Chapter 2: Dark Night of the Soul

Meeks’ apartment is a shabby and lifeless place. How long he’s been here he can’t recall nor does he try to. The walls are unadorned, windows covered with bed sheets. He eats his meal from the tinfoil tray of a TV dinner. Soggy chicken, tasteless mashed potatoes, still cold peas, freezer burn.

He stares at some news show on the television but he is not really seeing it. It is background noise, something to occupy the mind, or dull it. The reporter is talking about “the War”. There is always a war.

But Meeks’ eyes are far away.

He picks up a worn book from the table beside him and he glances through it as he chews his food. “Come to Mexico” the cover reads. Mexico would be a fine place to visit this time of year.

In the distance, a train whistle blows. It is faint, haunting, the murmur of a ghost. Meeks gazes through the window and he breathes in the sound of it and it fills him with something that has the appearance of life.

##

Church. It never used to be a place Meeks would frequent but in the last several years it is the only place that holds any meaning. The church is cavernous and empty save for Meeks and a 10-foot crucified Jesus overlooking the rows.

Meeks crosses himself and slumps into the last pew. He turns his gaze upward, wondering if anyone stares back.

“Can’t sleep?”

This is Father Lorne, emerging from one of the many back rooms. The Father is white haired and gaunt with a landscape of pock marks over his face from some affliction long ago. He smiles readily enough for a priest and he falls into a seat across the aisle from Meeks.

“Maybe if you got yourself into that confessional every once in a while…”

“Wouldn’t help.”

Father Lorne nods like he has heard it all. “You know, I see you here all the time but I never see you pray.”

“He don’t listen to me.”

“A man without a prayer is a man without hope,” Father Lorne says. “And a man without hope is a man without redemption. Do you want redemption?”

Meeks only shrugs.

Father Lorne looks at the man before him and it’s as if his eyes are weighing the soul within Meeks.

“Somebody’s in town,” the Father says. “Had a picture of you. Been asking questions.”

Of this Meeks takes an interest. “What kind of questions?”

“Those kind.”

Meeks absorbs this news and a sigh from deep down rises up and when it emerges it is the sound of weariness.

“It’s a dark night of the soul, Father,” Meeks says. “Pray for me. Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

And Meeks is gone.

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