Yeah, why not? Johnny thinks.
Chris continues, “I’d go too, if Melody didn’t detest me. What you lookin’ at?”
Johnny swivels back, watching the road again. He feels sorry for Chris. The private knowledge Johnny has burns at him when he lets it. Sometimes when he’s alone and driving through Morris, he remembers that night and how it was with Melody and he understands why Chris would suffer deeply; her wild frayed edges stick like burrs. But this revelation of Chris’s is confusing.
Johnny wags his head. “Thought she had a mind of her own.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” Then, “A woman can kill you. Beat you up, not?”
Chris twists the side of his mouth. Loraine there; the lips, the thin angled nostrils. Chris doesn’t quite get it, hasn’t reached that cynical point. And, in any case, Johnny might be talking about his mother.
All that day Johnny ponders this news about Melody. She must be suffering and, like Johnny when he suffers in some acute way, has managed to seek solace in the hands of Phil Barkman. Hard, he thinks, for a sixteen-year-old to harbour this loss, tuck it away, pretend it never happened. Still, she wanted it. He wonders how much Phil has yanked out of her; he’s good at that.
He has lunch at Chuck’s, sits with the Penner boys, stalwart charis-matics, and tries to glean some information about Melody. But first, the boys ask, with genuine concern, how Johnny’s doing.
“Are you praying?” Glen asks, and after Johnny nods, guiltily lying, Gordie pursues, “Are you right?”
“Sometimes,” Johnny says, and he smiles widely, hating the stink of self-righteousness in the booth. But these fellows really aren’t self-righteous. They are, Johnny realizes later, very sincere. They nurture a huge love for Johnny’s soul.
The men discuss fame then and Gordie says everybody wants to be famous, to be known in some way, and Johnny considers a little and then agrees, though he’s never really thought about it.
Glen says that he and his wife Judy are working on their relationship. “We watch too much TV,” he says. “Come home, she makes supper, eat in front of the TV, do a few chores, watch the day’s taping of Oprah, and then go to bed. It’s not terrible but neither is it healthy. Maybe because we don’t have kids. We should be setting more time aside for Bible study and prayer. Just the two of us. ’Cause that’s when we talk to each other. Prayer is really just a therapy of sorts. Another way of talking to your partner. Makes us closer but it’s hard to do.”
“That’s logical,” Johnny says. He tried to get Loraine to pray once but she was full of titters and lust, wouldn’t concentrate.
Gordie, who is the younger brother and has three kids, says that the less time you have to yourself the more disciplined you have to be. He says, “Me and Marion, after the kids are in bed, which is usually ten o’clock, have to fit everything in: laundry, dishes, talking, sex, prayer.” His mouth opens and he brays. Delighted. He dunks a plastic creamer into his coffee.
Johnny watches him and wonders at how easily this man fits everything together. Johnny has never considered before that laundry and sex are on the same level. He wonders if that’s truly possible.
Still aware of his goal here, Johnny brings the conversation around to Barkman’s house and the meetings. He says, “I hear Melody Krahn is attending.”
“Yeah, regularly,” Gordie says. “Spoke in tongues last week.”
Johnny burns his tongue on the coffee. Slops onto the saucer. “Really?”
“Funny thing,” Gordie continues. “I’ve practically begged God for that gift but he won’t touch me with it. Some get discernment, some charity, some ministering. Melody walked in one night, sat down, and halfway through the meeting she broke down in tears. Too much weight.”
“Did she talk?” Johnny wants to know. Panic sits in his throat like a bubble.
“Not much. Phil prayed over her and oomph”—here Gordie snaps his fingers—“she headed off on a wonderful singsong piece. Face shining. Was beautiful. You should come again. We’ve missed you.”
“Yeah, I should,” Johnny says. His soul is dark. “And she’s living there,” he slips in.
The men don’t seem to find this odd. They nod and Gordie says, “She was lost. On the verge of running. Phil and Eleanor have big hearts.”
Johnny, listening to Gordie, understands that there are better people in the world than him, and this does not surprise him.
