Place at the Table

1 THE BEGINNING MADISON, WISCONSIN Do you remember the day your parents' world died in you, and the day you began making your own life? I do. For me, it was twenty-seven years ago, I was twelve years old and three things stand out in my mind. I remember the quiet, I remember my breathing, and I remember my praying hands upon her head as she died. We had been watching television when my mother passed out. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the phone. "Billy," her weak voice called out, "come here." I dropped the phone and ran back to her. "Help me into the living room," she said softly. I helped her stand up, and supported her as we walked into the living room. "There . . ." she said, pointing to the couch. We almost didn't make it because with each step, she got weaker and her body got heavier. My arms held her as she slumped onto the couch and I cushioned her fall. I laid her head gently on the pillow and stood back. Above her, a painting of The Last Supper hung on the wall. It was huge, four feet across, and three feet high with a frame that was thick, carved, and painted gold. My mother's favorite painting seemed to be looking down at us and bearing witness. In the painting, Jesus stood in the center of the twelve apostles. He held a chalice high above his head. He was praying. I looked down at my mother and realized she was dying. I placed my hands on her head. I started praying. I remembered the miracles of Jesus. I believed in miracles. I actually thought I had a good shot at one because my father had died six months before, my mother was a good Christian, and I was an altar boy. If I wasn't due a miracle, who was? I put every ounce of soul I had into bringing her back to life. My mother died. I was just a kid then and home alone with my mother. When my father died, I came through it okay because I never talked to him much anyway. The only thing I remembered about him was that he spent the evenings in front of the fireplace with one foot up on the ledge, poking and prodding the glowing embers with a blackened, ashen poker. I didn't live in his world--instead, I lived in the world of my mother. She was a Christian who went to church every morning, and often took me with her. She taught me that God was my friend, and like I said, that world died twenty-seven years ago under a painting of The Last Supper. A few days later, when I asked the parish priest why my parents had to die, he replied, "It was God's will." The day we buried my mother, my family gave the picture of The Last Supper to my mother's best friend. Twenty-seven years later, I met with my editor at Doubleday. We went for a walk in the park and I handed him my first novel. I was excited and eagerly awaited his reaction, but without looking at it, he suggested a different book, a book about Jesus. He didn't look at me when he made that suggestion, instead he looked at the scenery while we walked. I'm glad he didn't see my face, because he would have seen my "crazy Elliott face." My brother, a Chicago cop like my father, was on the force for thirty-six years. He's been punched, shot, and stabbed. Whenever I tell my brother something he doesn't like, his jaw tightens, his eyes bulge and then roll around in their sockets. I call it "the crazy Elliott face." If my editor had looked at me when he suggested the Jesus book, he would have seen my eyes roll around in my head just like my brother's. For a moment, I was angry, perhaps a little crazy. But then I thought about Jesus, and remembered how he had turned over the tables in the Temple. He was angry that day, a little crazy, and the world was never the same. Who knows, maybe his eyes even bulged out a little, and I'm sure his disciples probably knew that look and got out ofElliott, William J. is the author of 'Place at the Table', published 2003 under ISBN 9780385502344 and ISBN 0385502346.