Jesus Saves

by Darcey Steinke

  The troll was anxious. He used a toothpick to weed out corn kernels from his teeth, smoked cigarettes one off the end of the other, and reeked of fearful sweat like garbage trucks in summer, like bad Chinese food and smelly feet. He drove leaning forward, headlights off, trying to navigate like a moth by moonlight. The passage was tight, branches flicked against both sides of the van, and the mud road made oozy sounds. The party, Sandy decided, was for the turtle because she was seventy-six. She wore false eyelashes made of spiders’ legs and a wreath of violets around her head, and the caterpillar, who was so much younger and always looking for bits of wisdom to improve his rhetoric, asked what she'd learned in life so far.

  “Not to eat bad grass,” the turtle said.

  They were sitting around the tree stump, drinking flat beer out of Styrofoam cups, and the bear, who'd found the precious liquid scattered among pieces of charred wood, seemed already a little drunk.

  “Here, here,” he lifted his cup, “I'll sing you a song. . . . It was sad. It was sad. It was sad when the Titanic went down. Men and women lost their lives, even little babies died. It was sad when the Titanic went down.”

  “Why are you always so gloomy?” asked the caterpillar. “This is a birthday party, not a funeral.”

  The turtle looked depressed. Her husband had died not long ago and the funeral had been a fiasco.

  “Cheer up,” the bear said. “Today you're sixty-seven.”

  “Seventy-six,” the caterpillar corrected him, “and remember what Lincoln said, ‘If this is coffee, I'll have tea, if this is tea, I'll have coffee.’”

  The bear and the turtle looked at him blankly. “Could you explicate?” the bear asked.

  “Oh, you know Abe,” the caterpillar said. “He was a nice man, though not always coherent.”

  But there was nothing to be done; the turtle was depressed, the big barroom bags under her eyes sagged, and she got teary. “Looks like rain,” she said, glancing up at the sky.

  “Yes,” the caterpillar nodded, “everyone make sure to stay away from the swing set because it attracts lightning. If you touch a door handle and it's hot, never go into the hall; and if someone catches on fire, wrap them up quickly in a blanket. Don't go in the water if you hear thunder and try not to be at the top of any trees. Put out all campfires with water and don't throw your cigars into dry grass. Always watch out for stranger danger and be careful if you've had a big meal and feel light-headed and your blood turns into heavy cream. Don't take any pills the troll gives you.”

  The ones she'd taken earlier made it impossible to keep awake. Water moved against the shore in its white noise way and she heard a buzzing sound that at first she took for a fly inside the van, then a giant dragonfly hovering outside the passenger window, and then a speedboat towing water-skiers.

  The back door swung open and bright light shone in her eyes. She felt her pupils quickly retract and she turned her head.

  “You'll like her,” the troll said. “She lies still.” Water licked the wooden poles of the dock, where blue crabs fed on algae and barnacles, and nobody said anything. They like me, she thought, because I lie still.

  And a new voice said, “That's Sandy Patrick.”

  “Down here nobody will know the difference,” the troll said.

  “What, are you crazy?” the man asked. “She's on the news once a week.”

  “You didn't take the other one either,” the troll said bitterly.

  “She was too old and he don't like them to have tattoos,” the man said. And then the light was gone. The hue under her eyelids changed from orange to wavering black. She was four and had wet her bed again. They like me because I lie still. If the bed gets wet, throw the sheets on the floor, throw the afghan; then it will dry but the whole place will smell of urine. The man who owns this mattress puts water onto the bed. And it's horrible to sit all night in a wet diaper, but if you wet your underwear just try to go before bed. They like me, Sandy thought, because I lie still.

  “Bad luck,” the man said. He and the troll had walked around to the front of the van. “Call us if you got something we should know about.”

  The troll got in and slammed the door, turned on the engine, glanced at her in the rearview window.

