A Perfect SEAL

by Jess Bentley

  What if I can't? What if I get to the ceremony and it's just impossible? What if there is something wrong with me and my body can't accommodate him?

  The thought shocks me. I'm instantly disappointed in myself, filled with shame that I might let them down in such a way.

  But it can’t be true. Can it? The results would be devastating. I could be cast out. I could be found defective and sent to live among the heathens.

  No. I can do better. And besides, maybe I'm fine. Maybe I'm built exactly like Obedience, and she seemed to manage the ceremony all right, didn't she?

  But just to be sure.

  I should check?

  I should.

  Even though Mama told me never to do this, in the strictest and direst of warnings, I let my fingers drift over my belly and into my thick, cotton panties.

  I was always told that my hands should only brush over the top of my flower to clean it. Quickly, with a swiping motion. I was definitely not to linger here, I remember as my hands creep even lower. I resolve not to explore it too earnestly. My flower is a gift I am meant to give my Master. It's not to be opened too soon, nor treated roughly.

  But I need to be certain. Cautiously, I let my fingers drift to the warmer parts of me. I roll back onto my back and bend my knees up, planting my heels farther apart.

  I have to do this. I have to make sure I'm suitable for the ceremony.

  Slowly I allow myself to press further, inching my fingertips over my seam, gingerly stroking back and forth, a little deeper and a little deeper yet. Was he here? Is this how deep he went?

  No. It was further than this. This can't be all there is. This slippery wetness. This hot seam. I have to see. I hold three fingers together, then four. Is that the right size? Certainly it had to be something like this. That's absurd. How would anything like this ever fit inside me?

  I place my heels further apart, trying to visualize my flower unfurling, opening for him. Can I do it? I wiggle against my fingers, and the sensation is different than I expected. It's so moist, so tender. It feels good when I touch myself just at the top, where there are bumps and protrusions that I can't quite identify. This didn't really appear in any of the picture books we were given during our education. But I can feel how it really is like the petals of a flower, how there's a feeling of opening, of becoming more ripe with each second.

  I imagine Father Daddy over me, with that intense glare. His eyes boring into mine as his form covers me, blocking out the light. His weight bearing against my hips, pushing my legs open. I need to move a little more, press myself against him a little harder.

  We would rock together, nudging our secret parts closer and closer together until they could interlock, until they could join. I could do that for him, and the desire to do that swells inside me like the bursting of a white firework in the sky. It trembles, glittering faintly until suddenly filling the space behind my eyes with lights, a rushing sound in my ears... sparkling, flaming trails that slide down the sky and become cool, watery, silvery bits of bliss rocking me back and forth.

  My whole body trembles. My hand is wet and sticky and I realize I've just been to a place I've never been before. It's as though I left my body. It's as though I walked through a portal to another place.

  Probably an evil place. Exactly the somewhere my mother explicitly told me not to go, and I did it anyway.

  Shame rushes through me. What have I done? Oh my God, what have I done?

  I leave my bed, throwing out an arm to balance myself on legs that are wobbly and uncertain. I've just done something I know I'm not supposed to do.

  I just touched the evil that lives inside of me.

  I have to repent.

  “What's wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” I say and stare down into my bowl of oatmeal. The cream swirls around the top, like a river flowing over some foreign landscape.

  “Are you sick?”

  “I'm not sick,” I tell her. “Really I’m just worried I’m going to be late for the sermon.”

  “Then you should be eating instead of pretending you’re sick,” she observes. She scrapes the remaining porridge out of the bowl and then washes it in the sink. I hurry behind her, careful not to make eye contact.

  As we leave our house, we join everyone else on the path, heading toward the service barn. As soon as we're in line with our Family members, I feel the heat go off me immediately. Mama is looking at everyone around her, one by one, as though trying to sniff out their imperfections. But at least she isn't looking at me anymore.

  The last couple of days, it's been so hard to stay out of her way. She’s come home after her duties tired and cranky, on edge for no apparent reason. It’s as though she resented me for being there all the time, even though she is the one who grounded me to the house.

  Finally, now I'm back outside, back among regular people. Not hiding inside like some kind of shameful beast. I'm back out where have a chance to reach out, to join with my brothers and sisters and get back in the groove of things.

  And to confess. Most of all, I remember sharply, I need to confess what I did.

  “Oh, I think I see Tulip over there… do you mind?”

  Mama just nods impatiently. She's trying to push her way up a few rows in the crowd and get alongside her pal Annie. They love to sit next to each other during the service with the other aunties and pretend nobody can hear them whispering.

  I watch her disappear behind a couple people in front of me and don't bother hurrying up. She’ll find Annie, Agatha, or somebody else to talk to. This is okay. It's nice just to be outside, among everybody. So much nicer than being quarantined for reasons I didn't even fully understand. Was it because of the bruises from the whipping? Or was it really because I disobeyed her?

  “You'll want to sit next to me at the service,” comes a voice close to my left ear. I automatically flinch away, twisting to see Seth’s spotty face. I have to look up because he's grown five inches in the last year, which is a new thing. He was always much smaller to me when we were kids. Still mean as a snake, though. Being close to the ground has that advantage I guess.

