The Last Communion

Stained glass transmuted morning sunshine into fireworks of rose, butter, and myrrh. Candles swayed to secret music, smoke rising in helical columns to the roof. Somewhere nearby, a girl sang scales.

Joey stopped next to an empty pew and closed his eyes. He was at the still center of the world. He understood why people call this the house of God.

He laughed, and choirs of angels laughed with him.

“Joey, what are you up to back there?”

The pastor was standing at the rail. His white and gold robe, as well as his silver hair, caught the light from above the altar. Joey hurried down the aisle.

“Sorry, pastor.”

“This is an important day for you,” the pastor reminded him. “You’ve been assistant rector in the Sunday School since you were sixteen. Before that a choir soloist. But you’ve never led holy communion before.”

“My whole family will be here.”

The pastor nodded. “That’s fine, Joey. Do you have any questions?”

“I know what to do.”

The pastor nodded absently. He wandered back to his office, no doubt to review today’s sermon one last time.

#

Scattered applause greeted Joseph as he walked into the Shamrock. He turned toward the sound, saw four tables pushed together to accommodate his family.

His mother swooped to her son. “Joseph!  It was a lovely service.”

She pulled him to the group amid smiles and hellos, leading him to a place of honor at the head of the table. He waved to everyone and sat down.

His dad leaned over and touched his arm. “Fine job today.”

“We’re so proud,” his mother agreed.

Joseph blushed. “Sorry I’m late. I helped clean up at church. The Sunday Schoolers made a big…”

Suddenly Uncle Brian stood beside him, face flushed and smiling grandly, big hand extended. Joseph stood from his chair to shake it. Firm grip, look the other fellow in the eye.

“You ran that church like a pro!” Uncle Brian boomed. “Sinners were cleansed, and I’m quite sure several lepers were healed.”

He winked.

Now other relatives were rising to their feet, queuing up behind Uncle Brian for their turns at congratulating young Joseph. Aunt Myrtle pecked him on the cheek. She smelled like peppermint. Cousins Liam and Elaine (“Lunkhead and Laney”) kidded him about snacking on communion wafers before the service.

“They’re good with ketchup!” said Laney.

“The body and the blood,” Lunkhead intoned.

The procession concluded, everyone returned to their chairs. A waitress brought platters of cold ham crammed into buns pierced with decorative toothpicks, family style, with bowls of potato chips and coleslaw, plates of sliced pickles and tomatoes, and a choice of iced tea or lemonade.

“Nothing stronger?” Uncle Brian wondered, glancing at the bar.

Aunt Myrtle frowned. He chose iced tea.

“Aren’t the sandwiches pretty?” exclaimed Aunt Katherine, who came here all the way from Chicago.

“They put on a good spread here,” Joseph’s mother agreed. “Nothing fancy, but good food and a family place. We’ve been coming for years.”

Joseph’s father cleared his throat. “Excuse me.” Everyone grew quiet. “Before we murder this fine meal, it seems to me it would be proper for our Joseph to say grace.”

Although he’d expected this, Joseph felt flustered. He bowed his head and half closed his eyes, concentrating on the white, porcelain plate before him.

“Heavenly Father, we thank you for this bounty which we are about to receive. We thank you also for the other blessings you bestow, most especially today the company of those we love. Amen.”

“Amen!” echoed everyone at the table with a smatter of applause. Other people in the tavern turned to look.

“Lovely tone,” cooed Aunt Myrtle. “We may yet have a man of the cloth in the family.”

Joseph’s mother beamed, but his father looked away.

#

Some of the men drifted to the bar. Joseph remained at the table with his mother, her sister Myrtle, and his father’s sister Katherine. The waitress began to clear away dirty plates. His aunts sipped coffee.

“It was a grand lunch,” Katherine remarked for the third time.

“It’s a shame the pastor didn’t join us,” Joseph’s mother fretted. “I saved him a ham sandwich.”

“I’m sure he got busy with church business,” said Myrtle. “It’s Sunday, dear, after all.”

Joseph gazed out the Shamrock window to the darkening street beyond. Steam oozed from a storm grate.

“Joseph! Come join us,” his father called from the bar. His mother shot him a disapproving look.

“He’s eighteen years old. He can sit at the bar with his father if he’s got a mind to.”

Joseph looked at his mom.

“Fine,” she sighed. “Go.”

Joseph passed through shadows to the bar. His dad and Uncle Brian were there, along with a handful of neighborhood men, faces wreathed in cigarette smoke. Above the cash register, a small TV showed a soundless baseball game.

Uncle Brian gave up his stool. “Park yourself here. I’m tired of sitting.”