  “Never put your finger in an electrical socket,” the caterpillar continued, “and look both ways before you cross the street. Don't swim on a full stomach because you might get a cramp and watch out for swaying weeds at the bottom of the lake, because sometimes tendrils catch your feet and pull you down. Wash your hands after you go to the bathroom and don't eat moldy bread. Never play with matches, hold sparklers at arm's length and scissor blades together and pointing down, and never run at the pool. Don't eat things you find in the medicine chest—it's not food, it's scientific—and always, always wear your seat belt.”

  “Home again, home again,” the troll shouted with glee, “jiggidy-jiggidy-jiggidy-gee.”

  Seven: GINGER

  All night long weather fronts battled for the soul of the house. The doorknob shuddered and wind tried to get at her, invading the glassy installation, snaking through vents in the paneling. Wet leaves, twigs, and tiny wood chips were strewn all over the backyard. A big branch hung off the walnut tree just outside her window, its pulpy-colored wood swarming with earwigs and centipedes. Underneath one of her mother's breasts, cancer broke through like bubbles of steak fat, so tender and oozy that they went through a box of cornstarch every day.

  When she was younger, she'd dreamed of Christ's body, the holes in his palms and between the tendons of his feet, but not only the gross parts, the sexy parts too, his flat stomach, even his cock. Nobody ever talked about that, the slight sheen of sweat on his red ball sac, the fine wrinkled skin in the crack of his ass. When you die your soul slips into a pitcher of water or the moisture inside a cat's eye; the soul waits until the body's buried or burned, then wanders the world looking for a human or animal who wants to have a baby. Sometimes the soul flies off to heaven, through the hospital window and up like a plastic grocery bag caught in a gust of wind. Or the soul goes with you right into the ground, becomes one with nature, growing up in every blade of grass and falling with every raindrop. The souls of the earth mingle and that's why nature tingles with intelligence, why ice covering a pond seems like more than frozen water.

  The phone rang upstairs. The jangly cadence made her think of Mulhoffer's face, and she pulled the flannel flap of the sleeping bag up against her neck and puzzled a second until she remembered the trustees’ meeting and how her father asked her to get there early, have coffee ready, and arrange some butter cookies on the silver platter. He figured waiting on the trustees graciously would soften their hearts and bring her back into favor. But she heard his car pull out of the driveway hours ago. A current of anxiety cut through her stomach. Once again, she totally fucked up.

  Trucks whipped past, trailing ribbons of exhaust, splashing mud over the soft shoulder. She passed the mall; only a few dozen cars dotted the parking lot. The place had deterioated to several empty storefronts and third-rate chains. It might go bust. The mayor was already talking about turning it into a health club or a high school annex.

  Rainwater puddled in the drainage ditch outside the church, and she had to straddle the muddy water to reach the latch on the big aluminum mailbox. Just a catalogue for Sunday school supplies and a flier advertising cheap group rates to Sweden. Tucking both under her arm, she ran up the wet asphalt. It was littered with wind-blown leaves and wet chrysanthemum petals, soggy gladiola, and shriveled carnations that had blown out of the Dumpster.

  Her father's car was gone, as were the trustees’. The meeting must have been long over and she guessed her father was making up for yesterday and visiting the sick. There was a car parked near the door, one she didn't recognize, and this made her apprehensive about going into the church. A trustee might be waiting to ask if her dad's car had air conditioning, if he drank wine around the house or spent lots of money on new clothes. Once when
she was little, playing communion with her dolls on the altar, a trustee came into the church and said she had no respect for Jesus. Inside, the butter-colored Ford was meticulously clean. A small plastic garbage bag hung from the radio dial and a shoe box of inspirational tapes by Depak Chopra and Mary Anne Williamson were arranged alphabetically. It was probably Mrs. Mulhoffer's car; she came by often to fiddle with the plastic altar covers, to settle everything in the sacristy to her touch.

