Nick Kunze: CLOSED ON SUNDAYS • Cleaver Magazine

Fiction by Nick Kunze
CLOSED ON SUNDAYS

While Father Thomas surveyed his sparse Sunday Mass crowd, he thought he smelled chicken. He sniffed. It was faint enough to be dismissed. A phantom smell. Perhaps his guilt was taking aromatic forms.

He spread his arms wide in welcome. “The Lord be with you,” Father Thomas said.

“And with your spirit,” his congregants mumbled.

“Welcome,” he said, “to Saint Mary’s.” At every Mass, he imagined this would be the week he wouldn’t say it. Then every Mass, he said it. “To Chick-fil-A’s Saint Mary’s Catholic Church.” A solemn pause. “We will begin Mass with a word from our sponsor.”

Moos played over the PA system. Cows begging to be saved from slaughter.

While the advertisement played, Father Thomas observed his congregation. Some looked pious, others bored. Some had their eyes closed, while a few stared at Father Thomas like he was the one mooing. The 8:00 a.m. crowd was old and formal—pressed khakis and collared shirts, stiff hair and long, dark dresses. When in divinity school, Father Thomas had imagined himself as the priest for the young, multicultural congregation he’d been told, again and again, existed somewhere.

The moos stopped. A crisp male voice filled the room, extolling the virtues of the latest breakfast options. The divine flavor of the Hash Brown Scramble Bowl. The righteous calorie count of the Egg White Grilled Chicken Sandwich.

Father Thomas closed his eyes, as if in prayer. It was only radio ads. There were no televisions installed in the back of the pews, no posters hanging from the rafters in place of liturgical banners. The Eucharist was not dipped in Polynesian sauce. It could be worse—he did not preach at Nutella’s Saint Jude Catholic Church, where samples were given at the door, or Cathedral of Our Lady of the NRA. His sponsor, at least, was closed on Sundays.

The second ad began. More moos echoed through the church.

There would be no church without these cows.

There would be no church without the chicken.

Even with every tax break, loophole, and cutback the church could find, there weren’t enough parishioners to keep Saint Mary’s doors open without a corporate sponsor.

There were things that Father Thomas would change, of course. He’d unplug the neon sign hanging from the church’s facade. He’d stop printing full-page color ads in his four-page newsletter. He’d remove the coupons from the confessional booth, visible to Thomas through the booth’s checkered window. People took the coupons, too, the pile slowly depleting. He was even convinced—though it felt like a sin to say it—that Ron Platchenkin only came to confession for the coupons, stuffing two or three in his pocket while confessing minor sins.

These hopes for a better church were only daydreams. They were wishes, never prayers. Outside Mass, Father Thomas never prayed.

Thomas wrote homilies, blessed the Eucharist and swept the steps of the church, performing his every duty with calm and diligence, but the priesthood never felt like anything but work. A job. Thomas believed in God, but his belief was vague, the same way you believe the batteries in your TV remote will work without particularly understanding how. His personal relationship with the Lord was limited, however. Thomas was merely His spokesman.

When he preached, desperate to feel God’s touch, Thomas heard the trepidation in his own delivery, the airy pauses and mumbled phrases. It made him envy revivalist preachers. Writhing in dusty tents and hollering the Word of God, they at least spoke with a believer’s conviction.

The second ad ended. Father Thomas stepped forward, raised his arms, and cleared his throat. The small crowd rose.

“Let us pray.”

“We wanted to run something by you, Father,” Craig said, slouched in the faux-leather chair on the opposite side of Father Thomas’ desk. Craig’s eyes roamed the church office while he spoke, taking in the framed religious reprints and lack of personal affects. “A little suggestion.” Craig was Saint Mary’s brand liaison with Chick-fil-A. His suggestions were as inarguable as the Lord’s will.

“What do you need?” Father Thomas asked.

Craig wore a checkered shirt tucked into khakis. His hair was blond. He worked with seven other churches beside Saint Mary’s, which gave Father Thomas a guilty sense of relief. At least his suffering was not unique.

“There’s a new menu item. The Spicy Chicken Popper. They’re like nuggets, but smaller. And spicy.”

“Okay.”

“We’d like you to promote the Spicy Chicken Popper.”

“You can play any advertisements you want during designated advertising times.”

“We were hoping to do this more organically. Do you know what that means? Organic. In marketing terms. Not, like, fruits.”

