Old Sammy Boy

He's got plans. None of them are good.

I grew up in the land of milk and honey, plentiful with fond memories and the sweet taste of unconditional love. That’s the lie I told my kids. The truth is I grew up in the land of dust and shadows, a barren wilderness devoid of conversation or connection. With both my parents now deceased, the children were incapable of checking out the facts. Grandpa and grandma were figments of an imaginary past from an only child’s upbringing, individuals lost in foggy details.

My wife knew much of the story, at least what I thought mattered, those environmental and genetic factors influencing my personality. She understood my desire to smother our kids, to bathe them in a loving embrace daily, and she tempered my insecurity by teaching me when to give them freedom. In their absence, if the demons of life seeped through the cracks in my resolve, she would step in and fill the space.

Even so, she didn’t know the entire truth. I couldn’t form the words into coherent sentences, the emotions choking out the only logical explanations for what happened on multiple occasions. She would think my young mind was protecting an already fragile psyche, inventing interactions with mysterious forces to help deal with a sterile home life. But I grasped reality, even as a twelve-year-old boy.

2.

I didn’t have a best friend to speak of, and sat on the periphery of several friend groups, being invited to gatherings out of obligation. My willingness to engage in any activity made me an attractive playmate. Combined with a big-boned stature, it also made me a target. As the largest kid in class the taunts would never graduate to physical altercations. Instead, I was a collector of emotional artifacts, an accumulation of scars with no real value. The most memorable was procured at a sleepover in which a group of boys snuck out in secrecy.

Colin, Brandon and Eric were popular troublemakers, admired by girls, but with low emotional quotients, unaware of how to graduate beyond a crush. They asked me to join their party as a fourth to fill the lower ranks, understanding that I would take commands, but might also take the blame should we engage in questionable behavior. And that was the point at 2am, when we walked down a meandering dirt road toward an abandoned church under the guise of investigating paranormal activity.

“They say it’s a dead priest,” Colin offered.

“Nah, man, it’s a construction worker who fell into the concrete and suffocated,” Brandon replied.

Eric, the leader of the expedition, cursed them out, offering up farfetched alternatives. He carried a backpack, the first hint of trouble, and an indication we were going to do more than find ghosts haunting the vicinity. None of them asked my opinion. I could have been the apparition, floating among the tall pine trees in the summer night, a specter to observe from a careful distance.

“My dad said this church is hundreds of years old. It’s been here since my grandpa was a kid. They’re going to knock it down, but not before we have some fun,” Eric said, confirming my suspicions with a wry smile.

The road contained a few driveways, and the houses were set back, cradled behind guardians of green all around, with porch lights spying through the overgrowth. Their dim prying eyes gave way to total darkness as we rounded a bend toward a broken blacktop driveway. A custom wood sign, once built by a proud carpenter, leaned up against a tree, decomposing. Tall grass and weeds inched up the broken posts, strangling the billboard for Woodside Catholic Church.

My parents abhorred church and organized religion in general. Their scientific minds, constantly analyzing observable outcomes, taught me to fear its intrusion into society, like an invasive species eating the smarts from natural inhabitants.

“You scared?” Colin asked.

“No,” I lied. But I was scared, frightened by the possibility I didn’t understand the universe in the way my parents did.

We walked back through the woods, guided only by the moonlight and clear, starry skies. I wasn’t sure how long the church had been vacant, but based upon the condition of the small parking lot, no one had touched the property in years. Long cracks led to chunks of missing asphalt where weeds sprung up in bushy tufts. A single electrical pole fed wire into the building, although no electricity pulsed through the insulated copper.

The spire cut across the skyline, reaching heavenward, with an elaborate iron cross perched on top. A circular stained-glass window communicated a wholesome beauty in contrast to the missing shingles and loose, faded white siding and crumbling brick. Two large, oak double doors were locked tight. Eric headed to the rear, where smaller double doors were chained shut. Brandon and Colin pried them open as far apart as possible, allowing Eric to slip through first. He pushed from the inside, keeping the tension so the other boys could fit through as well. I was too big.

Brandon peeked between the doors and said, “Keep watch out front. We’ll open the front doors from the inside.”

Before I could respond, he disappeared into the thick blackness. Being alone didn’t frighten me, but I wondered if this was an elaborate hoax, a journey taken so they could leave me behind, having a good laugh later at my expense. I stood on the front steps, kicking shards of broken concrete, waiting and watching to become the punchline of a dirty joke. With a few clicks and a push, Colin opened the door. I slipped into a dilapidated sanctuary.

The center aisle led up to a chancel with a raised, enclosed pulpit, where I imagined the clergy preaching of fire and brimstone heating the depths of hell — a place reserved for disobedient teenagers, some of whom were spray painting profanities on the walls. Many of the pews were turned over, but Colin sat on an upright bench in admiration of his work while Brandon and Eric threw rocks at two stained glass windows on the back wall. Mary Magdalene's head, once elated by the empty tomb, had been punctured.