  Her father insisted on using as few lights as possible and never turned on the heat until late November, so the narthex and stairs to the basement were dark, still smelled of damp paint. He was into self-denial, and not just at Lent, when he gave up his chocolate bars and secret cigarettes, but all the time. He ate canned soups and wheat rolls and on weekends wore ten-year-old khakis with threadbare black clerical shirts.

  As she swung open the door at the bottom step, she saw Ted's mother waiting outside her office, reading the announcements tacked up on the bulletin board; Lutheran missionary work in Africa and pleas for support for the youth group car wash. When Ginger first took up with Ted, his mother was thrilled. A minister's daughter, a girl who'd have a cheerfully restraining effect on her son, who'd dress in shin -length floral dresses and quote Bible verses in times of trial. But once she'd realized Ginger rarely changed out of her jeans and sweatshirts, her tennis shoes and heavy-metal T-shirts, she'd told Ted, There's something not right about that girl.

  Ginger, unlocked the office door, turned on the lamp, and motioned for Ted's mother to sit on the beige folding chair in front of the desk. The smell of burnt peroxide from a recent perm mingled with his mother's sweet perfume. She wore a denim dress with a nautical pocket seal and navy blue tennis shoes, with little white anchors on the toes. Like lots of women in the church, she dressed like a little girl, in smocked floral dresses and teddy bear T-shirts. She wore a red snowman vest on Christmas and a cotton bunny sweater at Easter. She wouldn't sit down, just stood there blinking, explaining that the store manager was threatening to press full charges. He said her son was a very sick young man.

  “I just can't take this anymore,” she said, taking a wadded tissue from her pocket. “First the drugs, then the police, and now that fellow Steve. All you have to do is look at him to know he's not right. All I ever wanted to do was help my boy, try and get him back on his feet. He's always making everything so hard for himself. There comes a point where people have to take responsibility for themselves. Ted doesn't seem to realize that.”

  “There's nothing wrong with Ted,” Ginger said. “He's just miserable about his face.”

  His mother shook her head. She never spoke about the accident, always changed the subject to something more positive, like the kid on her block who got a track scholarship to college or the rich lawyer who took his mother for a trip around the world. “I just want him to be happy and healthy.”

  “Nobody's happy and healthy,” Ginger said. “Everybody has problems.”

  “If you'd raised him you'd know his dark side. Things never work out for Ted. There's something off about him. It's not in my genes, but there were bad seeds in his father's family and I can't help thinking Ted has been blessed with some of that.”

  There was no arguing with her. She'd decided he was poisoned and had been working out the details of this theory for years. There was something not quite right about Ted and nothing would convince her otherwise. Ginger stood and moved toward the door. His mother followed her out of the office and down the corridor, lined by Sunday school partitions, full of long empty tables where hopeful little children made crosses out of Popsicle sticks and learned the words to “Away in the Manger.”

  “If you see him, tell him to call me, please!” Ted's mother said as they stood in the damp cement stairwell near the back door. Ginger nodded, but it was a lie.

  She knew his mother had told Ted that his stepfather was his real father, and by the time he found out the truth, his real father was dead. His mother made him like he was, raised like a fallen prince, taught him to think he was better than everyone and so much worse. And she thought life owed her something too and was bitter because she'd been beautiful and cheerful but things never panned out. Ted wanted to save her but he couldn't, and she'd never forgive him for that. She was vain too, had lots of photographs of herself up on the walls, signed across the bottom like a movie star, and she was always talking about how she still wore the same size dress as when she graduated from high school. She played show tunes in the house, sang along outloud, and wouldn't talk to anybody during these recitals. If Ted tried to speak with her, she'd sing louder; her eyes turned the other way. Ted said that when he watched her now it seemed funny, but when he was little her singing scared him to death.

  “So Mulhoffer was mad?” Ginger asked, as she stood in her father's office in front of his huge mahogany desk.

  “Yes,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “He believes if you dress like a moral man, then you'll act like one.”

  “Who died and made him God?” Ginger threw herself into one of the leather wingbacks, draped her legs over the arm.

