Talking to the Dead

by Bonnie Grove

  Did I even believe in God? I squirmed on my chair. I didn’t not believe in God. I’d never stomped my foot and said, “That’s it! Proof of the nonexistence of God. Case closed.” But miracles? When was the last time I’d seen a miracle? Or knew someone who had? No, no, I was fine. I wasn’t asking to walk on water, I only wanted clarity, a path I could follow. Just an ordinary miracle. I just had no idea how to get one on my own. That’s why I needed The Reverend.

  Pixie Woman startled me out of my musings. “The Reverend will see you now.”

  I followed her to J. D. Slater’s private office. She waved me in, and I came face-to-face with the man himself. He was a mountain, capped with greasy black hair instead of snow. He quivered toward me, a glacier on the move. His suit strained with the effort of containing his bulk.

  He held out a massive paw, his voice deep and booming. “I am the Reverend Slater.” He waved Pixie Woman away. “Sit, and tell me what troubles you today.” He sounded as if he might burst into a sermon at any moment.

  We sat on opposite sides of his desk. He eased himself into his chair, wheezing with the exertion. The chair creaked alarmingly, but held.

  I chewed my lip. Where to start? I shifted in my seat, feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. Maybe this was a bad idea. No, I’d thought about this a great deal before I called. Just jump in, like a swimming pool. “Well, I’ve been hearing my dead husband speak to me.”

  The Reverend made a humph sound, not unlike the sound I’d heard a rottweiler make once. He moved his head, perhaps a nod, his head rolled up and down, folds of fat undulating under his chin. They momentarily hypnotized me. I blinked rapidly. “I was. But I’m not anymore.” I spoke quickly. “I got rid of him, chucked him out the window, so now he won’t talk.” I frowned. Was I making sense?

  He narrowed his eyes until they were almost invisible in the meat of his face. “The voices have stopped?”

  “Voice. One voice.” I held up a finger like a primary school teacher. “Yes, it’s stopped. That’s why I came to you. My psychiatrist thinks pills are the answer, but I’ve come to believe I’m experiencing a spiritual thing … problem.”

  The Reverend made a deep rumbling sound. “I agree with you. This is spiritual. Doctors can’t help you. Pills won’t help.”

  I cocked my head. He was saying the same things I had said, but why did I get the feeling we weren’t speaking the same language?

  “Uh, certain things have happened in the past week that caused Kevin to stop talking to me.” I leaned forward, and he did too, spilling over onto his desk. I sought out his eyes, deep within the fleshy pockets of his face. “I need Kevin to speak to me again.”

  The Reverend fell back in his chair with a tremendous thud. “You’ve come here to ask for help in talking to the dead?”

  His incredulous tone shook my already wavering confidence. “Well, just Kevin. I need to get some answers—set some things straight. He’s the only one who can do that.”

  He seemed to think about this. He didn’t move for a long moment, not even blinking. Then he folded his hands on his desk and peered at me. “I’ve spoken to God about this matter, and God has directed me.”

  When did he speak to God? Just now? I’d missed it. God directed him? How?

  He held up a fat finger. “I’m going to ask you some questions. Your answers hold the key regarding how we’ll proceed today.”

  I squirmed in my chair. He made it sound like a pop quiz I’d forgotten to study for.

  He sat back. “Are you willing to attend services here for a minimum of six weeks?”

  I started. “Six weeks? Here? Uh, I don’t live in the city. It’s a long drive to get here.” He fixed me with a steady gaze. “I mean, I suppose I could.”

  “A church alive is worth the drive. Jesus isn’t going to help you unless you are obedient to His Word.”

  “Word?”

  “Do you believe the Bible is the literal and inerrant Word of the Living God?”

