by Jason Mott
“Shut up, Wash,” Ava said. “Shut up and sing something. If you’re worried about him finding out, I’ll keep your secret.” Then she settled back into the pillow and closed her eyes and waited.
“And I’ll keep yours?” Wash asked. “I won’t tell anyone that you’re not doing as good as you pretend to be?”
“Yeah,” Ava said softly. Her eyes were still closed. “Don’t tell anyone that I’m not going to keep doing this.”
“What?”
“I’m tired,” Ava said. “And I don’t want any of this anymore.”
Wash studied her face. He wished she would open her eyes and look at him as he spoke. But she did not. “Why did you do the thing with the dog? Why not tell your dad you want to stop?”
“Are you going to sing me a song or what?” Ava asked. She opened her eyes and looked at the boy and, in that moment, they both knew that, for now, the discussion was over. She squeezed his hand. “Thanks,” she said.
It took a moment, but Wash managed a grin. “What about ‘The Ballad of John Henry’?” he asked.
“Great,” Ava said wryly. “Another song about somebody dying.”
“It’s part of my charm,” Wash said. “Now hush and let me get ready.” He cleared his throat and tilted his head the way he always did and his thumb and forefinger touched and made the familiar “okay” sign and the song rose up from his throat and filled the room and Ava simply lay there and listened and the pain drifted away until sleep came, softly drifting from the boughs of Wash’s voice.
* * *
Reverend Isaiah Brown’s church had secured itself in the center of Stone Temple. It was Wednesday evening and cold out but that would not stop the congregation. They came in cars and vans and buses and, once they had found accommodations among the townspeople—there was no hotel in Stone Temple, but its inhabitants were quickly learning the art of renting rooms and converting wasted space to profitable acreage for tents and RVs—the members of Reverend Brown’s church, who had pulled Macon away from Carmen on the day of her examination because they were erecting their tent, had built a small community around the oak tree at the center of town.
A few years back the town had gotten a grant from the state and used the money to build a small park. They said that it would help with the tourist season on account of the fact that at the center of the park was one of the oldest and grandest oak trees most folks had ever seen in their entire lives. It swept up out of the earth like a great green flame licking at the sky. Its branches burst out in all directions. Even in the winter the tree still had a great deal to offer, the way its naked branches connected and ran from one another like veins.
The town had set up a type of artists’ retreat in one of the old houses nearby that no one was living in. The house opened up directly onto the newly created park with the beautiful oak tree, and the artists would come to marvel at the tree. They painted and sketched the tree, wrote poetry and penned plays about it.
But then, as with nearly all things in Stone Temple, the oak tree lost its luster. The artists came in fewer and fewer waves each year until, finally, they stopped coming altogether and only the townspeople were left.
And now Reverend Brown’s congregation was planted beneath the bare boughs of the tree. They existed by the grace of heated tents with a large, grand stage on the far side of the park, beset on three sides by the small buildings and houses of the town that held the thin population of people and failed businesses.
Reverend Isaiah Brown stood in the center of the stage, microphone in one hand, Bible in the other, and started into his sermon for the evening. It was a sermon on the miracles that Jesus performed and how, more than anything, it was the duty of the church—and, by association, members of the church—to seek to emulate, even more than anything else, the kindness and selflessness of Jesus’s acts.
“It’s easy to believe that we are different than Jesus was,” the reverend began, “because we are, and yet, we are very much the same. Jesus lived, and we live. Jesus bled, and we bleed. Jesus died, and so do we. And in his lifetime he was able to perform amazing things, impossible things, things that you and I, in our failures, could only ever hope to achieve.” He walked back and forth across the stage slowly as he spoke, taking in the entirety of the audience when he could, making eye contact, ensuring that his words were received as well as they could be. Reverend Brown had always believed that conversation—whether it be something as large as a sermon or something as small as a thank-you—was an attempt to pass, from one person to another, a flame of empathy. It was an attempt for one soul, trapped inside a body, to pass their thoughts and feelings, the essence of who they are, on to another person. And a sermon to a congregation was the highest form of that, Reverend Isaiah Brown believed, because it carried with it the task and turmoil of trying to connect people to something they oftentimes struggled to believe in, something they often felt unworthy of. It was like bridging the gap between the earth and the sun—both glorious in their own right, both caught in the gravity of each other, but with thousands upon thousands of miles of distance between them.
