Her official affiliation with the First Church of Pratt began after her husband died three years ago, and it was more a product of busying idle hands than doing the Lord’s work. Mrs. Tiller has always been a regular at the Sunday service and a fixture in the community, both in the church and the town at large, but her husband’s passing seemed to inspire a sense of insatiable diligence that her normal routine couldn’t fulfill. If she wasn’t involved in a project, if there was no task at hand or activity to partake in, Mrs. Tiller feared the grief would overcome her.
“Staying occupied helps me keep my head right,” she said to the pastor. “And crying never did no good for anyone, so why bother with it?”
Mrs. Tiller used her sewing circles and church projects the same way Father Johnstone used the restoration of the Dodge Challenger: to combat her despondency and solitude. And it was odd the way folks couldn’t see what she was doing. On the surface she was carrying on like normal, taking part in baking contests and volunteering for the church. Like clockwork, she’d be at Lana’s every Tuesday getting her hair done and dishing gossip with a wicked smile. She’d shop at the market and mingle, waving off condolences in a ‘these things happen’ type of fashion.
Women all around Pratt were saying, “I sure as hell hope I’m that strong when my man passes,” and Lord as their witness, they were a little envious of her austerity. Father Johnstone was the only one that knew the truth: Mrs. Tiller, despite all her normal behavior, was falling apart. She could barely sleep at night as those were moments in which there were no tasks or light conversations to keep her husband’s memory at bay. Just her and a half-cold bed. That’s right around when she offered her services as the church bookkeeper and event planner.
“You don’t even have to pay me,” she said. “You’d actually be doing me the favor here.”
Knowing what the pastor knows of combating solitude, he accepted Mrs. Tiller’s offer, and over the course of three years there’s never once been an error with the books. Granted, the numbers aren’t exactly as complex as other businesses here in Pratt, but Father Johnstone is grateful that he no longer has to toil over these himself. He’s never been particularly fond of mathematics anyway, and Mrs. Tiller seems to find a certain joy in the process checking and re-checking figures against longhand calculations. This was her coping mechanism, and if doing the church’s taxes and planning events keeps her sane, the pastor wasn’t going to stand in the way of that.
Of course, there were those moments when Father Johnstone felt like he was taking advantage of the situation, openly displaying his malfeasance in the presence of Mrs. Tiller pining over the books. She’d always point her finger at him and say, “Preacher, you get those sad puppy eyes off of me and go work on your sermon. Flock ain’t gonna lead itself now,” and then she’d wave her hand at him palm-down, shooing him away like a stray mutt.
It took about a year before the pastor stopped having spells of remorse, after he finally came to understand that the work made Mrs. Tiller happy. She was doing a job that needed to be done, and Lord as his witness, she did it well. The numbers were shipshape and event planning had never gone smoother now that there were two people at the helm. Her behind-the-scenes efforts allowed the pastor to lead the flock better than he ever had, and considering what a bright woman Mrs. Tiller has always demonstrated herself to be, the report Dr. Keller gives regarding her mental health comes off slighty fictional.
“Physically she’s fine…little bump on the head and a bruised arm,” the doctor says. “But mentally she ain’t what she once was. Things aren’t clicking like they should be.”
It’s Friday evening, the day after Mrs. Tiller’s episode at the First Church of Pratt, and the two men are discussing her current condition over warm whiskey in Father Johnstone’s kitchen. The pastor has never been much of a drinker, limiting himself to no more than one or two per sitting, and only in social situations: cook-outs or the occasional tailgate party. You’d never find the pastor sitting alone at a bar or drinking in an attempt to ‘get hammered,’ as some say. Booze becomes the Devil’s drink when taken in excess, and so the pastor has always made an effort to indulge in moderation. This is how he used to operate, anyway. Father Johnstone has been drinking since yesterday afternoon.
“Never knew you hit the sauce so hard,” Dr. Keller says, looking—diagnosing the pastor’s level of sobriety. “You okay?”
