“I don’t understand.”
“Jessica, you have to come up with a clear philosophy you can express to the masses. You have to refine your message and step into your role as Jessica Christ, Female Messiah—or ‘missiah,’ which Cash says is a thing now. I can only keep your reputation afloat for so long when you reject the power of public life. But once you accept the power the mob offers you, once you slip into the stature of celebrity, girl, the shit flinging I can defend you from will be epic. You’ll become larger than life. I can make it so that you could shoot someone in the middle of Sixth Street and get away with it. Not only that, I could use it to make you more money, gain you more followers. If you shot someone right now though”—she inhaled sharply—“you’d be going straight to jail.”
“Good,” Jessica said, trying not to sound as horrified as she felt. “I should go to jail if I shoot a random, innocent stranger. That’s—that’s how the world should work. You know, you’re really not selling me on your argument. No one should be that powerful.”
Wendy didn’t appear even the slightest bit cowed as she gently shrugged a shoulder. “Jimmy will be before long.” She paused and pressed her lips together, her nostrils flaring wide as she met Jessica’s stare. “I still don’t know what his next move is, but I know it’s going to be big, and I’d put money on it succeeding. And when that happens, you better hope you’re in a position of power too.”
Goddamn Jimmy Dean.
“You gonna let Jimmy win?” Wendy prodded.
“I didn’t know it was a competition,” Jessica said morosely.
“You better get wise, because it is a competition, and if you’re not competing, Jimmy fucking Dean will win.”
Judith gasped excitedly. “She says fuck?” she asked Jessica.
“Only for Jimmy.”
“Ah. Makes sense.”
Jessica blinked her dry eyes hard, trying to summon moisture to them. “Okay, Wendy. You win. How do I beat Jimmy?”
Wendy stood and ran her palms over her expensive skirt. “First, you come up with a clear set of beliefs. Then, you tell me what they are. I can’t stress that last part enough. I’ll refine the message to something even a simpleton in Oklahoma can understand and pass it along to Cash to start disseminating one hundred and forty characters at a time. Finally, you find a way to open the damn bakery, and this time you don’t name it Jessica’s Plain Old Stuff. You lean the hell into it. I don’t care how you do it, but I suggest you get started two hours ago. You understand?”
Jessica nodded timidly and Wendy turned to Judith, pointing sharply. “You hold her feet to the fire.”
Judith sucked in air. “Oof. Too soon.”
“What? … Oh.” Wendy grimaced. “Sorry.” She grabbed her purse off the table. “You know what I meant, though. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to speed back to Dallas and hope I don’t get pulled over by a small-town cop at any point along the way.” She reached the door and paused, turning to the others. “To clarify, I mean because my registration is expired. Not because I’m … But also partly because I’m … Never mind. Get to work.”
Excerpt from Railed to the Cross
Some of the events you’re about to read following my departure from Hawthorn include unholy acts that I would never engage in today and that I advise others to avoid at all costs.
I would be ashamed of the things I did in my years traveling along the railroads of America, except the Lord has since forgiven me, for He understands why I acted out such base behaviors, and I hope that you follow in His divine logic as I further explain my origins to you. After all, I may be a high and holy man, but I am still a man. I hope this aids in your understanding of that crucial concept.
Puberty is a tender age for a young man. He wants so badly to swiftly hurdle it, to find himself on the other side where he is officially a man. Yet the prospect of becoming a man is so mysterious, terrifying even, that he battles against the transformation every single day, struggling to find purchase on the craggy overhang of childhood to avoid falling into that dark abyss of unknown responsibility and societal expectations. And for a boy who doesn’t know what it means to be a man, has rarely, if ever, seen it, the fear is yet stronger, more primal. He must hope that his mistakes are small and the wisdom he gleans from each manifold.
As I left the smoldering remains of home behind, bound for the nearest railroad tracks to wait for a train to pass, none of these considerations were on my mind. These are, after all, hindsight musings, not the kind of thing a young man full of budding hormones has the mental bandwidth or perspective to consider. It’s possible I felt hints of these things in abstract and they colored my actions, but I hadn’t yet formed them into thoughts that could be acted upon in either direction.