I walked over the dusty, burgundy carpet with holes torn through, and kept my eyes fastened on the cross. Jesus hung there, arms spread open, wrists and feet bound. What God would allow me to be born to uncaring parents, or allow His house to fall in disrepair, destroyed at the hands of juveniles? The pit in my gut disintegrated, creating an angry, oily despair that ran thick through my veins, polluting my heart. I wanted to burn the building down to the ground.

Eric must have detected a change in my disposition because he looked in my direction and stopped, frozen in place. Colin and Brandon did the same, the three of them fixated not on me, but whoever or whatever was behind me.

“You boys having fun?” a gruff voice asked.

Eric dropped his backpack and ran back through the vestry entrance. Brandon and Colin followed their hapless leader, trailing behind, fumbling over themselves, until I heard the chain rattling while they scrambled in escape. I turned to the voice.

“You’re not going to join your friends?” he asked, lighting a cigarette while leaning against the door frame just outside the threshold. One of the doors had been propped open, but none of us heard the silent intruder. He took a long drag and blew smoke, the embers casting a glow across his waxy, wrinkled skin and gruff salt and pepper beard. He wore work boots, jeans, a flannel shirt and black beanie.

“They’re not my friends,” I said.

“Hard to find good friends these days,” he said, taking another drag.

“I’m sorry, mister, we thought it was abandoned,” I said. The gravity of a million gruesome outcomes created a vise, pressing on the sides of my head as a ringing filled my ears.

“Oh, it is. No skin off my back. They should have torn this place down a long time ago. It’s always been a hazard to the community, don’t you think?”

“I guess so.”

“What’s a fine young man like yourself doing out here causing trouble? Got no parents back home keeping tabs?”

“Not really.”

He cleared his throat, started to cough, then launched into a violent wet coughing fit, the cigarette dangling in one hand while the other covered his mouth, his body bent over, convulsing in heaves. When he finished, he took another long drag and breathed out smoky wisps that hung in the air, a series of carefree ribbons swirling in the moonlight.

“I didn’t care much for my parents. Was out on my own by the time I was your age. They weren’t abusive or nothing, not physically in the way you would think. You might say they were unavailable. Can’t say what’s worse. At least if they hit me then I could feel something,” he said.

“You… you going to do something to me?” I asked.

He didn’t respond immediately, looking out and around, like he was deciding if any onlookers could disturb his plans. But he didn’t try to close the gap between us.

“I ain’t gonna hurt you, seeing as how you need a friend. Maybe one that can dispense a little wisdom,” he said. “My parents, and yours I suspect, got no place in this world. They could fade away into the abyss and nobody would suspect a thing. Not a worthwhile existence if you ask me.”

“I guess,” I said.

“You guess? Son, let me tell you something. All that anger you got bottled up inside — and old Sammy Boy can sense it burning a hole right through your ribcage — you best put it to good use. Throwing rocks is a good start, but you gotta get it out of your system entirely. I took up drinking and smoking, but I could never tame the beast.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, and I didn’t, not immediately. The anger didn’t subside. It grew intense and grim, clouding my mind with intense visions of horrible possibilities, temptations to carry out the unthinkable.

“I think you’re getting the picture, coming through on all channels crystal clear. No static interference there. Watch and listen. Do what Sammy Boy tells you, and remember you’re in control, always have been. Don’t let nobody tell you differently,” he said, pointing up toward the front of the church. I turned around instinctively, following the line of sight from his cigarette as he flicked off a few embers. There Jesus watched, our only witness covered in spray paint and grime, the crown of thorns pushing down into the skin, a few trails of blood channeled into tears.

When I looked back, the man was gone. Both doors were shut. I could detect the faint smell of tobacco lingering behind. The fear eventually lifted, but I could sense someone still watching, waiting for me to make a decision. The steady glare of a man nailed to wood pierced through the flesh and bone of a confused boy.

3.

I don’t face away anymore, unashamed and guilt free. But I still struggle to tell the story, a burden I carry as a reminder of a wide, dangerous road. The large cross is now vacant inside the sanctuary, a symbol of the resurrected Christ with a physical body no longer necessary. It was by my request when I became pastor of Redeemer Presbyterian, on the same land and inside the refurbished building.

The church is modest by comparison, with a small, growing congregation. On some nights, I walk up the narrow, repaved driveway, to inspect the fresh grounds and lay down heavy burdens. When I question my faith, when the doubts cut fresh, deep wounds into my soul, I catch a glimpse of old Sammy Boy.

Nothing about the deceiver has changed. He smiles with yellow, stained teeth and takes another drag of his cigarette. When I resist the temptation to engage, he disappears as quickly as he arrived. He is waiting for another opportunity, hoping one late night I’ll finally listen to his worldly wisdom and take any advice he offers.