by Marnie Vinge
After a while, though, Dr. Wolsieffer came around.
Birdie had never taken either of them for religious, and his sudden interest in the congregation challenged her ideas about him. Something was shifting in his relationship with Vanessa and he devoted more and more of his time to things outside of his home and his marriage. After things had ended with Ione, it seemed like he’d rededicated himself to his marriage. But something had changed.
She’d started going with him to the church at his request. Vanessa hated it. She was always there. And it seemed that she resented her husband for bringing his assistant. In spite of all the turmoil between Dr. Wolsieffer and his wife, they stayed together. Their fates entangled with each other in a way that Birdie couldn’t yet understand.
The preacher that led the congregation was an old man. He went by Brother Martin, though Birdie was uncertain there was much of any order in who was called what within the Unitarian church. A charismatic man, he took Dr. Wolsieffer under his wing.
Brother Martin surprised Birdie. He didn’t look at her the way that so many older religious men did. When Martin spoke, he looked Birdie directly in the eye. He asked her opinion on things. He treated her like an equal, like a human being instead of a woman. It seemed all too often that in religion, the word woman was something dirty to be spat out like a curse. But Brother Martin wasn’t like that at all, and Birdie found herself drawn to him just as Dr. Wolsieffer had been.
And then Martin got sick.
Dr. Wolsieffer had ingratiated himself within the flock. He’d become Brother Martin’s right-hand man. The way he juggled the responsibilities of professor and preacher’s assistant baffled Birdie. The two positions seemed to be so delicately juxtaposed that a stiff wind would have made the entire thing fall apart.
But when Brother Martin died, quite the opposite happened.
Dr. Wolsieffer took the pulpit.
He preached in a way that Brother Martin had only dreamed of. The way that he commanded his classroom was only a preview of Dr. Wolsieffer the proselytizer. The Sunday morning that he took over, Birdie would remember always.
Martin had asked him to take his place. The congregation expected it. They’d begun to look to Dr. Wolsieffer—Tom to them—as a surrogate leader. He’d become inextricably linked to the church. He began to let some of his other responsibilities within the university slide. Birdie picked up the slack, becoming more and more invaluable to him each day.
On this Sunday, though, she was a spectator.
He took the pulpit, the crowd barely murmuring. And then he looked out over them.
“Good morning,” he said.
The crowd echoed it back at him.
“As you all know, we lost a great man last week,” Dr. Wolsieffer said. “A great man that had become a mentor to me and showed me a way of living that I never knew before. I met Brother Martin at a university function, and he invited me here. I came as an outsider and left as one of you,” he said.
A few people muttered Amen.
“Before Martin died, though, he gave something to me,” Dr. Wolsieffer held up a traveler’s notebook. Pieces of paper struggled to burst from the binding. It was filled to maximum capacity with Martin’s writings. “He showed me something in these notebooks that I want to share with you,” he said.
He unbound the book and opened it.
“This is the way, as it was laid down to me by God,” he read. He went on to preach the first sermon in what would become The Way. Brother Martin had laid out the plan to live a life free from pain and Dr. Wolsieffer had taken up the mantle. He stirred the passions of the congregation, riding the wave of Martin’s charisma and melting it into his own.
“This is the true way!” he cried out, holding the book over his head. The people cheered and listened eagerly. “This is the path that God has chosen for us to follow!”
Birdie watched as the people who’d come as members of a congregation left as disciples of Tom Wolsieffer.
It was shortly after that when Dr. Wolsieffer came to Birdie with her first real assignment as his assistant. This no longer had to do with getting his laundry or his caffeine fix; this was important.
“I want you to help me write this,” he said one evening in his office when they’d worked late.
“Write what?” Birdie asked.
Dr. Wolsieffer thumbed through Brother Martin’s notebook.
“The Way,” he said.
“Isn’t it already written?” Birdie asked.
“It needs to be cleaned up,” he said.
“I’d be happy to,” Birdie said.
That night, she didn’t realize what she’d agreed to. She didn’t realize that she would be doing almost all of the writing, adapting the passages to a modern audience, making changes where Dr. Wolsieffer decreed them.
She told him goodnight and turned for the door.
“Birdie,” he said.
She stopped.
“One more thing,” he said. “Call me Tom.”
Birdie smiled. She hated herself for it, but there was some small victory in earning the level of intimacy with him that he and her friend had shared. A small sense of pride swelled in her chest.
She left that night, not realizing what they’d started. It would be some time before she did. But she could say with certainty, years later, that she’d witnessed the very beginning.
IONE
“This is it,” Ollie says.
We stand on the edge of the compound. A series of cabins line the trees and a larger house—Tom’s house—looms at the end of them next to a series of buildings that I assume function as common areas, a cafeteria maybe.
We walk past the cabins. People sit on porches in lawn chairs. They seem to be in good spirits. In the distance, I can make out the shapes of official looking vehicles close to the front of the property. Some of the people walking around Tom’s compound carry guns with them. I notice a handgun holstered at the hip of one woman and a rifle on the back of another. A man with what looks like an AR-15 walks past us and smiles at the three guys. He eyes me skeptically.
