Story: The Jesus On The Wall

There's a story contest (ending tonight, I think!) called Spec the Halls, and I quickly wrote a story to enter -- it's behind the cut:



This story is a part of the Spec the Halls contest for speculative winter holiday-themed fiction, artwork, and poetry. You may find descriptions of and links to other entries at http://www.aswiebe.com/specthehalls.html.

The Jesus On The Wall

By Barbara Krasnoff

With a bit of reluctance, Sarah's Mom let her stay over at her friend Charlotte's house on Christmas Eve. Sarah's parents had a Discussion before they said yes; she had crept out into the hallway the night before and listened as they discussed it in the living room.

"She feels left out," her Dad said. "It's natural. I agree that we shouldn't start buying Christmas trees and hanging tinsel, but at least we can let her enjoy her friends' celebrations."

He apparently won the Discussion because the next morning Sarah was allowed to pack her suitcase with her pajamas, and her next day's clothes, and a gift for Charlotte, and her favorite doll, and her Mom took her upstairs to the ninth floor of their apartment house where Charlotte lived.

They had turkey for dinner, and put on a record where Bing Crosby sang carols, and they sang along, and Charlotte's mom let them open one present each to take to bed with them. Charlotte had a bunk bed in her room -- her brother had slept in one, before he got too old to share with Charlotte and was moved to what was the guest room -- and Sarah got to sleep in the upper bunk.

Charlotte's mom put on the nightlight and put out the main light. As soon as she closed the door behind her, Sarah was shocked to discover that here was a large cross on the wall with a technicolor Jesus hanging from it. He wore only a white cloth around his middle, and his face twisted in pain, large red drops of blood coming from his hands and feet. She hadn't noticed the Jesus before because it was high up on the wall, but on the top bunk of the bunk bed (Charlotte's older sister had decided she was too old for bunk beds, and so the guest room had been made into a second bedroom), it was just about at eye level.

Sarah leaned down over the side. "Charlotte," she hissed at her friend.

"What?" Charlotte had begged some egg nog off her father, and had nodded off about an hour later. She didn't sound happy to be awake.

"Aren't you scared?"

"Scared of what? Santa Claus?"

"No." Sarah was tempted to throw her pillow at Charlotte, to wake her up more thoroughly, but she wasn't sure she'd get it back. "That cross. On the wall."

Charlotte opened one reluctant eye and stared at the cross. In the blue glow of the night light, it was an eerie effect. "Of course not. That's Jesus. He's here to look over us and make sure nothing bad happens."

That didn't make sense to Sarah in the least. "How can he make sure nothing bad happens? He's all nailed up and crying and stuff."

"Oh, go to sleep." And to emphasize that the matter was closed, Charlotte turned over and covered her head with her blanket.

Sarah stared at the Jesus, sure that she wasn't going to ever get to sleep. "Didn't that hurt?" she asked quietly.

The Jesus stared at her from his cross. "What do you think?" he asked. He sounded just like Sarah's uncle Harry -- just a bit of a rasp in his voice. "You think I like being hung up like this all day?"

"Then why don't you just get down?" Sarah asked. She had been prepared to be terrified at the frightening image, but, even mostly undressed, anyone who sounded like Uncle Harry couldn't be that bad.

The Jesus turned his head and looked expressively at his left and right hands. "Oh," said Sarah. "Do you want me to get you down?"

"Nah," said the Jesus. "Thanks anyway, but this is, after all, my job. But maybe you could do me a favor and push me to the left just a little? I've been hanging here cockeyed for I don't know how long, and looking at everything on an angle makes my stomach turn."

Sarah looked back down at Charlotte, but she seemed sound asleep. "I suppose..."

"It would be a real mitzvah," said the Jesus, a wheedling tone in his voice.

The little girl had an idea. "If I straighten you out, could you fix it so I could have a Christmas tree? And presents?"

The Jesus looked shocked. "A nice Jewish girl like you, and you want a big tree in your living room? You know what kind of fire hazard those things are? And it's a German custom, yet."

Sarah sat back. "That's what my Mom said. But everyone else has trees, and they don't have fires. And if they have trees, that means they get presents and stuff."

"Okay, already," the Jesus said. "You drive a hard bargain. I'll try to arrange it, you should have a tree."

"With lights and everything?"

"With lights and everything. But that's all."

It was enough. Sarah carefully climbed down from the bunk, moved the chair from Charlotte's pink-and-white desk to right under the Jesus, and climbed up. She had to stand high on her tip-toes, but she was just able to reach the bottom part of the cross with her fingertips. "Just a little to the left," said the Jesus.

"Which way's left?" asked Sarah.

"Toward the window," said the Jesus.

She carefully pushed it just a bit over. "Just a little more," the Jesus whispered. "That's it. Just a little ... oops!"

Apparently, the cross hadn't been attached to the wall as firmly as it should have been -- the top suddenly separated from the wall and the whole thing fell with the clatter. Startled, Sarah stepped back, stepped on the edge of the chair, she and the chair joined the Jesus on the floor, Startled, she started to cry.

Charlotte sat up and, not knowing what was going on, joined in the general wail. It wasn't long before Charlotte's Mom came in. "What's going on here?" she asked.

"I fell," sobbed Sarah, not bothering to say where she had fallen from.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, darling. Let me see -- did you bump your head? No? Your knees? Oh, dear, your elbow is skinned. John, get the iodine, Sarah's fallen out of the upper bunk and skinned her elbow. Charlotte, please be quiet, you're fine."

A few minutes later, iodined, given a drink of water, and put in the lower bunk (something to Charlotte's dismay, since she liked the lower bunk), Sarah waited until Charlotte's Mom had left and Charlotte's breathing had once again slowed. She then sat up, and looked around the floor. "Jesus?" she asked, worried. "Where are you? Are you okay?"

There was a moment of silence, and then a mumble from under a pile of stuffed animals next to the desk. Sarah carefully got out of bed and rooted around until she found the Jesus lying in the lap of a large stuffed penguin. "Thanks," the Jesus said. "Boy, that was lucky. I could have done myself a serious injury there. As it is..." he looked over at one of his arms, "Oy -- I think I've gotta chip."

Sarah looked him over carefully. Sure enough, there was a piece missing from one of the ends of the cross, together with the tips of two of his fingers. "Maybe I could glue it back on?" she asked dubiously.

The Jesus shook his head. "Nah. Nice idea, but it won't work. They'll just get another." He paused, and looked up at her, a sly look in his bloodshot eyes. "I don't suppose that you'd consider taking me home with you? They're just going to throw me away and get another. I could use a home with a nice girl like you."

Sarah shook her head decidedly. "I don't think I can. I'm not supposed to have a Jesus in my house."

"Aw, come on." The Jesus stared at her, pleadingly. "I don't want to be thrown away. You could hide me in your drawer, or better yet, in your toy chest -- I'll bet your Mom never goes in there. And..." he paused. "And I'll make sure you get presents. If not for Christmas, I'll make sure you get a real doozy at next Passover's seder. I'm a whiz at seders."

Sarah could feel herself relenting. Besides, the floor was cold, and she didn't want to keep this argument up forever. She tiptoed back across the floor, and tucked the Jesus under her pillow. "Okay," she said. "I'll sneak you out in my suitcase in the morning. But you better not get me in trouble because they think I stole you."

"Believe me," the Jesus whispered from under her pillow. "They'll never hear it from me."