The Crossroads

“Oh, my.”

The priest had never been inside the chapel before. It was a smallish room with four wooden pews facing a marble altar.

Gerda Spratling knelt in the front pew, dressed in a flowing white gown, her head covered by a bridal veil. A rack of fifty ruby votive candles flickered in front of her. But what amazed the priest most were the other statues.

Dozens of them. Maybe a hundred. Some were tiny. Others towered to six feet. They were everywhere. Standing on pedestals. Tucked into alcoves. All were carved to look like a handsome young man with slicked-back hair and bright blue eyes.

“Oh, my,” the priest mumbled again. He thought this must be Miss Spratling’s private shrine to the young Elvis Presley.

“That’s my Clint,” Gerda said, standing up from her cushioned kneeler. “The soul for whom we pray this night.”

Father Murphy reached for his handkerchief, dabbed at his damp brow.

“Clint was my fiancé,” Miss Spratling said. “I remain his eternal bride!”

The priest sponged more sweat. “How lovely.”

“Sharon?” Miss Spratling called out. “Get on your knees. Clint needs your prayers, too. Tonight he needs all our prayers!”