No Parking at the End Times by Bryan Bliss Read Free Book Online

going to talk anymore. You know we’re waiting. You know we aren’t going anywhere, Lord.”
    I listen for Dad’s voice, hoping that he won’t agree. But his voice is so loud, so determined. I’d know that “Amen” anywhere.
    When we get to the van, Aaron sits in Mom’s seat and stares at the church like it might stand up and run away. He reaches over and turns on the van, cranking the heat high. The intensity is beautiful. We used to convince Uncle Jake to take us for rides in the back of his old Jeep, the top down even though it was winter. When he’d drop us off back at home, those first few steps inside the house felt exactly this way. But soon the heat becomes oppressive and the van starts to sputter. I move up to Dad’s seat and turn off the ignition.
    “What are you doing?” Aaron says, still staring at the church.
    “We can’t waste the gas. And besides, I was about to melt.”
    Aaron blows air through his lips. I pull my knees between the steering wheel and my chest. The van is already colder.
    “They’re never going to change,” he says.
    I don’t say anything, because I saw the way Dad ran up to Brother John after the service. They’re sitting in his office right now, talking. I was relieved when Mom handed us the keys. I’ve never felt comfortable around Brother John, or understood the draw. Same suit. Samewords. Same everything. He doesn’t look like any other pastor we’ve ever had before. They all dressed nicely, like businessmen. Brother John dresses like a man running out of time. Nothing’s ever ironed and there are stains on his lapel, on his tie—which never lasts too long around his neck. Nothing about him makes sense.
    “What do you think they’re talking about in there?” I ask.
    “Jesus.”
    “Seriously.”
    “What else would they be talking about?” he says. “That’s all they ever talk about.”
    It’s true, of course. Brother John never asks how we’re doing. He never invites us over for a meal or offers a shower. All he’s ever done is invite us to church.
    The doors of the building open and light pours into the parking lot. The people who leave look different than the ones who arrived. Newer, fresher—I can’t say why. And that’s how I want to feel. It’s something I’ve never been able to explain to Aaron, even when we weren’t living in our van. But I ask myself: Would I take it right now? Would I swallow a pill—say a prayer—that makes me forget everything? That lets me be as happy and confident aseverybody coming through those doors?
    Dad and Mom appear in the doorway. Mom is wearing his jacket, covering the wool coat she’s had forever. Aaron looks at them and then back to me.
    “Don’t forget why we’re here, Abs.”
    Dad steps in front of the van, doing the thing where he’s trying to seem mad but everybody knows it’s a joke. Sometimes he even wags his finger, which always gets him laughing more than us. Mom reaches for the door and Aaron is already up and moving to the back, that now-familiar vacant disappointment haunting his face. Dad knocks on the window.
    “Are you trying to freeze your old man to death?”
    He smiles and I unlock the door. As he climbs in, I look to the back. Aaron is already zipped up and invisible in the shadows.

FIVE
    AARON doesn’t say a word as we drive around looking for a spot to spend the night. But Dad and Mom won’t stop talking. Slowly, their voices begin to lower and the hum of the wheels on the road along with the radio, turned down until it’s just a rumor of sound, are a drug. I try to keep my eyes open, to focus on something other than the slow pull of sleep dragging me toward unconsciousness.
    I wake up startled, like a gun went off. Nobody in the van is moving, so I try to calm myself and find a comfortable place to rest my head against the cold window. I look out for a minute, and it’s as if the entire city is frozen.
    I turn around out of habit. When we were kids, I usedto get up in the