Since witnessing Mrs. Tiller faint in the church, the pastor has taken to the more rudimentary methods of numbing unwanted emotions. Not only did he befoul the Lord’s house, but he hurt a person he cares very deeply for. His inability to control his lust endangered someone, and no amount of praying or repenting can change that. The guilt will remain, but that’s not going to stop him from muting it.
“Still having trouble sleeping,” the pastor says, slurring a bit.
“Just don’t mix that with any of the medication I gave you,” Dr. Keller says. “And not that I need to say it but I’m going to say it anyway—don’t drive,” he adds, taking a sip of the whiskey.
“Didn’t plan on it,” Father Johnstone says.
“Hmm, well, there’s quite a bit that isn’t going to plan these days,” the doctor says. “I think you’d know that better than anyone.”
Father Johnstone polishes off the last of his whiskey and immediately pours himself another, remarking, “My blood?” He drinks, taste buds barely registering the harshness of the liquor. “Or how this town has turned on me?” Aggression edges into his tone—not from the mood swings, though. From liquor. ‘A mean drunk,’ the barflies of Pratt call it, but better anger than guilt, the pastor thinks. He’d rather feel mad at the world than ashamed over one person.
“I told you what was waiting out there for you, didn’t I?” Dr. Keller says. “Didn’t I tell you it wasn’t going to be the same? You know just as well as I do how Pratt gets when it’s faced with something it doesn’t understand.”
Dr. Keller explains this in a calm tone, reminding the pastor as opposed to arguing with him. It’s his way of saying, ‘It’s not your fault,’ and to a degree, he’s right. People in this town have a tendency to blow things out of proportion at the behest of their own boredom or self-loathing. It’s always been that way.
“I just never thought it’d be me, David,” the pastor says. “And now everyone’s saying I put Magda in the hospital…like I did something to her.”
“Did you do something to her?” Dr. Keller asks.
“Yeah, David,” Father Johnstone snickers drunkly. “She caught me defiling myself in the church and passed out from the shock.”
The doctor gives a depraved smirk, believing it to be a joke. “Let’s not get blue, Father.”
Refuting the truth isn’t something the pastor is concerned with. Nobody knows what really happened in the church besides himself and Mrs. Tiller, and it appears she can’t recollect what she saw, convenient as that may be. This brings him back, once again, to that fork in the road in which he tries to justify his recent transgressions. The Devil could very well still be in his blood: feeding him nightmares, compelling him to lust. The Devil makes him drink and shirk his obligations to the Lord and the flock and Mrs. Tiller. Or maybe he’s sick in a way he doesn’t understand and Dr. Keller has yet to diagnose, which isn’t exactly a comfort. To be medically unwell sounds only slightly better than being spiritually contaminated, but just as threatening. It’s the first time Father Johnstone has ever truly feared for both his body and mortal soul. His ultimate end could stem from the evil within or an external source, more than likely a misplaced tribute of violence in the name of Mrs. Tiller. Pratt can be equally cruel as it is kind, and being a man of the cloth doesn’t make one exempt from public retribution. Father Johnstone knows this. Not first-hand, but he’s seen it. And his exile wouldn’t be the first time someone was ran out of town due to low public opinion.
“You remember Mason?” Father Johnstone asks. He takes another pull of whiskey and his blood goes cold. “Y
ou remember…what he did to that girl?”
“I remember stories,” Dr. Keller says.
“And you remember what they did to him, right?” the pastor asks.
