“Uh, Father, you got a little something…” Jeremiah says, touching the spot just under his nose.
The pastor slides a finger across his upper lip, sniffing and turning away from the audience so they won’t see blood on his hand. He pulls out a handkerchief from his back pocket—originally intended for pie crumbs and various fillings, but scrubbing the blood away is a more pressing. Father Johnstone sniffs, forcing himself to give Jeremiah a reassuring smile. He snorts hard again, testing his nostril for the familiar glug of fluid attempting to spill out, but the flow has broken for the moment. The fever, however, does not relent.
Jeremiah puts a hand on Father Johnstone’s shoulder, asking covertly, “Do you need me to get someone for you? I can fetch Dr. Keller,” he says, but the pastor is already nodding him off. He doesn’t need anyone because God is in control, and his faith in that must remain steadfast.
The pastor prayed for strength last night. He begged the good Lord give him rest, give him the ability to carry out His will and lead the flock. He asked for nothing more than the simple blessing of a good night’s sleep, if only just one. And he found rest, but it came at a price.
“Goddamn, Father, you’re bleeding again,” Jeremiah says, but not in the mildly concerned tone he used before. He’s panicked. The man that’s surrounded all day by meat and fat and animal carcass is afraid, enough to make him blaspheme without shame. Heat spikes in Father Johnstone’s body again, sweat pouring and convening with the torrent bursting from his nose. He mashes the handkerchief to his nostrils as Jeremiah tells Mr. Conrad, “Find Dr. Keller. Get him here now.”
The handkerchief soaks blood until it’s draining down his wrist and forearm, down to his elbow, and now he’s sprouting pea-sized yellow blisters. Pustules surface on his face and neck, on his chest, all of them bulging with hot fluid. He can feel each one sing as the sweat washes over them, and the blood hasn’t stopped or showed any signs of slowing down. The migraine tapers off, replaced by a feeling of lightheadedness that threatens to take him under, back into those dreams where Madeline Paige does the unthinkable.
Father Johnstone feels his weight roll out of the chair, falling towards the soft grass of the church grounds, falling back into nightmares, but Jeremiah catches him just before his head claps against the earth. Blood spatters against the lime-green polo, but the butcher ignores this and begins smacking Father Johnstone’s cheek, slapping him repeatedly, saying, “C’mon, stay with me. The doc is coming.”
Going to Dr. Keller, accepting his ‘help’ and those ungodly pills—it was all a mistake, the pastor thinks. He should have never turned his back on the Lord, despite any momentary discomfort he was experiencing. The bleeding and the migraines and the night terrors, it’s all punishment for losing faith. He’s paying the price for his complacency.
“I need the fucking doctor here! He’s losing blood!” Jeremiah screams, but it’s faint. It’s all turned down. The pressure of the handkerchief and the screams are dim; the mass of people crowding are blurry silhouettes. Father Johnstone can barely keep his eyes open, the weight of his head fully supported in the crook of Jeremiah’s bloody arm. Blood everywhere. It tickles faintly as it traces the pastor’s jaw line and around the curvature of this neck. He’s fading, falling back into that dark place, and then he sees Madeline emerge from the crowd.
The pastor’s eyes open slightly, watching her lean frame move closer until she’s standing over Jeremiah Will. She squats down, allowing her legs to fold under her so that her knees are buried in blood-stained grass, but the smile is back. Madeline Paige is smiling again, bringing her lips to Father Johnstone’s ear until she’s practically breathing inside of it.
She whispers, “See you on the other side, Johnstone.”
