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Jean sat on the side of the highway and planted his feet in the hard-shoulder. The sign read: Troy-bound. Mud-red poppies clung to the crash barriers like road-kill splatter. A truck slipped past and rattled the pamphlet clutched in his fist.
The top of Christ's cross protruded between his fore and middle finger. He was sure that must have been a profanity, but Jean had not been to church in five years.
Religion in the United States had fallen into an urbanity that cast French Catholicism in a light not unlike that which shone in Eden. Compare one church in New York crammed between a crack-house and a casino, or another dropped beside Route 66 - white-wickerboard walls unpacked like furniture, hosting not only weddings and funerals but also childrens' parties, swept away in the next hurricane or tornado storm - with the Notre Dame. His local chapel on the outskirts of Marseilles exuded the same sanctity as the oldest cathedral in the country.
His mother and father had never missed a Sunday service in the fourteen years since Jean's christening. Perhaps they were keeping up appearances with the community, or perhaps they were trying to cleanse the week's sins, like washing one's hands after taking a shit. That was what church was to the Moreaus: a site of defecation. But even they must have seen that their crimes were unforgivable, for they never stepped foot in the confession booth. That, or they did not trust the sweaty, bald-headed priest not to collect police rewards as tithings.
Jean shifted his thumb so that he could scrutinise the message printed over the cross. Three days ago he had woken to find the pamphlet on the side of Abby's night-stand. At first, seeing the happy scrawl of the pastor's invite to his services, Jean presumed it a joke from Kevin's pet. Just as he was about to scrunch the paper into a ball, Renee had crossed his mind, and he loosened his grip. His stomach sank at the thought of having missed her. The feeling was quickly overidden by guilt; in the Nest he had never slept for more than six hours, and it was out of the question to miss someone entering the room.
When Jean saw her at dinner that evening, he had thrust the pamphlet at her chest. She set down the cutlery she was distributing in order to take it, but before Jean could let go, she curled her fingers over his knuckles.
'Are you sure?' Jean had trusted his expression had spoken for itself, but either she ignored it, or his scowl was growing soft. 'Faith may be just what you need right now. You wouldn't be alone - I'll be right there with you.'
He had savoured the warmth of her hands and eyes for one more moment before snatching his hand away. The edges of the paper cut his skin. 'I do not believe Homer's Trojans were Christians.'
Her frown admonished him. 'You're not a Trojan yet.'
Renee had stopped by Abby's this morning to drop off a cake, but the glance through the bedroom door informed Jean of her ulterior motive. After she had left, and a half hour of pacing the room from window to door, he migrated into the empty kitchen to try the cake that, though home-made, stung his tongue with the artificial lemon so unlike the fruit that grew in the churchyard at home.
He had dug out his phone where he'd buried it in Abby's drawer and texted Nathaniel; the thought of asking Kevin for a favour tasted as sour as the synthetic citrus that burned his throat. I need a lift.
Nathaniel had pulled up outside fifteen minutes later. The time was carefully calculated: not too quick that Jean may receive the impression Nathaniel was happy to wait on his beck and call, but not too slow that he should feel a sense of responsibility if the request were urgent. Jean opened the shiny black door of Minyard's car and slipped inside. He rattled off the zip code for Nathaniel to program into the GPS, but he did not tell him where they were going.
The inevitable had materialised once they took the final exit. Either Nathaniel had dropped Renee at her church before, or he had memorised his entire team's schedules. It was no small wonder Kevin was so adamant on staying with the foxes; he had not one guard-dog, but two.
'Really?' Nathaniel had asked, not taking his eyes off the road. Jean was not worth his incredulity. 'I thought Ravens and Jesus were mutually exclusive concepts.'
'It was Renee's idea.'
'As if that were up in the air.' A week ago Nathaniel had entertained the dinner table with his astute observation: Jean swore at everyone who tried to help him, except for Renee. It was not Jean's fault; when he tried to curse her, the Lord snatched his tongue and purged the devil on his lips. He could not say that, so instead he had stewed silently in his humiliation while Kevin eyed him curiously. ’Are you even Christian?'
'I am religious in everything but faith.'
'In nothing that matters, you mean.'
Jean had endured another minute of his nerves before he told Nathaniel to stop the car. He expected him to complain, but he only sighed and, as though he were accustomed to such dangerous maneuvers, pulled off the road, ignorant of the complaining horns.
Jean had yanked on the handle and the door swung open. Nathaniel had a disdain for religion that Jean understood wholly. He leaned over from the driver's side, forearms rested on the wheel. 'You might be here for the sake of faith, but it isn't faith in God.' He swiped the pamphlet from the dash and stuck it out to Jean. 'Find your own way back.'
Jean snatched the paper and slammed the door shut. Nathaniel accelerated into the oncoming traffic without a look back.
Presently Jean swallowed the last of his discomfort and pushed to his feet. He cut across the grass to the next exit, a pot-holed avenue straddled by weeping willows. West Virginia was not as barren as the Southern highway, nor as concrete as New York. Red-brick roofs peaked over the neat hedges like spires and long pine gates marked driveways from manicured gardens. The street resembled a Maryland prep-school, those that fed Edgar Allen.
Jean stopped before the arch at the end of the road. The benches inside were not stone - granite, worn - but fresh pine; the arch not oak beams, but alabaster. The white paint had not yet seen the first rain. But bluebells wept in the cemetery, and dogwood trees lapped their sap-wounds with untended branches. He breathed in wild garlic and unlatched the gate.
The twenty-first century had not been kind to religion, both outside and inside his body. His eyes lingered on the advertisements for afternoon tea, the community book club, an alcoholic's anonymous meeting, as he pushed open the heavy door. The service was well into the Eucharist. Jean's feet caught in the central aisle, facing down the pastor preaching from his dais beneath the technicolour glass window. Catholic iconography clashed brutally with the kid's corner off the western chapel.