My knowledge of the railways of the region was limited, but I was certain that the one by which I sat, just outside of Mobile, with only the clothes on my back and the growing hunger in my belly ran east-west. The eastern route traveled along the gulf coast, eventually arcing upward along the Atlantic, heading for New England. The western route ran northwest to the Mississippi River then crossed over into Arkansas. After that, I wasn’t sure. And it didn’t matter to me—it could have headed directly off a cliff for all I cared—because my plan was to catch a train and head east. Coastal life was all I knew, and while I was looking for a change in many ways, that was not among them; heading inland held no appeal to me.
It was hours with no sign of a train. Hunger tore at my gut, and that was bad, but what was worse was the doubt that threatened to take hold of my mind if I didn’t act upon my plan soon.
Finally, I heard a train in the distance. It was heading west. I considered it briefly. I wanted to head east not west, but since when had life offered me something I wanted? Rarely. And it never ended well. I had wanted a father, and what I got was Rupert. And then he took my mother and left me parentless. Getting what I wanted did not have an appealing track record in my recent memory.
Then there was the possibility that the other wives had begun searching for me. Unlikely, since most of them had enough children to worry about without adding another, and the obvious assumption would be that I took off with my mother and Pastor Heathrow, but the mere thought of returning to anything I’d once experienced was enough to lift me from my tired rear and propel me forward toward the train.
I was ready for my new adventure, no matter where it led.
The train moved at a lolling pace, creeping along the tracks, yet even still, the relentless grinding of the wheels as they carried the heavy cars was terrifying. What if I slipped trying to leap into the boxcar and fell underneath? The leisurely pace of the wheels crushing my body would only serve to prolong the agony as I was slowly, mercilessly bisected. The fear was almost crippling as I jogged slowly next to an open boxcar, building up the courage to grab the metal bar and hoist myself up and into my new life. Perhaps the fear wasn’t limited solely to the unlikely possibility of decapitation but also what it would mean for me to board that train, to cross the threshold into a life where I made decisions for myself.
Then the train slowed to a complete stop, and I couldn’t have received a clearer more loving and gentle nudge from God if I’d asked for it. The dark open door beckoned me, and I took a deep breath, grabbed the edge, and pulled myself aboard.
As I inhaled deeply, trying to steady myself, my nostrils were greeted by the scent of manure. But not the familiar scent of horse or pig or cow. Something a little earthier, almost sour. Definitely musty. Whatever animal had produced it had done so days earlier. But the heat of the Alabama sun on the roof of the car worked like an oven to create a stifling environment in the container.
Was it a sign that I should leave? That this was the wrong decision?
I chose to believe it wasn’t.
Despite the stench, which grew fainter to my senses over the following hours of acclimation, my excitement bloomed. I’d never experienced anything like my time on the boxcar, staring out at the lan
d as I passed it by, watching it change from soggy coastal sludge to the lushness of the Ozarks.
It was a wide freedom as if the narrow path I had always assumed lay before me had just opened up into an expansive field of wildflowers that stretched to the horizon in every direction except behind me. My future felt unrestrained, even as my stomach growled loudly. It became so obvious just how little the needs of the body mattered when compared to the needs of the soul, and I quickly fell into the rhythm of the wheels over the rails, melted into my surroundings, allowed my legs to dangle out of the car as I leaned against the doorframe, first clutching the metal for dear life, then loosening my grip as I realized I wouldn’t fall, that I could manage this small bit of risk. The fear, all of it, melted away in those first hours.
The train made two stops along the route, and though I could hear voices outside while I hid in a dark corner, no one ever came by to check on the car and I was able to continue without issue until we reached Texarkana.
I knew it was the last stop for a while, because the commotion kicked up almost immediately and the sounds of unloading echoed loudly. As did a few other sounds.
Animals. Ones I’d never heard before, and some I’d only heard on the television.
An elephant was among the latter category, and its mighty trumpet sent chills down my spine. I heard its homeland contained in that call, and I wondered if back in Africa, there was another elephant trumpeting in harmony.
