It is Risen

by H. Claire Taylor

  Turned out, what she needed was a drinking buddy.

  Gustav and my mother would down a fifth each for breakfast, and while the vodka mixed poorly with his temper, the beatings were generally short, because if I could wiggle free of his grasp, I could easily outrun him, as he was too out of shape to catch me. The alcohol also spared me the torment of seeing any perversions acted out in my mother’s bed at night.

  I was four. Yet I learned about the phenomenon of “whiskey dick,” as Mother and Gustav called it. She sometimes yelled at him for it, but he was unconscious for most of that, and she usually shouted herself to sleep before long.

  However, the fact remained: Gustav’s alcohol-induced erectile dysfunction was a divine blessing, and it was through that revelation at such a tender age that I began to recognize the full spectrum of God’s many blessings and the diversity of how they often manifested. Sometimes they took the form of a few twenty-dollar bills floating in the wind, sometimes they looked like the shotgun your no-good daddy left behind when he was carted off to jail that your mother would later use to save herself from perversion, and sometimes they looked like the limp genitals of a Soviet defector.

  And sometimes they looked like the foam frothing from the mouth of a Soviet defector as he convulsed on his back in the soupy mid-February mud, rain soaking his clothes in big, condensed drops filtering through the thick evergreen trees of the swamp. Sometimes God’s blessings sound like a garbled cry for help in harsh, broken English as a man clutches at his heart and his eyes bulge and he reaches out to the six-year-old boy standing over him whose nose is still swollen from the last beating if not from two straight years of similar beatings. And sometimes those same holy blessings feel heavy at first but reveal themselves in time and distance and through the elongation of memory as so obviously sent from the Almighty that one has the impulse to throw back one’s head and laugh, to bestow praise to the Merciful Father through jagged, unbridled mirth.

  The sin of sloth seems like a minor one on the surface. It is inaction. How can inactivity be as harmful as, say, wrath or greed? It seems almost like a self-contained sin.

  And that’s why it is the most insidious.

  Lazy is annoying. Lazy might also be frustrating. But in comparison to the effects of the other deadly sins and how obvious those are, it can be difficult to build a strong case against a person’s character when their fault is not doing enough. Folks like my mother—those practiced in the art of denial and neglect—can let sloth carry on for years before a final straw is tossed on the pile, and Kenny was the master of managing his own sloth.

  When those boiling points were near, and Kenny could see it in my mother’s eyes, he knew just what piece of action to take, what chore was nagging at her the most, that he could complete to buy himself another month of sitting on his backside on the couch, drinking beer and watching trash shows on the black and white TV Dale had stolen for us years before. When the screen went fuzzy, he’d holler at me until I came, then tell me to adjust the antennae, giving me precise orders to the eighth of an inch that were always wrong. And when they were wrong, he’d lob an empty at me, but he was no Gustav, and his muscles were weak, his vision blurry, and he couldn’t hit the broad side of a house with a rock if he were standing three feet away. Sometimes I would wait until I got the signal just perfect, then on my way out of the cramped living room, I’d knock an antenna with my elbow as if by accident, making the image snowier than before I’d begun tinkering.

  Kenny was always too lazy to get up and beat me for it, and if he got lucky and actually hit me with one of his bottles or cans, he lacked any real power behind the throw to make the pain from the knock outweigh the satisfaction of having put his mortal sin on such obvious display. The self-righteousness of the sabotage was the only high I ever experienced in those days.

  Kenny slept on the couch most nights, and my mother grew tired of him when I was nearing eight years old. Two years of his sloth was enough for her, even with his occasional displays of energy, and when she finally told him to get gone, he didn’t put up a fight, just grabbed what he could carry and walked out the front door and down the muddy dirt road until he, I suppose, disappeared from sight. I can’t say for sure because neither of us watched him go. Instead, I grabbed a large black trash bag and my mother and I cleaned up the empties he left behind before she grabbed the couch cushions and beat them until her hand was raw. But even so, the imprint of his backside stayed in those cushions until the day when, years later, the house mysteriously burned down. I can close my eyes and vividly imagine the flames licking up around the base of the couch, the dark and stubborn imprint of Kenny’s cheeks being the last holdout before the fire is fully satisfied and moves on to the side table, the wood paneling on the wall, the pile of dirty clothes that took up residence in the corner sometime before I was born and remained until the house was no more.

