by J. R. Mabry
Chicken looked over at Richard and then back at Terry.
Tobias rolled over on his back and showed them both his tummy. Terry started rubbing it and Tobias squirmed with pleasure. Chicken smiled.
“Do you want to go home, Chicken?” Terry asked.
She looked him in the eyes and shook her head.
“You don’t want to see your madre?” Terry asked.
Chicken’s eyes welled up with tears. “Mi madre se ha ido.”
Terry shook his head. “I don’t really speak Spanish.”
“My mommy is…gone.”
“Where did she go?”
Chicken pointed her index finger at Terry, her thumb erect. She closed one eye and made a splashy, exploding sound with her mouth.
“Oh my God,” Susan said, covering her mouth. She took a seat next to Chicken and put her arm around her. “Did you see your madre get shot?” she asked.
Chicken nodded.
“When did that happen?” Terry asked.
“Before,” Chicken said, looking down at Tobias as he wiggled. “Yesterday.”
“Who did it?” Terry asked.
“Mi padre.”
Terry looked at Susan and shook his head. Susan hugged Chicken to her, and the little girl gratefully threw her arms around her. “You’re big, like her,” Chicken said.
“Gee, thanks.”
Terry could see that Susan was trying not to smile at that, but she failed.
“What are you?” Chicken asked.
Susan and Terry looked at each other. “Uh…what do you mean?” Terry asked. “Who are you asking?”
She swooped her hand around. She seemed to be indicating the whole house. “What are you?”
“I’m a man. Susan is a woman. Toby is a dog…”
“No,” Chicken insisted. “You don’t look like each other. There aren’t any abuelas or abuelos.”
“Smart girl,” Susan said.
Chicken smiled for the first time. She turned back to Terry. “Are you a family?”
Terry looked at Susan. She smiled warmly at him and put a hand on his leg.
“Yes, little one. That’s exactly what we are. We are a family.”
31
Richard wished he could speak to Mother Maggie, but he realized he was only procrastinating. He sat in the short pew in the chapel and closed his eyes, relinquishing control. In his mind’s eye, a new scene splashed over him, and he jumped back to avoid the water.
“Careful. It’s choppy today,” a kind voice said.
Looking around, Richard saw a small skiff pulled up onto a beach, it’s stern rising regularly with the incoming waves. There was a small fire, burning away cheerfully, with a pot hanging over it on a clever tripod made of some kind of rough metal. About two paces from the fire a fisherman was mending nets—a pile of nets was on one side, and in the lap of his tunic were a couple spools of thick, black thread. A knife was at his side, sitting next to a steaming cup of what looked like tea. “It’s good to see you, Richard,” he said. “It’s been a while since we talked. Really talked, I mean.”
There wasn’t any blame in his voice. It was just the truth. “Jesus?” Richard breathed.
The man smiled up at him, and Richard could see that it was. He didn’t look like the blond, blue-eyed Sunday School pictures Richard remembered, or the sentimental portraits that were so popular. He just looked small and rugged. And very Jewish.
“What’s the matter?” Jesus asked.
“Uh…nothing. I just…I guess I’ve never prayed like this before.”
Jesus patted the spot on the beach next to him and waved him over.
Richard sat near him, but not too near.
“I don’t bite,” Jesus said. “I’ve been known to spew people out of my mouth, but I never bite.”
Richard scooched a bit closer, and Jesus leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He put his hand on Richard’s neck and pulled him closer so that their heads were touching. Then he let him go. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Uh…yeah. It’s good to see you, too.” Richard felt awkward, even nervous. “Are you real? Or am I just…generating you in my imagination?”
“The imagination is an organ of perception,” Jesus said.
“So…yes to both?”
Jesus just smiled at him. Then he patted Richard’s leg. “Tell me what’s on your heart.”
“I’m not sure there’s much you can do—”
“I didn’t ask you what I can do, nor did I offer to fix anything. That’s not really my concern.” He looked down at the net and drew some thread. His fingers danced as he made knots. “I want to know what you’re feeling.”
Richard looked at his knees and felt himself sink. A new objection rose to the surface. “Don’t you already know what I’m feeling?”
“This is what we call resistance. The fact that I already know what you’re feeling is not really my concern, either. I’m after something else.”
“What’s that?”
“Can’t you guess?”
Richard said nothing. He felt stupid. Jesus patted his leg. “What I want from you is the same thing that, deep down, you want from me. Intimacy. People who are intimate talk about their feelings with each other. It’s kind of the definition of intimacy. So…tell me what you’re feeling.”
“I feel embarrassed. I feel ashamed. I feel…like I want to die.”
“Because of the news report?”
“Did you see that?”
Jesus leaned away and raised an eyebrow. Then he looked back at his knotting. “Well…what did you expect?”
“I don’t know. You know what it really is? I don’t want to be a failure.”
“Do you think you’re a failure?” Jesus asked.
“I don’t feel like a success.”
“What would success look like?”
“I don’t know,” Richard looked at the waves as they rolled onto the beach and subsided. It was like watching the earth breathing. “To get some recognition? To not have to struggle so much, money-wise? To finally be seen for who we are and what we…contribute, I guess.”
