“Maybe.” He crumples the bag closed. “Do I at least get a name?”
“Ada Mitchell.”
“Any relation to Abram Mitchell?”
“Why?” Her voice sprouts briars of suspicion.
“Yo, Goetz, he’s on his way,” Greg calls, clamping his hand on Julian’s shoulder. “Let’s wait outside. I’m sweltering in here.”
“Greg Eisen, this is Ada Mitchell.”
His friend smiles, all teeth and dimples, and nods. “A daughter of the prophet, I’d guess.”
Ada squints. “You’re the reporter.”
“Oh, the disdain with which you say that. Your daddy called me, not the other way around.”
“I apologize. I meant no disrespect.”
“Don’t take me too seriously, Ms. Mitchell. My boy Julian will tell you the same.”
“Are you a reporter too?” Ada asks.
“Photographer.”
“Oh.”
“You sound disappointed,” Greg says. “But don’t be. He may not look like much, but I promise he’s the best. He’ll make you beautiful, no worries.”
“Thank you for your concern on my behalf, Mr. Eisen. Good afternoon.”
Ada retreats through a door behind the register and Julian glares at Greg. “You’ll lose this interview if you don’t knock it off.”
“What I say?”
“I’m going to get my camera.”
Julian returns to the car, sits with his forehead against the dashboard, and prays. He and the Spirit have known one another long enough for Julian to recognize its urging. The encounter with the young woman has unsettled him. He asks for clarity and peace. Instead he gets the distinct impression this Ada person is to be his wife.
That’s crazy.
He rubs his ears under his palms as if adjusting antennae for better reception. He’s no charismatic, no fortune-teller. He doesn’t claim to hear the voice of God and won’t pretend his feelings are always right, and would never act upon a hunch like this without some sort of outside confirmation or biblical precedent. But this one has the paralyzing hallmark of authenticity in that it mimics all the other times it has been accurate. His entire body hums with it.
“Hey, Goetz, time’s up.” Greg opens the passenger side door, shrugs toward the farm store. “Mitchell’s here.”
Julian sees the man, lanky, horse-faced, dressed in navy pants and a matching long-sleeved shirt, the kind often seen on mechanics and factory workers. Laboring clothes. He’s clean shaven and Julian blinks away surprise; he’s been so certain Mitchell would have a beard, long and bushy and full of secrets.
They approach and the self-anointed prophet nods. “Mr. Goetz, so pleased you could join Mr. Eisen for our business today.” He offers a skeletal hand. “I’ve seen your work.”
“Thank you,” Julian says, though Mitchell offers no praise. He allows the man to swallow his own hand in the extended grip and then fights the urge to snatch it back. Mitchell’s palm is too smooth; Julian won’t be surprised if it’s lineless. The man releases him, finally, and behind his back he tightens his fingers into a fist.
“Yes, I like to know who I’m letting onto my property.”
“Well, let’s get this party started,” Greg says, removing a digital recorder from his pocket, switching it on, and slipping it back into his shirt. “After you.”
“No notebook?”
Greg waves a small, spiral pad in the air. “Got one of those too.”
Mitchell leads them on a stroll around the community. Julian shoots and Greg scribbles, and they listen to the story of a lawyer-turned-prophet who claims, like Jacob, he wrestled with God and did not let go until God blessed him with the vision of Abram’s Covenant, a place his family and others would be safe from the wickedness of the world, a place they could prepare for the second coming of the Lord.
“And when will that be?” Greg asks.
“Soon.”
“Do you have a general time frame you’re working with?”
“ ‘But of that day and hour knows no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only.’ ”
“So, that’s a no.”
Mitchell raises his eyebrows. “Perhaps you should ask Mr. Goetz. I believe he has professed some . . . faith.”
“I’m interviewing you.”
“No, then. God does not give dates.”
“And, what are you doing while you wait?”
