Flock of Wolves

by Emily Kimelman

  Tom put his arm around me and pulled me close to him.

  "What's going on? Please, Anita. Let me help you." I shook my head. "I can't lose you again." There was a beat of silence. "I'll come with you."

  My head jerked up, and I looked at him. "You can't. You can't give up your life for me."

  I'd never give up my life for him.

  "I can," Tom said, his voice deep and rough. "And I will." He took my hand and led me off the elevator and out onto the street. A mist made the street lamps look like crystal balls. Tom hailed a taxi, and I blindly got in with him.

  "Where to?" he asked me.

  "London City Airport," I said.

  The taxi merged into traffic. Tom's fingers stayed entwined with mine.

  Could I let him come with me? Could I have faith in this? Could we be together?

  I wanted all of those answers to be yes.

  Tom looked like he belonged in the luxurious cabin of the private plane. He was typing on his iPhone, sending an email to his firm, telling them he was taking an emergency leave of absence.

  He'd called his mother from the airport and explained that he'd be in contact again soon—that he was taking a much-needed vacation.

  The way he was just giving up his life, just dropping all the things he had worked for, astounded me.

  Then again, I'd done the same thing when I left him. Years of establishing myself as a reporter, establishing myself as his wife, and I'd walked away from all of it because I wanted something else. I wanted freedom, and the knowledge that I could stand on my own.

  And now Tom was giving up everything because he wanted me.

  It felt too good, to be loved like that. I'd always known that he enjoyed spending time with me, that I could make him laugh, but I'd always felt stifled by his position, by his social status.

  And now he was taking himself out of that world for me.

  Rida came into my mind again. She may still be alive. Or perhaps she had been murdered or taken her own life, and whoever had saved Sydney Rye was someone else entirely.

  But I didn't think so. Rida had changed. Maybe she'd lost her mind and thought she was hearing the voice of God. Or maybe she'd gotten so sick of the abuse, of that constant oppression that all women of color feel, that she'd decided to do something crazy.

  She understood the power of faith. The power of religion. It's what kept her parents in Syria even as Isis came for them.

  It's what drove Isis.

  And now it was driving women all over the world to, for the first time in their lives, recognize their value.

  I scrolled through my own phone messages. April Madden's Madison Square Garden appearance had gone viral. Even as some people were celebrating her message, she was being attacked as anti-male and anti-Christian.

  She had a lot more enemies than followers, if the comments on the YouTube clips were to be believed.

  But the fact that she was getting this traction, that this message was spreading, whether it was people's outrage over it, or faith in it, didn't matter. The Internet didn't care if something was good or bad, only if it connected.

  What about Joyful Justice's message? We'd always been very careful to have a simple message.

  We fight for justice.

  If you need help, you can come to Joyful Justice, and we will train you and help you defeat your enemies. But, as the Internet raged with the Her prophet’s message, as God’s name was thrown around, appearing to be on everybody's side, where did Joyful Justice stand?

  April claimed to be the mother of the Miracle Woman. That her daughter, Joy Humbolt, wasn't dead, but alive and wreaking havoc in Isis territory. People were starting to believe her.

  She'd had a following as the wife of an evangelical preacher. And now she was creating one of her own.

  Something sparked in my mind. A realization that I shied away from at first.

  Joyful Justice needed a manifesto. We needed an outline of our plans, a clear set of rules for everyone to follow.

  And I was the one to write it.

  I looked over at Tom again, and his eyes flicked up to me. He smiled.

  A shiver ran over my body.

  Did he understand what he'd gotten himself into? Was there any possibility he could know?

  Maybe he didn't care. Clearly he had faith in me. In us.

  That faith gave me strength. I felt it welling up inside me. This was the strength of connection. This was the strength of community, partnership.

  I felt it with Joyful Justice, and yet I stayed hidden. I'd hidden behind Twitter handles and Facebook accounts, because I didn't want to be imprisoned. I didn't want to be on the run. I didn't want to be a fugitive.

