by Jax Miller
A wave in my stomach, the old woman’s inability to look in my eyes, the fact that I’m being led to the middle of nowhere already in the middle of nowhere. The determination I carried for finding my daughter is being replaced by fear.
In the shed, shelves of nonperishable canned goods, linens, and worn hymnals and Bibles in bulk. The center of the room is bare but for a single wood stool. No guns. Virgil grabs folded clothes from one of the shelves. “You will be stripped and you will change into these.” His stares down to me are cold. “It’s all part of the cleansing process.”
I swallow hard. “Have faith,” I say, though the comment’s directed to those at the other end of my wire. “I can do all things….”
That sounds like something a religious person might say, right?
The reverend smiles. “Go on.” He shakes his head for me to strip.
“Sir, with all due respect”—I hold my breath, hoping it makes me look like I’m blushing—“I couldn’t possibly get undressed in front of a man.” Of course this is total bullshit, but it’s what he expects to hear.
He raises an eyebrow as the old woman removes my jacket. When he sees the tattoos, he says, “I suppose that wasn’t always a problem for you?” He eyes me up and down.
“That was before Christ changed me.”
He nods approvingly. “I’ll be just over here, then.” His pace is slow to the Dutch door, leaning on the bottom half and staring off at the church, his back to us.
“What’s your name?” I ask the old woman.
“You will refer to her as the Amalekite,” Virgil shouts over his shoulder, his voice like the cracking of a whip in the room. “And she does not speak.”
This is what’s called being fucked. I can’t hide the microphone, and I can’t avoid getting naked before the mute. Shit. Why couldn’t Feds around here be more tech-savvy and give me an earpiece or a pin like you see with nanny-cams? I turn, so my back is to Virgil. I shimmy out of my boots, the bottle of antibiotics rattling. Thinking Virgil is still at the entrance, I’m alarmed when he brushes to my side, reaching down. “Medicine has no place in the church,” he says, his voice stern. “We rely on the power of God, not man, to heal. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I respond. Then did God not give us doctors? In fact, wasn’t the apostle Luke a doctor? Fucking quack. When he returns to the door and faces the other way, the Amalekite helps me get my pants off. I wince when the jeans brush against the snakebite. The Amalekite notices and takes her time, cautious around the bandages. She unfolds a thick white cotton skirt and struggles to crouch down. She takes my hand and puts it on her shoulder so I can lean on her as she slips on the skirt and a pair of matching grannie panties. Her bones feel arthritic under my hand, knots in her shoulders, her fingers cold as she dresses me. Last to come off, my shirt. My plain black tee that covers the wire.
I let her use my forearms to support herself, but I get the feeling I’m not allowed to help her. She goes to lift the shirt over my head. I pull it back down by the bottom seam. And for the first time, she makes eye contact with me. Don’t make me fucking do this, please, Lady, don’t make me take it off. I scream with my eyes. Hers, as gray as stones on the coldest of days.
Behind me, “Daddy, Daddy!” I hear Magdalene run toward the shed.
“Not now, sweetheart,” Virgil answers back. “Go back and help your mother with lunch.”
As Virgil leaves for just a moment, I seize the opportunity. I go to tell her to keep her fucking mouth shut. Sure, it’s not like I’d enjoy being so blunt with an elderly lady, but what other hope do I have? But before I get the chance to hiss the words, she does first. “I’ll say nothing to that bastard,” she whispers, her nose up to mine as she glances over my shoulder to Virgil. I’m floored; I hold my breath as the Amalekite reaches under my shirt and pulls the wire down, rolling it up and putting it in her pocket, using my body to hide her. It stings, but not enough to make noise about it.
And if she can read my eyes, What the fuck am I walking into? She looks down as she removes my shirt; I unclasp my bra.
Virgil returns to my side, “We can’t have this.” His eyes narrow. He looks around until he grabs a pair of white gloves. He tosses them at the Amalekite. “Make sure none of that blasphemy is showing, not even on her hands,” he says, regarding my sleeves of tattoos. “Sew em’ on the sleeves.”
I say nothing. I have to remind myself to keep my trap shut because of Rebekah…Rebekah. Where the hell are you?
