Mr. Wright was forty-one years old. He never smoked, drank only on rare occasions such as the tri-county carnival or a ballgame, but never more than a couple beers. The man knew his limits. He was a day laborer, and therefore, was considered ‘an active man’ by Dr. Keller. He was healthy, lived a low-risk life, and was one of the devout in Father Johnstone’s flock. Then he died. All of a sudden, Mr. Wright keeled over and died for no apparent reason. It was one of the only times in Pratt that a body was shipped to the next town for an autopsy, considering there was no rhyme or reason to his death. It couldn’t have been old age. He wasn’t sick. Mr. Wright never showed a single sign of being out of sorts, so the speculation of what it could or couldn’t be took over the town for the next few days. Then, almost two weeks later it was finally revealed: brain aneurysm.
It might as well have been an invisible bullet with the way that Mrs. Wright reacted. No matter how many times Dr. Keller explained to her what the condition was, she never grasped the concept. It was too random for her, and therefore, she could not find any peace in her husband’s passing. Coaching people through the mourning process was something Father Johnstone did well, but it was easy when the cause of death was old age or sickness. And although people never like losing their family members to accidents, an accident is still technically an explanation worthy of closure. Travis Durphy knows that better than anyone.
Mrs. Wright, and more specifically, her husband were the recipients of what they would call ‘plain old rotten luck.’ This made Father Johnstone’s efforts to console the widow Wright especially difficult, mostly because he didn’t understand much of the science behind it either. God had always been the answer when talking through these things, but having something like a heart attack or cancer to explain how death added up was necessary. It’s the mystery and unexplained nature of the brain aneurysm that keeps Mrs. Wright calling out to Father Johnstone, always with a red ribbon tied around the mail post, just as they agreed upon after the funeral.
“I’m hurt and will try to press on,” she said, “but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about ending it all.” Mrs. Wright sniffled, crying. “I’m very alone right now…and I’m going to be alone for the rest of my days.”
This is when Father Johnstone explained his own solitude, empathizing via his story of Mary and the restoration of the Dodge Challenger. To the common eye it would appear that these things are in his care; the reality is that it’s just the opposite.
“Believe me,” he said. “I am no stranger to loneliness. I’m probably an expert.”
And so Mrs. Wright and Father Johnstone made a deal, that if she was ever lonely or depressed or felt like she couldn’t take it any longer, she would display the red ribbon on the mail post. This method, believe it or not, would be more effective than calling as Father Johnstone is rarely around his telephone. Part of keeping watch over the flock is being a presence in their lives on a daily basis, not just on Sundays. He regularly tours the town, not only to play the role of the doting pastor, but to combat his own solitude via the revolving door of company and conversations.
“I pass by your home at least three or four times a day,” Father Johnstone said. “Believe me, all strangeness aside, it’s more practical than a phone call.”
Most of the meetings consisted of Father Jones listening to the widow Wright talking through her husband’s passing, the unfairness and erratic nature of it. She cried often, sometimes leaning into the pastor’s body for many minutes at a time, sobbing until his shoulder was soaked in grief. In all his years in Pratt, Father Johnstone could not recall a more emotionally-charged yet aimless string of meetings. A pattern emerged: Mrs. Wright told the story, her confusion overwhelmed her to tears, and she’d eventually cry herself into submission. It usually concluded with her saying, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry to put this on you,” and then she’d thank Father Johnstone for his time, sending him away no closer to resolution than when he came.
The air in the home of Mrs. Wright is different now. Solitude lingers, but there’s also a welcoming quality that the pastor thought all but removed. It’s peaceful and clean. The usual smell of dirty dishes rotting in the sink and old laundry in need of attention has vanished, replaced by jasmine-scented candles and the oils of wood cleaners. The home is brighter and warmer than the pastor has ever seen it, more so than when Mr. Wright was still alive. Father Johnstone sits down on the couch in the living room, placing his groceries carefully next to the arm so they don’t tip over.