  But that time had passed. It was time for me to come out. It was time for me to step from behind the curtain.

  "Do you have any paper with you?" I asked Tom.

  He smiled and cocked his head. "Sure," he said, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a yellow legal pad and a pen. He passed it to me.

  "What are you working on?"

  "I have an idea..." My old instincts crowded in, telling me not to share with him. Telling me to keep it close to my breast until it was perfect. Until I'd constructed the perfect argument. But I gathered my strength to push past that instinct, and I said, "I'm writing a manifesto. Will you help?"

  He stared at me for a moment, his expression unchanged, and then a grin spread across his face.

  "I'd love to."

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Devil's Path

  April

  Bill's laugh traveled through the telephone, sending tingles of fear down my spine. "You've got nothing on me anymore. If you expose me, I'll expose you right back as a blackmailer." His words bit into me. He was right.

  "I did it to spread the message," I said, my voice soft. I sounded beaten.

  "No one wants to work with you. And they'll want to work with you even less if they find out that you're a blackmailer." Each word spread like venom through my veins, poisoning me.

  I stood up from the bed and paced away until the phone cord tugged me back.

  "I am going to speak at your next big gathering," I said, keeping my voice calm, trying to sound strong.

  He laughed again. "You're not. And no one is going to give you a radio or TV show.”

  "My sermon is getting more views than any of yours ever have. Someone will help me spread this message. If it's not you, it'll be others. We will not be silenced." I sat down on the bed, feeling a great weight on my shoulders.

  "The sermon might be getting a lot of views, but so is the video of you in Syria. Holding an AK-47. Jesus, April. I didn't even recognize you. You're not a woman of God anymore. You're working with the devil." His voice dripped with disgust.

  "I am not." I shot to my feet. "You wouldn't know the voice of God if it was screaming in your ear!"

  "I am a man of God. And I have sinned and I have repented." His voice began to take on that lulling, sing-songy quality he had when talking about his faith. That tone that had brought him so many followers.

  I'd watched the video of my sermon at Madison Square Garden. I had passion and a good story, but couldn't match his showmanship.

  But the comments on my video didn't care about that…death threats had been pouring in. I'd had to get a new phone number because an anonymous handle on Twitter released the number and the calls had been non-stop.

  You'll die bitch.

  I'll fuck you before I kill you.

  You deserve to be raped and murdered.

  "April, now listen to me," Bill said, talking to me like I was a child. Like I didn't know my own mind. Like I didn't know God's will. "I'm willing to take you back. Let's go to the ranch. We'll figure out what to do about this together, how to get you out of this mess."

  My heart hammered in my chest. There was a part of me that wanted to do that. To fall into his arms.

  Wives, submit yourselves to your husbands, as unto the Lord.- Ephesians 5:22

 
You decide your own value.

  "No, Bill, I'm not done yet."

  "I won't be able to help you soon, April. If you don't repent, you'll be lost. ‘Women should remain silent in the churches. They are not allowed to speak, but must be in submission, as the law says.’ First Corinthians 14:34"

  I slammed down the phone, anger coursing through me.

  Then I heard that whisper, that slithering voice in my head, telling me...just one little drink.

  My eyes locked onto the mini-bar. I knew what was in there. Little bottles filled with liquor. Vodka would smell so good. Taste so good. Give me just a little rest.

  You deserve it; you've been working so hard. It's a good idea to take a break. That's when solutions come.

  I walked over to the fridge and opened it up. Just to take a look.

  Bill was wrong. I could do this. I had to have faith.

  I slammed the fridge closed and paced away from it. But I was drawn back to it like magnet to metal. Like waves to the beach.

  The cracking sound of the little cap coming off sent ripples of pleasure through me. I'd just give it a sniff. Not drink it. Just one little sniff.