  I tried to dredge up what I knew of the Bible. Fragments of stories and images flashed then faded in my mind. Stories of good guys and bad guys. A man named Noah, or Jonah, or maybe Moses, floating in an ark filled with animals; another man, being thrown from a boat (the ark?), and getting swallowed by a whale, a man in a den of lions. I had heard these stories in my childhood, when my parents would drop my sister and me off at church for Sunday school. I remembered believing these stories with the same kind of faith I had in Santa Claus. A wink-nudge-wouldn’t-it-be-nice faith.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it before. I guess it could be.” I thought of the book in Eliza Campbell’s waiting room, the Bhagavad Gita. Wasn’t that supposed to be scripture too? One look at Rev. Slater told me not to ask him.

  He narrowed his eyes, but he was smiling, a Pillsbury Doughboy grin. “Have you exposed yourself to the demonic world by the practice of séances, witchcraft, or Ouija boards?”

  My heart began a panicked tattoo. “What? No, of course not.” I’d sat on sateen cushions in Eliza Campbell’s elaborately painted counseling office, I’d sang and danced in my kitchen with my deceased husband, but that was a far cry from séances and Ouija boards.

  He stood up. “Can you confess with your mouth, right here and now, that Jesus Christ is your Lord and Savior?”

  I shrank in my chair. “I’m not sure I understand …”

  He moved around his desk toward me. “Do you know you’re a sinner who needs a savior?”

  Sinner? He didn’t even know me.

  The Reverend stood in front of me as I sat in my chair. “It’s clear to me what’s happened. I can see the path your feet are on.” He slapped his hands on the top of my head. Pressing down hard he shouted, “Come out!”

  My neck buckled until my chin pressed into my chest. What was he doing? I clawed his wrists. “Stop!” I screamed, but the word stuck in my throat. Only strangled, garbled noises escaped.

  Rev. Slater sounded as if he were being choked as well. He hollered strange words, like a different language. He clamped a meaty hand over my mouth and shouted, “Come out of her, foul devil!”

  Devil? Terror swept through my body. I couldn’t breathe. Desperate, I tore at his hand, but he only pressed harder. “I command you to come out, you lying spirit!” He shifted his weight from side to side, his hands like a vise around my head and face; we rocked in frenzied rhythm. I pushed at his arms, screaming through the meat of his palm.

  I tried to slide off my chair and slip out from under his immense weight, but he dug into my face and skull and held me in place. He bellowed a mixture of English and gibberish. Desperate for a breath I kicked his shin. He stomped his foot like a mad bull, but kept rocking me from side to side, faster now until I could feel the metal frame of the chair dig into my hip, first the right, then the left. I kicked with both legs and managed to connect with his kneecap. He roared with pain and tightened his grip on my head. “You can’t win, foul spirit. I claim this life!”

  He’s trying to kill me. I begged him, pleaded for my life, but his hand over my mouth pushed the words back down my throat. I needed air. Black spots exploded before my eyes. My hands dropped to my side and I felt my body go limp. Surprisingly The Reverend loosened his grip and then let me go. I slumped over and raked in gulps of air, a sob of relief escaped my throat.

  He took two steps back from me. “Now I’m going to lead you in prayer.”

  I jumped up and ran for the door.

  31

  I put my pencil down and looked out the kitchen window. I felt like a wrung-out sponge. Exhaustion radiated from some deep pit inside me. The early September Sunday morning sun was bright through the window. I blinked at its impersonal brilliance.

  I glanced down at my journal and the list I had spent the morning writing. It contained the names of everyone I had once belie
ved I could trust. Kevin. Heather. Blair. The Reverend. I touched the bruise by my mouth with a gentle finger, still there after two days. It was a deep purple blotch from the corner of my mouth down to my chin and halfway across my jaw. I had gone seeking help, and ended up injured.

  I included Dr. Alexander’s name too. It irked me to think that I was only allowed access to the halls of mental health as long as I complied completely with his orders. Sure, I hadn’t even tried the medications, but he hadn’t tried things my way either. Mental health should be a partnership. I half blamed him for what had happened with The Reverend.

  I liked my list. It helped me remember. It told the truth. I picked up the pencil and drew a dark cloud at the top of the page.

