Chapter 17: A Day at the State Fair
The spare room in Bev Keane’s house smelled of lavender sachets and lemon wood polish, the air so still it felt preserved. Jud sat on the edge of the single bed, the plush lion from the fairgrounds clutched in his hands. Its amber fur was matted from being held too tightly, its felt mane flat on one side from where Jud had slept with it buried under his chin. It was a ridiculous thing for a grown man, a priest, a wanted commodity, to cling to. But its stitching held the scent of popcorn, diesel, and Paul’s cheap shaving soap. It was a time capsule.
He pressed his face into its soft head and closed his eyes. The present—the hushed tones from Bev’s kitchen below, the specter of the farmhouse, the ticking clock towards Paul’s dangerous departure—dissolved.
The crowd at the state fair was a press of sweat and sugary heat. Jud, in a faded flannel and jeans two sizes too big to hide his shape, stayed glued to Paul’s side. Their shoulders bumped with every step. Paul wore a simple black t-shirt and dark jeans, looking like a shadow that had decided to take a walk. To anyone else, they were just two friends. The lie was a delicious, private joke.
“Deep-fried Oreo,” Paul declared, pointing at a neon-lit wagon. “A theological conundrum. A sin that must be experienced to be understood.”
“It’ll kill us,” Jud muttered, but he was already fishing wrinkled bills from his pocket.
They shared one, passing the greasy, powdered-sugar-dusted abomination back and forth. The first bite was a gut-punch of sweetness, the second a regret. Jud made a face, wiping chocolate from his lip. Paul laughed, a real, unguarded sound that got lost in the carnival noise. They wandered on, past ring-toss games and milk-bottle pyramids, losing three dollars and any semblance of dignity. Jud’s awkward throw sent a plastic ring sailing over the entire booth. Paul’s landed with a pathetic clatter on the grass.
Then Jud saw it. On the top shelf of the shooting gallery, perched above garish stuffed frogs and neon dragons, was a lion. It wasn’t sleek or fierce. It was goofy, earnest, with kind, cross-stitched eyes and a lopsided mane.
He didn’t realize he’d stopped walking until Paul gently steered him out of the foot traffic. “See something you like?”
“What? No. It’s... for kids.” Jud tried to move, but Paul’s hand was a warm anchor on his lower back.
“That one? The mournful-looking king of the jungle?” Paul’s voice was light, teasing. “Let me win it for you.”
“No way, old man,” Jud scoffed, color rising in his cheeks. “Those guns are weighted. It’s a scam.”
“Have a little faith.” Paul was already handing a five to the bored attendant. He hefted the plastic rifle, its cord snaking back to the counter. He looked absurd, a centuries-old creature of the night aiming at tin ducks on a conveyor belt.
Jud watched, arms folded, certain of the coming embarrassment. Paul squinted, his posture easy. He fired.
A tin duck clanged backward.
He fired again. Another clang. The attendant’s boredom shifted to mild interest. Paul’s movements were economical, precise. It wasn’t supernatural; it was the muscle memory of a being who had once needed to shoot to survive. When the final duck fell, a small bell dinged.
The attendant shrugged, reached up, and handed Paul the lion.
Paul turned, triumph softening into something infinitely softer as he saw Jud’s expression—awe, embarrassment, profound want. He pressed the plush into Jud’s chest. “For you.”
“Lucky break,” Jud stammered, his face burning. He took the lion. Its stuffing was cheap, its fur synthetic. It was perfect. “This is silly. I’m a grown man. I don’t need toys.”
“Of course not,” Paul said, his eyes dancing. He reached for it. “My mistake.”
Jud hugged it tight, jerking back. A low, playful growl rumbled in his throat. He pretended to snap his teeth at Paul’s retreating hand.
Paul threw his head back and laughed, the fairground lights reflecting in the wet of his eyes. He cupped Jud’s hot face, his thumb stroking the burning skin of his cheek. He pulled him in, ignoring the passing families, and kissed him. Jud’s lips tasted of sugar and the late summer night. The lion was crushed between their hearts.
Another memory, calmer: a thrift shop in a dusty mainland town. Jud had zeroed in on a hideous dish towel, its print a garish, screaming rooster with furious orange eyes.