It’s a fair question. The answer, however, is dependent on who you believe. People in Pratt talk, and sometimes they alter details or add new sections entirely to enhance the story. Maybe this is the town’s way of giving forewarning, that you don’t touch little girls or make them do things the Lord didn’t intend, and Mason certainly seemed guilty of that. They found an old cigar box full of pictures stashed away in his closet, and that was all the proof anyone needed. So over the many days that followed, people heard things: that he was taken out to the fields and stuck with pitchforks or hung from one of the big oak trees out by Larpe’s Pond. Another version involved Travis Durphy and the sheriff holding Mason down while Tuck Graybel beat the everlovin’ shit out of him, and when it looked like Mason couldn’t bleed or breathe or move anymore, that moment just before slipping to full black, one of the men poured a BBQ grill of glowing red coals over Mason’s body. ‘Couldn’t even scream he was so broken,’ they said. But there were so many versions of this particular revenge that it almost seemed like a game of who could make it sound the worst: a horror story where men torture the monster. Sometimes Mason merely got the shit kicked out of him; other times he was castrated and forced to eat his own genitalia (Lord, let that be a lie!). Pratt took a sick sort of joy in its own wrath, and the pastor all but avoided the subject in his sermons. Although some of the flock would disagree, Father Johnstone has never viewed the Lord as a vengeful presence, despite how some people ‘get what’s coming to them,’ as they say. He’d witnessed exactly what this town was capable of, though, and that put a deep-seeded fear in his blood. Pratt could hurt you if it wanted to. It could make you disappear.
Mason Hollis was never seen again, corpse or otherwise. There was no body, and therefore, no funeral for him (as if anyone would show other than to spit on his grave). No Last Will & Testament. His home defaulted over to the bank and most of his property was auctioned off at a garage sale. Leftover personal items such as his high-school football trophies and family photographs were tossed in an old leaf-burning barrel, soaked in gasoline and torched to the tune of drunken cackles. Men spent days combing his house, making sure there wasn’t one iota of Mason Hollis or his misdeeds to haunt the town. Even the cigar box pictures, which most agreed were considered official police evidence, got tossed to the flames. Little Betty Graybel’s nude body was visible for only a few seconds before it curled and bubbled to ash. No one knows if she remembers what Mason did to her, but no one plans on asking, either.
During those times, Father Johnstone remembers people praying for two specific things: that little Betty Graybel block out anything that was done to her, and that Mason Hollis spend an eternity burning in hell. The latter of those two went on for a stretch, fueled mostly by malice.
“And so now you’re wondering when your time will come, Father?” Dr. Keller asks. “Are you really having trouble sleeping, or are you keeping an eye out for the men with torches and pitchforks on the horizon?”
“Perhaps I should be,” the pastor says. “When it comes right down to it, what’s to stop them from treating me like another Mason Hollis?”
“Your faith, I thought,” Dr. Keller says, but not in a way that’s patronizing. He can sense the pastor has lost his way, and even though he’s never been a member of the flock himself, he realizes that people depend on Father Johnstone for guidance. He must put down the bottle and get back to being the shepherd.
“I’m trying,” the pastor says, picking up the glass of whiskey once again. He holds it a moment, about six inches over the kitchen table before setting it back down. The pastor nudges the glass away, repeating, “I’m trying.”
“I got a woman in my hospital that’s out of her mind, and then I got you here…can’t even begin to explain what’s wrong with you,” Dr. Keller shakes his head. He nervously rubs his chin and says, “I got people giving me the stink-eye, too, preacher. They don’t take ‘inconclusive’ as an answer. To them, that means you’re incompetent. Got half the damn bingo club talking about how we need to hire on a new doctor, so don’t think you’re the only one that’s catching hell over this.”
The pillars of Pratt have always been under a certain amount of scrutiny that other folks aren’t. Grain plant workers and farmers screw up all the time, but those are always regarded as blips in the gossip chain. The law and the Lord and medical authority—these pillars of Pratt as certain figures refer to them—one error is all it takes before someone is calling for a new sheriff or district attorney. Rumors of an affair with a young waitress nearly got the mayor yanked from office, and rumors was all it ever turned out to be. Father Johnstone is dealing with a bit more than minced words and edited information. The Devil inhabits his blood, hurting him and those around him. Souring the town. Inspiring hate and public backlash. Dr. Keller may think he’s overreacting, but Pratt isn’t afraid to take the law into its own hands if it’s compelled to. And desecrating a church is something they’d find quite compelling. Different than what Mason Hollis did, of course, but perhaps just as loathsome in their eyes.
“Can you tell me anything more about what happened to Mrs. Tiller yesterday?” the doctor asks. “Was she acting strange? Did she say anything out of character?”
“You’re reaching now,” Father Johnstone determines.