  The Gray Goose smelled like an old friend, like home. It was as if I had been on a long journey and walked back into my kitchen. It wrapped me in the comfort of familiarity.

  My lips parted, and the plastic rim touched my tongue as I took just one little sip.

  Just enough to ease the tension. And help me think.

  But one turned into another. And then another. And soon I moved on to the brown, to the bourbon and the rye. Then I was in his arms, the devil wrapped around me, his tongue down my throat and his voice controlling my mind.

  Stinging cold hit my face, and I gasped, sucking in water, sputtering and coughing. Lunging upward.

  A strong hand held me down. They were drowning me!

  "You stay in that water." Her voice was harsh, not to be trifled with.

  I turned my face away, gasping for air, escaping the freezing water. It soaked my clothing, and I shook with the cold.

  "April!" A hand slapped my face so that my gaze suddenly faced upward.

  Cynthia hovered above me, her shirt splattered with water, her brows knit together. I stared up at her as the freezing water poured down over my head, and my teeth chattered. We were in the bathroom at the hotel. What happened?

  My mouth felt coated in grime. I swallowed, tasting liquor. I groaned, my head throbbing. Cynthia reached up and turned off the hand shower.

  Tears, hot against my freezing face, dripped down my cheeks. A giant sob racked me. I failed. I couldn't do this—the devil won.

  Cynthia stood, and offered her hand to me. I didn't take it. I couldn't get out of the tub. Couldn't do any of it. I shook my head.

  "Take my hand," Cynthia demanded.

  "No, I can't. The devil has me."

  "Only if you let him. Now give me your hand."

  I looked up at Cynthia, my vision blurred with tears. Her pudgy cheeks were pink, her mouth a thin line of determination. "I won't let the devil have you," she said, her voice loud in the small bathroom.

  "But, how can I? How can I preach if no one will listen?"

  "You'll preach the way you were meant to. The way God wants you to." Cynthia reached down and grabbed my bicep, hauling me up. I wavered on unsteady bare legs, icy water dripping off my T-shirt.

  Cynthia grabbed a towel off the rack and threw it over my head. She scrubbed at my hair, shaking me so that I almost fell. But she held me up.

  I felt like a child under her ministrations. "Now you listen to me," Cynthia said, pulling the towel down to my shoulders and wrapping it around them. "We've got work to do. A message to spread. You're important."

  She was looking straight into my eyes—hers were the color of the Caribbean Sea. I wanted to be by that sea. I wanted to sit in a lounge chair with a margarita in my hand and disappear into that beauty.

  Cynthia helped me out of the tub and escorted me back into the bedroom. She pulled out clothing, outfits we'd bought together. Skirts and jackets that we felt were modest and yet powerful.

  The price tags were high. New York decided the value of these clothes. And people judged your value on what you wore.

  How could the prophet's message ever reach enough people without television or radio?

  I picked up my phone, and Cynthia grabbed it out of my hand.

  "I don't want you looking at your phone anymore." Cynthia said, throwing it onto the side table.

  "Why not?" I asked, trying to reach for it. She picked it up and shoved it into her jean pocket.

  "Because, the things people are saying about you are nasty. And they're not going to help. They're going to drive you back to the bottle."

  She dusted off the jacket she wanted me to wear and threw it onto the bed.

  "I'll run downstairs and get a cup of coffee. You get dressed. You have a sermon to give."

  "I do? Where?"

  "Just because we can't get on TV right now—" Cynthia said, turning to me, her hand on the doorknob. "Doesn't mean you can't preach the word. I reached out to our sisters in Florida, and they reached out to their families here. You've got two churches to speak at tomorrow.”

  She opened the door and left, taking my phone with her.

  My stomach twisted, and I had to lunge into the bathroom to grab the toilet bowl in time. I heaved, bringing up all that was left in my stomach. The disgusting taste of old alcohol and stomach acid filled my mouth.

  How could I do this?

  My stomach lurched as I entered the church, and the scent of wood polish caught me. If there had been anything left in my stomach, I would have lost it.

