Those Who Prey

by Jennifer Moffett

  “You mean, Andrew isn’t around the corner waiting for me to disappoint him in Pictionary again?”

  Josh laughs, but his expression is still pensive. He looks like he’s struggling with an explanation, yet can’t figure out how to start.

  “Listen. I’m happy you did this,” I say, sensing enough of the upper hand to be assertive. “I mean, no one has ever made origami for me before.” I smile up at him. “It’s just… I don’t understand why you didn’t just call me to ask me out. I can go ahead and tell you the answer is yes.” I push at his chest playfully. He still looks serious.

  “But I couldn’t say yes. I mean, not yet, so we have to be careful.”

  I quietly trace my finger along the aquarium glass. A large fish glides by out of nowhere, startling me before swimming away. My emotions are shifting so quickly that it’s difficult to pinpoint anything beyond confusion. “Okay. I don’t understand.”

  “It … it’s complicated. There are rules I should be following, and you should too, until you’re saved.” He exhales as if relieved to have finally said it.

  I run my finger along my mother’s charm necklace out of habit. “What do you mean by saved?”

  “Saved means baptized. And Heather can make the road to that step very intense. Look. I want to hang out with you. Why do you think I’m taking this chance?” His eyes seem genuinely conflicted, and I let myself look into them a few seconds too long under the dim glow of the aquarium lights.

  “I’ve been studying with Heather every day. I’m even going to church with her soon.”

  Josh runs his hand through his hair. “There’s more to it than that. I mean, there’s more to learn in the BTs, and when you’re baptized, it’s probably a little different than what you’re thinking. You have to be dunked all the way underwater.”

  “That’s no big deal. Half my friends back home were baptized that way.”

  “But …” He fidgets with his shirt before looking into my eyes; his expression is earnest, almost vulnerable. “It’s so much more than a technicality,” Josh says.

  “What is it, then?” I ask. I narrow my eyes in concentration, eager to understand, yet also hoping it won’t be something like believing we’re all secretly inhabited by aliens from another planet. A mother with a stroller moves toward us to get a closer look at the glass. Josh and I step to the side, making room for them.

  “Okay,” he continues. He nudges my arm and we step into another empty spot by the glass for privacy. He’s almost whispering. “Just imagine the worst things that ever have happened to you. Or the worst decisions you ever made. Everything in your life you’ve ever regretted.” His eyes gleam with a sincerity so rare with guys my age. “Have you ever wanted to feel free of those things for good? To know there’s no way they can ever come back to haunt you?”

  “Yes,” I say without hesitation. I stare at the fish again, pretend to watch them swim, but Josh’s words are stirring something in a long-hidden corner of my heart. It’s hard to remember a time when I haven’t been generally depressed on good days and with acute heart-wrenching pain on the bad ones.

  “Here’s what I know,” he continues, breaking me out of my own thoughts. “Those negative things can be completely erased. All of it. Everything in your future can be freed from your past. I wish I could describe the feeling I had at my baptism. It was basically pure … relief.” His expression turns sheepish, like he’s a little embarrassed to have revealed something so personal.

  “It sounds amazing,” I say, eager to dispel any awkwardness. “I mean, sign me up for the zero-negativity life.” I lift my hand to mock-volunteer. Joking closes the door to the protected part of my heart that was stirring just moments ago.

  As Josh laughs, I can see relief replace his unease from before. Then he leans into me and brushes his fingertip along my cheek. “You’re amazing. Do you know that?”

  My head feels like it’s swimming sideways, even though I’m trying everything within my power to stay composed. “So,” I say, my protective defenses still up. “Important question. Once I’m dunked, do we still have to hide back here with these stingrays?”

  Josh lets out a laugh. “Only if you want to.” He gives me an amused side glance—a there’s-more-to-you-than-I-expected look—before casually taking my hand. As I twine my fingers into his, something hits me: Maybe it’s finally possible to be the real me here in Boston. Or an even better me. The confident almost-adult me living in a big city holding hands with a nice guy I could be really into.

