by Steve Amick
“‘Whose flesh is like the flesh of donkeys,’” he repeated. “Which means, essentially, ‘donkey dick.’”
Now they were paying attention.
“I don’t mean to shock, but that’s what it means. Examine it again and you’ll see that there’s really no other way to interpret it.”
The sanctuary crackled with the sound of pages turning—voices murmuring in the pews with whispered requests for the chapter and verse again—as they snatched up the Bibles they’d just put away and thumbed their way back to the quotation.
“Of course, that’s only one example. Many of you know of others. The point is: even in the Bible, you’ll find some pretty hot stuff. Does that make the Bible bad? Of course not. But some of the Bible, you may say, is perhaps not appropriate for all readers. So . . . should we petition the government to install some sort of microchip in every copy of the Bible that would restrict the reading of Ezekiel 23? Maybe we should, because the minor or child or even an adult—some unprepared, simple soul for whom that passage is ‘inappropriate’—might react negatively. It might stir them up. Do we blame the Bible if at some time, somewhere, an individual may find himself or herself fixated on the sex organs of livestock? Is that the fault of the Bible—or even of Ezekiel? Do we say then that there is a Devil in the Bible? Of course not.”
As surprised as he knew they were by this sermon, it couldn’t compare to how strange he felt; what it felt like to stand in the pulpit
saying these things. It felt like a completely different event than the approximately sixteen hundred sermons he’d delivered there in the past. Past sermons now all seemed like something closer to reciting an English thesis back in high school or wasting his time on the debating team. Comparing them to this thing that was coming out of him today was like comparing a medical chart of the eyeball and the tear ducts to the act of crying yourself to sleep. Or the legal terms of a marriage contract compared to that semi-conscious lovemaking that occurs only after years of spooning; when you wake, gasping, amazed, to realize you’re joined.
“These things,” he went on, “—these ‘unsavory elements,’ if you will—are included because they are part of life. They come along as a package deal. Gratis. No extra charge. And if we attempt to exclude these things, weed them out, sanitize content, hide from what we find troubling and possibly affecting (which is even more troubling, oftentimes), then we are denying part of life. And so we include it all and we must face it all and not blame and point fingers or we are blaming life. It is the message, not the medium. Not the box it came in. We must take responsibility for how we feel when we come across pornography on the computer and when our toe starts tapping to that rapper’s string of vulgarities and even when Ezekiel starts talking about donkey dick . . . Let us pray.”
Not an hour later, during the Coffee Chat—that time Mary herself had instituted years ago, during which the congregation was encouraged to linger and mingle in the social hall and talk in a more casual forum—the board of trustees snuck into the kitchen and closed the bifold shutters along the serving windows for a hastily assembled confab.
His help with the interim sermons, he was informed the next day, would no longer be required.
THAT NIGHT, HE WENT ONLINE and checked the First Pres Web site. There was no mention of the sermon he’d delivered that morning, nor was there any announcement that the hiring committee had filled the position. But there was one obvious change: the entire VOTE section had been removed and there was no explanation.
He wasn’t sure what it meant, but the church, at least at present, appeared no longer interested in opinions on what to do with the parsonage. Either they’d already come to a decision, or there was something in that section they no longer wanted to flaunt, some shady aspect perhaps. Or maybe he’d imagined the thing.
Either way, it was troubling and he stared at the screen, the half-tone photo of the church steeple and the veterans memorial maple fanned out behind it, and he wondered how he could make it come back the way it was. There had to be a way.
64
THE GIRL WAS IN THE DEN WITH HIM, taking command of his computer. She was trying to help him find the earlier version of the church Web site. She wasn’t sure it was possible. “Did you bookmark it? Did you save it?”
He wasn’t sure if he’d saved it. He wasn’t sure he remembered that lesson or if they’d even covered that.
“There’s a chance it’s still in your history . . .”
He hadn’t even known he had a “history” or what it was. He was somewhat preoccupied, wondering if she’d gotten wind of his “donkey dick” sermon. He couldn’t imagine it had escaped her, working at the fudge shop.
Leaning closer to the screen, she said, “Let’s see what you’ve got here . . .” and began scrolling down, squinting at it. Gene squinted, too, and saw, finally, what was there.
He couldn’t breathe. There, on the left side of the screen, was a whole list of Web sites and, immediately, several whose names he’d never noticed initially, popped out at him as if in neon—things like amateurteen.
com, facialgirls09.jpg, hotcmsk27.mpg, jizz4u13.jpg, nas-t.com, teenguzzlers05jpg, cumonher18.mpg, cummylips80.jpg. He clenched his jaw, afraid his lip might quiver, a whimper might erupt from deep inside him, from his heart. Lord forgive me, he prayed, silently. This young woman may not.
He held his seat, waiting for it, expecting her to snarl at him, call him a disgusting pig, scream, Don’t ever talk to me again! or at least wrinkle up her nose with an ewwww, grooooss. At least quietly gather her books and announce, muttering toward the floor, unable to look at him anymore, I gotta go . . . Either way, make a dash for the door.