  “I'm going to sit with Tulip,” I mutter. “Is that Matthew over there? Why don’t you cuddle up with him?”

  He bumps against me and then again, on purpose, I'm sure of it. His hip juts hard against mine and nearly pushes me off the path.

  “Quit it, Seth,” I hiss through my teeth. I don't want to draw attention to us, but I don't want to fall over into the dirt either.

  “You shouldn’t sass me.”

  “You shouldn’t boss me around,” I retort.

  “You're not to be able to tell me to quit it when I'm your Master,” he informs me with a leer. “Then you’re going to have to do everything I say. Every little thing. That's the way.”

  “You're not going to be my Master,” I roll my eyes. “I don't even know if I’m going to get a Master. Anyways, that's a long ways off.”

  I feel his eyes drift over me, lingering around my neck and shoulders.

  “It may not be as far off as you think,” he shrugs. “All kinds of things could happen. Things could change…”

  He leaves the question open at the end as though I'm supposed to ask him more. It does get me wondering. What is he hinting at? Has he heard something? I don't want to ask, but curiosity scratches at me from the inside, like a kitten trying to get out.

  “Fine. What are you talking about Seth?”

  We round the final corner before the church service barn.

  “Oh, you'll see,” he sneers.

  I start to walk away from him, heading quickly for the open door.

  “Fine, don't tell me!” I call out over my shoulder. I see Tulip just a few yards ahead of me and rush to greet her, leaving Seth behind. She looks at me with surprise, flipping her long dark braid over one shoulder.

  “Hey!” she says as a greeting, smiling and then remembering to close her lips over that broken front tooth. “You're here! Where have you been?
”

  We duck through the doorway together, linking hands and heading for the back row, where all us flowers are supposed to sit. We're just slightly better than toddlers, in Family hierarchy. We are not as important as aunties, not as important as the women who are prepared for marriage but not yet married. Certainly not as important as the men.

  But Annie bars our entrance to the bench. I assume that she's there for me, but she looks at Tulip instead.

  “Not today, girls,” she tells us, jerking her chin toward the front of the barn. “Today you will sit up front.”

  Tulip grips my hand tighter. I know what she's thinking.

  “Have we done something wrong?” she asks in a high, reedy voice.

  Annie looks instantly furious, snatching Tulip’s hand away from mine and shoving her toward the front row. Out of the corner of my eye I see the beginning of a smirk. She's entitled to be forceful, but she's not supposed to enjoy it so much.

  We shuffle toward the front row. There are five of us all together, although two are really too young to be considered anything more than children. Tulip, Abbie, and I are the only ones close in age to the deflowering ceremony. Obedience is with the unmarried women, right behind us. She looks flushed, proud of her new station in the Family.

  As we settle against the bench, I can feel everyone's eyes burning holes into the back of my neck. They know it's strange that we are in the front row. It's practically brash. I wonder what they are thinking about us. It's probably not entirely good, and I feel strangely exposed, wondering if somehow my clothes have turned transparent.

  But all the whispers stop when Father Daddy strides onto the large, raised platform at our end of the barn. He is staring at the Bible and his hand, his fist curled around it as though it is a small animal. But he is staring so intently, it's as though he's filled with anger.

  The air goes electric. Everyone is completely silent, waiting to hear what Father Daddy has to say. It's always good. Some tale of hellfire, punishment, or the wages of sin as he calls it. The implication being: the world suffers from all manner of spiritual disease. We are inoculated by being here. Our goodness saves us from that misery.

  When his eyes rise from the Bible, they lock directly on mine. I'm frozen where I sit, my breath turning to concrete in my chest, my blood freezing in my veins. He looks directly at me, like we never have before. We lock together instantly and I listen hard, expecting to hear his voice in my mind.

  He begins to speak, but I can't even really understand it. A white noise fills my head, like a million bees in a hive. I'm so confused. Why am I here? Why is he staring at me?

  Does he know? Did he see me at the barn, or did my mother tell him?

  Is he furious with me?

  Dimly, I'm aware that he's talking about hellfire again. He must know. He's probably intending it as a message to me. That's why I needed to be here in the front row, so I could get the full brunt of everything he has to say. So it can wash over me like a tidal wave, pulverize me to powder underneath it.

  He strides back and forth, the heels of his boots thunderous against the wooden planks. I try not to watch his body. I can easily imagine the outlines of him under the thin fabric. I know what he looks like. I feel like I have a secret I'm not supposed to have. I know exactly what he looks like under his clothes.

  And I like it. I’m so ashamed!

  He strides away, directing his voice to the rafters. I can hear the other Family members murmuring, approving and agreeing with every word. It’s like a community song, this whispered agreement.

  He turns around again, and our eyes meet again, exactly the same. It’s intense. A connection is strung between us like a wire. It’s so real I can almost hear it sizzle. I bet everyone else can too.

  And yet, he looks furious.

  Does he know? Did Mama tell him that I saw him at the ceremony? Or is it worse than that?

  Does he know about the demons inside me? I have to tell him. Confession will cleanse me. I have to let him expel the demon from me.