  We stroll to another window and stop where the view appears so different that it seems like a completely separate world. A few elementary kids in school uniforms crowd to our window. They squeal and jump back as an enormous stingray glides up against it, revealing its stark underbelly. Josh gently pulls me away to walk through every corner of the entire aquarium, not saying much beyond pointing out cool fish, our hands still connected, until we finally have no other option than to spiral back down and exit the building.

  His hand lets go of mine when he opens the door, and my disappointment catches me off-guard. The brightness outside is blinding, maybe too bright to hold hands out in the open. We stand awkwardly, exposed in the afternoon sun after being in the dim aquarium, not knowing what to do next.

  “So …,” I say like an open-ended question.

  He looks around as if scanning the crowd before looking back at me with a strained expression. “So, can you promise me something?”

  I lift my chin, curious. “What?”

  “Listen. I know I already said not to mention our phone calls to Heather, but do you think we could keep today just between us? I feel terrible asking because she’s your friend. She may not understand, though….”

  I exhale a defiant sigh. “Understand what? We’re just … hanging out. I really don’t get why it’s such a big deal.” I glance away, annoyed by his mixed signals. Why would he kill the mood like this?

  Josh opens his mouth to say something, and then closes it. He lowers his voice and looks into my eyes. “It’s kind of a rule that I can’t quote-unquote officially hang out with you until you finish all the steps. No one wants you to feel pressured. And I really want to … hang out with you.” He smiles. Butterflies whirl through my body, dissipating some of my aggravation.

  While the secretiveness is annoying and I don’t like the idea of keeping things from my only friend in Boston, the Kingdom is clearly important to Josh. And if he’s willing to break the rules for me, the least I can do is keep quiet.

  Desperate to drag this day out as long as possible, I scan the Long Wharf harbor, past the flurry of people and tents. The toothpick masts of distant sailboats levitate above the water. A water horn blares off the triangular huddle of old brick buildings. My eye catches a ferry sitting restlessly in its dock. “Well, I don’t actually see Heather anywhere around here. Do you?”

  “Nope,” he says.

  “I think I know how we can hang out just a little bit longer today,” I say.

  This time, I take his hand and lead him to the dock.

  * * *

  “You’re late.” Heather tilts her head back and peers down her nose at me.

  I’m also sweaty and trying to catch my breath. After the ferry, I realized the time and rushed back to my dorm, but I wasn’t fast enough. Heather was already waiting for me at my door.

  “I’m so sorry. I lost track of time….” I trail off, not wanting to say too much.

  She makes a disgusted face as I walk past her into the room. “Why do you smell like fish?”

  “I was walking.” I fidget with my shirt. “By the river.”

  “Oh.” She sounds surprised I wasn’t out doing something to warrant a lecture. “Well, call me next time so I can go with you. Meredith has been on my case about exercising. I need to lose at least fifteen pounds to meet my goals.”

  I let out a relieved breath. “I promise.”

  “Listen, I have to go set up for our meeting, and you stink. Please
take a shower before you come. Your appearance directly affects my ability to lead—”

  “I’ll be ready,” I interrupt, already pulling clothes out of my closet.

  Her eyes narrow at my curtness. “Don’t be late,” Heather orders on her way out, closing the door with more force than necessary.

  The moment she’s gone, my eyes burn with tears. Her burst of negativity was unexpected. And it hurts knowing that Josh is probably right—she wouldn’t understand why we’re breaking the rules. Every time I start to feel like things are actually going well, obstacles stack themselves in front of me all over again. They stretch out in my mind as far as I can imagine: meetings, studies, classes, QTs, BTs, answering to Heather, knowing the right answers. I want to experience that sensation of our ferry boat detaching from land again, to feel Josh wrap his arm around my shoulder.