—
I need reasons to cry. I need to look like my conversion to the church is the most emotional one yet. I need to give an Oscar-worthy fucking performance. It’s late afternoon, the day becoming chilly. Shadows grow taller on the ground. The entire “community” is here for my baptism. After Virgil and the Amalekite lead me to the church from the back door, I kneel on the altar, with Virgil’s palm pushing down on my forehead.
“Do you renounce Satan in the presence of Jesus Christ?”
Back to crying. Think about the adoption. Think about the time Matthew raped me. Think about Mark’s betrayal. Think about the arrest. Think about Mason’s cries then. Think about the two minutes and seventeen seconds that I felt my daughter’s breaths. Think about the redemption at the other end of this. Think about finding Rebekah alive with a happily-ever-after ending that one can only dream of. I cry my eyes out. “I do, in the name of Jesus Christ.”
“Are you willing to suffer and die for your faith?”
With each I do that I utter, the crowd sings “Amen.”
“Do you accept I, Reverend Virgil Paul, to carry an all-knowing gift from God? That God has indeed chosen me to relay to my people the exact hour of our freedom?”
“I do.” Amen.
“Do you swear to this church never to forsake nor abandon the messages that I give to you, my faithful servant?”
“I do.” Amen.
“Do you refuse the ways of the outside world, to never again associate with anyone beyond this family of disciples? To give your life to me, as Christ has done for you? To practice submission to me, as I am the chosen one of Christ, sent to this earth to gather the only holy people left of this earth, to lead them into heaven?”
“I do.” Amen.
His shout forces the people to their feet. “Witness God’s newest soldier, with God’s perfect timing of bringing her here this very day!” A standing ovation, tongues, amens, seizures, convulsions, tambourines: it’s a zoo. I didn’t need to be a Christian to know that there was something not right about this. But play along, Freedom, play along. Because it’s not about my beliefs. It’s not about religion. It’s not about these people. It’s not about me. It’s about finding my estranged daughter.
Whatever it takes, just help me find my daughter, I pray to a god I’m not even sure is listening. I guess it can’t hurt. God, if you exist, if you’re up there, somewhere, hear my silent prayer. These people are backward, they’re manipulators of you, they twist scripture. But who am I to talk, I suppose. But if for once you listen to me, please get me answers. No matter what’s happened, help me find Rebekah.
At the center of the altar, a large white cross. I sit in a blue plastic kiddie pool with the help of Virgil and the Amalekite. I have to lie on my back to be fully submerged. I fix my focus to the cross from under the water until I’m pulled back up, Virgil’s strength effortless. My ears ring with the racket. And out of several hundred spectators, it’s Magdalene who catches my eye.
Her pigtails bounce, as she smiles from ear to ear. Ah, childhood innocence blanketed with the brainwashing of adults, bastardized by evil men. The people empty their pockets, all their savings and possessions, including children’s toys and corn-husk dolls, dumped into offering plates. Virgil runs down to the pregnant women, who expose their bellies. And every time I try to get just a fraction of the Amalekite’s attention, there’s always somebody there to make sure I can’t get a moment alone with her.
I stand in the pool. Surrounded by hu
ndreds of arms pointed at me. I’m soaked; the clothes weigh a ton when wet. I shiver. I fake a smile and pretend to pray. I’ve never felt more alone.
“This should do it.” Virgil’s lip curls as he tosses the duffel bag full of cash between him and the skinheads in the basement of the Bluegrass. “Rebekah’s debts are paid.”
“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” says Joe, the undercover ATF agent who was with Rebekah on the night she disappeared. “We was waiting for the Virgin Mary to show up. She’s much easier on the eyes.” Joe smiles with sarcasm, knowing that everyone in and outside that room knew of Virgil’s daughter’s disappearance.
Virgil fears that Rebekah missing the meeting for the next pickup of guns will earn him a visit from these guys at his church. And who could fathom that? Lowlifes, raping your wife, your daughter, tearing your church upside down. He had to keep them at bay, ward their threats off by maintaining the weekly ritual. And with news that there might be some undercover operation against him, he has to lie. Forgive me, Lord.