  Chapter Eight

  When Jessica had suggested Bat-Ass Brew as the meeting place for coffee—more out of lazy habit than good judgment—Mr. Foster had countered with, “That place is too pretentious even for me,” and suggested Java Hut instead. It was a bit longer of a walk for her, but as September moved along, a merciful breeze was starting to waft off Lady Bird Lake and cool the streets of downtown Austin.

  Java Hut was a much better spot, though as she walked in and inhaled the wholesome smell of freshly baked bread, a sharp sense of failure poked at her between her shoulder blades.

  Mr. Foster was already at a table, reading an actual newspaper and sipping his drink from a large mug.

  Brian. You have to call him Brian.

  It wasn’t the most difficult mental transition Jessica had made regarding her former teachers. Mr. Foster was so casual, being on a first name basis with him didn’t seem wrong like it did with Mrs. Thomas. Jessica would never feel okay calling her Dolores. For one, Dolores was a pretty awful name, but also, Mrs. Thomas would always be Jessica’s superior, whether she was in school or out.

  “Hey, Brian.”

  He glanced up from his read. “Morning, Jessica. Grab yourself something to drink and join me, won’t you?”

  She nodded and made her way to the counter, waiting awkwardly in line, fixating on the menu to avoid accidental eye contact with Brian. Outside of the phone call to schedule this meet-up, she hadn’t spoken to him since he’d witnessed her defensive smiting outside the Grease Trough.

  She’d since added a coffee date with Brian to her to-do list, and as she hit a brick wall with the item get funding for bakery, she decided not to let that halt her productivity entirely and moved onto the next item, which was this.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said a tired-faced girl behind the counter when Jessica made it to the front of the line.

  “I’ll have a—” Oh shit. She’d become such a regular at Bat-Ass Brew that she forgot what normal people called drinks. Ordering a Cherry Oldman or a Soynar would likely not translate.

  “Do you need a menu?” the girl asked, pointing to the giant one directly above her.

  “No, no. Just a coffee with room for cream.”

  While the barista got to work, two men in skinny jeans waiting in line behind Jessica continued a loud conversation that seemed more appropriate for the stage than a coffeehouse.

  “I totally couldn’t believe it,” said the tighter-pantsed man with a sleeveless shirt and handlebar mustache. “I was like, ‘Oh my god, is that guy seriously carjacking her right now?’ It was so wild.”

  The friend, who was sporting a green flannel shirt over a white tee and likely believed he was “rocking” his faux hawk, tsked and shook his head slowly as his friend spoke. Then he added, “See, you never expect something like that to happen in Austin. Part of the reason I moved here last month is that it’s such a safe city, you know?”

  “For sure.”

  The barista’s cranky voice cut in. “Coffee room for cream for whatever your name was.”

  Jessica grabbed her drink and shuffled over to the ta
ble, careful not to spill. She set it down and then took her seat, and Brian folded up his paper and tossed it onto the ground under his chair.

  “I’m glad you could make the time to visit me, Jessica. I’m sure you’re busy getting everything ready for the bakery.”

  “Um … yeah.” The smiting aspect of their last encounter had weighed so heavy on her she’d forgotten that, as far as Brian knew, she got the loan. Might as well pull off the band-aid quickly. “I didn’t get the loan like I’d thought, so I’ve been trying to figure out a plan B.”

  “Oh.” His shoulders slumped and he leaned back. “Well, maybe that’s for the best, I mean—”

  She held up a hand. “I know, the banking system is controlled by a secret coalition of neo-Nazi aborigines.”