  Even though I’m grateful for the Kingdom community, the extra pressure of so many mandatory tasks is like being on a roller coaster that never slows down. And her rudeness just now was totally uncalled for.

  The urge to talk to my dad suddenly overpowers my ability to talk myself out of it. Maybe it will make us both feel better. I pick up the phone before I can reconsider it. My heart beats faster as I press the numbers. My dad’s paralegal, Jean, picks up on the other end.

  “Hey, it’s me, Em. Is my dad there?”

  Jean makes an apologetic moan on the other end of the line. “Oh, honey. You just missed them! They went up to Oxford. Didn’t he tell you?”

  He hadn’t. Then again, I couldn’t actually remember the last time we’d spoken directly. Patti and Jean have always fielded his updates when he’s busy with a trial. The heavy weight of regret settles in the pit of my stomach.

  “You could try him at the condo but there’s no telling where they are right now. He’s supposed to call for his messages, though. Do you want me to give him one?”

  “Just tell him I’m finally going to The Garden this weekend.” A rogue tear streams down my face. Jean doesn’t seem to notice my shift in tone.

  She laughs. “Ooooh! He’ll love that.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Thanks, Ms. Jean.”

  I’m staring at the Charles River but seeing the winding marsh behind our house where Dad grills steaks, tilts back Heinekens, and used to play with our old dog, Sasha. The dull ache of homesickness creeps into my chest. I shut it down with the end-click of my phone.

  All those times I didn’t call because I didn’t want to worry him, it never occurred to me he wouldn’t have been there anyway.

  STEP 7: Shine by example. Imitation leads to salvation.

  Cheap Imitation

  I’ve never imagined the Boston Garden in this context.

  Jam-packed Celtics game? Yes. Sold-out Grateful Dead concert? Yes. But a church service with eight thousand people in attendance is not something I expected to see in such a famous venue. The crowd rumbles in collective anticipation, like music fans right before a concert they’ve waited months to see.

  My dad once told me all about the parquet floor at “The Garden.” This was when he’d finally absorbed the fact that I was going to school up here. Dad was sharing trivial facts about a random subject (his way of bonding) when he told me the basketball court—made up of 247 wooden panels, to be exact—was notorious for “dead spots,” or places where the variation in wood affected the way the ball bounced. Only the home team knew exactly where the dead spots were hidden so they could use it to their advantage.

  I follow Heather in search of two adjacent empty seats in a sea of occupied rows that stretch down the curve facing the coliseum stage. A few college guys beside the aisle turn to check out Heather as I trail behind, embarrassed by the Laura Ashley outfit she’d picked out for me. We’re running late because she insisted on fixing my hair right before we left, which resulted in forty-five minutes of making spiral ringlets with a tiny curling iron. She carefully ran her fingers through the springy curls, turning them into soft waves, just like hers, as she reminded me to bring my donation for the Boston Needs program. “They pass around a donation plate during the service, so it’s better to have it ready before we get there.”

  Today, the air is charged with excitement. The crowd is boisterous and happy and diverse—far more than the churches back home. Rows of folding chairs line the floor facing the large stage, which is anchored by stacks of speakers and glossy-green plants. Small children are sprawled out drawing on their bulletins in front of the first row. When music starts playing, everyone rises to clap and dance, forming a chain with each person’s hands linked to the next person’s back. One song is familiar:

  People all over the world

  Join hands

  Start a love train, love train

  In between songs, I hear rapid-fire French behind me. There are couples with babies, older people, and young people (lots of young people) from all over the world. I’ve never seen so much enthusiasm during a religious ceremony, or so many different people coming together under the same roof of a church. Back home, churches always felt like an exclusive validation of preexisting social circles full of people who were already alike. This is the opposite. It’s like a multicultural Benetton ad for God—a place where everyone is not just welcomed, but also celebrated. I can’t stop looking around in awe. Heather flashes a knowing smile, like she knew I’d love this.