Father Thomas waited, his expression neutral but engaged, the face he wore with congregants during after-church small talk.

“People don’t like to think they’re being advertised to,” Craig said. “If we play the ad over the loudspeaker, everyone is going to say Okay, this is an ad and space out. Which we don’t want. But if we just slip it in, put it in your voice, people won’t feel like they’re being advertised to. Which we do want.”

“You want me to sell chicken nuggets during my homily.”

“The Spicy Chicken Popper. And any talking part will do. Just so it feels authentic.”

Father Thomas stared at the painting of Christ partially blocked by Craig’s head. Jesus on a hilltop awash in sunlight, a crowd of unidentifiable faces watching him, fish and bread clasped in their raised hands. The Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes, when Jesus fed a crowd of five thousand with five loaves of bread and two small fish.

“I’m not comfortable with that for my congregation,” Father Thomas said. He regularly dreamt of standing up to Craig and now, so simply, he was doing it.

Craig did not hide his surprise. Father Thomas had accepted all of Craig’s past suggestions with a nod and weary sigh. “It’ll be organic, Father. People will hardly notice.”

“I’m not comfortable with it,” Father Thomas said. He found he had more authority when he offered less explanation—it made his decisions seem spiritual. Preordained.

Craig sat up in his chair and placed his hairless forearms on Father Thomas’ desk. His expression was flat, a total nothing. “That’s not going to work, Father. This is very important to the brand. We want our partners to be team players. We may need to reconsider our relationship with any church that isn’t willing to be a team player.”

The church would not survive without a brand’s support. Still, Father Thomas did not bend. He readied himself for an argument, searching for a line of scripture to fling at Craig. In that moment, he wasn’t sure he could even remember the Lord’s Prayer. Would Craig notice if he invented a verse?

Craig did not argue, however. He stood, slid his hands down his thighs to smooth out any creases in his pants and placed his hands on his hips. Craig’s hips, waist and chest formed a straight line, like his torso had been drawn with a ruler. “I’ll give you until the end of the week to think about it. But next Sunday, the Spicy Chicken Popper will be mentioned during Mass. Organically. Okay?” The threat, while unsubtle, remained unspoken.

“Have a blessed day, Craig.”

Craig turned and walked to the door. Without turning back around, he said, “How’s this any worse?”

Then he vanished, leaving the door open.

In times of stress, Father Thomas worked on his abs. He loved all exercises equally, but there was a unique, flagellating satisfaction to an abdominal workout. Thomas pushed through the pain, his legs scissoring, his mind clear. He was not at the gym to find an answer to his problem. He was there to ignore it.

Father Thomas did not eat Chick-fil-A. In fact, outside the body and blood of Christ, he rarely ate carbs and never drank alcohol. He exercised constantly—religiously, the check-in guy at the gym once commented. Forty-five minutes on the stationary bike, eight to ten different lifts, an ab circuit, and a fifteen-minute stretch to cool down. For weight training, he alternated between push, pull, and legs every day except Sunday. Sunday, he rested.

His dedication to fitness struck him as unholy. He was supposed to focus on the soul, not the flesh. The sight of his toned, naked body in the mirror made him feel ashamed. He wore his Cossack a size too large to compensate, his leisure clothing equally ill-fitting. But every afternoon, he repacked his gym bag and drove to the most expensive of the three gyms in town.

While Father Thomas did Russian twists, a muscular man slipped past his mat. The man grabbed a dumbbell and shuffled back to his bench, never once looking at Father Thomas. Both men were in the gym at the same time nearly every day. They’d never once said hello. Father Thomas loved this aspect of the gym: the anonymity. He was in a crowd, alone.

The clergy held the same appeal—he could be withdrawn and friendless without seeming odd or off-putting. If anything, loneliness was encouraged. He was separated by holy decree, not unnatural disposition. Not that this was what drove him to the cloth. The priest who ran the youth home where Thomas was raised had gently but firmly led Thomas toward the clergy. If his parents had been marketing execs, perhaps Thomas would be sitting opposite a hamstrung priest, pushing fast food.

Thomas finally collapsed on his mat, exhausted. He watched the rotation of the ceiling fan while his breathing slowed.

If Thomas rejected the offer, the church would fail.

If he accepted the offer, would his church still be a place of God?

How’s this any worse?

