“Yes,” Mrs. Tiller says, nodding slightly.
“And what are you going to say about Father Johnstone if anyone asks?”
“That he’s a good man and that he brought me these wonderful flowers,” she says. “Father Johnstone was the only person around when I passed out and bumped my head. He saved me.”
Oddly enough, Mrs. Tiller stresses that one word, the word ‘save.’
“That sounds good,” Madeline says. “I think your husband is on his way to see you. Would that make you happy?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Tiller says. “That would make me happy. I miss Al.”
“Then why don’t you wait here for Al,” Madeline suggests. “And we’ll come back tomorrow to check up on you.”
“I’ll wait for Al,” Mrs. Tiller says, the flatness leaving her voice. She almost sounds excited.
“Goodbye, then,” Madeline says, retrieving the lavender take-out box from the makeshift counter in front of Mrs. Tiller. She refolds the tabs and stows it in her leather satchel, telling the pastor, “Say bye, Johnstone,” as if he shouldn’t have to be reminded to do this.
“Uh…bye, Magda,” he says, staring at Mrs. Tiller, attempting to figure out what Madeline did to her, if it’ll ever wear off. She blinks and gives a little tilt of her chin again, letting her back meet the mattress of the hospital bed. Mrs. Tiller holds the orchids to her chest, eyes fixated on the ceiling, and that’s when Father Johnstone feels himself being tugged out of the room. They’re leaving her. They’re leaving her alone in that room waiting for a husband that will never come, and the guilt tries to flush back, but it’s overtaken by the pastor’s concern for Mrs. Tiller.
“Don’t worry,” Madeline says, speed-walking down the hospital corridor with Father Johnstone in tow. “It only looks bad because you’ve never seen it before. She’ll be fine.”
“What did you do to—”
“No questions,” Madeline cuts the pastor off. “Not right now. I know you’ve got a million of them but they’ll have to wait.”
She’s right, of course. What the pastor just witnessed has opened up a floodgate of queries. In all his years, Father Johnstone has never seen anything like that, in Pratt or otherwise. The effects were almost drug-like, although not in any way he’s heard of or read about. This wasn’t your average backyard skunkweed or old man Clevenger’s bathtub moonshine. Whatever was in that dessert, it anesthetized Mrs. Tiller in such a way that it left her reality open to suggestion, allowing fact to become fiction and vice versa. She would have believed anything, and that’s when Father Johnstone remembers that he’s been eating cookies and cobblers at the behest of Madeline Paige for weeks.
At the hospital exit doors, she says, “Keep holding my hand. Stay close.”
Father Johnstone does so, adjusting his grip so that their fingers are interlocked even tighter, palm to palm, and Madeline proceeds out of the building with the pastor by her side. They head north on Statham Street, nearing Pratt’s market square with all the fruit and veggies and other various projectiles. He can see people in the distance, pausing their shopping to get a look at the two of them, and the pastor begins to tense up. His footsteps slow, but Madeline gives him an encouraging little tug on the arm, telling him again, “Stay close.”
She says, “I’m not mad you snuck off to the hospital, by the way. You pastors are anything if not predictable.”
Last night, when Madeline paid an unexpected visit to the pastor’s home, she already knew what he was planning. She could tell that he was going to run away, escape Pratt. It would have been so easy to pack up a couple of suitcases, put Mary in the passenger seat, and then drive off in the Challenger. A few hundred miles later, Father Johnstone would have arrived in another small town, maybe somewhere in the south where it stays warm all year. Places like that all over in Texas and New Mexico. Although you never hear much about them, there’s thousands of little dirtball towns just like Pratt, and you can be anyone there. You can reinvent yourself.
That’s when Madeline intervened.
She confirmed what Father Johnstone had been fearing all along: that the town has plans for him. For his blasphemy and corruption, he would suffer—maybe even die. It was just as Mrs. Tiller put it: “Pratt does not welcome change or abnormality or outsiders.” The pastor only believed that to a degree, but he wasn’t about to test it. Even a man of the cloth isn’t exempt from the whims of smalltown violence, and all cowardice aside, he didn’t want to become another Mason Hollis. Another campfire tale. Madeline, however, had no intention of assisting the pastor’s exit.
