A Change in Message
My father did not show up the next day. I don’t know why I expected his ghost to be more reliable than his person. I waited by the statue for an hour and a half and I talked to it when no one else was passing by, but it remained free of my dad. A boxer was being walked nearby and took a piss on it, which I took as my cue to go home. I tried again a few different times the next day but had the same result. I wondered if I had had a wishful hallucination.
A week later my dead uncle relayed a message on behalf of my dad, though. He visited me at church. I don’t go to service and haven’t in years, really, but I’ll sit by the altarpiece when the place is open and no one has shown up yet. The altarpiece is very gothic-looking although it is probably less than 200 years old. It is done up in gold leaf so smooth you would believe it was poured from molten metal. It has a bunch of saints dying gorily with eyes turned to heaven and a number of elaborate 3D Biblical scenes running along the bottom. The shepherds and soldiers are all shockingly well-dressed. I like to sit close to the left-hand panel and have no thoughts at all before the first attendees arrive. Sometimes there are lit candles and bouquets.
That Saturday my uncle talked to me through a guy who was probably St. Sebastian. He was pierced with arrows and tied to a plaster tree. My uncle seemed undaunted by the arrows and paused from eating what looked like a cream puff. I could smell it. They must have Beard Papa’s in the afterlife. “Hey Kitty!” said the martyr. “Your dad wanted me to pass a message to you.” I looked around. No one was there, the priest hadn’t even passed by to put the bread and wine in the little gold locker.
“What the hell! I thought he was coming back the next day.”
“Well he wanted to, but he got sidetracked.”
“How does a ghost get sidetracked? Do you have bars over there?”
“Well no, but you get to chatting with the neighbors. It’s just like walking down a crowded street with a lot of people you know.”
“Wait, who do you see there? What about Mr. Brower?” A seemingly large number of family friends had died over the past five years or so. I wanted to see all of them again so much.
“No, I haven’t. I can’t stay long but I did want to pass on this message from your dad.”
“Ok, shoot.”
“He says there isn’t actually the uh, guy? That was a false alarm. He’s not coming after all.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t worry about it, he had some false info. Happens sometimes. Lots going on over there,” and he gestured, seemingly towards the tree behind him.
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why can’t my dad come back to tell me himself? And why statues?”
“Making the cat talk would probably be pretty fucked up.”
“Well yeah, I guess.”
“So anyway, sorry for that. But he’ll be back around when he can.”
