Author: Brian Ball

There’s a pantry in the basement, or at least there was. It’s gone now.

St. Mary’s, our parish, used it most when the soup kitchen was busy. One Saturday, Judy Grezlick went down to grab some rice and lost her footing. She fell to floor and rice spilled everywhere.

She brushed herself off and stood over the mess. Mumbling, she swept it up and set the broom aside. There was a hollow thud as it hit the basement wall. Curious, she felt along the wall.

Probably an old access panel, Judy said. She mentioned it to Father Brennan. He stood over the cast iron stove pushing a pile of diced onions into a large pot. Recognition flickered. Before Judy could go back and grab another bag of rice, Father Brennan was in the basement with a crowbar.

After an hour, he and some other kitchen volunteers pried off the section of the wall. The five-foot panel looked like the rest of the foundation, but the ancient spackle came off as they pulled.

Dust went everywhere. They coughed as it settled at their feet, revealing rough-hewn stairs that faded into the darkness like sunlight down a well.

They certainly weren’t made by any licensed contractor Miles Ackner said. Miles was a retired home inspector and current church volunteer. He told Father Brennan they could violate any of a number of building codes and telling the city could might close the church. Father Brennan didn’t care for that notion, not one bit.

Miles put some extra batteries in his pocket and took the flashlight. He moved jauntily down the stairs, humming. A small group watched him go. No one said good-bye. He would just peek, he said, he’d be right back.

Soon they were shouting after him and heard nothing but silence and their own measured breathing. By now the group had grown, including Amy, Miles’ wife. Each possessed their own opinions. The sound of their arguing echoed down the stairs. Father Brennan finally called the police.

Then they came in pairs. Officers took notes, asked questions and then went down themselves. One gave Father Brennan half of a two-way radio. She said they’d check-in, but within a few minutes Father heard only static. Judy Grezlik started to cry.

A much larger group came with masks, breathing tanks and a police dog. They set up sonar cameras. Amy Ackner was hysterical then. No one judged her.

More descended. None returned. Each failure was more desperate, more chaotic. Father Brennan shuttered the church.

The McCormick brothers were called. As local contractors, everyone knew them. They would weld a steel plate over the opening. Toxic shale gas was the excuse they gave. It was as good excuse as any.
Four men carried the heavy plate. Mickalean McCormick lit the bright blue flame and dropped down his protective glasses. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Amy shouted for Miles as the torch sealed the last crack.

They still listen for the men and women who went down the stairs, even after the basement was filled in. The McCormick brothers did this work too and said not to bother listening. They were gone.
When it was done, Father Brennan closed the door at the top of the stairs, now a wall of cement. Amy was sent away to rest. St. Mary’s still has mass, but only on holidays.

And that’s the story. That’s why we wait. But don’t worry, Father Brennan won’t forget us. He’ll send more down here.

For God’s sake, he knows we need to eat.