“I’m here to make sure you don’t leave,” she said, explaining to the pastor that exiling himself would only make things worse. His plan would backfire. “And the flock must have a leader,” she told him. Father Johnstone was instructed to stay in his house and not leave (no matter what), but he had to see Mrs. Tiller. He had to make amends.
Arriving in the market square with Madeline clutching the pastor’s hand, she says, “I just showed you something not very many people get to see, so naturally, I know you’re wanting an explanation.”
Navigating the market, the faces are familiar: Mr. and Mrs. Bratten, the McCloy children, Mrs. Rawlings and her husband, who is currently unloading cider from his pickup truck. The pastor sees the Fairfaxes, shopping like they don’t even know each other. By the apple display, Mrs. Yates is inspecting fruit for blemishes while keeping an eye on the pastor and Madeline. The faces are routine, but they’ve never looked at him like this before. Like an enemy, a betrayer of their trust, and it’s all the more reason to keep up pace with Madeline as they pass by the peach and plum crates, currently selling at two for dollar according to the chalkboard sign.
“Drugs,” Father Johnstone says to Madeline. “You drugged Mrs. Tiller.”
She shakes her head, still pulling the pastor along. Madeline says, “Not even close, Johnstone. Although that would save me a lot of time,” she snickers. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your answers soon enough.”
Past the honeydew and watermelon crates, and right on by the spice display where Shelby Dunbar is loitering, the pastor and Madeline cut through the final lengths of the market, exiting on the other side unscathed. Father Johnstone feels like he just dodged a potential bullet. He’s tempted to look back at them, to examine their faces for hatred or disapproval, but then Madeline says, “Don’t,” and gives him another yank. “Keep walking.”
The pair hang a right on the corner of 6th and Main, just a few blocks away from Madeline’s house. Father Johnstone can make out the trademark water-blue shingles of her home in the distance, and at the end of the road: a pile of popcorn. The daisy hill. A few bystanders stop reading their newspapers or halt conversations to watch them, marching hand-in-hand, and the pastor is waiting for it. He’s expecting another rock or tomato to come flying his way, but nothing happens after a block, then two blocks. Father Johnstone’s paranoia decreases as they distance themselves from the main population, nearing that serene slice of Pratt known as the daisy hill. Just looking at it brings him peace that no outsider could understand. Besides the church, standing on top of the daisy hill in full bloom is as close to the Lord the pastor can get. It is beyond landmark; it is sacred, a place where one can experience harmony with the world.
Madeline says, “I know it’s tempting for you to want to leave. Believe me, I know. I’ve been on the run for most of my life.”
Hand in hand, they reach the end of the road, stepping onto a warning track of heavy gravel. Plumes of grass become more frequent as they walk, sprouting up between clusters of rocks and hard dirt. The sporadic green shifts into pasture land, safe for barefoot walks and picnics, just at the bottom of the hill.
“Sometimes, Johnstone, when you leave a place, it’s possible it won’t be there when you return,” Madeline says. “Like a sandcastle on a beach. Turn your back for a minute and the ocean washes it away.”
Father Johnstone has never seen the ocean nor has he built a sandca
stle. Unlike Madeline, he’s never been anywhere of note, and he was very much looking forward to changing that with his impromptu road trip. This isn’t to say her metaphor is lost on him, though.
“You speak of Pratt?” the pastor asks.
Madeline pauses, peeking over her shoulder, and says, “Yes.”
“You’re saying if I leave, it won’t be here if I come back?”
“Yes,” she says, turning her attention back to the hill. “I’ll show you.”
She tugs Father Johnstone’s arm again, but less assertively this time. Madeline’s fingers push into his palm suggestively, less brazen, asking him to walk with her on the daisy hill. It’s safe now, and the two of them leisurely move on along the incline, higher until they’re level with the summits of the houses. Then they’re above them, able to see the expanse of this little dirtball town. Weathered residences and buildings no higher than three stories compose the mosaic, mostly shades of brown with off-white trim. Only the church displays any character with its stained glass windows and architectural divergences, and for a brief moment, Father Johnstone almost feels calm again. Then Madeline brings him back.