A skinhead from the rear of the basement begins to carry guns from an arsenal in the back. “No, I don’t need those,” says Virgil. “I’m just here to pay Rebekah’s debts, whatever she’s involved in with you peckerwoods.”
“Rebekah…” Joe trails off.
“Sure, Rebekah. I don’t know how she got involved in all of this, but it’s over. I’m paying her debts.” The skinheads look around. What the fuck is this guy talking about? But Virgil realizes the risk of wires and taps. He has to keep up with the charade.
Joe starts, “You mean to tell me that that cute little retard willingly, on her own accord, with sound mind, just decided one day to waltz into a bar, locate the nearest skinhead, and start asking him to help her smuggle hundreds of weapons under her skirt and out of this bar?”
Virgil responds, “Do you mean to tell me that on your own accord, with sound mind, willingly, you just decided to waltz into a bar, locate the nearest cute little retard, and start helping her smuggle hundreds of weapons under her skirt and out of this bar?” Virgil waits for a response but is met by silence.
“You come here to pay her debts.” Joe smiles, walking toward Virgil with his hands on his hips. “And not once do you ask if we had anything to do with her disappearance?”
“You know where she is!” Virgil growls.
Joe laughs and looks around at the others. “I guess he needed to be reminded.”
“An ATF sting, eh?” Virgil smirks. Mason did him a real favor by letting the cat out of the bag back at the police department. Joe’s eyes widen. He fucking knows. “Nah. I doubt you’d hurt the little retard.”
“ATF?” Joe fakes a laugh. “Wouldn’t that be just darling?”
Virgil kicks the bag closer. “We’re done here.” Virgil goes to leave.
“What are you going to do with all those guns, anyway?” Joe calls out. “Where are you targeting? When? When will we see that some inbred church from Bumblefuck, Kentucky, carried through with an act of domestic terrorism in the headlines?”
“Domestic terrorism?” he asks, his back to the skinheads. He breathes out a trace of a laugh. “I’m sure you’ve got it all figured out, Agent.”
—
Upstairs at the Bluegrass bar, Mattley asks around, aiming for people who look like they’re regulars, permanent ass prints on the bar stools, a constant haze about them. But none of them offer anything about Rebekah. After asking well over a dozen of them, Mattley gives up and asks for a beer.
The bartender notices him, his shaven head. She leans across the bar. “Your friends are already downstairs.” Mattley takes his head back. “Looks like an important meeting too.”
A small red light starts blinking behind the bar near the cash register. The bartender squats down, Mattley leaning over to see, when two skinheads climb up from the trap door. Behind them, Virgil steps up.
Mattley turns away, hoping Virgil doesn’t recognize him from the diner parking lot. He hides his face with the pint glass. He waits until Virgil leaves with the group until turning back to the bartender.
“Say, ma’am, you know where I can find a guy named Joe?” Mattley asks.
“He was one of the ones who just walked out the door. If you hurry, you can still catch him.”
But Mattley remembers that Mason said Joe was with the ATF. And now he’s walking outside with Reverend Virgil Paul and a couple skinheads. There is no doubt in Mattley’s mind that he just witnessed a knee-deep undercover operation just walk out the door. And, of course, Mattley couldn’t jeopardize the case. He treads lightly, following outside as the men get in separate cars, the reverend in one, the undercovers in another. Mattley, too, gets in his car, ready to follow.
But when they begin to exit the parking lot, each car goes in the opposite direction. Mattley must make a choice: follow the reverend or follow Joe.
The Amalekite sews new gloves to the sleeves of my dry outfit, identical to the last. I’m craving a cigarette. I’m craving a drink even more. But most of all, I crave to know my daughter’s whereabouts. With the old woman to my side, and Carol across the dining room table, Magdalene goes to kiss Carol good night.
“Welcome to our family,” she says to me as she jumps to kiss me on the cheek. “I made your bed all nice for you, Sister Freedom. For when you come to sleep.”
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I tell her as she runs off upstairs.