Underneath his worry, however, was something unfamiliar: pride. He’d stood up for his church. For his faith. For himself. If he held his ground, this could be the start of something new in his ministry. A real connection with God, perhaps. But only if he managed to keep the church open. Which he could not do without the chicken.

Fleeing these circular thoughts like they were a flesh-and-blood pursuer, Father Thomas stood, rolled up his mat, and hurried to the locker room.

In the gym’s parking lot, Thomas ran into a parishioner. Ron Platchenkin, who came to confession for coupons. When he saw Father Thomas, Ron looked surprised, then worried, then determined, the emotions marching one-by-one across his round face.

“Father! Hi. Ron.”

“Great to see you, Ron.”

“At the gym?”

“Yes.” Father Thomas was still drenched in sweat—it seemed unpriestly to use a public shower.

“I was headed to the CVS.” Ron glanced around the empty parking lot like a government agent with secrets to share. “Can I talk to you? In private?”

Thomas nodded and gestured to his car.

Seated side-by-side in Father Thomas’s aged Prius, Thomas waited to hear Ron’s sins. He tried to remain still, ignoring the sweat dripping down his nose.

“This counts as confession, right Father?” Ron asked, staring at the golden arches of a McDonald’s through the windshield.

“This counts as confession, yes.”

“Sometimes I think I don’t confess the right things. Which feels like a sin, too. Leaving something unconfessed.” Ron fidgeted. He tried to start three sentences, never making it more than two words in. Then he turned to Father Thomas. “I can’t quite find the words. Do you make house calls, Father? I think it would be easier to show you.”

Father Thomas was about to say no, he didn’t, but paused. The honest answer was that no, he doesn’t, as in, he hasn’t before. No one had ever asked him into their home. But he’d seen plenty of priests in plenty of movies knock on doors or ring doorbells to spread good will, deliver grave news or warn of possessed daughters. Why should he be any different?

“I do,” Father Thomas said.

Driving to Ron’s house an hour later, Father Thomas imagined a better future. He’d denied Chick-fil-A and, later that same day, his beloved parishioner Ron had called on him for help. He felt obligated to see this as a sign.

Thomas would arrive at Ron’s home and, with the authority and guidance of God, solve Ron’s problem, whatever it might be. Ron, crying, his soul cleansed, would say Thank you, Father. Bless you, Father. Word of Thomas’ religious prowess would spread, the church would repopulate, Chick-fil-A would be cast out of Saint Mary’s, and Thomas would finally hear God’s voice whispering soft praises in his ear. It was a fantasy, but so what? Faith was built on belief.

Father Thomas turned into Ron Platchenkin’s driveway. Ron’s one-story home matched the other houses in the neighborhood: monochrome and white trimmed, dated and unexceptional. If there was any difference, it was that Ron’s house was less-than: an ill-kept lawn, a faded paint job, dead plants in dirty pots on either side of the front door. Had Ron ever been married? Thomas realized how little he knew about one of his church’s most active members—during confession, Ron was never specific, his boilerplate sins outlined in broad strokes.

Thomas pulled into the driveway, parking in front of the closed garage door. He examined his appearance in the rearview mirror—he wore a short-sleeved clerical shirt, his white collar bright against the black of the shirt.

Thomas exited his car, walked to Ron’s front door and rang the doorbell.

Footsteps from inside. The door opened, Ron dressed in the same long shorts and tight polo from the parking lot.

“Thanks for coming, Father.” Ron smiled and stepped aside, welcoming Father Thomas inside. “Do you want anything? A drink? A snack?” Ron looked at the ground, as if these items might be hidden in his stained carpet.

“I’m okay, Ron. What is it you needed to speak with me about?”

“I think I need some water,” Ron said. He shut the door and waddled to the kitchen. Father Thomas followed.

It took Father Thomas a moment to register what was wrong inside the kitchen. It wasn’t the dirty floors, or the dishes piled in the sink, or the hulking Cold War–era fridge. It was the counters. There was no free counter space. Gadgets crowded the ceramic like concertgoers jostling for the best view. Air fryers stood beside touchscreen toasters and tortilla presses. Egg cookers were plugged in next to waffle makers and espresso machines. High-tech kettles, milk frothers, and water carbonators waited side-by-side. Everything looked brand-new, a Brookstone display transported into Ron’s aged kitchen. A surge protector was tucked against the wall, every plug occupied.

