Frogs of St. Charles

Hot July seeps into the vestibule and then dissipates in the gloomy cool beyond the tall carved doors that swing silently letting souls pass through. The cold water tickles the forehead, stains the sternum and evaporates before it reaches the Holy Ghost. Holy Spirit now. Eyes just high enough to peek into the clear pool held by the giant stone goblet, that ancient Titans might have used to toast their victories before their children grew up and left them with nothing but that taste of holy water blessed with salt, pouring red from the torn places and clear as it trickles down from above and below the eyes.

 

Inside among the yawning stone archways, the chain gang shuffles into place along the stiff oak pew, five rows from the back, somewhere near where a canine tooth would be. The throat and the red carpet tongue bellow with microphones, breathing out the occasional frankincense cloud. Incense makes asthma attacks.

 

Bare knees push into frayed red vinyl and the smell of lemon oil and wax invade the nose that rests on the back of next row. The eyes are tall enough to see beyond the row, up the walls, following the pillars that swirl into the ceiling and hold it all together. The rays that pierce the colored glass form shadows of tempting serpents slithering along the cornices and archways, launching themselves with sudden legs, leaping like slender frogs. Lizards far above the grasp of the almighty fetters the clutch the prisoners below. The echoes demand an answer, the right answer, exactly on cue, not a moment too late. The words drip out and ricochet sharply from the marble floor, the frogs and snakes dive into the shadows and disappear.

 

Maybe the choir loft, like the hunchback, but without the bell tower. No one would notice. Who would suspect? There's a restroom downstairs with water and soap. Almost got left there once. Prayed so hard to disappear. Eyes closed, feet pulled up, no breathing. It was too late. The boytwin noticed, and then the red and blue appeared again. Like always.

 

Up near the music and the crooked colored sunbeams it would be cool and warm and dark. Up there below the singers' benches, beside the vampire organ, nestled in the crevices of the waves that sweep along the arches beneath the rainbow glass that promises heaven, to look down from far above the inferno that engulfs the pew of scraggly-headed munchkins, sweetly smiling, ever obedient, never distracted. Always. Terrified.