I am shaking my head, trying to get it away. The slit tongue slips around my mouth, wriggling.
“Swallow,” he says.
He brings his head down and begins to massage my throat with his lips. He turns his head sideways and brings his teeth against either side of my windpipe, bites down until I can no longer breathe.
And then lets go.
“You can’t know all you’ve done for me,” he says. “Not truly.” He says, “Swallow or I will kill you.”
I awake in my bed, the taste in my mouth gone, my body sweat drenched and awkward. I try to move, find that the room springs up around me in slow motion.
“Darling,” my wife says. “Lie down.”
I let her push my head softly back onto the cushions. She stands and leaves, her heels ringing against the parquet until she reaches the carpeting of the hall. I stay staring at the ceiling, tracing the cracks to the light and back. I close my eyes, see the dull afterimages behind my lids.
There is the sound of my wife’s footsteps returning, coming to the side of the bed. The sound of her breathing, a slight stir of the air.
“Drink this.”
She puts her hand under my neck, lifts my head, puts something cold against my lips. I drink feebly, feel the water trickle from the sides of my mouth, until the cup is taken away.
“How do you feel?” she asks.
“What was it?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “You fell down with your muscles locked up. A seizure of some sort.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
I open my eyes long enough to see her face, the soft lines of it, the way she leans over me as she does the children when they are sick. She stays that way until she notices I am looking at her, then pulls herself back, folds her arms.
“There is something I would like to talk about when you feel better,” she says.
“What?”
“Not now. You need to rest.”
“I am feeling a little better,” I suggest.
She stays looking at me, clutching herself in her arms, blowing air out.
“Don’t bring it up if you aren’t going to talk,” I say.
“Your secretary Allen came to me at church, asked me if we’d managed to get the telephone line fixed. I didn’t know what he was talking about. He said you had been having problems with it when you had called him the night the girl died. ‘You mean when you called us,’ I said to him, ‘to tell him about his appointment that night.’ ‘Appointment?’ he said. ‘There was no appointment that night. The schedule was free.’”
She stops talking, looks at me. “I want to know what that is all about,” she says.
I just shake my head.
“Where did you go that night?”
“I went out,” I say. “Nothing serious.”
“Where?”
“I’m exhausted. We’ll talk it over later.”
“No,” she says. “Now.”
I close my eyes, keep them closed. She reaches out, touches me.
“Trust me,” I say.
“If I find out you had anything at all to do with that girl’s death . . .” she says. I just lie there, ignoring the rest of it, already thinking through what I can tell her.
“Those two boys,” she says. “I know you did that.”
“What boys?”
“You know who,” she says. “The ones whose mothers have been after you. I know what you did. I can forgive that as a slip if you swear never to do it again.”
“What did I do?”
“Don’t make me say it,” she says. “If I have to face it, I don’t think I can forgive you.”
I just close my eyes.
“We will think of that as a slip,” she says. “A reversion. Your brother told me all about you when we were getting married. I thought you’d changed, that you’d given all that up when you grew up. I didn’t want to believe it, but still I knew. So it was my fault.”
I am willing to let her take whatever blame she chooses. I will accept her collaboration.
“But you can’t do it anymore,” she says. “Promise me you won’t do it again.”
What do I have to lose? Of course I promise her.
“Swear it before God.”
I swear without hesitation. This seems to satisfy her. She leaves me alone.
“Do you love me?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. She lifts our youngest out of the high chair, puts her into the crib.
“I love you,” I say. “I love you more than anything.”
“I guess I do,” she says wearily. “I’m still with you, aren’t I?”
“You’ve done the right thing,” I say.
I come close to kiss her, but she won’t face me. I go back to the table, eat the scraps of toast the children have left scattered. I carry the plates over to the counter, past it to the sink.
“Besides,” she says, “the children need a father.”
“I’ll be a good father to them.”
I go upstairs and get my briefcase, come down again.
“We’ll be together now and we’ll be together in heaven,” I tell her. “We’ll be together always.”
“Not heaven. Not after what you did to those boys,” she says.
“Nonsense,” I say. “It will work out. You’ll see.”
When I get to the office, I telephone the area rector. I tell him about the women on Sunday, about how they have been causing trouble and leading others astray. I tell him that they might go to the press and cause the Church a great deal of trouble. He perks right up.
“We don’t want anything to happen that could damage the Church’s name,” he says.
“No,” I say.
“When will they go to the press?”
“I don’t know. We have a few days maybe.”
“We’ll talk to them. We’ll resolve the matter as quickly as possible. We’ll catch them spinning so fast they won’t know what hit them.”