  Her father leaned back in his chair. “Mulhoffer went to the Wednesday night Deerpath Creek service and came back with raves. He says they make Christianity fun, like going to a Broadway show or a sporting event.”

  “What do you think?” Ginger asked.

  “I've been out there. The head minister wore red suspenders and a blue striped shirt, like a Wall Street banker. They're using corporate philosophies to make everybody feel like they're moving up the church ladder, getting a raise or a promotion. But spiritual change is more subtle than that; you can't just check items off a list.”

  “Why'd you become a minister anyway?”

  “For the free wine,” her father smiled wearily, “and all those delicious tuna casseroles and Jell-O salads.”

  She laughed, but no matter how cavalier he acted, she knew he was worried, because the crease marks in his brow had grown deeper and that shell-shocked look never left his face.

  “The problem is,” he said, “is that Grace is impossible to explain.”

  “Are you mad at me?” Ginger asked.

  Her father looked at her. “Not mad, just disappointed.”

  Ginger looked at the pile of theology books with felt markers stuffed between the pages on his desk. His Oxford English Bible was so old, the front adhered to the spine with black electrical tape. Packs of dove and lamb stickers for the Sunday school kids were scattered next to his mug of cold coffee. In front of him was a pile of yellow legal pads.

  “Are those for Sunday?” She wanted to change the subject, knew he was always ready to talk enthusiastically about his next sermon.

  He nodded, obviously pleased she'd asked. “I'm writing a parable about two girls. Want to hear a bit?”

  Ginger nodded, watched him straighten his spine and begin to read. This was his whole life now; his rumpled coat lay folded on the floor by a pillow and she knew he'd taken to sleeping near his desk.

  The empty apartment smelled of stale beer and pot smoke. She put her palm against the rough stucco wall and moved down the hallway, past the outline of Steve's barbells. Lines of yellow light hallowed Ted's door. She turned the knob slowly, opened it a crack, half-expecting to see him on the bed, legs akimbo, blood and brain matter splattered up over the walls.

  But the bed was empty, a spot of her own blood among the sheets soft-petaled flowers. One pillow was stripped of its case, leaving a rectangle of stained foam rubber. He'd taken tube socks and T-shirts, an extra pair of jeans and a couple of flannel shirts from a rag-snake that slithered out of the closet. The overturned shoe box spilled a pot leaf belt buckle, a Bic lighter, an old wallet. His ivory-handled hunting knife and the rubber-banded pack of get-well cards he'd gotten while he was in the hospital were both missing.

  He was always talking about getting a cabin in Canada, a place with a woodstove and outdoor plumbing. He'd heard the hippie talk about all the eccentrics
who lived up there, the Vietnam vets and the witchy-poo ladies who collected herbs and practiced white magic. Sometimes he wanted California, to sleep on Venice beach and work at one of the open-air bars along the strip. Since the accident he had a new plan almost every week; every scenario projected him out of his scarred body and into a place where his face was whole and beautiful and his every gesture imparted with subtle meaning.

  Reaching down, she gathered the remaining items and put them in the shoe box, pulled the top sheet up over the blood stain, and turned off the little coiled desk lamp. She stood for a minute in the dark room, looking into the woods behind the condos. On the other side was the back of a fast-food restaurant, its green Dumpster and glittery blue-gray asphalt. Bright artificial light played in the leaves, and it was then, just as she'd turned her back to the window and was stepping into the hallway, that she heard someone crying, the voice like a string of tiny diamonds cut for a birthstone ring.

  “Steve!” Ginger knocked on his bedroom door with the knuckle of her pointer finger. “Are you in there?” The sobbing stopped and the noises that followed formed an equation of panic, a tittery silence, a shush, then the bedsprings shifting against the floor and denim slapping up against skin. Steve walked across the carpet and opened the door just enough to frame his flushed chest. A blast of heat that reeked of come and blood wafted out, a scent she remembered from going down into a neighbor's furnace room, to see a cat give birth to kittens.