Good Sex, Great Prayers

by Brandon Tietz

  He knew the day would come where Mary would pass, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be a product of abrupt violence and gore. She was to slip away peacefully, in the comfort of their home where the pastor could wrap her in blankets and hold her close. Her body was to remain immaculate—not with scars and burns and charred fur. Not disfigured. The pastor can’t even look at her now. So he shuts his eyes—shuts them tight, and he cries. He sobs into the earth until she comes for him.

  Madeline’s footsteps approach from behind, slowly, as if she’s being cautious to the fact that Father Johnstone could snap at any moment. She puts her fingertips on his back, then her palm, smoothing it down his shoulder to the middle of his spine. His torso quakes, still sobbing into the grass and dirt, too heartbroken to be angry. Too destroyed to speak. Grief eats him as Madeline kneels. The pastor can smell sweet perfume mixing with the earth and char in the air, and she says, “We can fix this, Johnstone. We can bring her back.”

  The pastor doesn’t move, doesn’t respond.

  She’s lying, he thinks. She has to be lying.

  “I know you think that’s impossible,” she says, “but consider this: how many times have you read about seas being parted or the sick being cured by a touch?” Madeline rubs her hand in a circular motion on the pastor’s back, attempting to comfort him. “Have you ever personally seen anyone walk on water?”

  No, the pastor thinks. He hasn’t.

  These are stories. It is the fodder that compels the flock to follow. This is what they need to hear in order to believe in the power of the Lord, to have faith in something greater than themselves. Because when you get down to it, no one has ever been worshipped for being ordinary. The mediocre are never deified.

  “Miracles aren’t random. There’s a method to this, Johnstone,” Madeline says. “A formula. It’s like the car: all the parts have to be there in order for it to work. We can bring her back, but I need you to believe it. Believing it is an extremely big part of this.”

  For some reason Father Johnstone thinks about Dr. Keller and what he said about his blood type changing, that it was an impossible occurrence. He said that it’s not medically feasible. By extension, that makes the pastor a walking impossibility. A phenomenon. A living contradiction.

  “Don’t ask for her to be brought back,” Madeline says. “Demand it. Know what you’re entitled to.”

  Good health and the strength to lead the flock, peace of mind, body, and spirit—these are the requests Father Johnstone has made over his many years as pastor. Commonplace prayers. He’s served the Lord’s will for over three decades, not once asking for something of a selfish nature, even in desperate times. To guide the flock is to lead by example, but perhaps Madeline has a point, he thinks. Maybe his servitude has earned him this favor.

  “Give me your hand,” she says. “You don’t have to look at her, but I need you to concentrate and remember, okay?”

  Father Johnstone offers his arm and Madeline grabs it. Again, the tingling sensation begins to generate in his palm and fingers. Again, she squeezes so tight it hurts. It burns and stings. Prickles like needles in his palm, spreading throughout his wrist and forearm, his elbow, but then he thinks about Mary and it begins to fade. Her life flashes before his eyes: the bear in a basket with the pale belly; she’s brought into the pastor’s house and he holds her, scratching behind her ears right where she likes it; she’s out in the yard under the sun, she urinates and the pastor praises her, offering her a treat; if she does it inside on the carpet or kitchen tiles, the pastor scolds her, but in a way where he’s only pretending to be mad; in truth, he’s not the least bit upset with her; she has a water bowl, a bowl of kibble, a leash for walks; her little legs tire easily, and then she lies on the couch for a long nap, sometimes twitching her feet in her sleep, dreaming of running through pastures; she misses her mom sometimes, but as the days go on, as she and the pastor become more acquainted, the memory slips; he’s the one that makes her happy; he’s the one that takes care of her and scratches her ear and gives her breakfast meats; she hears the people call him ‘Father’ and he refers to her as ‘Mary’; she learns that when he says Mary, he’s talking to her; sometimes he chirps it in a high-pitched voice while slapping his leg, and then Mary will zip across the yard and jump at his knees; he throws a tennis ball, she learns to fetch it and bring it back to him; Mary likes to roll around in the grass and flowers, and sometimes the pastor will watch her do this, drinking his coffee and smiling.