  I crane my neck, seeing if I can spot Josh in the crowd. Heather said all the college students attend the Boston Garden service. Then I remember the outfit she talked me into wearing, and I’m grateful to blend into the vast crowd of people.

  The singing stops abruptly and a palpable anticipation blankets the audience. It’s a Larry-Bird-shooting-a-free-throw-in-overtime kind of hush. All eyes are focused on the stage. Rows and rows of faces reveal the same eager expression. Then everyone around me, including Heather, begins pulling out little notebooks and pens.

  “Should I take notes?” I whisper to Heather.

  “It’s better if I take them for you at this point,” she whispers back. Then the Leader takes command of the stage. We’re too far away to see him clearly, but his face is projected onto the enormous JumboTron screen. He looks like a normal person around my dad’s age, maybe younger, with clean-cut blond hair and an expensive suit. He reminds me of the young trial lawyers Dad has over for dinner. I recognize the same confidence and swagger, that effortless ability to captivate any given audience. It’s his voice that draws me in. It has the assured instinct of knowing when to soothe and when to demand everyone’s attention.

  I settle into my seat and listen to the flow of words, the wave of laughter at his jokes, the occasional “amen” or “that’s right” from the crowd. Even though it’s so different from the tiny church where I grew up, the big crowd is exhilarating, like an affirmation we’re all on the same side, rooting for a worthy cause. It’s as if he’s placing a warm hand on our shoulders all at the same time, reassuring us he’s the chosen man who took the lead—the one who’ll bring us all home.

  “Today we’ve set a record! Eight. Thousand.” Wild cheering undulates through the crowd. I scoot to the edge of my seat and look around. A girl to my right unleashes an outburst of joy. The Leader lifts his hand to silence us. “Eight thousand disciples are here to celebrate our victory. God’s victory. What do you think about that?” I jump up, even before Heather, to cheer with everyone else. Swept away by the momentum of the crowd, my eyes are glued to the stage to see what happens next.

  “How many of you are good at math?” he asks. More cheering, with a few jeers from students, including Heather. I laugh as the Leader chuckles on stage. “Don’t worry. I struggled with it too, but I wrote it down beforehand. Here. See if you can follow this. A small group of Hebrews—just under a hundred—went into Egypt and came out four hundred years later two million strong. Less than twenty years ago, we started this very church in Boston with just thirty disciples of Jesus. Just look around you now! That’s nearly thirty times in growth. Now let’s
multiply some more, because that’s what we do.” He smiles. “We have plantings in Europe. In Australia. In Africa. In the South Pacific. And we have plans for every nation in this world. Now, it doesn’t take a math genius to figure out that it won’t take us four hundred years to reach our goal.”

  I picture this crowd multiplied in so many places, consumed by the same excitement of this service. It’s amazing, the number of people we could help around the world. The Leader pauses in the middle of the stage and pumps his fists. “We are going to reach one million by the year 2000, because a million followers can change the entire world!” Heather and I stand to cheer again. The crowd is frenzied. I’m mesmerized by the rows of captivated expressions, all focused on the Leader as he strides back and forth like a caged lion.

  “Now, here’s the hard part. For some, more than others, maybe,” he accuses the camera. “The good word says in our spiritual walk that we learn by imitation. That’s not coming from me. That’s coming from Paul, and he got it straight from the Lord. Imitation.” He pauses, leans into the audience, and lowers his voice as if disciplining a child. “And let me tell you this. If you are not following wholeheartedly, and I mean one hundred percent”—he pauses again—“then you are just a cheap imitation.” He says the last two words as if referring to something dirty and disgusting.

  I turn to Heather, who writes this down and underlines the words twice. The Leader stops talking for so long it makes me slightly anxious. Everyone waits in silence for him to continue, like at a concert when the band is trying to decide what to play next. A few church members finally call out their requests. Tell it! Go on! I lean forward just as he stops pacing. “True imitation leads to salvation. And we all know there is a heaven. Amen?”