“But we cannot use our belief that Jesus was more than we were,” Reverend Brown continued, “as an excuse to be remiss in our duty to be kind, to be compassionate, to be forgiving, to help others and to try to make the world around us a better place than it was before we arrived.” He stopped pacing. “I mention all of this because, dear church, we all know what happened in this small town of Stone Temple. The whole world is talking about the girl at the center of it, and everyone is trying to understand its meaning, trying, perhaps, to assign their own meaning to it. We’re all guilty of it, myself included. I won’t pretend that I’m not as fascinated and intrigued as all of you by what has happened here. That was why I came, and I believe that is why so many of you followed me here.
“But as time marches forward, and as we begin to express our opinion about these events, as the world begins to converge upon this town and those people within it, I ask you all to remember that, more than anything else, this is about a child. And we need to stay away from hanging too much of our hopes, too many of our expectations, upon her. We need to remember that we are all as blessed and loved by God as she is. That we all have within us the ability to do good things, to save people—not through miracles, but through action. Free will allowing us to help others is the greatest blessing God ever gave us.”
The applause began slowly. This was a very different sermon than much of the crowd had expected. A great many of them had followed Reverend Brown to this town expecting to hear him talk of how the girl was sent by God, sent to remind them of His existence and His ability to create miracles. And now, the reverend they had believed in so deeply was stepping away from that message. There were those who understood and agreed with what Reverend Brown had said. But there were also those who were left questioning.
But because the congregation was loyal to their leader, they all applauded. They all stood and raised their hands in reverence and when he concluded the sermon with the Lord’s Prayer—as he always did—they spoke the words and their belief in him was reassembled.
“I thank you,” he said solemnly. “I thank you, church, for everything that you do. Thank you so much,” he said.
Macon watched from the front row. The reverend had invited him to come and hear the sermon, and he had accepted. There was something in the reverend that reminded Macon of his father—a stern but fair man that passed away months before Ava was born. There was a part of Macon that lamented how his daughter never got to know her grandfather. And Macon was cognizant enough to know that there was a small degree of transference happening with Reverend Brown. But he accepted it and moved forward.
When the sermon was over, Macon was asked to join the reverend in private.
“What do you think of all this?” Reverend Brown asked. He offered Macon coffee, but the sheriff declined, having never quite learned the intimacies of the drink. The two of them sat in one of the many l
arge rooms of the Andrews House.
“It’s quite a production,” Macon said, choosing his words carefully.
The library room was large and the walls paneled with wood that looked warm and expensive. It was the house of one of the wealthiest men in Stone Temple, Benjamin Andrews, a well-to-do investor that had made a career creating mergers and profits. He was often quoted by the townspeople as saying that his youth had “gone to mammon.” Now that he was older, he had converted his large, sweeping home into an inn for travelers. Rooms could be rented at low rates for anyone in need of a break from the world. Travelers frequented the inn and admired the grandness and pomp of the house’s architecture. It would make most people feel awestruck and small, but also inspire a spark of an idea that the world, as cruel as it could be, could be a warm and inviting place at times. Benjamin Andrews took great pride in this.
So when word was sent—earlier on than most people suspected—that Reverend Brown would be coming to town, accommodations were made for the great man and his church. Rooms that had otherwise been rented were held in wait, because the reverend was someone who people could believe in.
“Too much showmanship for you?” Reverend Brown asked.
“I was never really the church-going type,” Macon replied. “So whatever people enjoy, showmanship or not, it’s their own business.”