The men work, Mitchell explains, once over the age of twenty. “In the wilderness, those who were twenty and older were cursed to have their carcasses scattered throughout the desert and would never see the Promised Land. They were, in other words, responsible for their actions. We show our men responsible as well. They take wives at twenty, move from their parents’ homes and into their own. About half of the men are chosen to work jobs in the local towns and cities. We do need some income; the farm store doesn’t meet all our financial needs. There are several professionals who have joined us, a physician and another attorney, and two men who are in technology fields. Of course, we make sure all outside employment is suitable for men of the Almighty. The other half farm the property and protect the women and children.”
“Protect?”
“Oh, yes. We must give honor to the women as the weaker vessels. They are much more easily tempted and corrupted, as we see clearly from Genesis to Revelation. If they are to remain the treasures the Lord God made them to be, we must be diligent in their protection.”
“How does that look?”
“Vigilance, Mr. Eisen. Vigilance.” Mitchell flaps his arm, motioning to some far-off place. “Out there, men are too busy seeking their own selfish pleasures to provide proper oversight, and their women are suffering for it, engaging in all manner of behaviors and activities they were not designed to do. So we minimize the possibility of that with a handful of . . . proprieties. Children are instructed in their roles from birth, boys as defenders, girls as damsels, and they are given ample opportunity to practice these roles. Women and children are never left alone without a man over them; should they have any needs or questions they will not have to make decisions on their own or worry about seeking out someone to help. In the homes, this is either the husband or eldest son, if he has turned thirteen. In the farm store, well, you’ve seen the overseers there. A father or brother will escort girls where they need to go, and be present for all courtship activities. Young ladies are married no later than twenty, but usually by eighteen. Giving them a husband, home, children to care for, it keeps them from idleness. Boredom only leads to mischief. No woman is given unbridled access to media. The men, of course, need to be aware of world happenings, but the sensitive sex must be shielded from it; women use computers only to help their husbands in their businesses or for the farm store, but—”
“—never without proper oversight,” Julian interrupts. He aches for Ada Mitchell, a woman he doesn’t know, and one who must be married; she is certainly older than twenty.
“You’re offended, Mr. Goetz.” Mitchell sighs as if he’s burdened by this news. “I am not at all surprised. ‘If the world hate you, ye know that it hated me before it hated you. If ye were of the world, the world would love his own: but because ye are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world, therefore the world hateth you.’ Mr. Eisen has his little recorder in his pocket. I could choose to say only things readers of this news article will find acceptable. But at what cost? You will paint me in an unflattering light, that is unavoidable. But the Lord Almighty will use it to call those he has chosen to this place, and others like it. He will not come until all who are his have been collected into his flock.”
“And how many families do you have here?” Greg asks it as if he cannot believe anyone would choose such a life.
“Twenty-two.”
They continue through the footpaths, Mitchell speaking of less controversial things—organic farming, small game hunting, his grandchildren, the joys of a life unburdened by worldly demands. He introduce
s them to his wife; Julian takes photos of them together, in their modest home, his teeth overpowering his thin-lipped grin, her smile ragged around the edges. “How many children do you have, Mrs. Mitchell?” Greg asks.
She looks at her husband. He nods. “Nine,” she says.
“And they have families of their own?”
She takes a picture from the mantel. Points. “Esther is the oldest, and then Rachael. They’re both married. Rachael has three children, and is due with another at the end of the summer. Esther has only been blessed with one. Yet.
“This is Paul. And Zebulun. They’re married as well. Paul has twins. They’re two—and a handful and a half.” She laughs, finally a smile with joy attached to it. “Zeb and his wife are only married six months, so no grandbabies yet, but there’s time.
“Judith will be eighteen soon. Micah is fourteen. And then Tamar is eleven and Caleb eight.”
“You love them,” Julian says.
“You don’t have children, do you, Mr. Goetz?” the woman asks.
“No.” He squints at the picture, touches Ada’s face. “You didn’t mention her.”
“That’s Ada,” Rosemary says.
“Does she . . . have any children?”
“She’s unwed.” Her voice quavers.