“Hmm…” Jesus put one net aside and started to examine another, checking for rips and holes. “Did I get any of that while I was walking around like you are?”
Richard looked down. “Nothing like that.”
Jesus put down his net and placed a warm hand on Richard’s knee. “Do you intend to follow me?”
“Of course,” Richard answered quickly.
“If you follow me and you expect to receive glory from the world, you’re deluding yourself. If you follow me, you follow me into ignominy, into scandal, into ridicule.”
“Why is that?”
“I make a beeline for those things, every time, because that’s where the hurting people really live.” Jesus leaned away and smiled broadly. “So if you really follow me, you will, too. And the world will never understand you or give you a lick of credit.”
“Because they don’t understand what we’re doing,” Richard said.
“It isn’t that they don’t understand, it’s that they can’t.” Jesus tugged at a knot. “They think I’m a myth. They don’t know that I’m a living presence in the world. They don’t understand that the very things they spend their lives running after are the same things that are making them sick.” He let that sink in for a moment. Then he added, more softly, “And because you are a child of this culture, you believe what the culture tells you. So you want the things that make you sick, too. But deep down you know what’s real, what’s right, what’s true. You don’t always act like it, but you know it.”
“I know it,” Richard agreed.
“I invite you to be realistic. Don’t expect peanuts from people who only have a bag full of walnuts.”
“Is that an old Jewish saying?”
“No I thought of that just now,” Jesus smiled. “Okay, it’s not great, but you get my meaning.”
“I do.” Richard thought about it. “But…how
do I do that? How do I want the right things or stay focused on what’s true? I’m clear on the what…I’m just fuzzy on the how.”
“Lean into me,” Jesus said.
Richard froze. “What do you mean?”
Jesus leaned against him, pressing his shoulder into Richard’s bicep. Then he rocked back. “Like that. Lean into me.” Richard leaned over, until he was resting part of his weight on Jesus’ shoulder. “Good. Lean harder.”
Richard leaned in more. “Lean harder.” Richard’s large frame might have smothered the small man, but he held his own.
“I can bear it,” Jesus said. “However hard you lean, I can bear it.” Jesus leaned away now so that he could look into Richard’s eyes. “I want you to really hear me now. You do not have to be the strong one. That’s my job.”
Jesus turned to look back out toward the sea and leaned once more against his shoulder. Richard could feel the heat radiating from Jesus, he could smell the man’s sweat. He rested his head on the top of his head. He felt the solidness of Jesus’ body.
“This is what I want for you,” Jesus said. “I want you to learn how to do this all the time. You are going to need it.”
Richard scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
32
Marco’s hands were full of equipment, so Terry knocked on the door. “Who is it?” a voice came from inside.
“Terry. And Marco.”
“Nice of you to at least give me second billing,” Marco said.
“…aaas the Beaver.”
“You’re lucky my hands are full.”
The door opened a crack and Luna looked past them nervously. “Come in,” she said, her voice implying haste.
Once inside, Terry took a look around. The living room was haphazardly furnished. Every piece looked like it had been picked up off the street or at a yard sale. An inflatable vinyl moose head adorned the wall. What really caught the eye, however, was an altar off to one side, dressed with an Indian sheet and meticulously decorated with icons and occult objects.
“Jimmy and Julia are napping, but I’ll tell them you’re here,” Luna said.
Terry nodded. “We’ll get set up.”
Marco knelt and opened the black box he had been holding. Inside was a machine that looked a lot like the Christometer he had been demonstrating a couple days ago. It was larger, though, and clunkier. Marco must have noticed the look on Terry’s face. “I built this a few years ago. I’ve gotten better at making things smaller and…well, prettier, I guess. But it works just fine.”
“There’s no tube,” Terry mentioned, pointing to one side of it.
“No, just a PVC uptake.” He plugged the machine into a battery pack, which he attached to a loop on his belt. “The battery is the heavy part,” he said. He gingerly lifted the narometer, and flipped a silver toggle switch on the top of it. Terry heard a small whine that rose in pitch as the device came to life. A green light near the switch turned on and what looked like a touchscreen lit up. Marco tapped a few selections on the screen then turned and pointed it at himself. He gave it a couple moments to absorb the molecules of his t-shirt, then pressed a blue button on its side.
“What did you just do?” Terry asked.
“Calibration,” Marco said. “No negative energy here,” he thumped his own chest. “I’m a glass-is-half-full kind of guy.”
“How do you know you’re not under magickal attack?”
“Um…only good things are happening to me?”
“You know, you irritate the shit out of me sometimes,” Terry confessed. “But you are a cheerful motherfucker.”
“I aspire to nothing much more than that,” Marco nodded. “That’s how you stay content.”
Jimmy announced his arrival with a yawn, and Julia and Luna were right behind him. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” Terry answered.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Julia said.
“Glad we can help,” Terry said.
“Shall we?” Marco asked, wielding his machine.
Jimmy waved toward the house. “Help yourself.”
“You go ahead, Marco,” Terry said. “I’m going to feel it out my own way.”