“According to what you believe, God created the earth in six days,” she says. “Then we came along and invented destruction. We created the hydrogen bomb and nuclear warheads.” Madeline sweeps her arm from left to right, motioning to the town, “It took years to build all this. We could wipe it out in seconds.”
“You’re saying we’re about to be bombed?” Father Johnstone ventures.
“No,” she says. “I’m merely illustrating that it always takes longer to create something than to destroy it.” Madeline squats down, telling the pastor, “And what do we become when we’re destroyed?” Her fingers near the petal of a nearby daisy, one in which a bumblebee is clinging to, unmoving. Even when Madeline’s digits threaten to clip down on its body, it remains still, allowing her to pluck it off the flower and place it in the palm of her hand, never moving. A corpse.
“Our bodies return to the earth,” the pastor says. “As told in Genesis.” He’s not sure if she’s looking for a biblical answer, but that’s the one he’s always given. Through prayer and the Word, almost anything can be solved.
Madeline stands up, bumblebee cupped in her hand. She asks, “And how’s that passage go again?”
The pastor recites: “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”
“Now open your hand,” Madeline says, dumping the bee into the pastor’s palm. It lies on its side, inert.
“It’s dead.”
“Then you won’t mind crushing it for me,” Madeline says.
“Why?”
“Just do it, Johnstone.”
The pastor relents, curling his fingers in and the tips press into the body of the insect. It doesn’t slowly give way to pressure—exoskeleton pushing against organs, but shatters rather. His palm feels dry and powdery, like it’s filled with talcum, and when Father Johnstone straightens his fingers he discovers why.
“If you leave, that’s what your town will become,” Madeline says.
Father Johnstone examines the contents of his hand, gray cinders littered with shards of black and yellow. Ashes scatter when the wind picks up, like a memorial, dusting the earth from whence it came. Ashes and dust. He takes another look at the expanse of Pratt and realizes that Madeline is right, that this could all be destroyed so easily. It could become oblivion, swept under the rug of the earth over time.
No one would even notice.
Las Vegas, NV
Everyone that gets too close to me either dies or takes ill.
Sometimes this is a spiritual degradation. Other times the illness manifests physically, like that of Desiree and her vaginal affliction. In Las Vegas, this would be known as having a ‘dirty cunt,’ which is to say the female is a harbinger of disease and should be avoided, sexually-speaking. This also earned her violent reprisals from her employer—or ‘pimp,’ as they are referred to. Although my endeavor to discover the intricacies of faith surpass the life of a common whore, I can’t deny that Desiree’s passing wasn’t without consequences. Adjustments had to be made. In the face of physical threat, certain adaptations became necessary to prolong the experiment.
“What would you like me to do first, Mr. Thomas?”
Tonight’s girl is named Sasha. She is young. Healthy. Physically healthy, that is. No disease. Not yet. Emotionally, however, she is unbalanced and erratic. I can feel this just being around her, the intangibles. And like every other whore in Las Vegas, she too employs a false identity for the sake of personal safety. I decide to adopt this same deception in the form of Mr. Thomas, a common-looking man with an overtly ordinary name. He is not a ‘hooker-killer’ or ‘diseased fuck.’ He is without reputation, and therefore, ‘below the radar,’ as they say. I’ve since left Caesar’s Palace, checking into the Bellagio under this new identity. Much like these whores move from hotel to hotel for their various sexual encounters, I will exercise this same method.
“Be an obedient little slut and put on the mask,” I tell her.
Sasha lounges on the bed in vinyl underwear, most likely purchased from Frederick’s of Hollywood or a similar erotica outlet. She wears metallic nipple clamps, trapping blood so that brown skin flushes purple. This gives her pleasure, apparently. Gravity arcs the connecting chain between the two clamps just above her belly button. She’s almost entirely nude, all except for the patch of vinyl concealing her genitals and the mask.