Julian has spent so long looking through the lens of a camera, collecting fractions of seconds, he sees things in frames, in stop motion, noticing the details in between changing expressions, those things the body tries to hide without the mind realizing they exist. Even without the release of the shutter, he watches this sequence unfold. Rosemary, a microcosm of distrust rising above her sorrow. Click. Mitchell takes the frame, her fingers tightening on it before letting go, and he turns it face down on the table. Click. A patina of fear spreads over his gaze. Click. Did Julian see that correctly? Mitchell, afraid? Yes, he’s certain.
“Well, gentlemen, I’ve taken enough of your time. If you haven’t any more questions, I’ll escort you back to your car.”
“We’re good,” Greg says, capping his pen.
“You know how to reach me, if anything should come up in your transcription.” He doesn’t offer his hand in farewell, but stands sentinel in the middle of the parking lot as they drive away.
“As if he wants to make sure we leave,” Greg says, watching in the rearview mirror. He swears. “What a nut job that one is. Makes great copy, though.”
“Yeah,” Julian mumbles. He intends to go home, process the photographs, and try to forget about Abram’s Covenant. Those things he perceived about her, Ada, they cannot be right. He’s having some sort of midlife crisis at thirty-eight. Mitchell’s fear, however. It was genuine. And, for some reason, Julian believes it has something to do with him.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He doesn’t help the student choose her photos, but she thinks he does, thanking him as he comments on her composition and guides her to answer her own questions. She says, “I think you’re right,” each time she makes a decision, even though he offers no suggestions. He supposes she’d like to tell her professor, “Julian Goetz told me these were the best ones,” as if somehow it will influence her grade.
It might. Who knows?
Hortense works with another student on the opposite side of the room. M&H Gallery hosts at least two students at a time, often three or four, depending on the size of the projects. The kid is another photographer, wearing his best pants and shoes, arriving at the gallery six minutes after the girl and still fourteen minutes early. He was clearly disappointed Julian had already been nabbed by his classmate and he had Hortense to assist him. His bowtie askew and his Donegal tweed ivy cap on the floor, he slaps the photos on the wall, one after the other, asking, “Straight?” and moving to the next before Hortense responds. His display is finished before the girl has half her pictures chosen. Julian goes to him, shakes his hand, and compliments one of his better shots. The kid beams, plucks at his tie, and launches into a monologue on lens angle and exposure, and why he chose this particular crevice to immortalize on paper and not another, more jagged one just inches above it. “You can see the corner here. The morning’s condensation looked like diamonds in the sun’s first light, but I don’t want to explore only the beautiful things—”
“Mr. Goetz?” The girl. Oh, what’s her name? Emily. That’s it. “I’m sorry to interrupt but I’d really like your professional opinion on a few of my other selections and I have to be to class in”—she looks at her watch—“less than an hour.”
“Of course, Emily, of course.” He shakes the guy’s hand again and says he hopes to be at the opening, if he’s in town. The kid swipes his hat off the ground and smacks it against his palm several times before jamming it down over his hair. He glares at Emily through his bangs, forced over his eyes by the brim of the cap, and she returns a satisfied smirk of her own with raised eyebrows and a shimmy of her head. He disappears without thanking Hortense, his Army surplus messenger bag slung across his bony, sullen shoulders.
Hortense snorts.
Emily hangs her remaining photos, bumping against Julian too many times for coincidence, and then thanks him profusely before saying, “I hope I’ll see you again, Mr. Goetz. At the opening.”
He almost responds, Please, call me Julian, a habit more than anything meaningful, but stops short because to this girl it will have some meaning beyond the polite words of a thirty-eight-year-old who doesn’t want to feel like someone’s grandfather. She uses her movements as pheromones, her words sticky with pink and carmine and violet. He nods, steps backward. “Like I told your friend—”
“Oh, he’s not a friend. Just some wannabe hipster from photog 403. So immature.” She glances at her wrist again. “Well, I’m off. Class, you know. And then work. At Coffeehaus. I’m there pretty much every afternoon.”