“You may leave us as soon as you’re finished, Amalekite,” says Carol, as the old woman stitches the last of the gloves to my sleeves. I mean, really, can I just not put the gloves on separately? Do they really have to be sewed on? For fuck’s sake.
Spools of white thread and a thimble disappear with the old woman, who hurries off without a sound. I am alone with Carol. And I can’t put my finger on why, but I hate her already.
“How do you find yourself adjusting to Third-Day Adventists?” she asks, her thumbnails digging into the peels of lemons at the table. The rest of the house is dark, and God knows where Virgil is, not that I care too much.
“Oh, I like it just fine,” I lie. Above the silence, the ticking of the cuckoo clock pings through the room, the smell of lemon making my mouth water. Carol’s head rocks like she has a song stuck in her head, or maybe she’s too used to sitting in the rocking chair. “Can I help you with the lemons?” She lifts her head. Has she never been asked such a question before?
“Why, thank you,” she says, her answer hesitant.
I switch seats and grab a lemon from a porcelain bowl. “That’s sure a lot of lemons. What are you doing with all of them?”
“They’re for Sunday,” she says, her head still swaying. “I make fresh-squeezed lemonade for the whole congregation, a treat for everyone after service.”
“The whole congregation?” I ask.
“That’s right. All four hundred fifty-three members. Well, four hundred fifty-four, now that you’re here.”
“I’m sorry,” I say as I fumble with a lemon. “I didn’t think I could be so useless with these gloves.” I think she’s smiling. But upon a closer look, she’s crying, turning her face away from me so I can’t see. “Did I say something wrong?”
She shakes her head, covering her snout with her arm. “It’s my daughter.” She bites her lips shut to subdue the whimpers. “I just miss my daughter, and I feel like I’m the only one around here who cares. Virgil doesn’t talk about it; no one does. It’s like saying her name is a sin around here, and I just can’t take it.” I don’t say anything, just let her talk. I put my arm around her shoulders. She grunts. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be such a mess in front of you.”
Act oblivious. “What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Rebekah.” She wipes the tears. “Rebekah Jane.”
“And where is she now?”
A baby’s crying from upstairs breaks the bond between us. “Is that a baby?” I ask.
“Yes, a girl. Her name is Theresa.” Carol rises and picks pieces of lemon peel o
ff the table. “We just took her in. Her mother died during childbirth. Tragic.”
“Rebekah, Magdalene, and Theresa. No sons?”
“No,” she says as she shuts off the kitchen lights. “Thank you for being someone I can talk to.” She disappears up the stairs, toward the room of a crying infant.
—
I look down to hundreds of parishioners at Third-Day Adventist Church. All of them, toppling over one another with fear, and I don’t know why. I wave my hand. When I move my hand to the right, they run left and vice versa. I’m screaming at them, “Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid.” I don’t understand why they’re screaming at me in terror. I see Carol. I see Virgil. I see Magdalene. I see the Amalekite. I see Mason. I see Passion. I can see everyone. I wave my hand faster and faster, side to side, and they try to hide, they cannot leave the sanctuary. “Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Eeny meeny miny moe.” I laugh. I’m not sure why I say these words. And when I finally stop my hand, I’m pointing down the center, right down the aisle. I’m pointing at Rebekah.
That’s when I see that in my hand, I’m holding a pistol. And that’s why everyone is terrified. I aim it and I shoot. Rebekah falls dead, her head clean off. And I keep shooting, aiming for everyone, like shooting fish in a barrel, but Rebekah is the only one I kill. I keep waving my hand; click-click-click goes the now-empty pistol. But the clicking in my dream…
I jump from my sleep. For a moment I don’t know where I am. The room’s almost dark like the rest of the house, but for a night-light at the side of Magdalene’s bed. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I see Magdalene jump back into bed and hide under the covers.
Breathe, Freedom. It was just a nightmare. I force a steady breath and sit up. I’m tangled in the heavy cloth I’m forced to wear; my legs can’t find their way out. No wonder I’m having nightmares when sleeping in my missing daughter’s bed. “Magdalene,” I whisper. She doesn’t answer, but I see her shift. I know what I heard. I might be crazy, but I know what I fucking heard.