Reverend Brown nodded in agreement. “And can I assume that you’re not being ‘the church-going type’ was only made worse by the untimely death of your wife?”
Macon’s body tightened. “I’ll never get used to how much a person can find out about someone else these days,” he said.
“It doesn’t take much work,” Reverend Brown said. “Especially now. There’s a microscope hanging over this entire town and everyone in it.” He made a motion with his hands, forming a small circle, as though he could look through it and see into Macon. “More than that,” he continued, breaking the illusion of the microscope, “one should always know as much as they can about people.” He rubbed his hands together as if to warm them, then he made one hand into a fist and placed the other atop it. “So why did you decide to become sheriff?”
“Just sort of fell into it, I suppose.”
Reverend Brown stood and went around to the far side of the desk. He sat with a sigh and leaned back in his chair. Then, after a brief pause, he sat forward again, as if suddenly becoming uncomfortable in his position. He placed his elbows on the desk and crouched forward and peered over the top of his clasped hands. “Can I ask you what you believe, Macon? Spiritually, I mean.”
Macon had known the question was coming. His religious views were a large part of the conversation everyone seemed to want to have with him these days. There was an obvious parallel between what Ava had done and the miracles performed by Jesus, and that was something the world couldn’t ignore. And so, naturally, people wanted to know precisely where Macon stood in regard to the topic. They wanted to know if he was Catholic, Baptist, Methodist, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Taoist or other. They asked if he was atheist, deist or agnostic. Something else? Miracles were never things to be confined. For as long as people have acknowledged the mundane, they’ve believed in the miraculous. Did he attend church every week, or hardly at all? Did he pray? Did he believe in anything at all?
Ultimately, he knew that it didn’t matter what he believed—or didn’t believe. If he said he was a religious man, those who weren’t religious would try to pick him apart—saying it was a hoax orchestrated by a religious nut. If he said something to indicate that religion wasn’t a big part of his life, then there would be those who would attack him on the very grounds of the fact that there was no word that could be used to describe what Ava had done other than miracle.
“I believe what I believe,” Macon replied. It was the best reply he could come up with. It declared nothing and affronted no one.
“Fair enough,” Reverend Brown replied, and there was sincerity in his voice. “All of us,” he continued, “are entitled to stand upon our own spiritual ground, whatever it may be. And maybe, at this particular point in time, with everything going on around you and your daughter, maybe you deserve that right more than anyone else.”
“Why do I get the feeling there’s a ‘but’ coming?” Macon asked.
“There is something I would like from you.”
“What?”
“In short,” the reverend said, “I would like your help.” He paused for a moment, as if to allow Macon to imagine the specifics of what he wanted. Then he continued, “I think that I can help you and your family. I think I’ve made that abundantly clear to you. But I can’t do it unless you allow me. And I would like for you to allow me to help Ava. And the best way to do that is if the two of you will join my church.”
* * *
“What did Reverend Brown say?” Carmen asked. They stood in the driveway, bundled up in the unseasonable cold. It was late and Ava was sleeping in her bedroom so they’d chosen to have their argument in the yard. One of the benefits of living in the middle of the woods was that there were no neighbors within hearing distance, something they rarely took advantage of, but enjoyed when the time was appropriate.
Macon looked down the long driveway toward the bottom of the hill. Where he thought he would find the lights of the reporters that had been watching their house every day since all of this began, he saw only darkness.
“What happened to the piranhas?” Macon asked.
“You’re avoiding my question.” Carmen folded her arms across her chest and Macon knew she wouldn’t be moved until they’d talked.
“Don’t underestimate how much talent it takes to avoid your questions,” Macon replied.
“And don’t underestimate the ability of a pregnant woman to hit you with a frying pan if you don’t answer her.”
“Okay,” Macon said, grinning. Then he took a deep breath and the grin fell away. “I don’t think he’s a bad man,” Macon said.