CHAPTER 14
Final Session
I take Bloody-Head’s warning about revealing too much at therapy to heart. Before the session with Feshtig, I spend twenty minutes in the parking lot in my car, considering what I will say this time. I search for something that will please me even more than last week’s story about my chastening of the boys, something to keep him off balance, something new.
The only thing that will do is the murder.
But it would be a mistake to speak of the murder. It is too close, too open to investigation.
Though, if I tell it as a dream . . .
No, it is too much of a risk.
Still, it is what I want to talk about.
“Feeling lucky?” asks Bloody-Head.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Tell if you want,” he says. “Take a few chances. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“We’ve been making a great deal of progress,” suggests Feshtig.
“Yes,” I say. “We really have.”
“How have your dreams been?”
“They haven’t stopped, if that’s what you mean.”
“Are they still as frequent?”
I shrug. “A little less.”
He sits staring at me until I begin to talk, constructing a new dream on the fly. I describe Bloody-Head’s face to him, his nicks and cuts, say that he was the one who killed the girl.
“In the dream, did you have a name for him?”
“He doesn’t have a name.”
“Did you call him anything?”
I consider whether I dare tell him the truth, then figure it can’t hurt. “Sure,” I say. “Bloody-Head.”
“Why?”
“Because he was a bloody head.”
“Didn’t he have a body?”
I think a moment, guess at what he wants to hear. “I was his body,” I suggest.
“He was your head?”
“My head was my head. He was extra.”
&nbs
p; “He was a part of you?”
“He wasn’t a part of me, he was attached to me.”
“Why did he have a bloody head?”
“How should I know? I just dreamed it.”
“You dreamed he engineered the murder of the girl?”
Yes, I am going to say, but when I look up I see Bloody-Head behind Feshtig, shaking his head no.
I avoid the question. I begin describing the murder as it might have been if I had stumbled across it, the scene from the outside, after the murder. I try to lead him away, but he keeps drawing things back to the bloody-headed man. Bloody-Head himself just stays standing behind him, shaking his head, arms crossed.
“How did his head become bloody?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you feel the cuts were purposeful or accidental?”
I can’t figure out why he wants to know this, how he’ll interpret what I’ll say. “I don’t know,” I say in some confusion. “Out of necessity maybe.”
He makes a note. Behind him, Bloody-Head is frowning. I look down, keep my head down, so I won’t have to look at him.
“In the dream, he didn’t seem all bad,” I suggest.
“No?”
I glance up in time to see Bloody-Head draw his finger across his throat.
Feshtig turns around in his chair and stares through Bloody-Head, then turns back to me. I start to get nervous.
“What did you mean when you said he wasn’t all bad?”
I do not need to look up to know that Bloody-Head is waving his hands, shaking his head. I stumble through a few responses and then clamp down, bide my time until the session runs out.
When I open the door, Bloody-Head is in the car.
“Brother,” he says, “don’t go back.”
“Why not?”
“You’ve given too much away.”
“I’ve changed things,” I say.
“He’s smarter than you think. He’s given you enough relief that you’ll sleep easy. Be satisfied with that.”
I start the car.
“Do you hear me?” he asks.
“I heard you,” I say. “I have a question of my own: who are you?”
“Who am I?”
“Are you Jesus?”
“Jesus? What do you think?”
I think about it a while. “Yes,” I say. “I think you are.”
He smiles. I take this as confirmation.
“I’ll stop then,” I say. “I won’t go back. Anything for Jesus.”
CHAPTER 15
Court
We spring it on them. We hand deliver to each boy’s mother the letter indicating that their church court will be held the evening of the following day. We telephone each member of the Area Council, making arrangements for substitutes for the several councilors who will be unavailable.
Before the court begins, the area rector meets with the Area Council, explains to them that the two women simply want to defame the Corporation of the Blood of the Lamb. He tells them that to do this they have constructed elaborate lies about me, their provost.
“The accusations they will raise against this good brother are false,” says the area rector. “I testify to you he is innocent.”
The women arrive surrounded by their supporters, who have decided to hold vigil until the court is concluded. They are all forced to wait outside the building, in the rain. The area rector sends each of the area councilors out one by one, has them write down the name of anyone they recognize in the group. The press is there as well, and all the television stations, except the one owned by the Church.
Rector Bates himself is nervous. He stays inside the Area Council room with me, licking his lips.
“These women,” he says. “No respect for authority. They delight in embarrassing the Church.”
He tells this to each of the area councilors as they enter. Later, we bring the two women in and have them sit at the far end of the table, the sixteen of us men packed together as far away from them as possible.
The area rector begins by introducing everyone present to the women. He is all smiles.
“The church Disciplinary Council is not a court,” he tells the women. “This is a council of love. We are not here to punish you. We are here to do what is best for you. We love you deeply.” He reaches down to the desk and reads off the paper. “You have been accused of unchristianlike conduct and disobedience to your leaders. How do you plead?”
