I don't believe in my father either.
With a sewing needle, a few careful cuts, and white thread, Jason’s mom had arranged one of his dad’s old button up shirts. It was well-worn, sort of yellowish though in actuality probably had never been sparkling white, but it was the best they could do and Jason was proud of it. He’s as neat as could be today, with his hair that’s been brushed for once, his one pair of pants that aren’t unraveling at the bottom, and finally, finally, a grown-up shirt to wear to mass.
His voice, he’s sure, can be distinguished amongst everybody else’s, because he’s missed this song so much. Not as much as he misses Holy Night, but he guesses it makes sense they only get that one once a year. At seven, he still needs to stand on the wooden prayer kneelers so he can see.
He tries his best to pay attention to the homily, but he gets distracted by a stained glass window he hadn’t noticed before. They must’ve moved the lighting around, because it’s in a corner that never gets lit up enough to distinguish the colors. In it, a man with white-gray beard and closed eyes embraces another figure. Jason can’t tell who the other person is -- only the back of their head is visible. Off of their brown hair, though, he can guess they’re probably younger than the old man. He wonders which story this window tells. Maybe it’s Abraham and his son. That’s probably what it is, Abraham is kind of a big deal. He almost nudges his mom to ask her, but she looks stricken by whatever the priest is talking about.
Jason figures it’s probably a sign to tune back in, but it’s just the usual, something about God having given up his only son for the world. Jason’s not sure why his mom is making that face. As far as he’s concerned, that’s old news.
She must feel his confusion somehow, because she reaches out and gently strokes his hair, and smiles at him. Her smile’s a little wobbly, though.
On their way back from mass, Jason can’t help it.
“I don’t understand, mom,” he blurts out, “sometimes it just feels like they’re always telling us the same stuff over and over.”
“Yeah.” His mom pauses, squeezing his hand. “Yeah, I get what you mean. But, you know, with really complicated things you can’t just have been told about them once. Remember when Ms. Martinez taught your class fractions? You told me Allie hadn’t understood them until a month later, and you’d all spent that entire month working on them! Imagine if you hadn’t.”
“I guess.” Jason hadn’t needed an entire month to figure out the fraction stuff, even though he was a year younger than everybody else. Maybe that’s why his dad skips out on mass.
They’re right in front of their apartment building, so Mom drops his hand to dig out for the keys. She opens the door, and he runs up the stairs, because he’s sure she’ll stop to talk to Mrs. Miller for forever. Maybe his dad had made the fancy potato dish that none of the neighbors could figure out how to replicate. It was Sunday, after all.
When he gets there, though, he can’t smell anything. His dad opens the door. He looks tired, even though it’s noon. The official reason as to why he hadn’t come to mass was that he had to finish filling out a bunch of papers for his work -- or something like that, Jason hadn’t really been paying attention. Mom hadn’t really asked him to come, to be fair. She’d just stated, “we’re going, Willis,” and he’d raised her head and told them, okay, he’d make lunch after he’d finished going through this one part.
“Hey dad.” Jason tilts his head. He remembers a big deal about Dad having to be away for the fun part of last December, and realizes that, with the exception of Easter a few months ago, his father hadn’t gone to church in at least over a year. He scrunches up his face. “Uh, I’ll open up for mom.”
His dad nods and walks back to the table, where there’s papers laid out everywhere.
If Jason had to choose between Christmas and Easter, he wouldn’t have made the same choice his father had. Christmas is, like, the beginning of everything. There’s a child and that child is going to save the world. On top of that everyone gets presents. Easter’s after everyone’s messed up. In Jason’s eyes, the chocolate can’t fix that, because even the child coming back doesn’t fix that.
“Why’d you come with us for Easter?”
His dad looks at him silently for a few seconds. Jason prepares himself to be scolded and told that his father’s busy right now, but instead, a hint of a smile tugs at Dad’s mouth. “Just in case.”
Jason’s only been back in Gotham for a couple of days when he finds his footsteps bringing him back to his childhood church. The weather’s horrendous outside, and the whole crime stuff he’s been setting up is a later in the day endeavor -- or much earlier, now that he’s thinking about it -- so he tells himself it’s purely out of convenience when he pushes the doors open.
“-- Bring the best robe and put it on him,” the deep, raspy tones echo. He must’ve just caught the last few parts of the Gospel reading. He’s surprised to realize he can’t remember the name of the priest back then, but he’s sure the voice differs. This new guy must smoke a pack a day.
Jason strides in, moving towards one of the back rows towards the left side of the church. Everything looks a lot darker. Maybe Gotham’s humidity’s finally gotten to the wood. Maybe Jason’s just older now.
On his left, there’s a stained window that feels vaguely familiar. Due to the rain, it’s a little difficult to distinguish the figures, but after a few seconds of staring he can make out an old man holding a younger one. It’s probably not Abraham and his son, otherwise there’d be an angel and maybe a sheep. Instead, he finds a third silhouette, distinctly human, in the background. Almost like -- like another son.
“The older brother became angry and refused to go in,” the priest continues. “So his father went out and pleaded with him.”
Jason knows this story. It’s not one he’d ever cared much for. When he was a child, Jason couldn’t imagine a world where he’d leave this neighborhood, nevermind his parents or the church. But he remembers being eight and angry for the older brother, like everybody else.
His mother told him back then it had nothing to do with the brother. It’s never too late to be forgiven. He’ll always forgive you, if you just come back. Jason had scoffed. He’d always been slightly pedantic. Of course it can be too late, mom. What if you die? You can’t ask for forgiveness then.
“‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.’”
His mom had smiled at him. But death isn’t the end.
Right. Jason stands up. The wood scrapes on the tiling and echoes in a way that would have made him flinch all those years ago. Death isn’t the end.
On the dirty, bloody warehouse floor in Ethiopia, Jason had prayed. He’d covered Sheila with his body, but all he could think about was the memory of his mom, her grave voice, the crows’ feet next to her eyes. He hadn’t gone to church in years. What had he wanted from this last prayer? For Bruce to get there in time to save him? For forgiveness? Forgiveness because he hadn’t believed, or forgiveness because he had?
“‘But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again.”
It hits Jason like the picture of a smiling stranger in the colors his corpse should’ve been buried with. Death isn’t the end. But things end anyways. Briefly, he thinks of Bruce, considers shattering the stained glass, and finally --
“-- he was lost --’”
Jason walks out.