  You’re doing well, Johnstone.

  They celebrate the holidays; Halloween is the night in which she finds herself barking at strangers all night, familiar scents but oddly disguised; the small ones shout “trick or treat” when Father Johnstone opens the door, and he hands them a food token of homage; it reminds Mary of how Father Johnstone would give her a milkbone or bacon rind for relieving herself in the yard as opposed to inside their dwelling; the small ones visit all night, but sometimes they collect Mary’s turds and burn them on her owner’s doorstep within a womb of tan paper; this makes him angry, but thankfully, it is but a rare occurrence; Thanksgiving is a far more enjoyable affair; it is much like Halloween, except the roles are reversed in the exchange; the pastor and Mary are showered with random company, each bearing some kind of dish or other food offering; Mary receives many bites of turkey from all the different visitors, eating to the point of excess, but the occasion that she’s given such delicacies is rare; she takes to hoarding these nibbles of the white meat under the bed for later consumption, much to the disappointment of her owner; Father Johnstone tells her, “Don’t worry, I can’t eat all these leftovers myself,” and Mary seems to understand that this feast will last many days, opting to curl up on the couch to digest her meal; she’s loved and adored by many of the different visitors, mostly female; they coo and rub her belly, always affectionate; Mary reaches her first snow, the cold white powder stings her paws if she stands still for too long; she puts her face in it and comes out with a little Santa beard, it makes the pastor laugh; afterwards, they’ll lie on a blanket by the fireplace, the pastor reading the paper or working on the crossword while Mary lets the heat dry her fur, she’s balled up next to the pastor’s stomach, drifting in and out of sleep; he puts Mary in a festive sweater, buys her an extra large bone wrapped in a bow for an occasion known as Christmas; Mary hears that word a lot as the cold takes over; the smell of pine consumes the home as Father Johnstone stations a tree in their main room; it sits in a metal water bowl, not unlike the one that Mary has; she learns quickly she’s not allowed to drink from that water bowl, nor is she allowed to get too close to the various boxes under the tree; they hold no real interest to her, but her owner still shoos her away if she lingers by them for too long; guests pay homage as they do on Thanksgiving, only this time ham is the main dish that they feast upon, a salted meat with a hint of sugar that Mary enjoys; it reminds her of bacon somewhat; these feasts and the people and lying by the fireplace are pure joy for Mary; she loves the holidays, and the pastor can’t imagine spending them without her now. She’s family.

  Keep going…almost there…

  Mary gets bigger, her baby teeth fall out and the color of her coat changes, shifting the ratio between caramel and black; they develop a routine and a relationship unlike either have ever had before; sometimes there are missteps: Father Johnstone won’t immediately pick up the signal that the water bowl is empty just as Mary will sometimes gnaw on items not meant for her; she noses her bowl if it’s empty now, he buys her toys and elevates his valuables out of her range; they reach an understanding that one is caring for the other, although it often feels mutual; there’s an emotional void in her owner—Mary can sense it; he’s lonely, or at least he was lonely, but there’s only so much she can do; Father Johnstone will speak to her sometimes just as he does those of his species; unfortunately, she can only understand reoccurring words: her name, ‘sit,’ ‘lay,’ ‘treat,’ ‘outside,’ and things of that
nature; commands, and then other terms like Christmas or Thanksgiving; long passages of speech can only be interpreted through tone, so when the pastor breaks, when he says, “You’re all I have and you’re all I’ll ever have,” Mary can only decipher what he means through the tenderness of his voice, the way he gently scratches the back of her ear and under her jaw; she has absolutely no idea that what the pastor is really saying is, ‘If you died, I would die, too.’ That is what a prayer is: a sentiment, an emotion that doesn’t need to be put into words. It’s communicating with your heart, your soul, your very existence. It transcends print, goes beyond the Good Book. The prayers that really matter are the ones we write ourselves.

  Madeline says, “Now look, Johnstone.”

  But he doesn’t have to. The sensation is familiar. In fact, he’s felt it every morning for the past ten or so years: a scratchy wetness with fur grazing against his fingers. Mary always licks the pastor’s hand when she wants him to wake up.

