My dad parts the crowd and goes to stand in the corner, and though he’s not in full makeup, he does have on his hooked nose extension and the long nails he likes to wear as the devil. He uses them to creep people out by dragging them along cheeks and shoulders, and it’s so disturbing that sometimes kids shake when he gets close to them.
“Some of you know where you are,” my father says, his voice deeper and darker than I remember it sounding even last year. “Make no mistake. This is the gate to hell.”
He throws up his arms and pauses for dramatic effect before continuing.
“This is my domain, where I have the ultimate power over you because you have stolen, you have lusted, you have coveted, you have sinned … and I know everything. Your actions, your deeds, your thoughts—there’s nothing I didn’t see. You turned away from Jesus, and I am what you turned to. Welcome to hell!”
As I watch my dad, I start to feel uneasy. I’ve seen him in this role a dozen times and I’ve always loved the way he dramatized the devil. But tonight, I’m feeling guilty about the doubts I’ve had, the doubts I still have, about the church.
“God says you can join him in his kingdom, that you can sit by his side by simply following his footsteps? Never!” Dad continues, gesticulating wildly. “I will run with fire through your lives, burning up your relationships and making them sick and twisted, fattening your greed until it destroys your ambitions, killing your unborn children. I’ll harness chaos and murder humanity with wars and hunger and disease. I want every one of you to rot with me down here forever!”
He puts his left arm out, and with a sweeping motion, the flashing red light stops pulsing and burns bright, casting an evil spotlight on the center of the room where kids hang from chains. I look over and see Dean smiling, so I nod at him in approval of the effect.
“Meet my minions!” Dad screams. They’re all screaming and weeping; they represent souls who have sinned and are in hell for eternity. They whine, “I can’t take it!” and “Let me out of here!” Then one—Brooke Ross—distinctly calls for Jesus.
“Silence!” shouts Devil Dad. “His name is not welcome here. I hate everything that He loves. And He loves you. But to me, you are nothing.”
“Demon!” he shouts at Starla Joy. “Remove this scum from my presence.”
She grabs Brooke by the arms and pulls her away, kicking and screaming, like she knows she’s being led to even worse torture.
Then Dad—Satan—laughs and turns his eyes on us. “This is a glimpse of what you are headed for if you keep doing what I know you’ve been doing and thinking about doing.”
Usually the devil goes down the line, saying something to every guest that may or may not resonate. I always remember, it’s not Dad—it’s the devil. When my father is in this role, he disavows himself of any responsibility, he goes for it. And he uses what he sees to divine sins that really might be there, under the surface.
He walks up to Dean and puts one long nail under Dean’s chin. “What sins lie within your mind, Dean Perkins?” he asks. “In the darkness of a sixteen-year-old boy’s room there are many temptations.” Then Dad howls and breaks into demonic laughter. He always uses people’s names when he knows them—it just makes the scene more effective.
I’d worry about Dean, but I know he knows the drill—this is Hell, and there are no holds barred for this performance.
Dad makes his way to Maryanne and gives her some generic lashing about respecting her parents. I thought that was the one he was going to use on me, but I guess not.
When he does get to me, I’m nervous. He’s never turned this on me before, never looked at me and tried to see sin. I close my eyes for a second as he approaches.
“Look at me, Lacey Anne Byer!” he screeches.
I open my eyes and see the devil staring me in the face.
“When you deceive, you sin,” he rasps. “And even if you don’t get caught, you know in your heart that you have sinned.”
I feel a trickle of sweat drip down the side of my forehead. Does Dad know I’ve snuck out? Or is he just fishing for a sin and coming up with this one? I stay very still, trying not to react.
“And why deceive, if not to cover up more deep, dark, and ugly sins? Sins of betrayal, of doubting your Father, of lust?” he says that last word with feeling, and my face starts to redden. Luckily it’s dark in here. When he said “Father,” did he mean God? Or himself?
How does he know?