“Can I get you anything, Father?” Mrs. Wright asks, less sad than usual. She’s attempting to play host when she’s normally exercising common niceties. “Cider? Pie?” she offers.
“No. No, thank you,” he says. As much as he wants to assist Mrs. Wright, the pastor is hoping to do it fast lest his groceries spoil.
Helena Wright sits down on the couch next to the pastor, adjusting her sundress to tuck her feet under. She’s wearing makeup today, and along with the clean house, Father Johnstone can’t pinpoint the last time he’s seen that either. Blush and eye shadow almost make it seem like he’s talking to a stranger, right along with this new calm and controlled temperament she’s exuding.
She says, “I feel better now.”
“Good,” Father Johnstone says. “I’m very glad to hear that.”
“I’m still lonely, but I’ve stopped pining over Carl. I’ve stopped letting myself stew in misery,” Mrs. Wright says. “I’m done trying to explain what can’t be explained.”
“You’re letting go,” the pastor says. “That’s very good. I’m pleased to hear your life is turning around.”
Then Mrs. Wright says, “But I’m very lonely, Father.” She slides over on the couch one cushion length so that her knees are touching the pastor’s leg. Mrs. Wright smiles, but not in any way that Father Johnstone is familiar with. There’s aggression behind it, and then she leans in and plants her lips on the pastor. Her lips touch his, softly at first, and when Father Johnstone doesn’t break away or resist, she clutches his face, pushing her tongue into his mouth. He tastes like stale coffee, but this matters little because she’s finally able to touch, to kiss the man that talked her through so many hard nights. She’s finally able to reciprocate all the attention and love he gave her, and then Father Johnstone mumbles something blissfully between breaths. He says a name, and Mrs. Wright is certain it wasn’t her name. Definitely not. Lord as her witness, it damn sure was not her name that he just said.
Mrs. Wright tears her lips away from his and asks, “What was that?”
“That,” he stammers. “That…it shouldn’t have happened. I should go.” But when Father Johnstone moves to stand, Mrs. Wright presses her hand against his chest, weighing him down.
“The name,” Mrs. Wright says. “You said a name.”
Father Johnstone blinks, dumbfounded. Distant.
“It sounded like you said Madeline,” she says.
On the Road with Billy Burke, Truck
Stop Preacher
“I don’t care if she’s fat. I don’t care if she’s got a stinky baloney cooter that cheeses right up like old potato salad left out at a BBQ. You fuck your wife. You fuck only your wife. That’s the vow you made, and a man’s only as good as his word. Lord doesn’t welcome maligners into the Kingdom, and there ain’t no good woman that deserve to be cheated on just cos her puss look like a pile of hair with chewed bubblegum dropped in it. There’s plenty of men locked up that would chop their own ears off for a piece of ass right now. I’ve met them myself…out on the road. Met a man that was locked up for a twenty-year stretch, and he says to me, ‘Billy, there were times I got so lonesome I stuck my pecker in the mattress hole while lookin’ at my girl’s picture. Lord as my witness, she’s a pig, but she’s my pig.’ I want you to think about that while you’re out there delivering our food and supplies and gasoline around our great country. You made a commitment to do a job. You made a commitment to your wife. Do your diligence, do right by the Lord, and b
e thankful you got more than a mattress to squirt into when you get home.”
The Apathetic
“We’ve lost that spark, Father,” Mr. Fairfax says, briefly glancing to his left for any objection from his spouse, but she’s nodding in complete agreement. Mrs. Fairfax has been frowning for so long, years as a matter of fact, that even her mouth has crow’s feet. ‘The unhappiest woman in Pratt,’ some people call her. And she’s still nodding—perhaps a bit too emphatically, because her husband recants somewhat in his next statement, saying, “I don’t think we’re beyond help, though, and that’s why we’re here. That’s why we’re coming to you.”