Joseph raised himself onto the high wooden seat, ex cathedra. His uncle clapped him on the back.

“Would you like a beer?” his dad asked.

“Okay,” Joseph answered awkwardly.

“Don’t tell us you’ve never drank a beer?” Uncle Brian asked playfully.

“I just turned eighteen.”

“Oh, I might believe this is your first legal beer. We can leave aside any prior experience for a time when your old man’s not present.”

His dad waved over the bartender.

“Eugene, a beer for my son, and another for me. In fact, freshen up every fellow around the bar. I’m buying.”

Smiles and raised glasses all around the bar.

“I’ll need to see some proof of age,” said Eugene with a little smile.

Joseph fished in his pants pocket for his wallet, dug out his driver’s license and handed it across the bar. Eugene made a show of examining it in the neon light.

“You’re legal,” he declared. A small cheer went up from the men at the bar. They drained their drinks and waited expectantly for more.

Just as Eugene brought Joseph’s beer, his mother appeared beside him. “This is how he celebrates his big day at church?  Drinking beer?”

“Only one,” his father promised mildly.

His mom shrugged. “I’m taking Myrtle and Katherine back to the house. We’ve sat in this tavern long enough to get a case of smoker’s lung.”

She hugged her son. “I’m proud of you.”

Aunt Myrtle appeared, holding her coat. With her free hand she patted Joseph’s shoulder.

“Congratulations, Joseph!”

Aunt Katherine from Chicago squeezed his hand.

“I’m so glad I could be here. It was lovely!”

The women departed in a clatter of heels and a swirl of coats. The tavern door opened and shut. Their perfume lingered.

“Women,” said Uncle Brian, one word enough. A fellow across the bar winked and smiled. This was men’s talk.

“They do love a pretty ceremony in the church,” mused Joseph’s dad.

Joseph sipped his cold beer. It was bitter. He made himself take a bigger swallow.

“Aye,” Uncle Brian said. “It meant a great deal to them, what you did in that church today, Joseph. You made your mother happy, that’s for certain.”

His dad nodded. “Leading communion. The only thing better would be Joseph reading sermons every Sunday.”

“How’s that?” asked Uncle Brian. “You mean, a man of the cloth?”

“Every good mother’s dream, isn’t it?”

Uncle Brian chuckled and sipped his whiskey. “What about every father?” he asked slyly.

Joseph’s dad just smiled and raised his beer. “To Joseph on his big day!”

Drinks were hoisted high around the bar. Joseph smiled and gulped more beer. He felt warm. Liquor bottles stood in rows like a church choir.

Raised voices brought Joseph’s attention back. His father and uncle were arguing with one of the locals, a man with wiry gray hair and a hard, red face.

“It were an outrage!  I never owned a slave, nor my fathers before me,” the man declared. “My people came to this country packed in the belly of a boat, same as niggers, right?  So where do they get off?”

“Get off what?” Uncle Brian wanted to know. “The boat?”

Several men chuckled.

“I mean, where do they get off blaming me for their troubles?  That nigger downtown today, I’m telling you, he spit on the sidewalk right in front of me. Jesus, if looks could kill...”

“Your wife would be a lethal weapon,” quipped a man across the bar. More chuckles. An old joke, apparently.

“Coons are ruining this city,” the red-faced man complained. “I wouldn’t bring my wife or children downtown today. It’s a cesspool.”

“If that boy downtown heard you talk that way today, you’re lucky he didn’t do more than spit on the sidewalk,” said Joseph’s dad.

“You calling me a racist?” the man hollered. “For Chrissakes, they could be green, I’d still feel the same. The problem is their souls not their skins. Black as shit, a nigger’s soul.”

Eugene put down the glass he was washing and looked up.

“I won’t have that talk in here,” he said. “This is a family tavern.”

“God damn right,” whispered Uncle Brian mischievously. The men laughed, but Joseph’s face was burning. He took a cold swallow of beer.

“I was leaving anyway,” claimed the red-faced man. “Just stopped over to wish the boy well on his occasion, and thank his father for the drink.”

He thrust out a hand.

Joseph’s dad shook it briefly. Joseph followed suit. All three mumbled “thanks.”  Then the red-faced man set his empty glass on the bar, zipped his jacket, and walked out. Eugene went back to washing glasses.

“I believe he was as likely to punch your nose as shake your hand,” said Joseph’s uncle to his father.

“I was ready either way.”

Uncle Brian nodded, and they tipped their drinks. Joseph swelled with sudden pride. He was sure his dad could clock the red-faced man, truly, no help needed from Uncle Brian, Eugene, or anybody else.