  Brian froze, his head cocked to the side, eyes locked onto Jessica. He leaned forward stiffly in his seat. “That was not what I was going to say. And I suggest that not be something you say ever again, because that is mentally unwell rambling.”

  Jessica nodded, breathing a small sigh of relief that someone smart had refuted the conspiracy. A thorough Google search had been far less conclusive on the matter, resulting in little more than a newfound anxiety about ATMs. “Okay, good. I was just testing you. I didn’t believe it.”

  Brian relaxed. “I guess that means you did learn some semblance of critical thinking at Mooremont High, despite all odds against it.”

  She nodded confidently and coolly. “Psh, who would believe such a dumb conspiracy, even for a second? Not me.”

  “No, what I was going to say is that maybe it’s for the best because receiving a big sum of money from a cold credit union devoid of morality can be more of a curse than a blessing, especially when you’ve never started a business before. There are other ways to amass capital.”

  “Like?”

  He straightened in his chair, wrinkles appearing on his forehead. Had he not expected her to ask? “Well, working for it and saving up. Perhaps even asking friends you trust and who care about you—”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He sipped his coffee. “Hmm.”

  Ah yes, she’d almost forgotten how nuanced his judgmental looks could be. “What?”

  “That’s just a strong reaction. Nothing inherently wrong with asking for help, Jessica.”

  “Yes, there is. I mean, maybe not for you, but for me, yeah. If I ask for anything, I get a target slapped on my back. I assume you’re not on Twitter?”

  Brian groaned and Jessica took his point.

  “Of course not. So let me fill you in. I was upset about not getting the loan, I tweeted about it, and just that simple act of saying I couldn’t do something on my own—not even asking for help, just mentioning that I wasn’t able to do it all myself—got me labeled the Moochsiah.”

  Brian sucked in air sharply. “Ooo. That’s a good one.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean, that’s really going to stick.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Brian, I know.”

  “Sorry. I get your point. And I see why you’re sensitive to it, but it doesn’t sound like you’ve actually asked your friends to help. Like I said, there’s nothing inherently wrong with asking for help, but there are wrong people and institutions to ask for it. But friends, the ones who really care about you, are fine to ask. Evolutionarily speaking, that’s why we make friends, so we have help. I mean, you know Chris, poor sucker, would die for you. And I’m sure you made some friends in college who would help out.” Judging by the way his vocal pitch raised at the end, he wasn’t sure of that, but Jessica nodded begrudging confirmation, and he continued. “See? Just ask those people. Don’t ask the masses. Never ask the masses. The masses are composed of decent people who have lost all decency.”

  “I’ve missed your practical optimism,” she said dryly.

  “You’ve missed my point, I think, too. If you’re going to be in debt to anyone, make it the people who you don’t mind paying back. If I could afford to help you, for example, I would. Unfortunately, while working in school administration in Austin pays more than it did in Mooretown, cost of living here is an absolute nightmare, and so I find myself living in an apartment that sometimes has water that is occasionally warm—though I suspect that’s more from the sun beating down on the exposed pipes than the work of a functioning water heater. And this small indulgence of a cup of coffee? That’s what credit cards are for, I guess.”

  “Jesus, Brian. They’re paying you that little?”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad. I mean, my student loans eat most of the paycheck right away, then every so often I get hungry, so I quickly find myself running at a deficit. But it’s fine. At least my job as college counselor doesn’t require motivating the unmotivated and fielding unreasonable demands from parents who think I’m an overpaid babysitter to their child—who is a legal adult.”

  Jessica grimaced. “Maybe if you get a roommate to split the cost—”

  “Oh, I have one. His name’s Rocket and he’s just lovely. Very generous. When he invites his friends over, he even shares his needles with them.

  “Luckily, Austin is a safe city, so I’ve only had my apartment burglarized once, and whoever it was just came in, took Rocket’s weed and left the rest of our belongings alone. Though it might have been nice if whoever it was had taken out the trash while there.”

  Jessica hoped Brian never found out about her luxurious living situation. “Want to get lunch after this? My treat.”