But no dashes were made. She stopped scrolling. Her eyes flicked down the column. If she moved at all, it was a slight tucking in of her lip, folding the bottom corner under her overbite—an expression of concentration he’d seen her make many times before. Then her finger was back at the down arrow, moving on. Casually, she said, “It’s always awful how you get swamped with all this junk you don’t even want to look at . . . You must hate it . . . Stuff arrives in attachments, you don’t even know it’s there . . .”
He could tell she didn’t believe that. Not for a minute. She was being so lovely about it. He couldn’t get over the degree of poise. Class, they used to call it—a word that failed these days, that created the opposite impression the instant you used it. She had a soul that had nothing to do with her age and he thought, Why did she have to come along now, at my age, at her age?
He wouldn’t have had such composure when he was that young. He tried to imagine the situation reversed, the sixteen-year-old Eugenie Reecher in 1949 Tecumseh, Michigan, helping the Widow McDonough with some work around her house. Maybe painting her bedroom, finding a device even, something as innocuous as a vibrator—a “marital aid” for someone no longer married. No, he would’ve flown out of there before the screen door slammed. The stepladder would topple, the cans would remain open, the paint ruined, growing a layer of skin. And he’d tell. Boy, would he tell. He’d regale his friends with horror tales of the sick old lady and her deviant doodads. He would be struck by a serious, perhaps lifelong-debilitating case of the heebie-jeebies. Very possibly, it would affect him for life.
No, he wouldn’t have had an ounce of the self-possession this girl had. Perhaps, he thought, I still don’t. When she spoke again, it was just as friendly as ever. “I’ll have to show you how to save important sites . . . My fault, really . . .” Watching her tap her way down the towering column of suspicious-sounding jpegs, showing not even a flicker of disdain, he realized, It’s not only our ages that’s the barrier between us. The barrier is that she’s far too good a person for me.
THREE DAYS LATER, IT WAS HIS BIRTHDAY. Other than two phone calls—a screaming serenade over the speakerphone from Ben and the kids and another aborted attempt at “Happy Birthday” half-sung by his daughter, drowned out by her accompanying dogs—it was like any other day. No cards arri
ved in the mail—which was expected: both Ben and Abbey admitted they had a slow start this year, that they might be a few days late. And he was okay with this. There didn’t seem to be much point in it this year. It was just Thursday, really, a plain old Thursday, and so, as the merest self-indulgence as the birthday boy, he put on his favorite old Abbey Lincoln record and moved the needle to “Thursday’s Child.”
And then the girl arrived, balancing a large Tupperware cake box. She was beaming as she flicked off the hi-fi, practically bouncing through to the kitchen, and referred to him excitedly as “Birthday Boy.”
He was stunned. And positive he hadn’t even mentioned it.
“That site you showed me,” she said. “The church’s Web site? You look under the congregation directory and it lists everyone’s birthday. It’s all there. At first, I thought they had it wrong, ’cause I always thought the numbers in your e-mail address were your birthdate.”
“No,” he said. “That’s something else . . .” He couldn’t tell her it was the date he’d first made love to Mary. It was coming up, actually—the anniversary of that crazy night on the beach.
And he thought that, if this was true about the church Web site, then it was sort of surprising to him that none of those busybodies had used the excuse to come by today. Of course, he reasoned, they’d already poked around not too long ago. Still, he had to wonder if they were staying away because they were up to something; had something in the works—plans for the parsonage and plans for getting him out. Or maybe they were afraid of him now, since his last sermon.
But none of that mattered today because it was his birthday and here, just when he thought this would be the first birthday since Ike was in office that he didn’t celebrate with a beautiful woman, with Mary, here was this lovely girl who smelled like a fudge shop, arriving with Tupperware and baked goods and a sugar-induced grin.
Tupperware had become a common sight on his counter. He’d seen too many of those cake boxes since Mary passed. Only this one did not contain a rubbery lasagna or apricot bread pudding, but a dozen cupcakes with white frosting and those little shiny silver balls. “My goodness,” he said. “You need to tell me when your birthday is . . .” But it was overwhelming and he wasn’t sure he could ever give her anything that would top this.
She poked two little candles in two of the cupcakes, lit them and serenaded him with a shy “Happy Birthday,” speeding up with each new line, racing for the finish. He blew them out with one puff. She clapped and patted him on the back and removed the smoking candles. As she handed him a cupcake on a paper napkin printed with Mrs. Hersha’s T.G.I.Fudge logo, she asked if he’d made a wish.
“Oh,” he said, “I never really do that. I just blow out the candles.”
“In my family,” she said, “you get a birthday kiss.”
They ate their cupcakes, standing over the cake box, and he found himself watching her eat, her tongue darting out to clean her lips of the frosting. Inside his head, he screamed, What did she say?
She announced she was having seconds and pressed another to her mouth. His hand came up to his stomach and he made himself wince. It was time to fake a stomachache and get the hell out of there and think. Excusing himself, he retreated to the hall bathroom, locked the door and examined himself in the mirror, making his mouth silently form the words from James 1:12: Blessed is the man who endures temptation; for when he has been approved, he will receive the crown of life which the Lord has promised to those who love him . . .
