by Landon Wark
“Yes.”
She wandered a few steps toward the edge of the hall to get a look at a nearby painting, feigned interest in it for a moment and then went to the next. He could tell that she would not make brilliant conversation for the rest of the hour. A twinge of regret gripped him. If there was anything he didn’t wish on these people, whoever they were, was for them to have to share the silence that existed between what used to be the Hernandezes.
“Bill? Jenny?” the fat face poked around the corner and they swivelled toward it. “There’s food on the table. Jonah won't be joining us. I’m sorry, he, um, doesn’t always remember to make nice.”
In the dining room, with its heavy mahogany table and red rugs, china hutches and chandelier stood a table. Upon the table were a set of platters with food, steam still rising off it. Although the smell of it hinted at the days before the cold-cafeteria leftovers, both Bill and Jenny recognized the look of take out shovelled onto the generic platters. They knew it well. At least the food was hot.
Sandy took advantage of a moment of having her face turned away from the couple to let out a long breath and looked towards the rear yard and small cabin hidden within the trees. Light streamed onto the backs of the closed green curtains flanking the heavy locked door, immediately evoking the question: 'What is he doing in there?'
"What're the odds of these two just... What's the phrase? Bugging out?" she heard Jonah's voice in her memory.
She pushed past a moment of guilt. Finding people who needed something to latch onto in this area was not hard. Economic depression was rampant, but she had seized on an idea that for her first go she would have to find people who were in need of a miracle, whose need went far beyond the material. They both had that bit of desperation in their eyes.
"I don't know," Jonah's voice was back. "Exploiting the death of someone's son?"
She had said nothing back.
"Well, I'll leave it to you," he had continued. "Your judgment with these things is likely better than mine."
"Uh, you found me," she had said.
"Yeah."
She had been unable to tell if he was kidding.
Sandy looked at the two Hernandezes and forced a smile. “Sorry about Jonah. He hasn’t had the opportunity to get much work done lately. Please, have a seat.”
They sat down in the encroaching silence and Bill tensed, feeling it worm its way in through the seams in the floorboards and the caulking around the window as if it had stalked them here and now was demanding them back.
"I, uh, thought there would be more people here," Bill stammered at a way to get the silence to leave.
"No, just you. I... well, I had sort of an idea of doing these things as a group, but I... ." Sandy bit her tongue.
He felt Jenny glance over at him and his hand gripped the arm of his chair with a slight nervousness. He laughed through his teeth, intent on driving the conversation with all the intensity of a jockey looking for the Triple Crown.
“These things?” the laugh continued into the question.
"Um," Sandy froze like a deer in a pair of skeptical headlights. “Yeah, um, dinner parties. We were going to have a series of them. Sort of get to know the neighbours.”
Jenny speared lethargically at the take out food on her plate. "We're not really your neighbours though."
Sandy swallowed. Her nerves prevented her from actually eating, which was probably a good thing. The last thing she needed was to choke on a half chewed piece of grilled potato from a restaurant called "Southern Comfort Food".
"I mean," she continued, "we kind of want to meet a few different people around town. I had a talk with your husband and you seemed like good people."
Okay Sandy, she thought, how are we going to bring this around to the sale?
She had practised in the mirror for the moment when it would become necessary to pivot to what she had begun to call ‘the pitch’. She had even tried to get Jonah's opinion on it, to little effect. But now the ridiculousness of the situation was laid bare before her, an uncomfortable, awkward thing when it was naked. She realized that no amount of practising was going to prepare either her or them for the sentence 'There's actual magic in the world and I want to teach it to you' shouldering its way into the conversation.
Maybe it would have been easier if she had brought in a larger group.
All right. What's the worst that could happen?
“The two of you have some pretty big credit card debts.”
“I—” Bill went instantly silent again as the sudden shift in tenor first shocked and then built into a slow outrage.
“I got your name from a call list. It’s only people they call if—”
“We’ve got medical bills,” Jenny jumped in almost automatically. “We had medical bills.”
“We want to pay them,” Sandy said bluntly and then waffled. "Or, help you to pay them would be more accurate."
The silence retreated in the midst of an all-consuming shock, the kind that almost always accompanied things that were too good to be true. Bill’s hand shook as he placed it on the table.
“Is this, like, some kind of hidden camera thing? You all trying to start up a streaming channel? That's what you're going to do? Bring people like us up here and pull this…”
It was a reasonable response and something Jonah had said was almost a certainty. Skepticism was a good thing. They had both agreed, if they weren't incredulous then they weren't the kind of people they were looking for. Show them something and if they're still skeptical show them how to do something. And then, if they don't want to hear any more, send them on their way. Jonah hadn't liked that last part, but she had managed to browbeat him into it.
“This isn’t a prank,” she kept her voice even. “And it’s not charity, I want to be clear on that. It’ll take a big sacrifice, from both of you.”
“Like what?” The challenge came from Bill with a snarl.
