreign places and shelves crammed with books, papers, and knick-knacks. The priest’s desk shared space with a desktop computer, keyboard, three heavy books, a pile of manila folders, and a RC racer that had been taken apart. Pete was directed to sit in the chair in front of the desk.
“Wait here,” Roberts said before going back into the main office.
Pete tapped his hands on his knees, wondering what was about to happen to him. Nerves twisted his stomach. It was always hard to stay still when he was nervous. His gaze fell onto the disassembled RC racer. A few tools sat next to it.
Scooting closer, he picked up a screwdriver and got to work. There were a few pieces that needed cleaning and it looked like it had been put together wrong at some point. Some of the components that were already whole had to be pulled apart before being set to rights.
He was still working when Roberts returned with two cups of coffee. One was a mug from Smith’s. The other was black and said “Father Grumpy” in white lettering.
“What are you doing?” asked Roberts.
“Fixing it.” He set the remaining pieces of racer onto the desk. He accepted his mug and blew across the top.
“You know how to fix things, do you?”
“I’ve always been good with my hands.”
“Hmm.” Roberts sat across from him. “Tell me what happened out there. What made a grown man scream and faint?”
Pete scowled. He didn’t like the idea that he screamed and then fainted. “You act like you already know.”
“Eh. I have a suspicion.”
Looking down at his coffee, Pete talked about approaching the box, the strange creature with wings and eyes, and then passing out. He didn’t faint. He passed out.
When Pete finished, Father Roberts said, “It’s not always like that.”
“What?” He raised his eyes.
“That bread isn’t just bread. At Mass, it becomes Jesus. And we keep Him in that big, gold box as you call it. Most times, no angels come popping out when someone tries to tamper with the tabernacle. Be nice if they did.”
Nothing the minister said made sense to Pete. All he knew was that, now, he was going to end up on the street again, or in jail.
“You know.” Roberts clasped his hands on his desk, his elbow nudging a stack of files dangerously close to the edge. “We could use someone around here who can fix things.”
Pete raised his brows. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You know landscaping?”
“I’ve worked for Irick’s Landscaping over the summer when he needs more hands.”
“I know Irick’s. You want a job?”
“I tried to steal from you and you wanna give me a job?”
“Will it keep you from trying to steal from us again?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, okay.” He nodded toward the door. “Consider today your job interview. Go talk to Adela about filling out an application. She’ll tell you what all is busted around here that you can work on. If we like what we see, we’ll keep you. And we’ll pay for what you’ve done today even if we don’t hire you.”
“If I get hired on, I might need an advance.”
Roberts laughed. “I figured as much. Go on. We’ll talk later.” He noticed the tottering stack of folders and pushed them back into place. “I’ve got to pretend I know something about paperwork.”
Pete stood but then hesitated. The image of the angel, the bone-shaking proclamation that he stood on the edge of Heaven, wouldn’t leave him. “Hey. If-if I wanted to learn more about angels and stuff—”
“We have a catechism class every Sunday evening. Adela has all the details.”
Pete didn’t know what a catechism was, or why you would need a class on one, but if it gave him answers, he would be happy. But the paycheck made him the happiest. He gave the old priest a salute with his mug and walked out of the tiny office.