Ron picked up a black tube waiting beside the egg-stained stovetop. He frowned. “This is a rechargeable pepper grinder. It grinds pepper. The salt and pepper set cost $100.”

Ron set the grinder down and exited the kitchen without pouring a glass of water.

Stepping past a roving robotic vacuum, they entered the living room, where a massive television and massage chair sat on opposite ends of a coffee table covered with smart remotes, tablets, battery recharging stations, and portable speakers. In the corner of the room, a dehumidifier glowed green, humming softly.

A peek into the bathroom, where the fanciest toothbrush Father Thomas had ever seen sat inside a plastic cup.

“I do like the bidet,” Ron said before closing the door.

Ron turned to Father Thomas in the hallway, the vacuum buzzing by their feet. “I’m retired. I can’t afford all this shit. Stuff. Sorry.” A self-conscious pause. “What sin is this? Greed? Pride? This is a sin, right? I’m wrong for this. Right?”

“Ron,” Father Thomas placed a hand on Ron’s shoulder.

“Yes, Father?” Ron looked so old, so raggedy, so desperate to be absolved.

Father Thomas closed his eyes and searched for the right words. For God’s guidance. He breathed deeply, imagining holy words of advice flowing in through his nose, then exhaled, the same holy words leaving his mouth.

When he opened his eyes, Thomas felt a moment of pure contentment, a sense of wellness that, perhaps, was all people meant when they said they’d felt God. Then: nothing. Not a single smart word, not a knowing phrase, not even a semi-relevant line of scripture.

“Ron,” Thomas repeated, his uncertainty returning.

“Yes, Father?” Ron’s eyelids were droopy, his stomach immense, his skin tagged with mountainous moles. How could someone so human, so of-the-flesh, be reached by God?

Stop buying stupid things. Stop wasting your money. Stop coming to confession for coupons. Stop making me feel this fucking way.

Too late for the right words, Thomas fell back on one of Catholicism’s most reliable slogans. “God works in mysterious ways, Ron. But know that He is with you. Turn to him for guidance and he will guide you.” Father Thomas smiled a pious smile and furrowed his brow in a facsimile of thoughtfulness.

“And He’ll forgive me?”

I have no idea.

“God will always—always—forgive. His ability to forgive and his love for you are both infinite.” Thomas did not try and feel his words while he said them, did not search for the Lord between each syllable. Instead, he performed. He was surprised by the confidence in his voice.

A pause. Ron’s eyes were wide, his mouth open. He was listening to something Thomas could not hear.

“I’m throwing it out,” Ron said. “I’m throwing it all out! I’ll live like the Lord.” He grabbed Father Thomas’ hand, trapping it between his own. “Thank you, Father. Thank you. Should I say some Hail Mary’s, too?”

“Yes. Do that,” Father Thomas said.

And his work was done.

Louise Barber brought her niece to Mass, but Don Parker had died on Wednesday, so church attendance was steady from the previous Sunday.

After reading a short passage from Mark, Father Thomas shut his Bible and began his homily. “You cannot be complacent in your love of the Lord. You cannot be passive in making Christ a part of your life. Your passion for the Lord must be hot. Fiery. Like the intense heat of one of Chick-fil-A’s new Spicy Chicken Poppers. And while the Lord’s love for you is limitless and costs nothing, a box of eight Spicy Chicken Poppers is only $5.50, while supplies last.”

Father Thomas scanned his flock for shocked expressions or indignant murmurs. There was no reaction, only the usual bowed heads and jittery knees. They’d sat through decades of television commercials, had seen countless skylines and sunsets blocked by billboards. What mattered to them is that they were here. They were communicating with Christ, or ticking off a box on their Sunday checklist, or zoning out, happy to be part of a quiet crowd, Father Thomas’ voice a backdrop for comforting daydreams.

Father Thomas spread his arms wide. “Let us pray.” He delivered the Nicene Creed with a showman’s verve, his voice clipped and cruel for “He suffered, died and was buried,” his tone light and knowing for the closing, “His kingdom will have no end.”

The following Sunday, across the three Masses he delivered, attendance was up by two.

Nick Kunze is a Los Angeles–based writer. He has fiction published in The Cincinnati Review, Toronto Journal and Ghost City Review, among others. He recently finished a novel and is seeking representation. You can check out more of his writing at nick-kunze.com or follow him on Instagram at @nickisawriter.