The mahogany bar gleamed warmly. Men talked quietly, laughed quietly. Joseph was welcome in the secret circle of men. Concentric circles of shadows, tables, streets, a cold and barren city, encroached beyond. Here within the circle, Joseph had found a safe place.

He finished the beer with a gulp. It tasted better now.

“Another one?” asked Uncle Brian.

Joseph smiled uncertainly. Uncle Brian took it for a yes, and nodded to Eugene. 

Three fresh drinks appeared.

“On your tab,” whispered Eugene as he withdrew into shaman shadows.

Uncle Brian raised his glass to Joseph. “Promise me one thing, nephew. Grab life by the balls and never let go!”

Joseph smiled uncertainly.

“Work hard, play hard,” Uncle Brian added. Then, with a wink, “And love hard.”

“Easier hard than soft,” quipped a man down the bar. Uncle Brian chuckled. An old joke, apparently.

Uncle Brian looked at Joseph’s dad. “Tell him. Tell your son a flush of broken hearts beats a full house of saved souls.”

Joseph’s father shook his head with a little smile. “Joseph can figure things out for himself.”

“Tell him anyway,” Uncle Brian insisted, setting his drink on the bar. “I have to go see a man about a horse.”

Uncle Brian ambled into the outer darkness.

Joseph’s dad sighed. “Your uncle means well.”

“Sure.”

“You’re young, your life ahead of you. He doesn’t want you giving it away to the church. But don’t listen, if you don’t want to.”

Joseph shrugged. “What do you think?”

His father sipped his beer thoughtfully, as if mentally calculating Joseph’s age, and trying to remember how he’d felt at the remote age of eighteen.

“Church is grand,” he said. “Especially for the womenfolk. They like the ceremonies and stained glass, songs and verses. As they get older, bless them, it gets to mean more. Faith’s a beautiful thing in a woman. Or child...”

His voice trailed off.

“But,” Joseph guessed, “it’s different for men?”

“No, not always,” his dad said quickly. “Some are called to serve God. But for most men, Joseph, it does seem there comes a time when a boy grows up and puts away childish things. Goes out in the world to make his mark.”

They paused for a swig of beer.

“You’re a man now, son, so I won’t talk to you like a child. Church and Holy Trinity are a comfort to women and a guide to the young. Sort of like, well, Santa Claus, when you were little.”

“Mom seems awful sure.”

Cigarette smoke curled between them.

“I’ve seen things your mother, bless her heart, never has nor will.”

“War,” Joseph guessed. His hand shook a little as he picked up his beer. He wanted to defend his mother. Then he imagined his father in muddy trenches, amid exploding shells and screams of dying men.

“No war stories,” Joseph’s dad promised. “They’re usually less true than fish stories anyway.”

He eyed his son through drifting smoke.

“Your mother is a wonderful woman, a saint. I love her as much today as on our wedding day. Best forget what I said, maybe. About church and all.”

“No!” said Joseph, a little too loudly. “I can handle it.”

Uncle Brian reappeared from the shadows. “Handle what?  Another beer?”

Before Joseph or his dad could reply, another voice answered from the doorway:

“Only if I’m buying.”

The pastor himself stepped into the neon circle.

He smiled, unbuttoning his coat with his left hand while extending his right. Joseph’s father shook it quickly, perhaps in some clandestine Masonic grip. Electric circuit closing. Then Uncle Brian shook it, and lastly Joseph.

“Pastor, we didn’t hear you come in.”

The pastor took a stool at the bar beside Joseph. He seemed relaxed. Eugene stood ready.

“A finger of whiskey,” the pastor said, “and replenish my three friends.”

Eugene nodded and withdrew.

The pastor leaned across Joseph to speak to his father. “Your son was in fine form this morning. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here for the lunch. I had two christenings this afternoon.”

“Good of you to stop by now,” Joseph’s dad replied. “I’ll tell the missus you came.”

“I missed her then?”

“A while ago, yes.”

The pastor nodded. Drinks were delivered. He took a careful sip of whiskey, then set it down and leaned forward again.

“Anyway, Joseph was grand today. He could put me out of a job some day.”

Uncle Brian thumped his glass down loudly on the bar. He looked flushed.

“Now look here,” he began, eyeballing the pastor.

Joseph’s dad laid a gentle hand on Uncle Brian’s sleeve. “Come see me in my office,” he said quietly.

He nodded to Joseph and the pastor. “Be right back.”  He headed to the far end of the bar, Uncle Brian weaving in his wake.