“Like this, Mr. Thomas?” she asks in a high whispery tone, as if her vocal chords haven’t fully matured past teenage years. Sasha pulls the mask down over her eyes, modeling it. She wants me to be pleased. She wants to be hurt.
“Yes,” I say. “Exactly like that.”
I’ve momentarily suspended the usage of Christian lingerie for now, opting for an alternate approach that does not require the aid of a clergyman. The mask, for instance, was crafted from the leather and cardboard of a hotel Bible. Candles were stolen from a vigil being held at a nearby church. Bottles of Holy water fill the fridge, although I’m beginning to suspect it may lose its power when removed from the basin, like that of a flower plucked from the earth.
“Would you like to start with the wax?” Sasha asks, looking at no specific point in the room. The Christian eye mask was intentionally crafted without holes, thus, impairing the wearer’s sight while increasing sensation. The body compensates for the lost sense by amplifying another. Basic knowledge where I come from. Understanding the body and bringing it to its full potential was part of our academia. Women like Serena, Desiree, and Sasha are designed to help me further that education.
“My tits first, please.” On the bed, Sasha is propped on her knees and puffing out her chest, not totally unlike the Frigatebird. Hands push breasts together, narrowing the gap in the chain dangling from her nipples. She yearns for stimulus. “Pour it on me, Mr. Thomas.”
From the nightstand, I select one of the Christian vigil candles that have been lit for the past hour. Their bodies are thick, white—indicating purity, peace, and affection. Wax is hot and of a milk-like consistency, sloshing around the raised edges as I position it over Sasha, her breasts. They ache for feeling, for pain. I tilt the candle and pour the contents on her chest, her tits. She flinches, inhaling sharply, and then letting the next breath ease slow, stammering as the wax hardens. It coats the meat of her breasts and nipples, becoming firm before cracking and flaking to the bed.
“More,” she says. “Please. More.”
Sasha’s pain sensors are a rarity in that they’re linked to her pleasure center. It is why her services cost more than $10,000 for the evening. Her skill set and physical makeup are unique, and therefore, more expensive than the common whore: the streetwalkers and escorts and models attempting to make ends meet. Another dollop of hot Christian wax and I can feel blood moving in Sas
ha’s body, flushing to her labia. She tugs on the chain at her nipples, letting one hand wander to the space between her legs, stimulating the clitoral region through the vinyl.
“Hurt me, Mr. Thomas,” she begs.
By the property of generalization, flame originating from a Christian-based object yields its attributes. Any pain will be ordained with the power of the Lord Christ, and so I let the fire lick one of Sasha’s breasts to which she flinches backwards, coning the scorch mark with her palm and rubbing, relishing the feeling.
“More, Mr. Thomas,” Sasha says. Unlike Serena, this is not an act for her. Sasha’s desires are genuine. Odd, but genuine.
I burn her again, longer this time, which results in her experiencing a small yet thrilling orgasm. I feel this happen and am fascinated by it: a machine I don’t fully comprehend. Sasha laughs, caressing a bubbling nipple. It fills with fluid to counteract the injury. She giggles, and then I start to wonder just how far she can be pushed. I wonder where the threshold lies.
Sasha says, “You may puncture me now, if you wish.”
I find myself all too eager to explore her, setting down the Christian vigil candle and grabbing a fresh copy of the Bible along with a Swingline stapler, a modern device traditionally used to bind paper together. It will not be used for that.
“Remember,” Sasha tells me, “our safe-word is: chili dog.”
In the current sexual culture, a ‘safe word’ is an emergency exit clause utilized when either party feels threatened or convinced the experience has entered perilous territory. For the sake of keeping the endeavor laced with Christian undertones, my initial suggestion was the word ‘God.’ Sasha, however, thought this to be a poor choice.
“It should be a something you’d never normally say during sex,” she told me. “Like…chili dog. Let’s go with chili dog.”
On the bed, Sasha gets on all-fours, arching her back to make her hind quarters more prominent. I unfold the stapler at the hinge and rip out a page from the book of Matthew, sandwiching the paper between steel and soft flesh. My fist pounds the top, piercing skin. Paper hangs from her ass, beading with fresh blood.
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 11