Then he moves on, quickly, to Ron Jessup, whom he hits with greed. I relax my shoulders in relief that my confrontation with him is over, and I remind myself that it’s all an act, and it’s all in the name of God.
Soon Dad backs away, facing all of us at once, and talking about breathing deceit into our souls so that he can one day own them.
Then, a white floodlight pours into the dark room. “Satan, these are not your children,” says a calm voice. It’s Pastor Frist, who always plays Jesus. I think it’s an excuse to let his hair become a mullet and grow a beard, but he does resemble Christ. He’s wearing a white choir robe and there are two little kids at his side dressed as angels with golden pipe-cleaner halos. I hope he talked to Mr. Parsons. I hope he gave him lots of coffee.
My father, the devil, starts shrieking—it’s the most hideous sound I can imagine hearing—and he shrinks to the back of the room as Jesus leads us out of Hell. I’m glad to get away from that space heater—it’s really cranked up. We walk into the hallway, where there are more angels waiting to greet us with warm handshakes as we head to the library, which is staged as Heaven.
Dean built one of those small garden bridges from Home Depot, and it’s positioned over a kiddie pool that I’m pretty sure came from Maryanne Duane’s house. There are cotton clouds hanging all around the room, and Jesus marches in front of us, then sits upon His throne and welcomes us to gather around.
All of the angels smile at us—it’s their job to make people feel welcome.
“My children,” Jesus says, “this is but a glimpse of what awaits you in heaven if you accept me as your Lord and Savior. I died for your sins, and though sin still exists in the world, all you must do is invite me into your heart and you will be saved.”
There’s audio of birds tweeting, and a projection of a rainbow appears over Christ’s throne. Dean is going all out on this room! We stay a minute more, as angels come around and hug us, and then a very humbled and quiet Starla Joy leads us out and into the main lobby of the church.
On Hell House nights, this lobby will be the room where our junior pastor, who hardly ever gets to talk in church, asks people to pledge their lives to Jesus. He’ll do a prayer with everyone and then ask people to fill out cards with their contact information if they’ve committed or recommitted to Christ tonight. Over the course of three nights of Hell House, we collect hundreds of cards, and each one represents a saved soul.
Tonight, though, the lobby is just the lobby, and Starla Joy takes off her demon mask. “Pretty crazy, right?” she says, finally talking in her mellow normal voice.
“Yeah,” I reply.
Chapter Twenty-five
As I walk out into the parking lot after the run-through, I feel about a thousand emotions. I know this outreach will bring people to God—it’s more intense than in past years—but there’s a knot in my stomach too. I notice that Mr. Parsons’s truck is still here. Maybe he’s talking to Pastor Frist some more. I hope so.
Dean catches up to me and Starla Joy. We’re already whispering.
“Mr. Parsons was wasted,” says Dean.
“That was scary,” I say.
“It’s over,” Starla Joy says. “I’m sure Pastor Frist gave him some coffee and a talking-to.”
“Starla Joy!” I say. “That was serious.”
“Lacey, everyone knows Geoff’s dad is like that,” she says. “It’s sad and weird, but that’s the way he is.”
“To see it, though,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Dean. “And Geoff’s face while
his dad was there.”
“It was awful,” I say.
“I know,” says Starla Joy. “But that’s not our problem right now. Geoff isn’t an angel either.”
Dean and I stay silent
“Oh, come on, you guys!” says Starla Joy, starting to head toward her truck. “Let’s go get cheese fries and debrief!”
Dean loosens up then, smiling a little.
“You can say it,” he says. “I’m the King of Prop.”
He looks back at me. I feel like we should talk more about Geoff, maybe even try to find out if he’s okay. But then again, I don’t think he’d do the same for any of us. I give in to my friends.
“You’re the King of Prop,” I say to Dean. I head for the truck too.
“And I’m not even halfway done,” Dean says excitedly. “Wait until we get the smoke machines and the fake blood and the porn projection screen! Seriously, you guys, I might want to make this my thing. Like, creating sets and environments and stuff.”