“Journalist,” Ollie says to him with a smile. “Don’t mind the stares. It’s been a while since someone from the outside paid us a visit.”
The thought isn’t comforting. I wonder how many times an outsider came in and didn’t leave. Hopefully never. We keep walking.
The house—Tom’s house, I assume—is beautiful. Built anywhere else, it would be the envy of a neighborhood. Easily three thousand square feet, it boasts a wrap-around porch that spans the entire perimeter of the structure. Wind chimes hang in the trees that brush their branches against the roof. Two stories, it dwarfs the tiny cabins that the rest of the community is living in. I briefly wonder how long something like that takes to foster a nice healthy sense of resentment.
But these people don’t seem to resent Tom. They seem happy to be here. Here with him until the bitter end.
Which doesn’t seem to be too long a time from now. Not with those armored vehicles sitting near the cattle guard.
“Has anyone gone in or out since this all started?” I ask Ollie.
“No,” he says.
So, I’m the first. It’s an honor I never wanted. I think of Birdie and remind myself of why I’m here in the first place.
“You think there’s any chance I could get to see the pregnant girl?” I ask, treading the waters of the conversation lightly, hoping that an alligator doesn’t lurk in the depths.
Ollie looks at me sharply. There’s something in his expression, a brief plea. He wipes it away with a smile that’s less than happy.
“Doubtful. Jeff radioed in that we’d found a journalist, I think,” Ollie nods over at Jeff as we approach the house.
Jeff nods back.
“Boss wants her in the sweat lodge,” he says.
Ollie shrugs.
“I take that as a ‘no’ on seeing the pregnant girl,” I say.
“No can do,” Ollie responds. “But I’ll take you
to the sweat lodge.”
And with that, we turn and leave the other two.
The walk to the sweat lodge seems to stretch on endlessly. The idea that Tom is waiting there hovers behind me like a demon breathing down my neck. I wipe my palms on my jeans, keenly aware of how nervous I am and hating myself for it.
“Why the sweat lodge?” I ask Ollie, trying to make light conversation—trying to make this seem like anything other than what it is.
“Tom thinks it levels the playing field. He thinks we’re all equals in there,” he shrugs.
It’s as good a reason as any and I’m not in a position to argue, so we walk on.
The sweat lodge is a circular structure. It looks like someone cobbled it together fast and in a hurry. Arced beams support the weight of the walls and a wool curtain hangs over the only door in or out. Ollie points.
“He’s waiting for you,” he says.
The words constrict around my throat like a fist. My vision blurs at the edges and my heart thunders against my ribs.
I reach for the wool curtain and glance back at Ollie. And then I step into the past.
Inside, the temperature soars into the triple digits. The gloom of the darkness envelopes me in a moment that feels like a small death. I feel my skin as though it sits more tightly on my muscles in the heat. Three candles burn in the center of the lodge, providing just enough light that I make out the shape of a person across the room. A man.
Tom.
He turns, having heard me enter. His silhouette grows clearer with each step. The candles glow off of his face, which looks gaunt. He looks like a ghost. He wears glasses now. His hair is longer, around the shoulders.
I step forward cautiously, like a zoologist, returned to Africa after years gone, to meet the beast I’d raised from a cub. I hope he recognizes me.
And he does.
My heart rate quickens. He’s a different man now. He’s drawn and stressed. He’s not the same Tom that I knew. Whatever is going on here, he’s no longer in control. And it shows.
I watch as his expression morphs from stoicism into something softer. It’s as if his exterior melts. And the visage it reveals is heartbreaking.
Time has aged him. Time and whatever has passed during those years. His jeans hang from his hipbones. He rests a hand in his belt loop and steps forward toward me, the candles illuminating his face entirely now, casting shadows into the hollows of his cheeks.
“My God,” he says, breathless.
“It’s me,” I say with a sad smile.
“It’s you,” he repeats.
He takes another step forward. His face cracks into a smile. He’s grateful.
“I can’t believe this,” he laughs. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw. On the news,” I say. It’s enough.
Tom, though, assumes that my concern is for him.
“Ione, I—” he starts.
“We don’t have to do that,” I raise a hand to stop him. “I just needed to come.”
He steps so close now that only inches separate us. In spite of the time that’s passed, I can still feel it—that energy that passed between us so long ago—and I brace myself against it, like someone bolting a door to keep out a hurricane.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he says, his voice a glass about to shatter.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say. “It can still be okay.”
“It can’t,” he says, resigned.
“Tom, it can,” I say. “They just want to talk to you.”
He becomes sullen, retreating into himself, but then he looks at me again and it’s like life is breathed back into him. Like I’m an oasis and he’s been stranded in the desert. I don’t want to tell him it’s only a mirage.
He reaches a hand towards my own at my side. He touches it and interlaces our fingers. My body reacts. I let my wrist relax against his grip, allowing him to bring my hand up to his chest.
“God, I’ve missed you,” he says.
The words come out of me before I can stop them.