  I hadn’t put Donna’s name on the list because she wasn’t someone I had trusted in the first place. Still, her name sent shocks of fury through my veins. Her smug, cool face as she waved to the camera. Lover. The word had rolled off her tongue, effortless, as if she and Kevin were two kindred souls, brought together by their mutual passion for conservative investment portfolios.

  It shocked me how comfortable Donna seemed lying in that bed. No nervous tittering, no guilty looks or pleading to turn the camera off, What if someone were to find out? Instead she’d acted like Cleopatra, ruler of all she surveyed. As if she had the right to be there.

  The woman had violated my life. Broken into it. But it wasn’t as if she’d picked the locks. She’d been invited through the back door by the man I had trusted most.

  I clenched my fists, snapping the pencil I held in two. Waves of humiliation crashed down, one after another. I tossed the broken pencil into the garbage and stared out the window.

  Kevin’s voice had said that I’d forgotten too much. But my memories felt closer now. I could sense them circling from above, like birds of prey.

  I glanced at the list of names I’d written. Names of people who told me they loved me. People I’d spent my life loving. Liars, every one of them. Where would I go to find truth? I glanced up at the clock. If I left now, I’d catch Jack before church was over. I grabbed my car keys and headed out the door.

  It was nearly noon when I inched my way into the gym and stood near the back. It had taken a long time in the car to apply enough makeup to hide the bruises left by The Reverend’s giant hand two days ago.

  Sunday at Glen Hills Community Center looked much like Jack had described it. A motley crew had assembled, some sitting in folding chairs, others milling near the back where I stood. Jack was wrapping up a talk about the highway to heaven.

  An older man, wearing baggy coveralls and a yellowing smile, shook a paper cup at me and whispered, “Want some java?” He had the bulbous nose of a lifetime drinker; red and purple veins snaked across the center of his face. He didn’t seem bothered that I had come in right near the end of the service. He could have been someone’s grandpa, if someone’s grandpa had spent too many years at the bottom of a tequila bottle. Still, he looked sober now, clear-eyed. Shabby, but not dangerous. I shook my head and gave him a feeble smile as I slinked away. He smelled strange, like he’d recently bathed in lavender-scented mothballs.

  At the front of the gym, standing on a makeshift stage constructed of large wooden boxes, Jack, in jeans and a white T-shirt, was speaking into a microphone. His voice crackled through a single amplifier.

  “The road to heaven isn’t much of a road,” he was saying. “It’s more like a dusty trail, roughly cut out through the underbrush. Most people don’t even notice it. It doesn’t look like a path at all, so they walk right by. Others see it, but don’t go down it because it’s ugly. Dirty. Difficult. Overgrown. If they took the road to heaven, their progress would be slow, maybe immeasurable. They’d have to give up a lot because the path is narrow. So there’s no room for baggage.” Jack paced for a moment. “We’ve talked about all these things this morning. But maybe you’re asking, ‘Why would anyone decide to take an impossible road like this?’” Jack looked out into the gym and our eyes met over the heads of the people sitting in chairs. He smiled. “Because it leads to life.”

  “Baloney,” a voice called from the audience.

  Jack tore his eyes away from mine and gazed at a man in the second row. To my surprise he smiled. “How so?”

  The man stood up. “I’ve heard that pie-in-the-sky crap my whole life. It’s the same old story—Do as I say and there’ll be big reward in heaven. Why should I give up my life here and now, just on the promise of some religious nut?”

  Jack frowned. After a moment he said, “You shouldn’t.”

  It was as if everyone in the room took a step backward. There was an audible gasp from the congregation. I wished I could see the man’s face. “Exactly,” he said.

  Jack said, “But, tell me something, what is it exactly you’d be giving up in the ‘here and now’?”

  The man crossed his arms. “My freedom, for one thing. You religious nuts like to keep people on a short leash.” He swayed slightly and grabbed the back of the chair in front of him.

  Jack nodded. “Ah, right. Freedom. Freedom to come and go as you please. Freedom to do anything you like without anything like guilt getting in the way.”

  The man held up a finger of his own. “I’m a good person. Sure, I’ve made mistakes, who hasn’t? But I’ve got no regrets. I’ve lived my life on my own terms. Guilt is just something you religious guys made up.”