I was spotted immediately as I jumped off the train, but the man who saw me didn’t seem too concerned. He had a long, scraggly beard down to his nipples—I only knew that for certain because he wore no shirt underneath the suspenders that held his cotton pants up onto his round waist—and his head was shaved bald. His eyes narrowed on me for a second, then he called out, “Hey boy.”
The weightless freedom I’d felt on the journey evaporated instantly as my body prepared for some sort of physical punishment for my breaking the rules and hitching a free ride.
But he didn’t chastise me. He held a thick rope in his hands that was attached to something in the boxcar, but what it was I couldn’t see.
“Crawl in there and give old Bessy a slap on the rear to get her moving,” he instructed.
I did as I was told, and crawled into the car, squinting through the dark until my eyes adjusted and I could see who Bessy was. But even as my pupils dilated, I couldn’t quite make sense of the huddled mass of legs in front of me. Until she raised her head.
The rope was tied around her long neck that rested on a scattering of hay over the metal floor. Were giraffes dangerous? She seemed docile enough. I approached with caution and she stared at me with tired, glassy eyes. The shape of each rib became pronounced with each of her inhales, but I had little pity to give her, considering my own famished state.
I moved behind her and gave her a rough shove, despite a twinge of pity for her based more on her sheer size in comparison to the space rather than any other struggle of hers. The cramped quarters could be alleviated, however, if I simply got her out, so that's what my goal became, getting the poor beast out of the small car.
She didn't move at first, so I kept at it until she budged, and then slowly, keeping her head lowered, she crawled onto her knees and shimmied neck-first out into the sunlight.
The rope around her neck seemed wholly unnecessary, as she didn't attempt to run or even walk in any particular direction. She blinked into the sun, as did I once I crawled back out again, and the man holding her nodded his approval at me curtly.
"I don't recognize you. When'd you get on?"
He didn't seem angry, only curious, so I replied honestly. "Back in Alabama."
"You must be hungry then. Help unload the rest of these animals, then I'll get you something to eat. Won’t taste good, but it’ll be something.“
It was my first paid job. Certainly, I'd worked odd jobs with Mother before, but the compensation had never gone into my pocket. Not directly anyway. She'd taken it and distributed it as she saw fit, which was usually never the fit way to go about it and left the pantry empty but her moonshine reserves replenished.
A team of men and a few women who appeared at first blush to be men assembled giant steel grates into small cages over in a nearby field. As each new one went up, the man and I added an animal or three to the new-formed enclosures. We didn't put the last animal—a lethargic Bengal tiger—into her cage until the last glow of twilight.
Once we were gathered round the fire the bald man finally bothered himself with a formal introduction. "Crazy Jake," he said, extending his hand, which I shook. "You did a hell of a job today. What are you, eight years old?"
I was offended but savvy enough not to show it to someone named Crazy Jake. "Twelve. And thanks."
"You gotta stop bringing kids around, CJ," said a person who I strongly suspected was a woman. She sat by the fire, stirring a cauldron of what would be our meal. "You know that brings the authorities snooping.”
"He ain't gonna be no trouble," Crazy Jake replied before looking down at me. "Right, boy? You ain't gonna be no trouble?"
"No, sir," I said. "I'm real good at hiding, too, if anyone comes looking."
The woman shrugged and kept stirring.
As Crazy Jake took a seat on one of the small makeshift benches by the fire, he went around the circle making introductions. He started with the woman. "That there's Lucy Goosey, then there's Ol' Six Fingers, Jumping Jerry, Sally Q”—a man, in case you're wondering—“Deaf Lenny, Dumb Lenny, and Racist Wallace."
As I'd later find out, about half of those were misnomers.
Chapter Sixteen
Roughly thirty-five thousand dollars and some sort of belief system—that’s all Jessica needed to come up with. If she was as special as everyone claimed she was, it shouldn’t be that hard.
Sure, she had no job, so unless she was going to relapse to her scratch-off habit, it looked like she’d have to earn money the old-fashioned way. And as far as a belief system went, she’d half-assed most of her Intro to Philosophy class, and didn’t know much about any particular religion. But she was the God-damned daughter of God, dammit! Philosophy and religion should be second nature to her.
