Concerning the Altar

   Not sure why he scaled the steps, pitted with lagoons of water black in the absence of light. Some compulsion yearning in him to see this spiritual Bastille apart from the representation in his father. Perhaps a desire, sunken deep below, for absolution – to have revealed, one way or another, truth. Or maybe validation, the manifestation proven all he had known it was. He didn’t know, couldn’t bring himself to analyze, just watched himself walk in.
  The vestibule passed wordlessly behind, rattling of ancient radiators in the doorway unwieldy before the vastness of the sanctuary before him. Most of the hall was in shadow, spun like puppets from the candles that were tonight’s only light. Some, in clusters, had seduced patrons to kneel before them, Aim-a-Flames clutched reverently in folded hands.
  Kevin felt like an unexpected cough in a library, like any moment now God would notice he was standing there and object. He took a breath and willed himself down the worn carpet of the center aisle, fingertips brushing the chipped walnut pew arms in a ritual many before him had undertaken just as unconsciously, an anchor from the vanishing point spiraling into the presence of God.
  The altar began to melt into a shape from the gyrating shadows, and for a moment he hesitated; he was an intruder in the house of God, coming to bandy words and raise a finger as if he expected an answer. Then a chunk of memory bobbed to the surface: his father, face sclerotic as usual, jerking his arm painfully and screaming about reverence. Kevin clenched his teeth at the image. Screw it. God had a lot he should answer for.