  But I was empty.

  My head throbbed, and my heart hammered as Cynthia and I moved down the aisle, slipping into one of the front pews.

  The minister was a friend of a friend of Cynthia's. Young and interested in what I had to say, he'd watched the video of my sermon and was willing to let me speak. He came up to us as the pews filled with worshippers.

  "April, Cynthia, wonderful to meet you," he smiled, revealing dimples.

  "Thank you for having us, Father." I smiled as he took my hand.

  His hazel eyes held mine as we shook. "I look forward to hearing you speak." He excused himself to prepare for the service, and Cynthia and I waited for the show to begin.

  This part of Queens was still middle-class people—some of the few surviving real New Yorkers. While Manhattan became overrun by the super-rich and Brooklyn by all those godless young people with tattoos and piercings, out here a normal family could still scrape by.

  In a way it reminded me of the town I'd grown up in—Beacon, New York. An industrial city in the last century, Beacon had been left to die on the shores of the Hudson River along with the fish and other animals poisoned by the chemicals from the manufacturing boom.

  But here, in the midst of a thriving metropolis, they still had work.

  The people that filled the pews around us were dressed in their Sunday best: cheap fabrics and ill-fitting clothing. But they were clean, and pious, and ready to listen.

  A buzzing filled my ears as the minister took to his pulpit. I couldn't hear a word until Cynthia nudged me.

  "And so I'll ask you to listen to her. And, as Bill said, make your own choice."

  He gestured for me to come to the stage, and I stood, my head spinning from the hangover and the lack of food. But as I made my way up to the pulpit my stomach settled, and the throbbing behind my eyes dulled. I faced the crowd and took a moment to survey them.

  Unlike the stage in Madison Square Garden, I could see their faces. I could see the children squirming, the men dozing, and the women looking haggard and tired—all of them staring at me, waiting for me to speak.

  "I never would have believed in a modern-day prophet if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes," I said.

  My voice echoed through the nave, confusing me. The sound system wasn't set up properly. Like the par
ishioners’ clothing, it was ill-fitting and cheap.

  But, I forged on.

  "Can we all not agree that we must decide our own value?" People shifted in their seats, but nobody nodded. Nobody agreed.

  I faltered, the congregation watching me, their eyes narrowing. They didn't want to hear this. I wasn't making sense. I stepped away from the microphone, the echo too much for my throbbing head.

  "Can you all hear me in the back?" I called, projecting my voice.

  I saw a few nods.

  "I want to tell you my story. And I thank you for listening."

  I told them how my own belief that I knew better than God had lost me my children. "Because I thought to judge as God judged, I turned my children away."

  A few heads nodded. Mostly women. A few men's faces turned sterner. Judging was a pastime, a reason to come to church. It made you better than your neighbors.

  I went on, telling the same story I told to Cynthia and her friends, the same story I told in Madison Square Garden. When I was done, I returned to the microphone. A bible sat open on the pulpit, and I touched it, running my fingers over the smooth, thin paper.

  "Thank you," I said, my voice echoing back to me. "Thank you for listening."

  I sat down next to Cynthia; she smiled and nodded at me. I hadn't whipped the crowd into a frenzy the way that I'd done in Madison Square Garden.

  Yet it was the same story. So what was different here?

  When the service ended I stood and made my way toward the exit with Cynthia. A woman stopped me, a child asleep on her chest, a toddler holding onto her hand.

  "You really think we decide our own value?" She asked me.

  "I do," I said.

  Her eyes ran up and down my suit, taking in the expensive clothing.

  "You've obviously got money." She said it like an accusation, as though somehow that made me evil, made me wrong.

  And that's when it occurred to me. This wasn't like Bill's church.

  These people came here to stay out of hell. They came here for protection. People came to Bill's church for heaven. They wanted to sow the seed that would bring them wealth. Sow the seed that would bring them salvation.