Scapegoat

Abstract

Shadows of snow dance outside the windows, transparent gold and red and blue, lit by the streetlight. It was snow that got Vern. Thin bare branches of a maple tree scratch the stained glass window near Caleb’s pew. Caleb feels like a self-righteous, self-appointed judge who doesn’t know what he is doing here. Everybody has come— spectators in a circus to see the fat lady with the beard, the hermaphrodite, the dwarf with two heads. Everybody has come to see Vern, to stare and gawk at an aberration, to thank God that by his grace none of them are like Vern, at least none of them are Vern.