  Jack cocked his head. “Yeah, maybe it is. Or, maybe it’s something God can use to get our attention. It seems to me the things people cling to in the name of freedom are the very things that have those people locked in chains.”

  The man sat down hard, waving a dismissive hand toward Jack, signaling the conversation was over.

  The exchange amazed me. I’d never thought of a church service as a place you could speak your mind. Rev. J. D. Slater’s fat face filled my mind. I doubted he would have tolerated someone questioning him. Probably would have shot the guy.

  Jack smiled at the group. “It’s lunchtime.” He said a short prayer, then told everyone to go home. He jumped down from the platform and stopped in front of the argumentative man, offering his hand. The man shook it and they spoke for several minutes. When the man turned to leave, he was smiling.

  Jack caught my eye and sauntered toward me. “Hey, don’t run away. I need to help get this stuff packed away, but if you’ll stick around, I’d love to chat.”

  “Maybe we could have lunch?” I said.

  Thirty minutes later Jack and I sat across from each other at the Happy Eater Chinese restaurant. The food looked wonderful, but I wasn’t a happy eater.

  I pushed chow mein around my plate. “I literally don’t have anyone else to talk to.”

  Jack shoveled an astonishing amount of moo goo gui pan into his mouth and nodded. He swallowed hard. “I’m honored. You talk. I’ll listen—that’s all I can promise you. Beyond that, well, I’m not much help.”

  I raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Really? That’s refreshing. I’ve spent the last few months talking with people who think they know everything, and it hasn’t helped me much. But you’re a pastor. How come you don’t believe that you hold the truth of the ages in your back pocket?”

  Jack stood up and reached his hands into his pockets, pulled them inside out so the material hung down in front, white and empty. He turned his open palms toward me, an imitation of a vaudevillian beggar. “I guess I missed out somewhere along the way.” He sat down and scooped fried rice into his mouth.

  I sipped my water. It was warm. “I don’t think so. I saw how you talked to that man this morning. You didn’t even get upset when he questioned everything you’d been talking about.”

  Jack lifted a shoulder. “They’re all good questions. And anyway, he’s come around a few times in the past few months. He’s a drinker. Lonely, I think.” He paused to shove more food i
nto his mouth. Apparently he’d slept through the parental lecture to chew your food twenty times before swallowing. He waved his fork. “He’s just trying to figure it all out. I wouldn’t be helping him much if I yelled at him for disagreeing with me.” He gave me a mock serious look. “But this is supposed to be about you, and here I am doing the talking.”

  “Is he a sinner?”

  Jack paused, his water glass suspended halfway to his mouth. “I’m probably not qualified to say. I see he has problems, yes.” He looked far off for a moment. “God is holy,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

  “Am I a sinner?”

  He thumped his glass on the table. “Kate, where is this coming from?”

  I gently touched my fork to the bruise near my mouth. “Two days ago I went to see this preacher—a self-proclaimed miracle man—for help. But when I explained why I was there, he called me a sinner.” My eyes burned with unshed tears at the memory of the other things The Reverend had said and done to me.

  Jack reached across the table, his hand falling just short of touching my hand. “What preacher?”

  “Rev. J. D. Slater. He has a huge church over by—”

  Jack interrupted. “I know where the church is. That’s my father’s church.”

  32

  I made a strange sound, like a cat horking up a fur ball. “Your father?”

  He tapped his chest. “I’m J. D. Slater Jr.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I said. There was something repulsive about the idea the man sitting across from me had been raised by The Reverend.

  Jack leaned forward. “What happened?”

  “He hurt me,” I blurted. In the name of God.

  Jack looked startled. “Hurt you?”

  “He asked me a bunch of questions about the things I’d done, and before I knew what was happening, he was standing over me, one hand on my head, the other over my face.” I ran two fingers down my chin, reliving the pressure of The Reverend’s meaty hand pressing into my face, covering my nose and mouth. I inched my chair away from the table.