“Indeed, I am,” Dr. Keller says. “Pratt demands an explanation, and given the circumstances, you should want to figure this out just as much as I do.”
“What’s wrong with her?” the pastor asks, immediately realizing the phrasing is redundant. “I mean, her symptoms. You said she wasn’t clicking right?”
“Her memory is impaired. She thinks her husband is still alive,” he says. The doctor pauses for a moment, allowing that bit of information to sink in. Technically, this isn’t something he should be revealing to the pastor, however, his need for information trumps his usual practice of confidentiality.
Father Johnstone tilts his head down, staring at the flecked patterns of the table and feeling his guilt swell again. His neck tingles as sobriety overwhelms him, flushing the numbness from his system and bringing him back to reality. He sighs, admitting, “That is…unfortunate.” He says, “I’ll pray for her.”
“I’d like you to come to the hospital tomorrow,” Dr. Keller says.
“For more tests?” the pastor asks.
“No,” the doctor shakes his head. “To see Magda. I’m hoping it’ll jog her memory. It’s slim but it’s worth a shot. It also might quell some of the rumors going around about you if you made an appearance.”
“Me going to the hospital won’t stop that,” Father Johnstone says, unconvinced.
“Maybe not, but you’re holed up in your house, drinking and looking like shit. You haven’t even bothered to shave or shower or pick up your dog,” Dr. Keller says. “These are the behaviors of a guilty man.”
He assumes a standing position, gesturing that he’ll be on his way, and Father Johnstone follows in suit to walk him to the door. The pastor is also curious as to whether or not people are lingering outside of his home. News has already spread all over town about Mrs. Tiller’s incident in the church, and so the local youth may already be in the pre-execution stages of their vandalism: purchasing eggs and toilet paper, or procuring spray paint from their fathers’ garages. The tomatoes and rocks chucked at him in the street were only the beginning. Formal warning shots carried out in haste.
“I do hope you’ll consider stopping by the hospital tomorrow,” Dr. Keller says, standing on the porch’s worn ‘welcome’ mat. The white lettering of ‘God Bless This Home’ has deformed over to a dirt brown, edges fraying. The doctor braves a smile at the pastor, shaking his hand and telling him, “Remember: no meds.”
Father Johnstone concurs, assuring he’ll do no such thing with a promising nod, and the doctor begins his
trek into the night. At the curb he trails left, either going home to pay his wife a visit or back to the hospital. Another long night of poring over blood samples and lab reports, pertaining to both to the pastor and a regressed version of Mrs. Tiller. Father Johnstone didn’t have the heart to ask Dr. Keller if he broke the news to her yet about her husband. Maybe he’s hoping she’ll regain her memory and he won’t have to, although that puts the pastor right back in the frying pan. He doesn’t doubt in the least that his actions were the source of her trauma. Mrs. Tiller will either remain mentally unwell for the definite future or she’ll snap out of it, enabling her to expose the truth. Either way, his actions will catch up with him, and this inspires the first thoughts he’s ever had about leaving town.
He’s seen Pratt destroy men who wore out their welcome before, and the last thing this town needs is another Mason Hollis. If his own exile would circumvent another spell of wrath, then for the sake of the people and the Lord, Father Johnstone will pack up and sanction a quiet exit. No long farewells. Swift action must be taken before he harms anyone else, before the disease can spread further than it already has. If he can’t remove the Devil from his blood, the least he can do is remove himself from Pratt before more suffering occurs. No one is safe.
Even now, the ashen and slate-toned flurry of moths that would normally be fluttering about his porch lamp are absent. They lie underneath the yellow cone of light on the cement stoop, barely flexing their wings. Dying slowly, like they’ve been sprayed by pesticides. It’s yet another odd occurrence in a series of them, but instead of dwelling on dead bugs, Father Johnstone backs into his home and shuts the door behind him.
He turns to the living room and Madeline Paige is standing before him. Perched on one of her arms is Mary, sitting saddle-style. Madeline gives her an affectionate scratch on her ear, clicking her tongue and cooing, “Such a good girl you got here, Johnstone.”
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 9