As she sat cross-legged on the expensive gray shag rug in her living room, scribbling down whatever words or phrases came into her head on the legal pad she’d set up on the coffee table, she discovered that, no, this shit did not come naturally. Not even to her. Also, were brain maps ever actually helpful? How were a few circled words connected with lines supposed to give her any insight whatsoever? Why was this one of the few skills she remembered from Marymoore and Mooremont? Why had they wasted so much time learning brain maps and spent so little time learning personal finance and how to draft a manifesto?
The fact that your underfunded education didn’t prepare you for life in any capacity isn’t exactly revelatory. Focus!
But that was increasingly difficult when the buzzer on her intercom wouldn’t stop jolting her from her thoughts.
A shudder of rage trickled down her spine. What was that, the fourteenth time he’d buzzed her? The twentieth?
No one ever says he lacks persistence, that’s for sure.
She squeezed her eyes shut then opened them again to stare down at her page. At the center of her word web was, Don’t be an asswipe. If it was in the middle of her map, did that make it worthy of being a central tenet of her belief system? If so, she should probably paraphrase.
The intercom buzzed again.
“Man, I hate him.” She scribbled Death to men, considered it, savoring the sentiment, swishing it around in her mind indulgently. But when an image of Chris surfaced, followed by a parade of the men she didn’t wish death upon, she scribbled out the phrase.
The intercom buzzed again.
“Nope. Not a chance in hell.”
Branching out from her contender for central tenet were words like, free and hanging out and Sir David Attenborough.
Yep, I have no clue what I’m
doing. I bet Jesus didn’t have to do brain maps to figure out his message.
BECAUSE HE LISTENED TO HIS FATHER.
Oh, hello there. So wait, you just fed him his message?
YES.
That sort of makes him your puppet.
I PREFER ‘THE LORD’S OBEDIENT SON.’
I can tell. Out of curiosity, what message would you have me spread to the masses?
IT IS NOT A VENEREAL DISEASE; YOU DON’T SPREAD IT, YOU PREACH IT.
Fine, what message would you like me to preach?
OH, YOU KNOW. LOVE. NOT BEING AN ASSWIPE.
Oddly enough, I already have that written down. But it’s not exactly revolutionary. Sounds like what you sent Jesus to talk about.
TO BE FAIR, MODERN TECHNOLOGY HAS REMOVED THE NEED FOR MOST OF MY MESSAGE.
Meaning?
HISTORICALLY, MY RULES SERVED AS AN FAQ FOR HUMANITY.
Again: meaning?
I CONSIDER THE MOST FREQUENT PRAYERS OF THE EPOCH AND PRESENT SOLUTIONS.
Okay …?
BEFORE JESUS—B.J., AS I REFER TO IT IN ENGLISH, THOUGH I COULD NEVER GET THAT TO CATCH ON—PRAYERS WERE ALWAYS, “OH LORD, MINE BROTHER IS POOPING HIMSELF TO DEATH. DEFINITELY TOO LATE FOR HIM, BUT PLEASE DON’T LET ME GO LIKE THAT,” OR “HOLY GOD, WHAT ARE THESE BUMPS ON MY SIN BITS THAT BRING WITH THEM FEVER AND VOMITING?”
ERGO, MOST OF THE RULES WERE ABOUT FOOD PREPARATION AND NOT DIPPING ONE’S MANLY STAFF INTO UNCLEAN HOLES.
Okay, so you and Jesus mostly talked about food poisoning and … sex?
NOT AT ALL. BY THE TIME YOUR BROTHER WAS BORN, MY CHOSEN PEOPLE ALREADY KNEW NOT TO EAT OR PUT THEIR MANHOOD INTO THE MAIN NASTY THINGS.
So what were the prayers then?
“LORD, PLEASE QUICK WASH ME SO I DON’T HAVE TO ENDURE ANOTHER TWO-DAY CLEANSING RITUAL BEFORE BED,” AND, “OH LORD, MY HUSBAND IS A MEANIE. PLEASE MAKE HIM NOT A MEANIE.”
It is Risen Page 18