She’s just talking, he told himself. Just telling you about her family, her traditions. That’s all. Maybe wanting to open up about her feelings about the divorce.
No, he decided. That wasn’t even it. She’s not trying to talk about her family situation. But neither was she asking to be kissed. No sir. It was just conversation, small talk.
I have too much time on my hands, he concluded. I need my job back. I need my wife. A single yelp slipped out of him. He was afraid he might launch into sobbing. He pulled one of the guest hand towels off the rack and bit the corner of it, not wanting her to hear. He would just stay in there as long as it took to control himself.
The towel smelled differently than he remembered. She was using a different brand of detergent than Mary used to use.
It was taking him more time to get himself together than he would have preferred, because eventually there was a tentative knock.
“Are you okay?”
Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the door. He waited a moment, then stepped out.
“Listen,” she said, “if I upset you, I’m really sorry. But just tell me. Did I embarrass you or do something wrong or . . . ?”
“No! Hon! Child! No!” And then the tears came, his vision wobbled from the welling up and she looked even more concerned at the sight. This was not going well at all. “The cupcakes were wonderful. I just . . . I guess I must be allergic to the little metal balls or something . . .” He smiled and choked out a laugh and wiped at his eyes, wishing he wasn’t such a foolish clod.
She reached out and touched his arm, stroked it, smiling and frowning at the same time, so sympathetic and adorable. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I just wanted to give you something. I should have thought it out better. I just put those on there ’cause of the thing you said—you know . . .” She pointed to her belly.
He didn’t get it. She flipped up her blouse a matter of inches, revealing her belly button and that little silver ball.
At that moment, he told the Lord he would do nothing to harm this girl. Even if it meant putting himself in jeopardy. He vowed he would rather die or go to jail than harm her just because he was starving for some kind of connection.
65
JANEY WAS OUT OF UNIFORM, raising eyebrows throughout the sumac pop gathering at Noah’s Ark. Even Roger, her date for the evening, had commented. “Never seen you like this, Struska. Man.” Coming from the Coach, it was as close to You’re gorgeous as she could imagine, though she wasn’t sure she warranted even his meager compliment.
It was a supposedly simple summer dress, white with tiny holes along the hem. Both Della and Stella at Togs N’ Clogs had assured her it looked “elegant” and “lovely” and “just dear” on her, but she had to question their sincerity, considering they carried only two other options in her size. But what did she know? She never bought dresses. In fact, it was such an odd purchase for her, she knew for a fact that news of it must have traveled around town—farther, even: as far as the Silver Maples retirement community outside town, because two days after she bought it, Brenda vonBushberger pulled up in front of the sheriff’s office in a sprayer truck and ran in with a handknit shawl to match, a thank-you gift, she said, from her Aunt Sadie, for helping with the burial problem.
The whole thing was just so awfully femmy. She wasn’t used to this drape-y feeling. It felt like they were going to come in and paint and they’d covered her along with the furniture. “It feels huge,” she muttered in response to the compliment, readjusting the strange open neck along her shoulders and trying to hide more under the shawl. “It feels like someone’s going to yank it away with a ‘Ta-daaah!’ and there will magically be a full place setting of silverware remaining on me.”
They were down on Noah Yoder’s private beach, walking along the crush of waves as the sun made its last tangerine glimmers somewhere over the unseeable Wisconsin. She had her new white sandals in her hand. It seemed dumb that they’d called them sandals back at the store, because now, faced with actual sand, they seemed about as functional as paper shower caps.
As much as she wanted to be up at the house when—or if—David Letterman made his rumored appearance, she’d relented and slipped away with the Coach to investigate the billionaire’s beach. Logically, she knew that there’d be such a hubbub when Letterman arrived, they’d certainly hear it down on the beach and know to return to the house. Plus, she was reluctant to admit why she’d insisted they attend such an event. And on their first sort-of date. But
then he asked, directly, actually touching her, reaching out and touching her arm where it felt so exposed in this girly getup. “Hey,” he said. “Want to tell me what we’re doing here?”
At first, she didn’t understand what he was asking. It sounded like he wanted her to state her intentions with him or something; put a nametag on their socializing. “Well, I thought we were just . . . hanging out . . . I mean, I always thought you were cool, way back and all . . .”
He smiled that rare smile and it felt like a generous gesture. “I don’t mean you and me. I mean the location. We were having such a great time at dinner . . .”
It was true. They’d rushed away from a great table out at the Log Jam, where they’d wolfed down a delicious buffalo meatloaf and she’d barely finished her Cosmo—she’d thought it would be sophisticated but found it alarmingly pink—and he’d been telling her an actual personal story, opening up: something about the Korean-made motorbikes in Nam.
So she told him the whole thing: the rumors about Letterman summering in the area; her secret attempts to locate him; her long-standing dream of writing comedy for him; how she hoped to somehow connect with him, get him laughing and how boom! he’d offer her a job.
“So you’d leave? Move to New York?”
It was surprising that this was his first reaction, rather than focusing on the issue of her being kind of nuts and stalky, chasing a phantom talk show host all summer, with nothing more to go on than hearsay. Instead, Roger just seemed interested in the logistics.