“I’ve missed you, too.”
And it’s not a lie.
Not a day has passed in the last seven years that the shadow of my relationship with Tom hasn’t grown long over someone else’s love. I immediately think of Wes.
Tom leans close to me, his breath in my ear.
“I don’t want to miss you like that again,” he says.
The words hold the hint of violence. The idea that he wouldn’t let me leave this place even if I wanted to. Not now that I’ve come. Not now that he’s been relieved after waiting for me for so long. Dread creeps up my spine like someone scaling a rock face, using my ribs as hand and footholds.
He bends down, his face only an inch away. I lean back.
He holds my hand and brings it to his mouth. He kisses the back of it and lets it fall.
“There’s something I want to show you,” he says.
I reel from the force that moves between us as he steps around me in the darkness. I turn to see him pull back the wool curtain, daylight spilling into the sweat lodge.
“Come with me,” he says, a smile playing at his lips.
I follow him, and together, we leave the darkness behind.
VANESSA
After lunch, Vanessa goes for a walk. Aside from her yoga practice, walking is the second-best form of meditation for her. And she has a lot she wants to clear out of her mind. The clutter created by her encounter with Birdie and the fact that she had slaughtered an animal need to be purged. She mentally waves a smudge stick around the dusty recesses where she keeps such thoughts before they become memories, wiping her subconscious clean like a chalkboard after a particularly strenuous math lesson. Just like a chalkboard, though, the ghostly images linger of what she’s done.
She passes several groups of people murmuring to each other. When she approaches, they back off of the conversations, greeting her. Finally, at the last group, she presses them about the topic they discuss.
“Is something going on?” she asks, her voice high and cheerful as a windchime.
One of the younger girls in the group speaks up before the others can silence her.
“A journalist. The guys found one down by the creek, apparently. They brought her back up here.”
A journalist? Vanessa thinks. Her first reaction is a bristling against the idea of an outsider coming in. She guards herself against such reactions, noting that it’s a side effect of living in such a remote place. This could be beneficial, she tells herself. A journalist might be just the distraction that Tom needs for her to be able to get Birdie out from under his thumb.
She turns on the path and heads back for the house.
Inside, their home is quiet. She goes to Tom’s study, looking for him. Jeff stands, shelving some books that had been open on the desk.
“Where’s Tom?” Vanessa asks.
Jeff looks up from his task, startled. Vanessa’s presence casts a dark aura on the room, she knows. She’s aware that people treat her differently than Tom. She’s also aware that she would have handled the entire situation better than he has so far.
It wouldn’t have escalated to this point. Irritation prickles her skin like an unwanted advance from a potential lover. She’s suddenly aware of the balmy temperature in the room.
“He went to meet with the journalist,” Jeff says, his eyes not entirely meeting Vanessa’s.
“Where did they go?” she asks.
“Sweat lodge,” Jeff looks out the window, gesturing towards the structure.
Vanessa turns on her heel, the information enough. She makes no attempt at thanking Jeff or bridging the gap that looms between them. It seems that while these people worship the ground that Tom walks on, they treat her in the an entirely different fashion: like a crazy person one tick of the clock away from exploding.
The thought arouses a sense of paranoia that Vanessa has long since tried to banish. It’s a paranoia that she hasn’t felt since Mark. A sense of being wa
tched and judged and ganged up on that she’s done her best to overcome. But if she’s being honest with herself, if there’s any place where it might be true, it’s Kenton.
Her pace quickens, her footsteps punctuating each suspicious thought. She wonders what he’s saying to the journalist and how she can subvert him. How she can take this situation and mold it like a clay figurine into what she needs it to be.
She reaches the sweat lodge and pulls back the wool curtain, taking one last breath of the clear outside air before stepping into the heat of the structure in front of her. Inside, it’s almost pitch-black. Three candles burn at the center, casting a ghostly glow only a matter of feet outward. Warmth envelopes her like a womb. Her eyes adjust, picking up the lines of light at the base of the lodge.
There’s no one here.
She throws the wool curtain back open, stepping into the sunlight. Her eyes adjust to the brightness just as slowly. Pain sparks behind them, a dull reminder that she should shield them.
She brings a hand up and the world comes into focus. People litter the porches of the cabins. There’s laughter, even despite the situation. Vanessa walks on past the row of homes on toward the cafeteria and the library.
And that’s when she sees him.
Tom.
And the journalist.
They slip into the library and Vanessa catches sight of a golden ponytail that sparks a memory that feels like fire.
She knows that hair.
She knows that girl.
That very girl ruined her marriage.
IONE
I follow Tom up to the building. He leads me to an aluminum structure. It’s something that, in Oklahoma, you wonder how it will survive the spring. But just like the movement Tom has fostered, it seems to be doing just fine.
He opens the door and inside is a library. Shelf after shelf of books stand, neatly ordered, across the room. Bookshelves climb the walls like ivy, reaching the ceiling. Ladders stand on either side, making access to the highest tomes possible. The room is something. It’s no wonder Tom is proud of it.