On the Road with Billy Burke, Truck
Stop Preacher
“For you single men, the road is lonely. Believe me, I know. Ain’t got no one to talk to. Got nothin’ and no one waiting for you at home. Just you and your thoughts, right? And that’s when the goddamn Devil decides to get in your head. He gets on in there…burrowin’ deep. He makes you hit the bottle and snort that meth you love…stirs your thoughts around. You forget yourself…forget the Lord. You start thinking with your pecker. So there you are: sitting in the cab of your rig…drunk, spun, and lonely…then the knock comes. It’s some dirty lot lizard just checking to see if you want some company. She ain’t got no shoes…got about half her teeth left, and they’re yellow and worn the hell down to little nubs. She got sores around her mouth. This little piece of trash says she’ll let you bust a hard load in her mouth if you give her a taste of that meth. Just a bump to keep her spirits up. And even though you can smell the cock on her breath from the last guy—it’s tempting. For a little meth, you could fuck this girl’s mouth and not be lonely anymore. You don’t have to suffer by yourself. That’s the Devil thinkin’, my friends. I promise you, soon as that little girl spits your wad out in the ashtray, she’s gone…off to the next man. You’re worse off than before. That’s how clever the Devil is: makes you want the thing you don’t really want. He takes advantage of you when you’re alone, weak. That’s why you’re here today. Take it from ol’ Billy Burke…you are not alone.”
The Hospital
Father Johnstone wakes up.
There’s very little sunlight breaking through the shades, making it difficult to tell if the day is shifting to dawn or dusk, but it matters little. The pastor is in the white, sterile confines of the hospital, and therefore, not going anywhere in the near future. Dr. Keller is a bit of a stickler when it comes to regulations. That’s the word around town, anyway. Whether you’re a housewife, a plant worker, or even a man of God, there’s no excuse in the good doctor’s mind that justifies an early release.
“Sometimes living longer means putting your life on hold for a bit,” Dr. Keller tells his patients, but that doesn’t always go over.
The sense of responsibility runs deep in Pratt. Men work hard and the woman and wives do just as much keeping their homes in line. Little things like illness and injury aren’t any kind of reason to take a day off or not cook. Even Father Johnstone has been known to give a few sermons while under the weather, and they were certainly not his best. However, this inclination to carry on through the afflictions of life is best illustrated by Mrs. Deebs. After being hospitalized with a nasty case of walking pneumonia a few years ago, she would sneak out the first time Dr. Keller’s back was turned. That woman ran the streets of Pratt barefoot and wearing nothing but a hospital gown, mooning everything in her wake, all for the sake of fulfilling her duties as a wife.
“I was sick as a dog, I’ll tell ya,” she said. “But if my hubby don’t get his supper, well, you’d be lookin’ at a dead woman, I’d s’pect.”
Of course, Mrs. Deebs was being a tad facetious. Half the reason why the Presto Diner exists is for those rare occasions the women and wives need a night off from the stove. No shame in that. It’s more a matter of personal pride, which is the same reason Dr. Keller refuses to bend the rules for any of his patients. “Regulations are regulations,” he’d say. It’s his firm approach to conveying that when it comes to your health, there are no gray areas or shortcuts.
So when Dr. Keller enters the room with his trademark clipboard and white lab coat, Father Johnstone knows the inquiry as to when he can check out is anything if not premature. That’s not going to stop him from trying though. At the very least, he needs to make arrangements for Mary—perhaps not for her usual nightly walk, but someone is going to need to replenish her food rations and fill her water bowl.
Dr. Keller must be able to read his concern because the first thing out of his mouth is, “If you’re worried about your dog, don’t be.” He takes a seat on a rolling stool near the foot of the bed, giving it a little scoot towards the pastor so he’s lined up with his waist. “Mrs. Adams is taking care of her…says Mary has been getting along just fine with Missy and Chips to keep her company.” Then, for the sake of full d
isclosure, Dr. Keller admits, “Had to borrow your house keys though, I’m afraid. Hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty.”
The pastor sighs deeply, shoulders easing into the soft mattress of the hospital bed. He says, “No, it’s fine. Thank you, David.”
“Least I could do,” Dr. Keller says.
Carted machines beep softly on either side of the bed, the only one that Father Johnstone recognizes being the heart monitor. White wires stem from the base of the mechanism, leading under the wool comforter and sheet to his torso. The pastor takes a particularly deep breath, feeling the stickiness of the patches pulling at his skin and chest hair. There’s also a bag of clear fluid being intravenously fed into his body via the needle planted in his hand. Thankfully, the entry point is obscured by medical tape. Father Johnstone can’t even get a flu shot without turning away and clamping his eyes shut.
