Good Sex, Great Prayers

by Brandon Tietz

  It’s the first time the pastor has seen Madeline since the Pratt bake-off. He was bleeding and breaking out in a fever, falling apart in the arms of Jeremiah Will, and then Madeline emerged from the crowd, squatted down and spoke into his ear: “See you on the other side, Johnstone.” He never determined whether that was real or imagined, but it felt real enough. Unlike all those excursions on the silk bed where she does wonderful and terrible things to him, that version of Madeline seemed authentic.

  “How’d you get in here?” Father Johnstone asks.

  “Back door,” she says.

  “Back door’s locked.” The past 24 hours have been a drunken blur, but he specifically remembers securing all the entrances of the house, even the windows. “How’d you get in?” he asks again, firmer this time.

  “Relax, Johnstone,” Madeline says. She gives Mary another scratch behind the ear before placing her on the nearby arm of the couch. Normally, after going so long without seeing her master, Mary would be yipping and jumping all over the pastor in excitement, but not this time. She sits on the arm of the couch, remaining loyally by the side of Madeline.

  “Why are you in my house?” the pastor asks, anger edging back into his tone.

  “Because you’re right,” Madeline says, pacing slowly across the room. She flashes the campfire smile and warm eyes, and says, “This town plans on hurting you.”

  “And you’re here to what—warn me?” he asks.

  “No,” she says. “I’m here to make sure you don’t leave.”

  On the Road with Billy Burke, Truck

  Stop Preacher

  “Times have changed. As our prayer and faith evolve, so too does the Devil. We cannot rewrite the Good Book; we cannot recite it and remain ignorant to the fact that we live in a different era. We’ve got Internet pornography and female NASCAR drivers. We’ve got pharmaceutical companies hawking us pecker pills. We’ve got gays getting married for the first time; we’ve got straights getting married for the sixth or seventh time. Holy union don’t mean shit anymore. We celebrate sin. In San Francisco, I saw two bull dykes rubbing their hair pies together on a parade float…and the city applauded. Last night in my motel room, I watched some fat son of a bitch try to eat three pounds of sandwich while a crowd cheered him on. The Good Book never prepared us for that—any of that. We can judge, we can cast stones, but they ain’t never going away. Evil evolves. Disease evolves. In this day and age, the Devil swoops in with his cock covered in herpes and warts, dripping with gonorrhea and AIDS juice, and fucks our women over a nightclub urinal while MTV films it. The Devil is everywhere…taking many forms. We need to adapt, gentlemen, and ol’ Billy Burke here is gonna help you do it.”

  The Box & the Bee

  Flowers surround Mrs. Tiller: yellow roses, white orchids, a few clumsy bouquets of daffodils tied off in yarn, more than likely assembled by the Sunday school children at the request of doting mothers. Balloons flirt with the ceiling, a few of the cheap rubber variety that say ‘Get Well Soon’ surrounded by high-end foil bumblebees exclaiming ‘Bee Well!’ and inflated chimps dressed as doctors, hovering and moving with the timed shifts in air-conditioning. Looking around this space, there’s no question that Mrs. Tiller is a woman beloved by this town, and it’s here that Father Johnstone recalls his own recent stay in the hospital. Yet, not a single card or flower came. Not one visitor. When Pratt turned, it did so in a sense that was not only swift but absolute.

  “I’m still waiting on Al to come visit,” Mrs. Tiller says, gingerly eating vanilla pudding with a plastic spoon. Her fingers are bone-thin, allowing her wedding ring to rotate with the weight of the stone. She’s lost over thirty pounds since her husband’s funeral, usually citing how she ‘forgets to eat’ or that she’s ‘still learning how to cook for one.’ Flimsy excuses, but no one is going to challenge them. It’s like that with widows: they either starve themselves skinny or pack on a bunch of weight in their attempts to smother their depression with comfort food. Mrs. Tiller had always been one of the former, up until recently.

  Father Johnstone braves a smile at Mrs. Tiller, telling her, “I’m sure Al would be here right now if he could.” He believes this to be true, but the mere indication that her husband is still alive inspires another wave of guilt to crest through the pastor’s neck.