  I hear voices all around me rising higher and higher.

  “Yes, Father Daddy,” they say, one on top of each other, each louder than the last. The sermon is over. Can it really be over? Is that all?

  Father Daddy turns away, accepting thanks and praise from other members of the Family. But I can't let him just go. I have to talk to him. I have to tell him. I stumble forward, picking up my skirts so that I can step onto the platform, where I'm definitely not supposed to be. Tulip snatches at the back of my sleeve.

  “Angel!” she hisses, the air whistling through the gap of her missing tooth. “What are you doing? You're not supposed to!”

  But then I feel it, another pressure on my arm. His hand, so warm, so strong, pulling me away. I lift my face and am almost blinded by the light of him. He smiles down on me, though his eyebrows are still knotted together in a very serious expression.

  “I — I — just needed to…”

  “It's all right, little Angel,” he says in a low voice, like thunder from far away. “Come and talk with me. Tell me everything.”

  Chapter 64

  Owen

  I watch the congregation file out of the pews, like little ants, or worker bees, and part of me waits for Angel to walk out too. But instead of leaving, I see her go up to Silas on the altar. I suppose I should call him “Father Daddy,” in here. It’s his church. But he and I had the same father, though he wasn’t much of a daddy.

  I try not to call my brother anything. Mostly, I try to bend him to my will every now and then. He sees me as his servant, when we both should be servants of the almighty. He’s always seen me that way, as his, ever since we were kids. It was tough for me to bear, for a long while. But now that we are working together again, I find my power in small opportunities that present themselves. They say, to get power over something, first you must submit to it. So I submit to Silas just enough to take my power later.

  Angel is off with him and as I get up to leave the church I catch Tulip’s eye. There’s a gleam in it, a gleam of an excitement that I want no part of. I’m beginning to think that Tulip has a wicked streak.

  Maybe after what was done she didn’t grow up right.

  I make sure to keep my eyes averted from Tulip as I stride out into the bright light of the early afternoon sun. I nod at the others. Give them a half smile. Stand around just enough to keep them from asking questions, noticing anything is off.

  I notice Gina, I mean — Obedience — looking proud as punch to be a new woman. She has a small group of aunties clucking around her and she’s lost the stance of defiance that was her signature. I’m just thinking that I’m pleased that she’s learned her proper place, when she sneaks a look at me. Lust is in her eyes. I turn away.

  “When will you get your Master?” one of the younger girls asks her, but Obedience just gives her a knowing look and shakes her head. She knows it’s not up to her.

  My mind is following Angel and Silas, anticipating their destination. Whether Angel will be an asset to the Family or whether she’s something more, I need to make sure his lust or mine doesn’t go too far.

  So as soon as I can get away undetected, I go.

  Chapter 65

  Silas

  She doesn’t say anything as I lead her away from the sermon barn, toward the confession building down the hill. I still hear her footfalls in the tall grass behind me and her breath, ragged and hoarse. I imagine she's holding up her long skirts, still getting them stuck with burrs and bits of dandelion fluff. She’ll be filthy.

  It's actually one of the oldest buildings here, this shack. When I started the compound, sixteen years ago, there was a barn on the property but no house. We kept the barn and this shack here. I think it was used for garden tools or something, back when there was a house.

  All that's left of the old domicile is a concrete foundation that's been filled in and covered with prairie grasses. Sometimes when the snow thaws in the spring, the grasses are so short tha
t you can sort of see the concrete forms, poking out just above the soil level. It's like a ghost house.

  But there was no reason to lose the shack too. It's just a simple building with a door and one small window, and somehow it has been able to stand here for at least eighty years. Eighty years of storms, the occasional flood, the odd brush fire. Everything just passed this little shack by, leaving it intact.

  When we get to the shack I unlock it with a key from the ring on my belt. Leaving the padlock on one side, I let the door swing open and turn around to ask her to enter. She looks at me with those big, innocent eyes, blinking. Her fingers are knotted near the pit of her throat. Her cheeks are flushed and lips are parted. She's out of breath.

  “I've never done this before,” she says quickly.

  “It sounds like you need to start,” I reply.

  “But I thought this was just for… I mean, I haven't had the ceremony yet.”

  I cross my arms in front of my chest. For some reason, I feel like I need to shield myself from her.

  “It won't be long now, Angel,” I reassure her uncomfortably. “You haven’t been overlooked. I promise you that.”

  “Okay,” she sighs. She seems distracted and I’m not sure she believes me.

  “And you have something to tell me, is that right?”

  She swallows hard. I watch her throat flexing.

  “Yes… I suppose I… I mean —”

  “Come into the shack,” I tell her gently. “I'll hear your confession in here.”

  She nods somberly, walking past me and up the small step onto the worn, wooden floorboards of the shack. I can smell the hard soap she used to wash up this morning, the dove white, clean smell of her. The sunburnt smell of her hair. The tiny, bitter smell of her fright.

  I close the door behind us, and the shack seems plunged into darkness for a moment before our eyes adjust. In reality, there is more than enough light coming through the foggy window, high on one wall. More than enough. It illuminates the eight- by eight-foot space with a grayish, colorless halo.