“I guess we’ll start with the easy stuff first,” Dr. Keller leads in, positioning the pen against the legal pad, ready to take notes. “How are you feeling?”
Father Johnstone considers the question, keeping in mind the turmoil he’s experienced over the past week or so. “Better than I have been, I guess.”
“Care to elaborate?” Dr. Keller asks.
There’s no headache. There’s also no fever or that feeling of emotional instability he’d been experiencing. Not right now, at least. He feels calm considering the fact that he’s waking up in a hospital. Father Johnstone also notices the distinct pang of hunger in his gut, and it’s calling out for something other than the decadent baked goods of Miss Madeline Paige. He needs something salty and heavy, a cheeseburger or a bowl of Mrs. Gentry’s famous pot roast. Maybe even some of that diner food everyone’s been raving about. His appetite is back with a vengeance, that’s for sure. Best of all though, the pastor feels rested. Whatever happened between the Pratt bake-off and now, it seems the good Lord saw it fit to grant Father Johnstone’s prayers. If he had any complaint, it would be the slight tenderness in his ears and nostrils. His throat is a little sore too, but he ultimately keeps these symptoms to himself, thinking this will work towards an early release (Lord forgive the lie). He wants to see Mary.
“I feel good,” Father Johnstone says. “Hungry though.”
“I’ll have one of the nurses get you some food just as soon as we finish up here,” the doctor says, still making notations. “I’m afraid I can’t give you anything substantial just yet…fruit and Jell-O for the time being. Maybe some toast.”
“You think maybe we could go a little heavier?” Father Johnstone asks. “I haven’t had anything in a while. Honestly, I haven’t had much of an appetite up until now.”
“Take it easy,” Dr. Keller says. “Even if you feel fine right now, I don’t want to push your body any harder than we have to. Now, do you feel dizzy or lightheaded at all?” he asks, putting pen to paper again.
“No.” The pastor shakes his head.
“Any bone or muscle pain?”
“No,” he says, giving his legs and arms a little flex, testing them. “No pain…more like I’m a bit weak. Joints are kinda stiff, too.”
“Normal,” Dr. Keller says. “You’ve been off your feet a few days.”
“A few days?” Father Johnstone confirms.
“It’s Wednesday,” Dr. Keller says. “Going on Wednesday evening. Mr. Conrad came in here Sunday afternoon on the verge of keeling over, saying you were having some kind of a fit at the bake-off. Do you remember any of that?”
Madeline’s sweet whisper: “See you on the other side, Johnstone.”
“Vaguely,” the pastor says. “It all happened a bit fast.”
“That’s an understatement.” Dr. Keller peers back down at the clipboard and makes a few additional notes. He sets it down on the bedside table next to the lamp, crossing one leg over the other so the ankle is resting on a knee. “This town has been chattier than normal…rumor mill’s a churnin’,” Dr. Keller says, smiling gravely.
“How do you mean?” The pastor suspects this is in reference to him and what happened at the Pratt bake-off. Obviously, there’s going to be quite a few people concerned about the wellbeing of their town preacher, and it’s not like he has a replacement that can step in at a moment’s notice. Far from it.
“Look, you know I’ve never been one of the flock,” Dr. Keller says. “And I don’t make a habit in getting involved with people’s personal lives…keeps things simple for me, but from one pillar to another, I can’t just send you back out there to those people unprepared.”
“Okay,” Father Johnstone consents to the subject. “So there’s gossip then?”
“Gossip is whatever is or isn’t happening in the bedroom of the Durphy household,” Dr. Keller says. “You got all sorts of people telling different versions of the story. This thing here about you—everybody is saying the same thing, more or less. They say you did something a man in your position shouldn’t be doing.”