The girl flips her hair, a shoulder-length mane of frizz and crinkle that’s more poodle tail than Pantene commercial, moving in one solid poof instead of a long, healthy swing. Julian holds his breath until she’s safely through the door, than exhales. “Whoa.”
Laughing, Hortense says, “I haven’t seen it that bad before.”
“I’m old enough to be her father,” he says.
“Only if you had a kid at sixteen.”
He shakes his head. “What happened here? I’m sure girls weren’t like that when we were in college.”
“Okay, Mr. Oblivious. You think that.” Hortense crouches beneath Emily’s display, collecting scraps of the backing paper the girl peeled from the adhesive strips she used to mount her photos on the wall, then tossed on the floor.
“I would have noticed.”
“Maybe. If you saw it through your viewfinder.”
Her words have a serried edge to them, little puppy fangs biting into his ankles. He kneels to help her but she keeps her head down and back toward him. He reaches the opposite way, fingertips on the slick paper rectangles, sliding them close enough for him to grab and crumple into his holding fist. Then footsteps, and Mark stands above both of them, a framed print in one hand and an invoice in the other. “Hey hon, can you tell me what color mat this lady wanted?”
Hortense stretches to a stand, takes the paper. Glances at it. “This is your writing.”
“I know.” Mark grins, looking like the goofy, big-eared kid Julian roomed with freshman year, the one with the AC/DC poster above his bed and the mini-fridge full of blueberry Yoplait and pepperoni logs. “I can’t read it.”
“Hunter and navy, double matted.”
“Thanks.” He kisses her cheek. “Lunch after this?”
“Sure.”
“How about you, J?”
“Uh, yeah, okay.” Julian brushes the dust from his knees. “I have something to tell you both, then.”
“What?” Hortense asks.
“It can wait for lunch.”
“I don’t think so,” Mark says. “You look like someone kicked it. Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s fine. Nothing ser
ious like that.”
“Then what?” Mark asks. “Come on, J. Something’s up.”
The papers in Julian’s palm poke him. He squeezes them tighter. “I met someone.”
Mark drops the frame he holds, glass shattering across the floor. Hortense jumps back as the shards pounce at her ankles.
“Man, I’m sorry. You just shocked the living crud outta me.” Mark holds his hands out in a stop motion. “Stay here. I’ll get a broom. And don’t say a single thing until I get back.”
He strides into the framing room, leaving Julian and Hortense facing each other in a confetti of glass, and then calls from behind the other side of the wall, “Hon, where’s that broom?”
“Upstairs,” Hortense says, nowhere near loud enough for her husband to hear.
Mark peeks his head out. “Hon? Broom?”
“It’s upstairs.”
“Right. Back in a sec. And I mean it. Nothing.”
Julian waits beneath the scurrying footfalls of his one best friend, staring at his other, Hortense willowy and perfect in slim, to-the-knee azure shorts and capped-sleeve blush blouse. And the shoes. Julian hasn’t seen her wear the same pair twice. Today’s offering is woven pink wedges with dried, grassy heels. Her face is blank, her posture skewed over one hip, still as nightshade. He closes one eye as if he has his Nikon, narrows his vision as if fidgeting with the zoom, and sees it.
He wanted to be in love with her when he was twenty, when he prayed and prayed, and the Lord told him no. He went to her and told her, and she squinted at him as if blinded by the news. For all his talk of skipping Saturday night parties in order to get up for church Sunday morning, of his Thursday night campus Bible study and his grace before cafeteria meals and drive-thru burritos, she never took his faith seriously. People pray on Sunday and live on Monday. She never knew anyone who pursued God like Julian; he had a lover and there was no room for her in his bed. Julian watched his gentle and oh-so-intimate confession sting her, rubbing alcohol in the scrape of rejection, and she said to him, “There is no God,” retreating behind the safety of her dormitory door.
Still Life Page 10