After breakfast, Johnny steps out into the sunshine and climbs into his car. He drives out past the sport complex—arena and curling rink—and circles around inside the little housing development which holds Phil and Eleanor’s house. He parks behind a clump of bushes, in a semi-islolated spot, with a good view of the side, back, and front. There is a look of disorder to the place, of almost. The house is half-painted. Swings in the front yard. A tractor mower is parked on a bit of lawn. Lots of dirt and sandpiles. A stack of shrivelled sod. There’s a kid wandering around in the yard, throwing clumps of dirt in the air. The house looks quiet; Phil must be off hanging stucco wire. It’s a part-time job for him; supplements the donations he gets from his followers.
Eleanor steps onto the back porch and hangs laundry. Diapers. Toddlers’ clothes. Johnny wonders if Melody is washing her own clothes. Then, there she is, standing beside Eleanor. She still has a way of moving that reminds Johnny of someone squirming from a hole. Her shoulders are strapped by a tank top. Thin neck and arms. She’s holding Eleanor’s youngest, hipping him and spooning food from a bowl into his greedy mouth. Melody twirls at one point, clutching the child. Happy. The flash of a spoon against the child’s back makes Johnny’s heart jump for some reason. Johnny leans forward, a hint of tobacco rising from his front pocket. He waits till Melody disappears inside the house, her hand flicking out behind her in gesture to Eleanor, and then Johnny lights a cigarette. He feels like a pervert. He goes.
And then, two days later he’s driving west out of town when he passes Melody on her bicycle going into town. Johnny swings the car about and, idling up to Melody’s pumping legs, pulls even, hums down the passenger’s window, and calls out, “Hey.”
Melody falters and brakes. Hops on one foot and straddles her bike. It’s a mauve mountain bike; her fingers curl on the rubber handles.
“Hello, Johnny,” she says. Her voice is the same, Johnny thinks. It’s her eyes that have changed; they’re not as quick, not as shiny.
“Got a minute? Can we talk a bit?” Johnny asks.
“I have nothing to say.”
“Haven’t seen you at the centre,” Johnny says, sliding into the passenger seat, leaning his arm on the door.
“Been busy.”
“Yeah? You okay?”
“Sure, why not?”
“You angry?”
“No, Johnny, Jesus,” and her mouth almost lifts up in a half-grin, like it used to. But she pushes it back down.
“People say you’re holy now.”
“Yeah, just like you.” Her foot goes up to the pedal. She wants to leave. Get away from him. Strange how a saviour turns to shit later. Johnny can feel her tightness, it’s there in her haunches, the way she shifts her bum on the saddle. Her tendons move in her neck.
“I saw you holding that kid the other day,” Johnny says. “On the back porch.”
“You been watching me?”
“I was passing by. Looking for Phil. I saw you.”
Melody doesn’t believe Johnny. Still, she says, “That was Kirby, he just turned one. Real sweet.”
“So, you babysit?”
“I help out. It’s my board.”
“You’re staying then?”
“I dunno. I suppose. I’m not unhappy, you know. Not now. For a while, at home, I was wrecked, sure. Couldn’t stand the sound of my mother chewing her food. But then I ran into Phil.” She drops her head. “He was so good to me. I didn’t tell him anything. He just held me. Eleanor too.” She taps at her chest here and says, “So.”
Johnny thinks maybe he’s looking into a
mirror. It’s so painful. “Congratulations,” he says. “My wife, Charlene, used to say that to me. She’s dead.” Then, before Melody can think about this, Johnny says, “Phil’s a good man. A good man.”
Melody simply nods. Smiles too, but this seems forced and colourless.
“Hey,” Johnny says again, forcing her to turn and pay attention. “You want to talk about your abortion, about that night, you go ahead. Don’t worry about me. If you need to get rid of all that, then just do it.”
“I’ve got nothing to tell.” Her hand moves to her thigh, then her ear. Johnny looks for love and beauty and grace and forgiveness in her eyes. It is possible, he thinks. She leans and touches his elbow.
“Well,” Johnny says, letting her hand rest there. His eyes hurt. Pain for this girl. “You’re a good kid.” And then he adds, “I heard something you’d like. On the radio. It seems that the number of people living now outnumber the dead. Huh.”
Melody smiles. Blinks. “Bye,” she says.
Johnny watches her go, is mesmerized by her thin feet strapped into sandals. He lights a cigarette, blows a draft out the open window, and thinks that this town is not good for him. Some day, he will have to leave.