She sighed. All things considered it was going pretty well for a first try. “We’re looking for people who need something. Who need help. Who need... something to believe in. We want people who need...” Sandy inhaled, scrambling for the word to describe it. "Who need a miracle."
“So what, you’re like a cult?”
“No.”
Bill stood straight out of his chair and grabbed Jenny’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
She resisted slightly and then stood along with him, looking over her shoulder at Sandy as she was pulled toward the hallway.
“Wait,” the large woman put out a hand. “Don’t go just yet. I have something to show you.”
Bill stopped moving but kept his legs in a state of readiness. He was now eager to get out of this place. Maybe it was all a big misunderstanding, but he didn’t really care. He had heard of places like this, waiting and ready to prey on people like them. Personally he thought he was smart enough to evade anything like this, but as for Jenny, well, she was weak, suggestible. He placed his hand on the doorframe.
“I can show you from your car if you want. But, you shouldn’t leave until you see it.”
You never got him baptized.
Bill sat, shaking, in the driver’s seat of the car. His hands gripped the wheel until they were first red, then white and then some colour that he couldn’t identify. His eyes refused to blink and his foot pushed down on the accelerator, he shook himself to the realization that the engine was suspiciously silent. And as his hand groped along the steering column he realized that the key was not in the ignition.
Jenny was standing at the door, looking out at him. She turned around to talk to the large woman whose name he had forgotten along with his own. After a moment or two she walked down the steps and across the gravel to the car. Bill fumbled with the keys, dropping them through the crack by the armrest; he struggled to fish them out even as Jenny tapped on the window.
“Bill. Bill? Roll down the window.”
He ceased fishing for the keys and was still. For a moment the silence was bac
k, larger than ever. It was sitting on his chest, crushing the air out and he found that he couldn’t breathe. Jenny grasped the door handle and pulled it open with him grasping for the lock the whole way.
“Bill?”
The Devil is fucking real and you never got him baptized.
“That wasn’t real.”
She stared at him, holding the door open. “Come back inside Bill. She wants to talk to you some more.”
He shook his head furiously. “Some kind of trick. Mirrors.”
“There weren’t—aren’t any mirrors.”
He tried to pull the door shut, but she clung fast to it.
“It’s okay, she says this is a normal response. It happened to her like this too. It’s only natural to want to get away from something you’re mind can’t handle. Remember when—”
“We're going home,” he interrupted. “Get in the car.”
“I want to stay, and I think you should, too.”
He shook his head again. “Get in the car, Jenny.”
She sighed. “Fine, Bill, I’ll get in the car. But first I’m going to say goodbye.”
Jenny Wilson walked up to the front door where Sandy waited, her girth blocking out most of the light from the interior. She made a few gestures, a lot of apologies and a few more gestures and then walked solemnly back to where Bill had finally got the car started. He looked about ready to take off without her. With the grace of someone who was just kicked out of a fancy hotel Jenny eased herself into the passenger side, took one more look at the house and then closed the door.
Sandy Jenkins stared after the car as it sped off recklessly down the gravel road.
Three days later, when she was able to sneak off on her own and call a friend for a ride, Jennifer Wilson returned. Bill Wilson did not.
The congregation was shuffling out of the large front door as Paul Kwon began gathering up the three collection plates that had been passed around during the service. There was less in all three than what had been in one when he had first come to this church. He could easily understand the reason. More than half of the congregation had been laid off in the past year and those who had been giving were now the ones who were receiving. He frowned deeply as he looked up to where Reverend Newman was doffing his black jacket and microphone. Behind him the choir was filing into the back to do the same. Behind them all the massive backdrop of glass and steel that made up this monstrosity of a church loomed ominously. Within the framework were traced angels and demons and the battle of good and evil played out in its stained glass.
The church was not quite a mega-church, but not for want of trying. It was maybe a median-church. An imitation of those grifters, but not quite good enough to become one. Or maybe, not quite bad enough, Paul could never decide.
Although it set his teeth on edge Paul counted himself lucky to have his position. His grandparents had been Moonies, bringing their son to the region in the mid eighties. His father had rebelled and transitioned into mainstream Baptist, coming into his own at the height of anti-Clinton anti-Satanism. And, for some reason known only to God himself, Paul had put on the family frock toward the end of post 9/11 patriot-spiritualism. None of his ancestors had to deal with streaming sermons and bitcoin collection. Most congregations had decided to cut their overhead in favour of the more alienating online, social media faith. Places like this, that gave shelter to the elderly and their pensions were the last places that would hire younger novices who weren't family.
It's a good thing you like people, he thought to himself.
Newman’s face still glowed red from pounding the pulpit and his large figure shook as he shrugged into a more golf-friendly windbreaker, never taking his eyes off his watch as he completed the awkward manoeuver. It was difficult to imagine that only five minutes prior he was bellowing to the back rows about the evils of the modern world and the modern government. Now a smile snuck across the reverend’s face as he rushed toward the rectory to retrieve his clubs.
Newman was a Christian the same way he was a golfer. He took both much too seriously but only for an afternoon at a time.