  “He’ll be by soon enough,” Mrs. Tiller says, nodding confidently. She carves the bottom edges of the pudding cup with the spoon, placing it in her mouth and letting her lips drag over the curvature of the surface. “But you’re here, Father,” she says, pointing the flatware at the pastor and smiling at her consolation prize. “And I’m glad for that.”

  “Of course, Magda,” he says. “In fact, I should have been here sooner.”

  “Oh, phooey,” Mrs. Tiller waves him off. “You may be the busiest man in Pratt leading the flock all by your lonesome. I’m thankful you came by at all.”

  She remembers none of it, the pastor thinks. It’s like it never happened.

  Dr. Keller’s official diagnosis, although a bit whiskey-soaked, was that Mrs. Tiller ‘wasn’t clicking right.’ Even in laymen’s terms, the pastor isn’t sure what he meant by that, but he assumes it’s a form of trauma that was brought on by the incident in the church. Clearly, her memory has been compromised, and Father Johnstone can’t help but feel responsible for that. He also can’t help feeling a bit relieved, as well. As Madeline said, the town plans on hurting him, and Mrs. Tiller could be the difference between the light taunting he’s encountered so far and unmitigated violence.

  “I’m sorry this happened to you, Magda,” the pastor says. It’s not the broad sympathy one usually shows during unfortunate times, nor a sentiment born out of common courtesy. Father Johnstone’s apology is direct—he knows he’s to blame, but it’s not even a dent in the amount of penance he feels Mrs. Tiller is entitled to.

  “It’s fine,” she says, giving the pastor’s hand a little pat. “It’s not your fault.”

  And for a moment, Father Johnstone is tempted to correct her. His inability to control the lust and the Devil in his blood is what led her to this place, and the Lord wants Father Johnstone to confess these sins. It would serve as an act of contrition for his misdeeds, but cowardice prevails. The last thing he wants is to cause Mrs. Tiller any more suffering, even if that means damning his own soul. She’s endured enough, and Father Johnstone won’t be around much longer anyway. He’s already made the decision to retire his position as leader of the flock and depart the town of Pratt—not only for his own safety, but the safety of others. He can’t have another Magda Tiller hanging over his head; he won’t allow it. And so most of last evening was spent packing and drinking strong black coffee, sobering up and preparing to make amends. Despite being instructed otherwise, he had to see Mrs. Tiller one last time.

  “Pretty flowers,” a familiar voice says from behind Father Johnstone. It’s Madeline Paige, standing in the doorway with an arm clipped to the doorjamb, almost as if she means to block the pastor from running out of the room. She gives him a little smirk, saying, “No card, Johnstone? How inconsiderate.”

  “Oh Maddy, don’t tease,” Mrs. Tiller says mirthfully. “I was just telling him how I’m glad he even came by at all.”

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to let this one off the hook, Mags. He ain’t all snips, snails, and puppy dog tails like everyone thinks,” Madeline says, hint of sarcasm in her voice. “Perhaps an apology is in order?”

  Father Johnstone shoots Madeline a look, curious as to how the two of them came to be acquainted, especially in light of Mrs. Tiller’s faulty memory. She doesn’t recall the passing of her husband, and yet, she and Madeline seem to have a rapport reserved for old friends. It doesn’t add up.

  “No, she’s right,” the pastor says. He turns to Mrs. Tiller, telling her, “I should have brought something.”

  “Oh, you’re too kind,” Mrs. Tiller says, “the both of you.”

  Madeline takes a few paces into the room, the heels of he
r boots clicking against the linoleum, she sidles the pastor. Pastry fills the air. Father Johnstone can smell caramel and robust chocolate cutting through the orchids, roses, and pansies of the room. Warm sugars permeate the space, getting stronger as Madeline digs around in her leather satchel. She produces a small take-out box composed of lavender heavyweight paper, and places it on the makeshift counter in front of Mrs. Tiller. It sits between the empty pudding cup and spoon, fuming sweetly and radiating heat.

  Madeline throws a mischievous grin at the pastor, saying, “At least one of us came prepared today.” And as Mrs. Tiller sits up in the hospital bed, beaming at the elegant box before her in wonder, that’s when Father Johnstone feels something small and dry press into the palm of his hand. Madeline steps in front of him, concealing the exchange and says, “I made it extra special for you, Mags,” and Mrs. Tiller begins to pry the tabs of the box open with an expectant smile.