Dr. Keller could be referring to a few things: the moment of lust he shared (be it ever so brief) with the widow Wright, or the less than stable nature he’s been exhibiting around select members of the flock. It might even be his relationship with Madeline Paige, which could be viewed as fraternization amongst certain rumormongers in Pratt. The lonely and bored have an affinity for making mountains out of molehills, regardless of the truth or validity of these claims, and word gets around quick. Both men can attest to that.
“Do you remember what you did on Sunday at the sermon?” Dr. Keller asks.
“I do. ‘The Feeding of 5,000’ reading,” the pastor answers. “The same reading I always give the day of the bake-off…to remind the people what a blessing food is.”
“I’m familiar with that reading. Jesus arrives, cures the sick…he then proceeds to multiply the bread and fish until the entire town is fed. That about right?” Dr. Keller asks.
He’s paraphrasing, but for a non-devotee such as Dr. Keller, it’s surprising he’d know even that much. Pratt’s chief medical expert has never made it a secret that he doesn’t subscribe to the Good Book or its lessons, ambiguously citing how he’s neither for nor against it. “I’m a man of science. Always have been, always will,” he tells people, but the reality is that he prefers the simplicity of keeping faith and the workings of modern medicine separate. A doctor should rely on his training and skill, not omniscient beings or empty hope. Things like ‘miracles’ and ‘acts of God,’ although rare, can still be scientifically explained. Dr. Keller had always believed that, up until recently.
“That’s roughly the gist of it, yes,” Father Johnstone says.
“And do you remember what you did after that reading?” the doctor probes.
“Well, I imagine we prayed and I did another recitation,” the pastor says, although it lacks confidence, almost sounding like an assumption to Dr. Keller. “The tithe plate was passed around, hymns were sung—I forget which ones exactly…the usual Sunday, David. I don’t know what you’re looking for.”
“When we brought you in here, you had lost four pints of blood already,” Dr. Keller explains, frowning. “We call that a Class IV Hemorrhage, Father. Do you know what that is?” he asks, but the term is thrown out in a rhetorical fashion. No one in Pratt has ever suffered one, and therefore, the terminology has never appeared in the Tribune. “It means you’d lost roughly 40% of the blood in your body…all through your nose, ears, and mouth. And your skin was as white as that sheet you’re under, all except for the pustules, that is. You may have noticed they’ve left some minor discoloration.”
Father Johnstone can somewhat recall the episode: the sudden burst in his nose and the lightheadedness that followed, that feeling of weakness and intense migraine, and then the fading. He faded to that other side where Madeline was waiting for him, just as she said she would.
“Make no mistake, you were very nearly dead,” Dr. Keller says. “I know you hear these TV doctors say that all the time for effect—but sure as shit, you were dying right i
n front of me. You had only minutes to spare,” he explains. “Luckily, you got in when you did and we were able to replace the blood you lost.”
“I appreciate that, David. I surely do,” Father Johnstone says. “But what does any of that have to do with the sermon?”
“I’ll say it again: you were gushing blood and breaking out in pus boils right in front of your congregation,” Dr. Keller says. “You almost died. The people out there…they’re saying you’re not sick. They’re saying God punished you for what you said in the church.”
“What is it that I supposedly said in the church, David?” Father Johnstone snaps. “Because I think I’d remember if I did something differently.”
Just as soon as he says this though, the pastor doubts himself. After all, he’s been forgetting quite a bit over the past week and a half, blacking out and appearing places not knowing how he got there. Forgetting conversations. Forgetting extended periods of time.
“They’re saying you questioned God,” Dr. Keller reveals. “They’re saying that you did the reading—just as you’ve always done, I imagine, but afterwards, you proceeded to openly question the miracle.”
“Wait…I questioned it?” Father Johnstone asks, sitting up proper in the hospital bed. “How would I even do that? I’ve never done that.”
Dr. Keller tells the pastor, “You refuted it. People are saying that for the better part of an hour, you walked around the church asking members or your congregation to scientifically explain how Christ could multiply bread and fish. ‘Sorcery,’ I believe, is the term you used to describe it. That’s what they tell me, anyway.”
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 6