As Dean rambles on, we get into Starla Joy’s truck, me in the middle. I told Dad I was going out with my friends, and he agreed that I could stay out half an hour past curfew. He knows we’re all excited after tonight. He even told Dean how proud he was of the amazing prop work this year, and how he hoped they could work on the model in the garage again after Hell House is over.
“Ooh, it’s already eight thirty,” Starla Joy says. “I’m starving.”
“Do you want to call your mom?” I ask her. I know Dean doesn’t have a curfew, but Starla Joy usually checks in.
“Nah,” says Starla Joy. “She’s so preoccupied with other things that she doesn’t even notice when I get home anymore.”
“Oh,” I say. But Starla Joy doesn’t seem upset—she’s still high from her amazing turn as a Demon Tour Guide. “You really ruled the realms of hell tonight,” I tell her.
“Are you saying I’m a natural beast of Satan?” she asks, raising her eyebrows as she pulls out of the parking lot and heads to Diner. It’s a diner, obviously, and it’s uncreatively, but aptly, named. I think in the early days of small towns things were incredibly simple, and this place has been around forever. It’s the only spot open late night besides the Starbucks one town over.
“I’ll say it,” Dean says. “You were terrifyingly evil!”
“Why, thank you,” says Starla Joy.
“I didn’t know you had it in you,” I tell her.
I look at her profile to see if she reacts at all.
“Well, I am a demon,” she says matter-of-factly.
I’m about to ask her if those lines about young love make her think of Tessa and Jeremy at all, but I hesitate and then Dean jumps in.
“Wasn’t the disco ball cool?”
“That is the gayest gay apartment ever,” I say. Dean beams.
“I just want it to look authentic,” he says.
“Yes, Dean,” Starla Joy says. “I’m sure every gay couple has a disco ball above their bed.”
We all laugh.
“Hyperbole in Hell House is a good thing,” says Dean.
“There’s a lot of over-the-top stuff this year,” I say, turning again to look at Starla Joy. “That stuff about young love before the abortion scene is pretty intense.”
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s awesome.”
I face the windshield again, still not sure what I think. Where everything used to seem so cut and dried—sinner or saint—I see new complexity. I wonder if my friends do too. But I don’t want to press Starla Joy or remind her of Tessa right now, when she’s in this untouchable good mood. She deserves it. And I’m sure we’ll save a lot of souls, so how much does it matter if a few lines seem off to me?
We pull up at Diner and Starla Joy and I pile into a corner booth while Dean goes to the restroom. The seats are wooden and there are years of names carved into them: “Oscar loves Carolyn,” “Russ + Quinn,” “Tommy Walker rulz.” A small TV in the corner plays highlights from the high school football games.
Starla Joy takes the salt shaker from the edge of the table and pours out a little bit so she can do her trick where you balance the edge of the shaker on the loose crystals.
I decide that I need to ask her about her lines. They just reminded me so much of Tessa. I know she had to think about that.
“Starla Joy, is Hell House hard for you at all?” I ask.
She doesn’t look up at me—she’s concentrating on the trick.
“No,” she says. She’s blowing me off, but I press her.
“I just mean like seeing Jeremy there as a Demon Tour Guide too,” I say. “And the lines you have to say outside the abortion room. They must kind of make you think about—”
“Stop,” she says, grabbing the shaker and brushing the salt crystals onto the floor, abandoning her efforts. “I’m okay. It’s okay.”
“What’s okay?” asks Dean, sliding into the booth next to me.
“Lacey was saying that all the ‘slut’ lines must remind me of my sister,” say Starla Joy.
“That is not what I was saying!” I say.
“I know, I know,” Starla Joy says, waving her hand to calm me down. “I’m kidding. And okay, that part is a little bit hard for me, to be honest.”
“You were so good,” I say. “I mean, I could hardly recognize you.”