  “Awww, Maddy, how thoughtful,” Mrs. Tiller says. “It smells wonderful,” but something about that box and its contents don’t seem right to the pastor. Taking into account all his recent encounters (both real and imagined) with Madeline Paige, Father Johnstone has become wary of her. The trust they shared has been compromised. Even the seemingly innocent cupcake Mrs. Tiller is holding seems to harbor some threat, but before the pastor can voice his concerns, Madeline looks over her shoulder, very clearly mouthing the word: read.

  He looks at his hand, to the small strip of white paper that Madeline snuck him moments ago as Mrs. Tiller marvels at the cupcake: a decadent mocha, caramel, and (possibly?) tree bark. Father Johnstone smells something earthy, like dirt or old firewood mingling with the sugars and flour. Then he brings the strip of paper up to his face, using Madeline’s body as cover, and in cursive scrawl, it reads: She won’t remember if you let her eat it.

  Mrs. Tiller takes the first bite of the cupcake, exclaiming though pastry and frosting, “Mmm! Mmm, swo gwood!” She smiles, brown icing streaking the edges of her lips, and Mrs. Tiller takes another bite before her current mouthful is even swallowed. Pink filling oozes from the middle of the dessert, leaking out into the metal baking liner. It’s flecked with green and brown granules. Father Johnstone knows he should say something, knows he should stop her from eating all of it, but he’s stifled. Not by cowardice, though. By curiosity.

  After the second bite is swallowed, Mrs. Tiller’s smalltown generosity kicks in, offering the pastor the remaining chunk. “It’s really good, Father. You should try this.”

  Madeline immediately swings her hand back, fingers locking over the pastor’s crotch and threatening to squeeze. “This one is allergic to vanilla extract, unfortunately,” she lies, pouting out her bottom lip in a teasing fashion. She purses her lips at the pastor, very slowly letting her fingers come away as Mrs. Tiller wolfs down the last bite of the dessert. Madeline mouths the words: watch this.

  Father Johnstone stands behind Madeline, waiting for some horrible effect to manifest and preparing to feel guilty again. If Mrs. Tiller drops dead or becomes violently sick, the pastor’s inaction will be to blame. And yet he can’t help wanting to watch, wanting to see what happens next.

  “Ooh, I think I ate that too fast,” Mrs. Tiller says. Her cheeks flush and she squirms a bit in the hospital bed, a hand rising up to her temple. Fingers massage in a circular motion, slow and clockwise, and now Father Johnstone is deeply regretting not intervening.

  She’s going to die, he thinks. Right here, right now.

  Madeline holds up a finger, motioning for him to wait. Have patience. Don’t move or panic or try to help her, it seems to indicate. “Just breathe, Mags,” she says, taking a small step away from the bed. “Breathe,” she repeats, soothingly, and Mrs. Tiller follows the order, closing her eyes as if in a trance. She hunches over so far her nose practically touches the makeshift counter in front of her, silent. Still and peaceful, almost sleeping, and that’s when Madeline tells the pastor to pick out some flowers.

  “Grab those orchids,” she says, motioning to a bouquet just behind him. “Quick, before she comes out of it.”

  Father Johnstone doesn’t question her this time, thinking a handle of flowers to be harmless enough. He steals them from the decorative vase, asking Madeline, “What did you do to her?”

  “You’ll see,” she says.

  The two of them stand silently, waiting for Mrs. Tiller to regain herself. Madeline checks her watch, taking a step towards the bed in expectation. A few seconds pass before Mrs. Tiller’s head twitches and then slowly starts to tilt upwards. She bends at the waist until she’s upright again, blinking with a sluggish look in her eye, as if awakened from a very deep sleep. Mrs. Tiller turns to Madeline and Father Johnstone, taking in the two of them standing next to her hospital bed.

  “What is your name?” Madeline asks.

  “Magda Elizabeth Tiller,” she says in a fixed, even tone. “Maiden name: Bertrand.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixty-three years, four months, nineteen days,” she answers.

  “And where are you from, Magda?”

  “From the town of Pratt,” she says. Again, fixed and cold. “I’ve lived here all my life.”

  “Do you like it here in Pratt?”

  “No,” Magda says.