The pastor was unperturbed. “So, Joseph. You had a bit of celebration with your family?”

“Yes,” said Joseph, watching Eugene pour a drink.

“Splendid. And a little chat with your dad, I’ll wager?”

“We talked,” Joseph said warily.

They both watched Eugene for a minute. Several men around the bar nodded to the pastor.

“Have you thought any more about the future?” the pastor finally asked. “You have talent. That seminary scholarship we talked about isn’t out of the question. I could help you, Joseph.”

“Thank you. I promise to think more about it.”

The pastor finished his whiskey, stood, and patted Joseph on the back. “You might stop by the church later. Come for vespers this evening, and we’ll chat afterward.”

The pastor buttoned his coat, waved across the bar to Joseph’s dad and the others, shook Joseph’s hand firmly, making eye contact, and walked out.

Eugene collected the pastor’s empty glass and cocktail napkin. There was no money in sight.

#

Joe stepped into the church.  A smell of smoke and stale incense. He noticed a few people in the pews, here early for evening service. The stained glass was dull and dark. There were black soot stains above the candle braziers.

He heard laughter from the back of the church. He followed the laughter to the pantry.

He found Sally Reardon, a teenage choir soloist, with a plump boy Roger from Joe’s Sunday school class. Sally was pouring Welch’s grape juice into tiny gold cups. Roger was tearing sliced white bread into bits and tossing them in a golden bowl. They were both giggling, Sally spilling juice on the counter.

“What’s so funny?”

Sally startled, then relaxed. “Oh Joey, it’s you.”

Joe frowned, his gaze shifting from Sally to Roger.

“That’s the body of Christ,” he said, slipping into his Sunday school voice. “Not salad croutons.”

Roger blushed and looked down.

“Where’s the pastor?”

“We haven’t seen him for a while.”

Joe wandered through shabby halls and fluorescent offices in search of the pastor. He felt dizzy. When he came to an exit door, he decided to step out for fresh air.

Joe found himself in the alley behind the church. The sharp evening air caught him by surprise. He stumbled, and hit his elbow on a steel dumpster. He leaned his head into the dumpster, engulfed in darkness and rotting food. He began to vomit.

Joe stumbled away from the dumpster and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. A single star quivered above the alley.

The door opened and the pastor stepped outside. He squinted in the dim light. “Joseph?”

Joe stepped closer. He smelled, and his hair was wild.

“I was getting some fresh air.”

The pastor stared at him. “Maybe you should go home. I’ll call your father.”

“I’m fine,” Joe insisted. “I just want to tell you something. Then I’ll go home.”

“It’s almost evening service, Joseph. Come see me tomorrow. Before the Sunday school teachers meeting.”

“I’m quitting Sunday school,” said Joe. “I don’t think I’ll have time for that now.”

The pastor paused.

“All right,” he said. “I think Sally Reardon is ready for the assistant rector position. Now that high school’s ending, you have bigger fish to fry. Am I right?”

Joe fastened his eyes on the lonesome star.

“Seminary school next fall, for instance?”

“I don’t think so,” Joe mumbled.

The pastor stiffened slightly.

“I’m late for service. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“No!” Joe pleaded, his voice cracking. “I don’t need your scholarship!  I don’t need you!”

The pastor’s mouth worked like a fish. No words came out. He opened the door and retreated into the church.

Joe slumped down. The church wall was cold. He hit it with the side of his fist, tears in his eyes. The pain felt good.

Suddenly, Joe’s father was shaking him by the shoulder. Joe blinked. War hero. A halo of snowflakes danced around his father’s face.

“Get up, Joey. I’ll take you home.”

Joe stood. “Don’t tell mom.”

“There’s nothing to tell. You fell sick, exhausted after your long day. Tomorrow morning she’ll be spooning soup into you like a mother hen.”

“I quit Sunday school,” Joe confessed. “And the scholarship.”

His dad nodded. “The pastor told me.”

“Is he disappointed?”

“Perhaps. But not surprised, I’ll wager.”

He put a friendly arm around his son, and steered him away from the church, down the alley toward the busy street and the world of men. Cars honked, a bell rang, and snowflakes fled from heaven to earth.

“Mom will be disappointed.”

“Leave your mother to me. Me and the pastor.”

END

Micháel McCormick writes stories and poems in his Batman pajamas. Mike's work in more than eighty journals and anthologies has earned Best of the Net and Pushcart nominations. His debut novel Gods of Central Park will appear in 2026. Connect with Mike on Facebook @mikemccormickauthor or his website www.mikemccormick.org .

Image credit: Kelly Wright via D-ALLE, Ideogram, and Midjourney