“It has a holy aura,” Jud declared, holding it up with reverence.
“It’s assaulting my eyes, is what it’s doing,” Paul said, squinting at it.
“Exactly! It commands attention. It banishes sloth from the kitchen. We need it.”
“We absolutely do not need the demon rooster rag.”
Jud pouted. It wasn’t a real pout; it was a weapon. He fluttered his eyelashes, hugging the towel. “Please? It’s a dollar-fifty. I’ll feel the presence of God every time I dry a dish.”
Paul bought it. How could he ever say no?
Back in the rectory kitchen, Jud smoothed the rooster towel over the oven handle. The garish fowl glared across the sunlit room. Paul had to admit, against all reason, the stupid thing pulled the shabby nook together. It was theirs.
And later still, a quiet evening. Paul at the dining table, reading glasses perched on his nose, frowning at a crossword. “Seven letters, ‘ancient priestly caste.’”
“Levites,” Jud said without looking up. He was sketching in a small, spiral-bound notebook, his pencil moving in quick, sure strokes. He was capturing the way the lamplight caught the silver in Paul’s dark hair, the intense focus behind the glasses, the rare, unguarded slope of his shoulders.
“Right. Thank you.” Paul glanced over. “What’s my little weirdo doing?”
Jud slammed the notebook shut. “Nothing.”
“Jud.” Paul’s voice was a gentle warning. He stood, his chair scraping.
“It’s private!” Jud clutched the book to his chest, backpedaling with a laugh.
A brief, laughing wrestle ensued in the narrow space between the table and the wall. Paul, for all his ethereal weariness, was still strong. He pinned Jud gently, his larger body a warm cage, and plucked the notebook from his fingers with a proud smirk.
He opened it. His smirk faded. He stared at the drawing. The lines were confident, loving. It wasn’t just a likeness; it was a translation. It saw the sadness and the kindness and held them both as holy. Paul’s breath hitched. In all his long, long existence, no one had ever drawn him. He had never been a subject of study that wasn’t clinical, fearful, or predatory. This was witness. This was love.
He looked at Jud, who was staring at the floor, braced for ridicule.
Paul went to him. He pulled him up, wrapped him in his arms, and kissed him—lips, temple, the corner of his jaw, his cheek. “You perfect pervert,” he whispered, his voice thick. “Watching me.”
Jud giggled, a nervous, relieved sound. “Watch it. The Lord is watching or whatever.”
“Let Him watch,” Paul murmured, and kissed him again, deep and slow. Life was so good.
Jud opened his eyes. The lavender and lemon scent of Bev’s spare room replaced the ghost of fried food and pencil lead. The lion’s kind, cross-stitched eyes gazed blankly at the floral wallpaper.
Downstairs, a door clicked shut. Muffled voices: Bev’s, firm and low, and Paul’s, a comforting rumble. They were planning. They were preparing for war.
The memory of joy was a shard of glass in his chest—beautiful, sharp. It proved the bishop’s equation wrong. He was not just a breeder, a vessel. He was a man who had been drawn. He was a man who owned a holy rooster rag. He was a man whose laughter had been swallowed by a kiss under twinkling fairground lights.
He hugged the lion, his knuckles white. The sweetness of the memory curdled, hardening into a new resolve. They wanted to take this? They wanted to reduce that drawing, that kiss, that stupid stuffed king of the jungle, back down to transaction and flesh?
A coldness settled over him, a familiar old armor clicking into place. But this time, it was different. It wasn’t worn in shame. It was worn in protection.
Paul was leaving for the mainland. To fight with secrets and lies.
Jud stared at the lion. He thought of others, souls like him, in dark places. He thought of the unspoken word that had hung in the rectory kitchen. Vigilantism.
He set the plush carefully on the clean, spare pillow. He stood up, his body remembering an older, more violent posture. The tender man from the memories was real. But so was the one who had survived a brutal past. The bishops had made a mistake. They had threatened not just a broken priest, but the only good thing a broken priest had ever built.
The door creaked open downstairs. Paul was leaving.
Jud moved to the window, peering through the lace curtain. He watched Paul’s dark figure cross the gravel to Bev’s old pickup truck, his movements taut with purpose. Jud’s hand went to his own chest, to the scarred heart beneath.
The intermission was over.