Determinant

Elyria, Ohio: Saints and Statues

12 e L y r i a , o H i o : S a i n t S a n D S t a t U e S When they carried the eucharist away in a cedar box, the old church became an old building. Squat, west-facing, white paint going slowly to mold. The altar was removed, and the stained glass. no one knew what to do with the statues. Burn them, the bishop had said, which was custom, but no one could bring themselves to pile up the familiar bodies. no one ever had a lighter on them. So for days they lined the walls—Sebastian, Barbara, Thérèse of Lisieux—standing or leaning against one another like children. When the makeup man came for them, no one could think of a good reason to say no. He told the Father that he would paint their eyes and mouths, the carved folds of cloth, their wounds. Yes, someone murmured, and the makeup man nodded and took the heavy wood forms to his truck. nights, he paints in the noisy hollow of his bathroom, the fan sucking the bright fumes of turpentine into the vent. These are the stories of his hands: days of eyebrow pencil, powder flecked with mica, lipstick cracking in suture lines. and later, the tackle box of brushes, mineral oil, the motionless, beloved faces. at first he hears the fan, the sound of his upstairs neighbor waking for a piss, the heat pump coming on— 13 but after a while they fade into each other and go quiet as heartbeats. Slowly he strips the paint. a Jesus loses his redcurrant hair. rose of Lima’s eyes go dark as hardwood. and slowly he paints again, each layer an ablution of color. magdalene’s dress a peacock in linseed oil. Paul’s lips a soft blue, like hyacinth. Wings the color of wings. Bodies washed each in their turn. ...