Paul dumped all three trays into a large bucket, spilling a few nickels in the process.
What would the givers think if they saw Reverend Newman out at the country club on a Sunday afternoon, jimmying his weight out of an imported car? What would the receivers think?
If you want self-sacrifice you have to go Catholic. And that's a bit of a trek.
As he reached down to retrieve his fallen charges a commotion in the direction of the rectory attracted his attention. Someone had shouldered past the departing crowd and ambushed Reverend Newman beside the door. The intruder was clearly agitated, his hand clamping down on the wrist of the older man, a wild look in his eyes, but despite this there was no air of danger in the room. The congregation filed out orderly, barely looking back to see what all the fuss was about, as if things like this were becoming more and more common lately. The original yell fell away into a smattering of forced whispers and Newman’s protestations that he had to be going.
“Paul,” he beckoned. “Paul, can you come and help Mr. Wilson?”
Paul's legs straightened at the knee as he came up to his full, lanky height, shaking the loose change in his hand before dumping it into the bucket that he handed off to one of the volunteers. Paul adjusted his tie and walked over to rescue the reverend from the younger man. He was not so wild eyed as Paul had originally thought, but there was an urgentness about him, as if there was something important he was supposed to do that had been put off until this moment.
“Mr. Wilson. What seems to be the problem?” Paul asked.
He was in his element here. Here there was no politics to the work, no pamphlets or fliers, no pulpit pounding or protesters carrying signs. As Newman slipped away into the large rectory the massive vulgarity of the glass cathedral seemed to lessen slightly and the glaring light of the place seemed to dim. Mr. Wilson, as Newman called him, seemed to calm a little as Paul approached.
“It, uh—” Wilson looked around to make certain that the last of the parishioners were making their way out the door before he began. “I was really hoping to talk to Reverend Newman. I, uh, I used to go to the, uh, Saint Sebastian's... When I was a kid. They moved.”
“Reverend Newman is getting ready to retire.” Paul immediately regretted his tone. “I’ve been taking over some of the counselling duties. I did pretty well in seminary.”
Wilson looked around nervously again, tugging at the collar of his wrinkled suit. As he entered into range Paul's nose alerted him to the fact that Wilson hadn't changed or showered in a few days. “It’s my wife,” his voice fell to a whisper and it became clear just how disturbed he was. “I think that, well…”
“Do you want to sit down?” Paul motioned to one of the pews in the front before the sparkling eight-foot tall lacquered saviour at the front of the church.
Wilson nodded furiously.
“I think she’s fallen in with some sort of… I don’t know what you’d call it. This woman, she said they were looking for people—desperate people I guess—and I… It’s just that… ever since our son… she…”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning.”
“I’m trying, damn it.” He looked around. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. This place is more garish than parish anyway.”
This line, practised in his head for days brought, if not a laugh, then a slight sense of release.
“My wife, Jenny, she… You’ve heard of the people who moved in from out of town?”
“A little.” They were running some kind of business out there if he remembered the local gossip correctly. He had tried to keep up with it, but it had a way of being easily dismissible.
“Jenny’s moved in there.”
Paul frowned. “Moved in there?”
“Didn’t take any of her things, didn’t take any money, didn’t even say goodbye. She just left.”
There was a foothold
there. A thousand techniques for just such a problem had been programmed into him during Seminary, techniques that had been co-opted from traditional psychology and had the word God shoe-horned into them in a dozen places each, but effective nonetheless. But there was an unresolved issue.
“And you think this place is some kind of… a cult?”
This sort of problem happened rarely, but more often than was admitted in this area. Mostly they were fundamentalist sects with leaders who could be diagnosed as megalomaniacs and followers who could be diagnosed as lacking self-esteem, vulnerable types. Definitely desperate types, looking for something, or someone to give them even a twisted sense of purpose.
“Yeah. No. Well, not really. They invited us over there, said they knew we were having money troubles from our son and his… My insurance at work said it was ‘an unnecessary procedure’. They wouldn’t cover it. So we… It was hard on her, you know?”
Paul nodded, his curiosity goading him on.
“There was this woman there. Fat as a heifer. She told us that they wanted to help us out, but that it would take sacrifice.”
Ah, there was the rub. Salvation always demanded sacrifice.
“Did they ask you for money?”
Wilson harrumphed. “None to give them. But they didn’t seem to want any. It seemed more like a job interview than anything else.”
“And your wife was impressed with this?”
He swallowed. “Not at first. But, like I said, Jenny, she’s fragile sometimes. I started to leave, but she stopped us, said there was something she wanted to show us and…”
There was a long silence. The kind of silence that befitted a much smaller church. At times Paul thought that this church had been built for bone-rattling choirs and pulpit pounding sermons. That was the kind of religion it peddled, and that was fine for some. But Paul's God—not just the God that people invoked whenever they needed some irrefutable moral authority, or some symbol to befit their righteousness; but the God that a person prayed to, when they were alone, because they needed to, not just to shoehorn themselves into the world—that God needed a smaller place.