  He laughed dryly. “No, no. It’s fine. You can’t possibly have money anyway.”

  “True. But I have my Father.”

  Brian squished up his face as if the mention caused him physical pain. “Yeah, about that. Not to poke holes in your story, but couldn’t you just ask God for money?”

  “Sure. But talk about a debt I don’t want to have. Hey wait.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re a science guy. You don’t believe God’s my father.”

  Brian shifted in his seat. “Well, I don’t necessarily not believe it.”

  “Psh. Since when?”

  “Oh gee”—he began flinging his hand about dramatically—“maybe since I saw you smite a fire hydrant right in front of me?”

  “I thought you assumed that was a coincidence. You acted like—”

  “Look, I’m not happy about it. But like you said, I’m a science guy. I believe in the observable. While I can’t prove you made that happen, I’m having a damn hard time disproving it, considering the convenient timing. Ergo, I don’t necessarily not believe it.”

  “Sorry,” she said, knowing the possibility of God must be shorting out most of his mental functions.

  “Just answer me this,” he said, “and I’ll feel slightly better about it all.” He paused and leaned forward, whispering, “Can you control it?”

  “I’m learning.”

  “Have you ever … you know.”

  She shook her head vaguely. “I don’t.”

  “Used it on a human?”

  “Oh sheesh. No, not yet.”

  When he rocked back in his seat, recoiling slightly, she realized what she’d just said. “I mean, no. I don’t have any plans on doing it, either. That would be … messy. No. I haven’t and I don’t want to.”

  “Okay, good. Now if you could do me a favor and agree we’ll never talk about it again.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  When he paused, sipped his coffee, blinked hard a few times, and then nodded, she knew they’d moved on. “You know, Jessica, when I heard you’d dropped out of college, I was a little concerned, but I think you might be all right after all.”

  “Thanks, Brian. That means a lot.”

  He shrugged. “It probably shouldn’t. What do I know anyway? At least, that’s what irate parents say to me a dozen times a week …”

  The conversation remained surface level after that, mostly catching up on where Brian’s former students were nowadays—the intel coming from Jessica via Facebook, since Brian didn�
��t do “that social media thing.”

  Then finally he cut through a momentary pause with, “Well, I should get going. I have a lot of work to do. It is a Saturday, after all.”

  They parted ways on the sidewalk, forgoing an awkward hug with an even more awkward handshake, and Jessica started the long walk back, pausing right out of the gates to pass along a handful of pennies to a young couple with dreadlocks and two dogs, who were parked on a blanket on the sidewalk, splitting a slice of pizza.

  “Hey thanks, miss!” said the man.

  The gratitude came as a surprise. He didn’t think she was a whore? Wow. Things were looking up today. “You’re welcome. I like your dogs.”

  He nodded. “Neat.”

  “What’re their names?”

  “Stalin and Lenin.”

  “Okay.” She forced a smile and scurried off, wishing she’d ended the conversation on the high note of not being shouted at.

  Taking a scenic route along the river, she lost herself in one failed plan for amassing capital after another until a voice with a strong African accent pulled her out of her thoughts. “Miss. Can you please help me, miss?”

  Instinctively, she reached into her bag for pennies.

  When she held out her hand and finally turned her attention to the speaker, she was surprised by the disparity between who stood before her and who she’s expected to stand before her. This man wasn’t dirty, and judging by the state of his ornate and colorful robes, he wasn’t homeless, either.

  “Yes?” she asked cautiously.

  “Miss, no one will help me, but I have an amazing opportunity I’m worried I might miss out on.”

  The gold threads of his long, loose shirt tugged at her attention. “Okay …?”

  “I am heir to quite a great fortune in my homeland of Nigeria, but because of banking regulations, I cannot transfer the funds to my accounts here. But if you will help me, I can have a check mailed to you, and then you deposit it in your account and transfer the funds to me.”

  “Um. What?”

  “For your trouble, miss, I would give you part of my millions. How does two hundred and fifty thousand sound?”