Friday night Johnny opens the centre late. What with holidays and all he doesn’t expect too many kids on a summer evening. He’s right, three youngish boys show up and play ping-pong for a bit and then they scatter. It’s quiet till midnight. No one. On Saturday, instead of wasting his time in front of the TV at the centre, he detours out towards Phil Barkman’s. Pulls in behind Gordie Penner’s new snub-nosed Dodge half-ton. Lots of cars tonight. This makes Johnny nervous. Still, the thought of Melody lifting her pale face skyward and jabbering drags him up to the front door. His knuckles hurt on the metal door. Eleanor lets him in. She’s holding a cranky Kirby. Her manner is unhurried though; gentle and generous. She offers Johnny her home, her husband, her time. Gives him coffee and says, “We’re in the front room.”
About forty people sit in a half-circle. Johnny finds himself beside Melissa Emery. He has not seen her since his baptism last fall. With gratitude and warmth he recalls her presence there. She falls towards him now and smiles. Melissa is a little naive. Perhaps not too smart, Johnny thinks. She’s careless with her hands, touches his knee, breathes in his ear, “Welcome.”
Johnny’s scalp tickles. He smooths a hand up his brow and pushes at his hair. Then he sees Melody. She’s sitting at the other edge of the semicircle, across from him. She’s staring at him. He smiles but she doesn’t respond. It’s as if she were contemplating an important event taking place somewhere behind him.
Phil Barkman approaches the lectern and prays. His prayer meanders all over, touching the lives of Lesser, of Canada, the world, and finally coming back to the specific needs of this group. Then, for a few minutes, Barkman dwells on the sin of lust and Johnny listens carefully to Phil’s voice which is smooth and comforting and full of warning. Lust is a big issue, Johnny thinks. He wonders if Phil ever wants to sleep with someone other than his wife.
According to his watch it’s about a fifteen-minute prayer. The last bit is an exhortation on the Spirit and this, Johnny knows, will get the mouths vibrating. In fact, he feels a heat emanating from Melissa Emery beside him. It’s not unlike a sexual energy and he sneaks a look. Her hands pull at the padded shoulders of her sweater. Her head sways. She pants lightly and Johnny, sitting so close, feels a slight swelling in his crotch. He is amazed. Not at all cynical. He admires those who manage to find deep within themselves this fury that can spill out in a torrent of lovely babble.
Phil Barkman, also feeling the energy in the room, shifts his voice and says, “As we sense the moving of the Spirit, let’s respect each other’s voices. As much as possible, let us listen to one before another starts. In this way the interpreter will have a much easier time of it.”
This advice is so structured and so against the prevailing joy felt in the room that Johnny wants to laugh. But, by now, Melissa Emery is speaking. Her brow is damp, one hand clutches her knee. What she says makes no sense to Johnny but he doesn’t care. He closes his eyes and allows her voice to carry him. It is beautiful. Melissa Emery is beautiful. Grace lifts Johnny’s soul upwards.
When she is done, Eli Doerksen interprets. He stands, shuffles his feet, and quickly, with a look of surprise on his face, says, “There is a false presence here tonight. Something harmful. Perhaps it is a thought, a resentment, perhaps it is the burdened mind of one of our own. But it is a disturbing presence.” He pauses, and concludes, “These were the words of Melissa Emery.”
A poor interpretation, Johnny thinks. Completely off. He looks at Melissa to see what she thinks of Eli Doerksen’s foolishness but she hasn’t heard. She’s being held by Phil Barkman’s wife. They’re in a tight embrace and Eleanor is kissing the sweat from Melissa’s forehead and whispering in her ear.
The mood in the room has changed. Eyes shift. Johnny experiences a quick descent, a coolness in his chest now. Fear. Guilt. And later, when Melody rises, is drawn slowly upward as if lifted by a silent pulley, Johnny is overwhelmed by a desire to stand also, to join her and sing a duet, quell his shaking body, hold her hands and squeeze.
Melody’s language is foreign, but at its core is an oozing of familiarity, as if Johnny’s heard this story before. Or lived it. Her voice is the same one he heard that evening in Fargo, lilting, then crawling, then tippling upwards, her tone telling him to draw closer.