It’s Thursday and Father Johnstone has yet to get a full night’s sleep since the incident with the widow Wright. He’s been getting to bed fine. Around ten o’clock the pastor brushes his teeth, says his nightly prayer (for good health and the strength to continue to guide the flock), and then proceeds to slide under the covers. Mary curls herself into a little ball adjacent to Father Johnstone’s stomach, and the two of them fall asleep just as they always do. The problem is that Father Johnstone keeps waking up, typically every couple of hours with the aftertaste of nightmares soaking his pajamas. It’s become such a nuisance that he even went as far as to buy a sleep aid from the local drug store, but all they’ve done is made him feel groggy and beyond the aid of caffeine in the morning.
“Do you think there’s anything that we can do, Father?” Mr. Fairfax asks. “Any advice the church can offer us?”
Father Johnstone yawns. Shrugs absently. “Pray?”
He knows that he should be giving his undivided attention to Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax, but recent incidents distract him. Thoughts of Mrs. Wright and their encounter continue to haunt the pastor, and no matter how many times he replays it in his head or analyzes it, he can’t make sense of the event. He knows what happened, knows very well that it was wrong, but the motives escape him. Not only was Mrs. Wright acting more ardent than she has since her husband passed, but Father Johnstone had never been that passive, so easily persuaded. Not since his early twenties, anyway. It’s as if he forgot who he was and his role in the town of Pratt. He’s supposed to be the guiding light, a pillar of the community, but that pillar has since cracked, apparently. Lust, no matter how brief, is still lust.
“It’s confusing, Father, because—and I’m not trying to disrespect the Lord,” Mr. Fairfax reassures the room, “but how exactly does one pray for a man and wife to be attracted to each other again? Wouldn’t the Good Book classify that as vanity?”
“So,” the pastor starts, “what you’re saying is you’ve not even attempted to speak to the Lord in which you took your marital vows under? You’re already thinking about loopholes? Am I hearing that right, Richard?”
Father Johnstone goes over it again: he saw the red ribbon and walked into the home of the widow Wright. She said that she was fine, that she was still lonely but had learned to accept her situation, and Father Johnstone was glad to hear this. He had been waiting for this kind of breakthrough for some time, but that was the point in which Mrs. Wright placed her mouth on his, and when he didn’t resist, she proceeded to invade it. Consume it, devour him—but just as quickly, she stopped. The name. She accused him of saying ‘Madeline,’ however, he doesn’t remember that. It continues to be a blind spot in his memory, and as insane as it sounds that he’d do such a thing, it’s equally insane that the widow Wright would lie about it. Clearly, Father Johnstone did something to ‘spoil the mood,’ as they say, and logic dictates Mrs. Wright wouldn’t attempt to seduce him in order to act hurt and offended moments later. It was the first time the pastor had seen her cry over a man not her husband, a new kind of guilt considering his nearly non-existent history with women. Father Johnstone has only kissed three in his lifetime, and the widow Wright marks the end of a thirty-four-year-old streak of benevolence.
“We’ve not yet prayed for something so specific,” Mrs. Fairfax says. “I suppose we don’t want to look, y’know…‘petty,’ I guess would be the word.” She turns to her husband, “That sound right, Rich? ‘Petty’?” He nods and she resumes consulting with the pastor, venturing, “Perhaps we pray the Lord renews our connection?”
“Yes, dear, a renewed connection,” Mr. Fairfax chimes in. “That—yes, I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
The couple is tiptoeing now, being extremely deliberate with their word-choice. Father Johnstone is usually so welcoming, so open-minded and willing to listen. Couples counseling has never been something he’s done in an official capacity, but over the years, more and more marriages were prolonged thanks to the pastor’s insightful advice.
“Father?” Mr. Fairfax asks. “Does that sound right to you?”
The pastor is cold now. Distant and exhausted, and possibly coming off a bit mean with the way he’s addressing the Fairfaxes. The impatience and callous tone are unlike him, so he has to remind himself not to make his problems the problems of others. They just want your help, he thinks. They need guidance.