  “Why’s that?” Madeline asks.

  “Because the town is small and dirty,” she says. “Because the people are judgmental gossipmongers. Everyone is in everyone else’s business. There are too many degenerates, hicks, and trailer trash. Pratt is a town in which you’re considered a success only when you manage to leave it.”

  Father Johnstone hears this, and although it’s a bit disconcerting to witness someone verbalize it so bluntly, he can’t help but agree with her answer. This is the opinion that most have of the town, even if it’s only shared in drunken whispers amongst close friends. People long to escape, yearning for the bright lights of big cities, the locales Danger Durphy often visited but never seized for himself. Pratt was his home, but it’s also a dirt-speck on the map that no one would miss.

  Madeline presses on, asking, “Why haven’t you left Pratt?”

  “Because I’m like everyone else in this town,” Magda says. “I’m afraid of change.”

  “And what if I told you change was coming here?” Madeline asks, leaning in slightly. “What if that change was something terrible?”

  “The town would reject it,” she says. “Pratt does not welcome change or abnormality or outsiders.”

  Father Johnstone finds himself nodding his head in agreement, recalling what an ‘abnormality’ Mason Hollis was and how the town responded to that. There was also a colored man some years back who came looking for work at the grain plant; he was ran out in a matter of days.

  “Who was the last outsider to come to Pratt?” Madeline asks.

  Madga raises an arm to point, formally identifying the answer. She says, “You, Madeline Paige.”

  “And why was I not rejected?” she challenges.

  “Because you tricked everyone,” Madga says, vague and cold. “People are saying all the time how crafty that Maddy Paige is.”

  At this point, Madeline turns away from Mrs. Tiller, leaning her mouth towards the pastor’s ear. He’s stock still, idly clutching the bouquet of orchids that Madeline instructed him to grab. She whispers, “Now I’m really going to show you something.”

  Madeline turns back to Mrs. Tiller, ushering the pastor forward a bit by the small of his back. She asks, “Madga, who is this?”

  “That’s Father Johnstone,” she says flatly.

  “And what is Father Johnstone holding?” Madeline asks.

  “Six white orchids that were delivered yesterday by Mrs. Parks,” she says.

  Madeline snaps her fingers at Mrs. Tiller’s face. She blinks once, slowly, eyes glazing over. Madeline tells her, “No, Father Johnstone brought you the orchids. Try again. What is Father Johnstone holding?”

  “Six white orchids,” Magda says, a tad
slower than she’s been speaking. “Father Johnstone…he brought them.”

  Out the side of her mouth, Madeline says, “Hand her the flowers,” and Father Johnstone extends his arm out, placing them in the hands of Mrs. Tiller. She doesn’t smile or react or smell them.

  “What do you say, Magda?”

  “Thank you, Father Johnstone,” Mrs. Tiller says, dropping her chin ever so slightly in acknowledgment.

  “When’s the last time you saw Father Johnstone?” Madeline asks.

  “Two days ago in the First Church of Pratt,” she says.

  “And what was he doing?”

  Father Johnstone’s stomach drops. He knows what’s coming next.

  “He was touching himself in a way that would be considered ‘impure’,” Mrs. Tiller says.

  “Masturbating?” Madeline insists.

  “Yes.” The answer comes out strained. Even in this state, Mrs. Tiller is resistant to lewdness.

  “And what happened when you saw that?” Madeline asks.

  “I fainted from shock,” Mrs. Tiller says.

  Madeline snaps her fingers in front of her face again, saying, “Maybe you didn’t faint from shock.”

  Mrs. Tiller’s eyes blink slowly again. She pauses; her thoughts reorganize. “Yes,” she says. “Maybe I didn’t faint from shock.”

  “In fact, I think you imagined Father Johnstone doing that,” Madeline says. “I think you passed out from the heat.”

  “It’s very hot in that church,” Mrs. Tiller says, even and cold. Not one shred of emotion or voice inflection. She bends to Madeline’s will. “The heat makes you see funny things,” she says. “If I saw anything out of the ordinary, I probably imagined it and should keep it to myself.”

  “Because we don’t like gossip and rumors, do we?”

  “We do not, Madeline Paige.”

  “So if anyone asks, you passed out from the heat, right, Mags?”