Fading Desert Footprints (Complete)

'A church is a hospital for sinners, not a museum for saints.' Pauline Phillips

I find the chapel, a plain white plank building with brown wooden trim. It is a neighbourhood church that is vacant most Sundays, and overflowing on Christmas and Easter.

I park in the corner of the large lot, far from the other vehicles to avoid careless door dings. I approach the church with fear.

I am fascinated with old and unique churches. Many years ago, I had visited the Gothic Notre Dame Basilica in Montreal. It is a prominent stone building that can still stand out in a city of towers. The wooden doors are large, as if the congregation included giants.

The inside is both a museum and art gallery; every step reveals another painting, carving, sculpture, or stained glass window.

At one image, I can't remember which, I recall saying to myself 'so that's what a halo looks like.'

The columns, frames, and even the pews, are intricately carved, so that nothing was spared an artist or craftsman's touch.

Then, I found out that this Basilica is a smaller replica of the Notre-Dame de Paris. That instantly put the Notre-Dame de Paris on my travel agenda.

I have been to the Temple of Karnak, and saw what man can erect in the desert. My bucket list includes a trip to Angkor Wat to see what could be created in a jungle.

I've been to the Western Wall, Dome of the Rock, and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

I had a tour of a Kloster somewhere in Germany, a miniature community surrounded by a stone wall, where monks lead a self-sufficient life.  Within their sequestered milieu, they reaped potatoes and wheat, and then sold the excess in order to buy ungrowable things.

That Kloster also contained an enormous church with the artistic curves, towering ceilings, and stained glass windows. It included the other staple of old churches; a large organ, with tall pipes standing shoulder to shoulder, mouths wide open, waiting to shout a hymn. 

I have been to Wiltshire and walked around Stonehenge, and to Ireland and kissed the Blarney Stone with failed results, although, the latter isn't really religious.

I even peeked into the little Chapel in Las Vegas where an Elvis impersonator performs weddings, and I secretly schemed to do so until Kelly guaranteed me that there would be no amount of alcohol that could accomplish that task. That turned out to be correct when I put it to a test later in the day. We eventually got married by a Justice at a rented hall.

Thus, I have never walked into a church for its designed purpose; a wedding, baptism, sermon, and not for a funeral. As I pass through the curved wooden doors for the memorial, I expect to set off an alarm.

There are about one hundred people scattered in the hall. At the front, I notice a tall slim blond; her long silky hair halfway down the back. She turns around, and I recognize the ZZ Top beard; it is male-Kelly. I greet him with a nod, and then slide into an empty pew in the last row. He walks up the aisle, and plops down beside me. He leans back, crosses his legs, and extends his arms along the back of the bench, as if we were friends at a bar having a beer.

"I'm glad you could come, Kelly had a lot of friends," he says, creating some small talk.

"It's very nice what you've done for her." I intentionally avoid thanking him; I didn't ask them to do this, and it is not for my benefit. I am distracted as I look around trying to find anyone else I recognize.

"How are you holding out?" he asks.

"Just fine," I say automatically without putting much thought into it, and I temporarily think about asking him about his relationship with Kelly.

I instinctively don't like him, as all fathers feel towards their daughter's male friends. I have also projected Kelly's death on him. If he had a haircut and learned to shave, I might have come today to give him her hand, not her ashes. Despite my mixed feelings, I resume the small talk,

"How about you and...your friends?" Their names still escape me.

"We are still shocked. The Sudan police are continuing the investigation and have a short list of suspects, but they won't reveal the cause."

The only people I recognize are Jen and Carly from the house two days ago, and I suddenly recall their names, although I have no use for it now because my conversation with male -Kelly is ending; I am ready to leave.

"I brought her ashes. I depart for Sudan tomorrow, and still have to pack; shall I leave the ashes with you? I can pick them up in three weeks."

"That would be great," he says, and I give him a card with my email,

We both stand. He reaches out to shake my hand, but I hand him the urn instead, and then leave.

***

It is another restless night. My bags are packed and waiting at the front door for sunrise. I review the events of the last five days. I can't remember the last time I had a full night's, uninterrupted, dreamless sleep. I recall the conversation with Donna, the pictures on Facebook, the search of news, and the meeting with her friends. My first problem is Donna's explanation; propane tanks are stored outside, never in a kitchen.

Then the online news article: 'having trouble finding witnesses.'

Male-Kelly said something like 'the police have narrowed the suspects and won't reveal the cause', which contradicts Donna.

Was the fire deliberately set?