by Patrick J. Zhou

Cousin is either on the spectrum or is very Chinese. Or, like most men, lacks social skills. Maybe it’s the newness, the spectacle, the intimidating performance of it all. Whatever the reason, Cousin declares his presence to the surrounding pews when he asks out loud in Mandarin, “What do people taste like?”

Before I can say anything, Mother, who’s been quietly translating the worship service into Cousin’s ear, whispers, “Show lovingkindness.” Her jujube-wrinkled forehead tilts—a reminder that mothers know their daughters. Cousin, meanwhile, bumps my shoulder as he necks for a good view of the chancel.

But on our trudge to the table too white and chaliced for a good old-fashioned butchering, Cousin slouches; the symbolism and all the hidden meanings in this place get him again. To cheer him up—or something—I whisper little catechisms, teach him some secrets. I explain the sacrament, the eating of no-longer bread but Godmeat, drinking no-longer wine but the transformational blood of Triune God, and I tease a feigned grimace when I warn him how dangerous it is for non-believers to eat it. “You never know what might happen,” I say of the charade. Obviously, it’s all a crock. My prodigal presence was Mother’s idea, her first rule, or punishment, for moving back into her house at twenty-seven years old. The second rule: Be a good cousin.

But a little fun never hurt anyone.

As the pastor gives Cousin the host, his mouth open like a whale, Cousin clamps a callow hand in mine. The hunger pulses through his clenched fingers, this thirst for communion, for a substance he won’t find here and, suddenly, I see all the bitterness he hasn’t swallowed. It’s why they all come here don’t they, having been sold an idea of a better place, of refuge. There’s something free in his complete lack of contempt, some sweetness in that living. Is it really naïveté, or is it my cynicism spitting on the different world of his experience? Meanwhile, mother’s pithy religious truisms susurrate in my ears like a mosquito: “Love is patient” or “The fruit of the spirit is” or “Love covers a multitude of sins”, etc. My only revelation then though, the only sin I want forgiven, is being cruel to Cousin. So I let him hold my hand while he skips back to our pew.

Choir voices raise to the oak-beamed vault. Their haunting chant bounding off the stained glass and the old oak doors. That’s when Cousin’s face lurches, squelches. By instinct, my palms shoot out and quietly catch a teacup’s worth of his vomit. Cousin doesn’t notice, doesn’t mention what I hold. He’s too displeased at being made a new creation. “Disgusting,” he says, under the amens thrumming through the sanctuary. Then I feel something weighty in my hands; there, surrounded by a warm ferrous puddle of scarlet, a small chunk of flesh glistens, topped with a shred of flayed skin.

Mother leans over and across Cousin, who’s smacking the sticky taste off his tongue like an infant. She sees the horrific miracle in the hollow of my hands, and whispers with the smugness only mothers achieve, “Something strange will save you, baby.”

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