“What does he want with Ava?” Carmen replied with a directness not unlike Macon’s.
The air was cool and crisp. Off in the west the moon sat low on the horizon, half-secluded by the mountains and pines springing up shaggy and thick in the dimness. The crickets and cicadas were singing their various songs and the wind that came down off the mountain smelled of night-blooming jasmine. Though it seemed the winter would be early this year, life still clung to the earth.
“Well,” Carmen said. “How bad is it?”
“He wants Ava to help someone.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the same thing Eldrich wanted, the same thing they all want. He thinks that Ava, if she really can do what she does, has a responsibility to help people. To do good things. Or, at least, to do the best that she can.” He tightened his mouth, trying to force the words forward. “And I can’t say I’m a hundred percent in disagreement with him.”
“Well, that’s easy enough,” she replied. “No.”
“Carmen.”
“What? I don’t see the need for a discussion here.” She rubbed the side of her head. “Tell him the same thing you should have told Eldrich—to go to hell. Nobody knows what happened with Ava and Wash, let’s just all go ahead and concede that. Nobody knows how she did it. Hell, half the world still doesn’t believe she did it. And, honestly, I’m okay with that. Maybe that’ll help this blow over a little quicker.” She stepped forward and took Macon’s hand in hers. She looked him in the eyes. “But the one thing that we do know is that, whatever she did, it hurt her to do it. She was unconscious for three days. And she still doesn’t look like she’s back to normal. You’ve seen the way she can never get warm.”
“I know,” Macon said, looking away. “It’s just that...well, we can’t really pretend that none of this happened. We can’t act like we have the option of just forgetting what she did.”
“Yes, we do,” Carmen said. “We can just say no. When people ask to do tests or ask her to do it again, we can just say no. That is a
n option. We all have the right to say no.”
“You’ve got to understand how big this is, Carmen.” Macon squeezed her hand gently. “She did something unbelievable. And maybe with him,” Macon said hesitantly, “there’s a better chance to steer all of this. I don’t know. It just...it just feels so big.” He made a motion with his hands to show that he was encompassing something large and unwieldy with his statement. “People keep asking questions and I can’t answer any of them. She’s my child and I don’t know what’s going on with her.” He sighed softly. “The doctors said she’s getting better.”
“The doctors don’t know shit,” Carmen said sharply. “Every time she does it she goes into a coma. Think about that, Macon. Think about what all of this is doing to her body. Have you seen how skinny she’s getting? She eats but it’s like it’s all going into a black hole somewhere. Her clothes barely fit her anymore.”
“Carmen,” Macon said exhaustedly. “Can’t we just talk about this instead of arguing about it?”
“This is killing her, Macon,” Carmen said slowly. “Little by little, it’s killing her.”
“Please...” Macon said, pleading. He stood with his eyes closed, not seeing what was in front of him.
Carmen began to speak again, but stopped herself. She had grown up in a household with a mother and father whose arguments were not unlike the one she currently found herself caught in. And she had always promised that she would not become the woman her mother was—a woman who did not give her husband or children the chance to make a case for themselves but, instead, launched into soliloquies and called them arguments. Even though the person on the other side of the conversation was never allowed to get a word in edgewise. She paused and caught her breath. “Okay,” she said eventually. “Let’s hear it.”
“This whole thing, the way everyone is responding to it, I’m lost in it,” he said. “I’m just a sheriff—a decent one, but just a sheriff. I handle lost dogs and burning ordinances and the occasional drunk who can’t find his way back to his farm. That’s it. That’s who I am. That’s what I know. And now I don’t know what the hell is going on. Every day this all just gets bigger and bigger. More people come to town, more news cameras, more people asking for interviews, more people trying to tell me what it all means. And since I haven’t really got a clue what it all means, I don’t know who to believe.” Macon walked to Carmen and, finally, she unfolded her arms. He took her hands in his. “I’m scared,” he said.