Marco nodded. “Good. We can coordinate our results.” He began to trace the perimeter of the room, holding the narometer about a yard away from the wall. He watched the tiny screen as he moved deliberately across first one wall and then another, his face a tight mask of concentration.
Terry turned and walked into the kitchen. As good a place to start as any, he thought. He held onto the counter and closed his eyes, going lightly into vision. In his mind’s eye, he saw the kitchen, but instead of the bright colors he beheld with his eyes open, he saw only the luminous outlines of the counter, the cupboards, the table, and the shelves. They appeared in his vision as a light gray, faintly shining and slightly out of focus. As he turned toward the pantry, he saw through the door at the gray shelves behind it. There were several jars, many of which were simply culinary, but some of which had magickal properties, and those glowed dimly with faint pastel colors emitting from them.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, for a house full of witches anyway. Terry moved on to the bedrooms, and both seemed like tiny disaster areas. He shook his head, marveling at how people lived with such squalor. He surveyed the gray outlines of the walls, beds, night stands, and chests-of-drawers, and he inspected the closets. One room had been converted into a dedicated temple—the only room that was tidy. As Terry stepped into it, it emitted a prominent violet glow with rose highlights. Seems like a healthy temple, he thought to himself.
The bathroom seemed similarly clean, though certainly not in an antiseptic way. Most people are not aware of their own mess, he reminded himself, shutting the bathroom door behind him. When he walked past the foyer toward the garage, he caught a quick glimpse of the others as they followed Marco around, and something in the corner of his eye writhed. He froze and turned his head. He saw tendrils of corruption feeding on Luna. He shook his head and looked again. The gray outlines of the floor and walls framed his vision. In the center of his gaze he saw Marco—radiating a deep indigo as well-meaning magickians often do. Jimmy and Julia radiated rose. But Luna was different. There was rose there—Not surprising, he thought, she is Wiccan—but there were also hooked, dark paisley patterns that moved both within her and around her, tendrils that rippled out from her with lysergic intensity.
Terry looked away to avoid staring. He did not want to draw attention to her. He continued his visual surveillance of the house, but he saw nothing else. Nor could he think of much else. The only thing he could think about, the only thing he could see was Luna’s soul being caressed by dark, putrid tentacles. He shuddered and intentionally came out of vision. He didn’t want to see that again.
He rejoined the others, grateful that Luna looked normal to his naked eyes. He sidled up to Marco, close enough to whisper. “Anything?” Terry asked.
“Not yet. We did get a minor hit from the pound cake.”
“The pound cake?” Terry looked skeptical.
“I think it’s the GMO’s,” Marco explained.
“I think you listen to a leeetle too much NPR.”
“Gets lonely out on the road. I needs me some Terry Gross and Ron Elving.”
Terry leaned in closer. “Get a read on Luna,” he whispered.
“Why?” he whispered back.
“Just do it,” Terry insisted.
Marco shrugged and turned around. “We should check your clothes,” he said.
“Sure,” said Jimmy. Julia held her arms out. But Luna was gone.
33
Brian picked a bit of fluff off the rug and carried it to the garbage can in the kitchen.
“Will you please sit down?” Chava said, watching him from her recliner. A Torah commentary was balanced on her knees. “You’re driving me nuts. I’ve had a hellish day and I need some peace. You’re like a busy fucking bee.”
“I can’t help it
. I can’t stand to see…fluff.”
“Brian, for God’s sake, this place is spotless. If I’d have known you were a human hoover, I’d have asked you to come live with us years ago. No wonder they love you so much at the friary.”
“I have other excellent qualities,” Brian objected, taking a seat on the couch. He looked around anxiously.
“You think maybe you’ve got a bit of cabin fever?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you should get out. Do you want me to give you a shopping list?”
Brian looked up, cocked his head, then blinked. “I would fucking love that.”
“So let’s get that together,” Chava said, scooting off the recliner and heading to the kitchen. “I’ll call, you write.”
Brian scrambled after her. He grabbed the grocery list off the fridge, along with its little golf pencil dangling from a string.
“Shoot,” he said, settling in at the table.
“We need fava beans,” Chava called, scouring the pantry.
“Of course we do,” Brian said. “Every house needs fava beans.”
“We need coffee—get Peets or Blue Bear. Italian Roast, both caf and decaf, please. A pound of each.”
“That’s a lot of coffee.”
“Not around here it isn’t.”
“Next?”
“Fruit. We need bananas—extra green, please. While you’re at it, get some ripe plantains. We’ll have them tomorrow.”
Brian heard the front door open and then slam. “Shit!” Elsa cried from the living room.
“Uh-oh,” Chava said.
“Why is this place so fucking clean?” she asked, coming into the kitchen. “Makes me want to take a dump in the living room just to even things out.”
“Please don’t do that,” Brian said. “I would have to clean that up.”
“Why would you have to clean that up?” Elsa asked. Brian noted that she had bags under her eyes and stress lines across her forehead.
“Because I would feel an inward compulsion to eradicate feces on the carpet in a common place,” Brian said. “Call it an obsession.”