The man did not lower his book at the intrusion. Jean's gaze danced from Jesus, thorn-bound, to John the Beloved, to Judas, to Madonna, foetal, curved around her son's body.
A familiar face turned to greet him from one of the rear pews. Her hair glowed with rainbow not just from the tips, but from the roots, soaking in the light of the painted window. White sunlight wreathed the crown of her head and sparked off the centre of her smile. He pushed his legs forward and slid into the row.
Renee spoke with her face forward, tilting her temple toward Jean's neck. Her hair tickled his collarbone; his shoulders did not leap. 'I am glad you came.'
His whisper rumbled, untrained in subtlety. 'You knew I would.'
She smiled and leaned away. The men and women dutifully lining the pews muttered in time with the pastor, a dismal tune. Jean no longer knew the words. Then the faux-gold communion cup, already wetted, traveled through the rows. He cringed at the foreboding taste of a hundred strangers, but when Renee took the cup and pressed it to her lips, he saw it cleansed by her tongue. Jean bit into his bread and watched the wine slip down her throat.
He took the cup between his palms, ignoring the soft slide of her fingers against his own - dry, rough, granite, worn. He pressed the rim to his lip, felt the warmth of her clutching the metal. When he passed the cup to the pew behind him, he could not recall the wine's taste.
It was not long before the service came to an end. The tithings-basket made its rounds. Renee added a note to the smattering of coins. Anglican generousity fell far from the Catholic. He almost felt embarrassed for them.
'It is for charity,' Renee told him.
Jean shoved his hands into his pockets and left them there.
As Jean picked the threads of the hand-stitched knee-pillow pressed into his lower back, Renee outlined the donation charities and their causes. When she noticed his distraction, she smiled, though he never saw the first drop, and explained to him the families that usually attended, their individual seats, the place reserved for her mother, when she visited. The Moriyamas themselves were Catholics, not far from his French denomination. He thought of the cross watching him in Master's office as his wood cane dug into Jean's lower vertebrae and threatened to snap his back. The red glass beneath Jesus' feet in the window ran with blood.
The pastor traversed the aisle, entertaining brief conversations along the way. Jean sat tensely, the phantom of a racket sitting horizontal in his fists. The man stopped at their row and held his hand out to Jean. 'I don't believe we've met.'
Hard, wrinkled, cold. 'This is Jean,' Renee said. 'A friend from Exy.'
'Jean and Renee. Quite the pair.' Jean extracted his hand from the man's grip. 'Fresh faces are always welcome in my church. It's nice to meet you.'
Our, Jean corrected, as the man gripped his shoulder. His hair slipped into grey at the seams; his bones protruded from his cheeks, brittle; he hardly met Jean's chin, though his heeled Oxfords attempted to compensate. Jean forced his muscles to relax.
'I was not baptised under your beliefs.'
'Everyone is welcome,' the man repeated. An old woman approached his twelve o'clock. He smiled an apology to each of them in turn and moved to greet her.
'Is Protestantism so dull?' Jean asked Renee. 'The man could not be hailed to a crusade if God himself called.'
'Does that disappoint you?' Sarcasm was new on her. Jean raised his brow. She took his hand before he could second guess the gesture and drew him out of the pew.
A man stepped aside to let them out of the door before him. When they were free from the building, it was Jean's turn to lean closer to her ear. The white strands shifted under his nose. 'Must everyone pretend to be so polite?'
'May He punish niceties. I am sure I remember that somewhere in the Bible.' She tugged on his hand and guided him around the back of the church. Snowdrops tickled her pale ankles. They sat on a bench facing out into the South Carolina plains; a lamb and a ewe; a procession of bell-tagged donkeys. The gravestones stood silently at their backs.
'Do they think church an audition for the thirteenth disciple?'
'Would that be so bad?'
The conjunction of their fingers no longer served a purpose, but Renee did not pull away, so Jean neither did Jean. He told himself he was following instruction; a non-verbal mirror he had perfected for half a decade. Then a finger slid over his knuckle and he shivered. Renee sat still as the marble Pieta.
'How do you feel about the move?'
He dropped her hand and thrust his chin away. The shift was as conspicuous as the shadow on his face. At least he could say he tried. 'I will never be a Trojan.'
'You can be more than one thing.' When Jean was quiet for too long, Renee slipped her hands into her hair and released the clasp of her crucifix. She dangled the pure silver chain over his clenched fist. Stiffly, he turned his head back toward her, and opened his palm.
The chain was cool, but the cross was warm where it had rested on her breast. Rather than loop it around his own neck, he drew it to eye-level. Jesus would not meet his gaze, but cast his eyes to the weeds crawling through the cracks of the path. He pinched the bottom of the cross between thumb and forefinger and drew it back until it knocked Renee's nose. She waited under the metal, his touch, as he pressed it into her bottom lip, and watched the indent form there.
She expected him with his eyes, but there was a line he could not cross on his own. Still she waited. Eyes screwed shut, as when a racket collided with his gut, he fell forward and pressed his lips against the scorched metal.
On either side of the pendant, his skin grazed Renee's lips. She tasted sweet. A smile crept onto her mouth; she could never keep it away for long.
He did not open his eyes again until he had pried himself away. She took the chain from his hands and tucked it under his hairline, clipping it into place. She hooked her finger in the chain when she was done and gave it a gentle tug.
The herd proceeded with their wind-chime tune. Renee raised her brow. He raised his in turn.
'Well, then. A Christian Trojan?'
He tucked the pendant under his shirt. 'We shall start with Trojan, I think.'