“That’s what I do,” she says. “It’s like I feel what I feel and even if it’s upset or sad or whatever, I can turn it into anger.”
“That’s good for the role,” Dean says.
“I know,” says Starla Joy. She smiles at us and I envy her strength. I don’t know how she does it.
Doris, a waitress who’s worked here since way before we were born, comes over without menus.
She puts three waters in front of us and says, “Cheese fries.”
We nod our heads in affirmation, and Doris starts to walk away, but then she turns on her heels, like she forgot something important.
“Did ya hear?” she asks.
“Hear what?” I ask.
She leans in to our table and starts to whisper. “Turns out that Tyson Davis—that boy I hear you’ve been hanging around with lately, Lacey—the one who moved out of town and then came back …”
We nod, and I’m afraid for her to continue but more afraid for her not to.
“Seems that while he was away he got himself in some trouble,” she says.
“What kind of trouble?” Starla Joy asks.
“I don’t like to spread gossip,” Doris says, contradicting everything we know to be true about her, “but I heard he got in a car accident last spring and was arrested for driving under the in-flu-ence.”
She practically stretches each syllable of “influence” into its own sentence.
Then she looks around the diner like she hasn’t told every table this already and whispers, “Drugs.”
None of us react, which isn’t what Doris expects.
“Well, that’s the word anyway.” Doris turns and walks back to the kitchen.
Dean and Starla Joy and I look at each other.
“Do you think it’s true?” asks Dean.
“Yes,” Starla Joy says immediately. “Didn’t you guys always feel like Ty was holding something back? Like he couldn’t tell us about a part of his life.”
“The truth always finds you,” Dean says.
“You sound like Oprah,” Starla Joy says.
“But he’s right,” I say.
“Did you know this, Lacey?” asks Starla Joy, looking at me intently.
“No,” I say, thinking that I wish I had, feeling like I should have known. He should have told me.
“It doesn’t seem like Ty,” Dean says. “He’s not a drunk-driving type.”
“What is a drunk-driving type?” I ask. “I mean, what does that mean?”
“Bleary eyes, bad grades, a who-cares attitude,” says Dean. Then he smiles. “Okay, I know I sound dumb. You’re right. It’s like in Hell House where the script calls for the drug guy to be
goth. So stupid.”
“He’s just Ty,” I say. “He’s the same person we met again this summer.” I want to talk to Ty, want to find out what the real story is.
“I need to go,” I say.
Chapter Twenty-six
Starla Joy takes me straight to Ty’s house, and neither she nor Dean ask to come in. They know I need to talk with Ty alone.
As I head up the walk, I turn my phone to silent. I don’t want to be interrupted. I notice again how big and foreboding this house is, especially at night. But before I even ring the bell, Ty opens the door and warm light floods out from inside the entry. He looks rumpled in his pajama pants and a white undershirt, but he also looks extremely adorable. His hair is sticking up on one side.
“No polo shirt?” I ask.
“Not when I’m off duty at home,” he says, frowning.
I see Vivian Moss appear just past Ty, but she nods and makes a quick exit. I hope she won’t tell my dad she saw me here, but even that fear can’t distract me from the conversation I want to have with Ty. I have to find out the truth—where he’s been and what really happened.
“Can I come in?” I ask, realizing that Ty’s not going to offer that.
“I guess,” he says.
I follow him into the large living room.
“It’s kind of late for you to be out on a school night, right?” asks Ty, sitting down on one end of the brown leather couch and grabbing a throw pillow. He pulls it up into his chest protectively.
I choose an armchair where I can sit up straight.
“I needed to talk to you,” I say.
“Let me guess,” Ty says. “You finally heard …” His voice drops off. We sit there quietly for a moment, and I realize that I’m going to have to start this thing.
“What do you think I heard?” I ask.
“I guess you heard why I wasn’t at school,” Ty says. “I can tell by the look on your face that it’s ruined.”
Small Town Sinners Page 17