“I believe that if you address the Lord with a pure heart and honest intentions, He will provide that which you seek,” Father Johnstone says. “A vow is a promise of both body and spirit, but that’s not to say that keeping a promise is always easy. The Lord favors those who seek His aid.”
Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax sigh, smile. They ease into their chairs having heard their pastor say this, and Father Johnstone smiles back, even though it’s a forced gesture. He had to dig deep for that last bit of advice. His counsel and ability to relate the Lord’s Word have always had a certain amount of naturalistic elegance, never ringing false or untrue. It’s how he became so revered as a bridge back to happier marriages. Father Johnstone has never claimed to be a miracle-worker; he simply reminds these couples why they got married in the first place. Regarding Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax though, his words feel empty. They lack their usual soundness, almost as if he’s saying the right words but has forgotten the meaning behind them.
“And we do seek his guidance,” Mr. Fairfax says. “We really do, Father.”
“Our issue is that the marriage has become rather…lethargic, I suppose,” Mrs. Fairfax says. “We respect our vows, of course, but it’s like we’re turned off by each other.”
Mr. Fairfax turns to his wife, “Honey, I believe the word you used was ‘repulsed’.” Eyes turn back to the pastor, “I repulse her, Father.”
“Well…yes,” Mrs. Fairfax frowns. “I might have said that.”
For some reason Father Johnstone can’t help but be reminded of Travis Durphy and his own spousal issues, specifically, the lack of consummation. It’s a matter of fear and self-doubt, he’s surmised. Travis’s problem is the same one Father Johnstone had the first time he popped the hood of the Dodge Challenger intended for restoration: he knew what would be under there, the function and the purpose of it, but the complexity of all those parts overwhelmed him into a state of impotency. He didn’t know where to start, and therefore, dreaded touching a single spark plug for many weeks. For Travis, it’s the same fear of the unknown.
Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax, on the other hand, have become so acclimated to each other, so conformed to the workings of their marital bond, they’ve slipped into apathy. Or, if Mrs. Fairfax’s ‘repulsive’ comment is any indication, they’ve gone past that and into a state of animosity.
“I believe what you said was, ‘I find you so repulsive that the thought of you touching me makes me want to vomit’,” Mr. Fairfax quotes.
“That’s because you smell like sweat and motor oil. You don’t clean yourself, Richard. You don’t warsh. It’s disgusting,” Mrs. Fairfax reasons. “I know you’re a mechanic and all, but honestly…warsh yourself. Just warsh the crud off your hands if you’re gonna touch me. ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness’,” she recites. “That’s what the Good Book says, right, Pastor?”
“Actually, it doesn’t,” Father Johnstone responds. It’s a common misquote he’s heard many times, but his patience isn’t at it
s normal generous length. “And it’s pronounced wash—not warsh. There’s no ‘r’ in wash. Your husband can’t warsh because it’s not possible, Jean.”
Crow’s-feet stretch at the corners of Mrs. Fairfax’s mouth, but out of shame this time. It’s been a while since she’s been reprimanded, not by Father Johnstone, but in any capacity. You’d be challenged to find anyone who’d want to cross ‘the unhappiest woman in Pratt,’ but Father Johnstone almost relishes the control he has. If there’s one type of person she doesn’t dare sass, it’s a man of the cloth.
“This is petty bickering, plain and simple,” the pastor says, scaling back the edge in his tone. “If all you see are the inconsequential problems, the marriage itself will become a problem. Wounds that go untreated will fester, which appears to be the case here, yes?”
Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax humbly nod.
“The issue isn’t that you’ve lost the spark,” Father Johnstone says. “Intimacy is a by-product of love and commitment. It recovers through prayer and devotion to your vows, understand?”
The pastor says this firmly, confidently, more like his former self. For the time being, his irritability has faded and he’s back to an even temperament. Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax nod at the pastor, briefly looking at each other to acknowledge that they not only accept the words, but are ready to apply the advice they’ve just been given. They’ll concentrate on the important aspects of their marriage, and Father Johnstone is hoping, praying in fact, that they will take their leave soon from his office.
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 3