“Since when is disobeying a corrupt leader grounds for a court?” the brunette asks.
“Obedience to authority is the law upon which all other laws are predicated,” says Rector Bates.
“You shouldn’t obey when your leaders tell you to do something you know to be wrong,” the brunette says.
“If you follow their counsel—even if you believe you are being asked to do something wrong—you will be blessed. In any case, Provost Fochs did not ask you to do something wrong. You have accused Provost Fochs of crimes he did not commit. You have made him suffer greatly.”
“Did not commit?” says the brunette.
“This is not a council for Fochs,” says the area rector. “This is a trial for you. Not another word about Fochs.”
Bates gets up and starts to pace at the far end of the table, behind the other men.
“Shouldn’t we be tried separately?” the blond asks.
“First of all,” says Rector Bates, “it doesn’t have to happen that way. We can examine you both at once since your crimes are the same. Second, this is not a court at all but a council of love. You aren’t being tried. Now,” he says. “I want you both to admit you wrongly accused Fochs, that you lied.”
The two women get indignant about this. The area rector points to the clerk and tells him to make a note of their attitudes. The women become silent and sullen.
“Do you want to be in the Church or not?” Rector Bates asks them.
Yes, they say, they do.
“Let me say it again,” he says. “Will you admit to lying?”
“No,” says the brunette, and then, more reluctantly, the blond.
“I am not surprised,” he says. “Not at all.” He walks around a little bit, seeming to enjoy himself. “I want to ask another question,” he says. “In the letter we mailed to you, we asked you not to speak about the disciplinary process to reporters. Why did you notify the press that you were meeting with the Disciplinary Council?”
“We didn’t,” says the blond. “Someone else called them.”
“No,” says the area rector. “That can’t be true. No councilor would dare notify the press. It must have been you. That you called the press indicates an unwillingness to repent.”
“We called no one.”
“You should stop lying. You should stop attacking the Lord.”
“We never attacked the Lord.”
“To attack the Church is the same as attacking the Lord.”
There are more arguments, blunt attempts by the area rector to get the women to admit they are lying. He has already made his decision—either they get in line with him or he will shake himself free of them. I stay quiet, watching it all, feeling that I am somewhere else.
After a few hours of bashing heads and of what he calls their “unrepentant tears,” the area rector gives up on them. He tells them to wait outside. As soon as the door is closed, he polls the area councilors, asking who thinks these women should be excommunicated.
Six do. The other six hesitate.
The choice is the area rector’s. But he wants to be able to go out to the television cameras and say there was absolute unity in the decision to excommunicate the women. He reminds the dissenters that these women are proven enemies of the Church, hints darkly that there are other issues involved, then calls for another count.
Eight in his favor, four still hesitant.
He tells them directly there are things about these women that they don’t know, things that he doesn’t feel he can tell them, information that is reliable but wh
ich is of such a sensitive nature that he is not free to share it with us. He hints at lesbianism and feminism. He says that he has been contacted by somebody of importance at church headquarters and that the Church is concerned about the outcome of this court. I do not know what is fabricated and what the truth.
“That is not to say this is not a local decision,” he says. “We are making this decision on our own initiative. One of our esteemed leaders might be privately convinced that excommunication is the answer, but this is absolutely a local decision. Still, it is important to know that an apostolic elder is concerned.”
Eleven to one. There is one holdout.
“You don’t agree that these women are guilty?” the area rector asks the councilor.
“No,” he says, a younger, clean-cut fellow in a white shirt and conservative suit. He looks no different from the others, unless his tie is a little narrower.
“You don’t want to please the Church?” asks Rector Bates.
“I want to please the Lord.”
“To please the Church is to please the Lord.”
“Tell them you can take his place,” whispers a voice next to me.
I turn to see the bloody-headed man beside me.
“How did you get in?” I whisper.
“You let me in.”
I raise my head. “I could take his place,” I say.
The area rector looks at me a long time.
“Yes,” he says. “Fochs will take his place.” He says to the rogue councilor, “You’re free to leave.”
“I don’t think you can do this,” says the man.
“You let me worry about what can or can’t be done,” says the area rector.
“You can’t expect Fochs to be an unbiased judge.”
“Nonsense. Fochs is an honest man,” says the area rector. “He’ll listen to the spirit.”
“I won’t leave,” the man says. He stands looking nervously about him.
The area rector stands and takes the man by the arm, starts to drag him toward the door. The man resists, slowly losing ground. The rest of the men rush to the area rector’s support. They get him to the door, push him outside, close it again.
“Mark my words,” says Bates. “He’ll regret this someday.” He wipes the sweat off his face. “Shall we vote?”
Father of Lies Page 13