Now, talking to this group, she sways. Her body pushes out, first at Phil Barkman, then at Gordie Penner, who sits beside her, all eyes. Her hips grind. She moans. Johnny thinks that all of this is quite embarrassing but rapt faces around him seem to accept this sexual act, this tease, not as physical but as a form of cleansing.
Then, her voice slows and the words become common and legible and, This is no longer tongues, Johnny thinks. Melody is describing an act, an intimate and extreme act. And quickly, before Johnny can grasp what is happening, Melody is entertaining the bunch with a tale of drugs and driving and a dead baby. The whole story is told.
Johnny is watching Melissa Emery’s knuckles. Chapped a little. Then Melody’s face. Full of peace. He himself is experiencing tremendous confusion. When Melody sits, is in fact caught by Gordie and cradled briefly in his arms and then released, Johnny is on his feet, willing to offer what he hopes will be seen as a faithful interpretation. His head is bowed. Surprisingly, people wait. Melody is gasping; real tears, Johnny hopes.
Johnny stutters. Tries again. He has an audience, something he’s always liked. His voice is surer now, his mind slipping down that long black tunnel to the place he wants it to go. “Jesus Christ was a fag,” he says. “There is this theory which is quite possible. Claims that Jesus was gay. You know, homosexual.” Johnny grabs a quick breath here and forges on, knowing that any little pause now will allow for a stifling of his voice. “Seriously. I mean, why didn’t the man have any women? Think of it, twelve disciples, all men. Thing is, this theory states—and this is based on good research—Jesus and Judas were lovers. And if you accept that, how much greater the betrayal?”
Johnny’s smiling now. “You’re all unbelievable,” he says. “You people don’t admit to other possibilities. Narrow little views of salvation. What if I were to say that seeking out redemption in itself is evil; this idea that the world revolves around me. You know, my salvation, my soul, my wish to live forever. And besides that, Apostle Paul was a fag too. Especially liked little boys. Imagine, him giving us advice on marriage.”
Johnny shrugs his shoulders. A terrible lightness there. People muttering. Rumbling. The beginnings of a storm. A stoning perhaps. Johnny backs away towards the front door. Phil Barkman is stretching out his arms, eyes begging. What a handsome man, Johnny thinks. Little hooded blue penis. A good man. Melody is in the background, a wan ghost who listened to his voice. Good for her.
Johnny turns now and runs, out to his long black car. Gravel sprays, the faint ping of sto
nes on Gordie’s Dodge. He drives too quickly across the washboardy gravel along the road to Loraine’s house where he finds her in bed with the baby and a book. The baby sleeps.
“Are you okay?” she inquires, staring up into his wild face.
Johnny is touched by this question. So simple. She makes room for him on the short side and he touches her hip; the flow of her skin on his fingertips. The abandoned book takes flight at their feet. The roll of the mattress stirs the baby; Loraine hushes from above and finally giggles and gasps as she comes in his mouth. And then his quick efficiency, easing into her for the first time since the birth of Rebecca, and rocking slowly, his nose on the bone of her shoulder. The insanity of the evening dissolves and he concentrates on her, no one else; just this woman he loves, who lives out here above the black earth, a bright and vital star. His, for now.
OUT
In the days that follow Melody’s revelation, Johnny holds his breath and closes his eyes. What he has, this life with Loraine, hovers delicately in a cold blue sky so that Johnny begins to see himself as a bird; a bird like that raven Noah set loose upon a watery world, the one which never returned. Johnny, like the bird, seeks a place to rest; a rock, a piece of earth, a tree, but he finds nothing. There is no peace. One night Johnny wakes and has an urgent need to use the bathroom. He creeps from the bed and feels his way through the shadows to the toilet. He sits, eyes closed, and senses that he is ghost-like. His body is weak and flimsy, the weight and size of a scab barely clinging to its base. Johnny pulls at his chin and pinches hard at his thigh. The pain restores his faith and he shuffles back to bed and rediscovers his hollow beside Loraine and, before falling asleep again, smells her head twice.
And then one day Loraine phones Johnny at work. Her mouth is full of something, pain maybe.
“Johnny,” she says, “you should come home.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“We have to talk.” A little pull of air through her teeth now, as if the baby were feeding and biting her nipple. “Chris just told me about Melody.”
A Year of Lesser Page 20