  Prozess IV: Selbst Liebe

  The female (Frau) will disrobe, placing herself on her back facing east, the direction of emergence and origin (Entstehung). She may use an elongated mirror (Spiegel) for assistance in the seeding portion, however, it’s imperative that the mirror be removed for the actual process, as the effects may backfire. The speculum (derived from Greek; reference: tools) will be used to expose the vaginal cavity, and must be blessed and cleansed before application. Once the cavity is exposed, the female will insert the tribute (Geschenk) which consists of: one male lock of hair bound in a white bow, one small personal item of the male, three male fingernails, one photograph (Foto). The tribute items may not be sourced through multiple males. All items must be wrapped and bound in an earth-sourced binding type (reference: materials), however, animal hide has been said to yield the best results. Once the tribute has been seeded, the speculum must be removed along with any reflective surfaces. The female will then proceed to rub the clitoris with her dominant hand counter-clockwise for twelve revolutions, clockwise for five revolutions, repeating as necessary. She must fill her mind with the image (Bild) of the intended male of tribute and only him. Should the female lose count or concentration, the process and intended effects will either be flawed, weak, or non-existent. The female’s climax infuses the tribute with her essence (Essenz), and she may now proceed to the main residence of the male for planting. It’s important that the female not remove the tribute from her body. Planting must occur between midnight and sunrise, and it is recommended that it be done during the quarter or full moon (Mond). Do not plant in the rain as it will negate the infusion. Snow also has detrimental effects. Using her bare hands, the female will dig a hole in the earth (Erde) no more than twenty feet away from where the male sleeps. The depth of the hole must be at least a foot deep but no more than three. The female must now plant the seed by positioning her vaginal cavity over the hole, pushing the tribute out of her body and into the earth’s soil. Once this is accomplished, the soil must be swept over the tribute and packed tightly to contain the essence and feminine infusion. Effects will manifest in three days time.

  The Formula

  “How did you do that?” Father Johnstone asks.

  Madeline steers the Challenger down Route 9, her right hand gripped steady on the wheel while the other hangs out the window, arm at full extension. She shakes her hand like a ballplayer that’s just caught a line drive with a little too much zip on it. Her fingers wrap into a fist, clenching tight, and then wilt loose. Dusty wind cuts through her fingers and licks her palm dry.

  She says, “What we did, Johnstone. The two of us.”

  It’s as if it never happened: the lightning and the thunder. The aftermath. Mary lying dead, cooked to a fine char on the once lush grass. Mary smoldering, smelling of burnt hair and hot meat. He could see her bones and organs through the tears in her flesh. Mary’s eyes flash-fried and burst to brown ooze, streaming like tears across what was left of her face. It was the very thing nightmares are made of and over just as quickly.

  A miracle, for lack of a better term, but the pastor isn’t so ready to accept that as an explanation, despite the proof he’s holding. Mary’s licking his face, propped up on her hind legs and lapping at him like she’s just returned from a very long trip. Her little docked tail wags in a blur of joy, and as much as Father Johnstone wants to return this affection, he can’t stop examining her body for scars or burns. He pets her, hand smoothing down her ribcage, but it’s with the ulterior motive of investigating for damages. He searches for any lasting impressions of what he just saw—what broke him to pieces. Yet, there’s not a single brittle hair or patch of discoloration on her skin. At a casual glance, she looks healthier than before. Her coat is shinier. Eyes brighter. Father Johnstone pushes a thumb into Mary’s mouth to get a look at her gum line, an area once plagued with brown strains and muddy patches, but they’re clean now. Mary’s teeth glisten like new, playfully nipping at the pastor’s fingertips.

  Madeline gives her left hand another shake and brings her arm in from the window, using the steering wheel to pop her knuckles. She looks at Father Johnstone and Mary in the passenger seat, giving the two of them a smile something like relief, as if what just happened could have gone another way. Mary could still be dead, the pastor thinks, but then a more important issue surfaces. Everything happened so fast that Father Johnstone had forgotten about the lightning.

  “You knew,” he says. “You knew it would hit that exact spot.”

  Madeline scoffs. “Let’s just sit here and think about what you just said.”

  She flexes the fingers of her left hand again, keeping her eyes on the gravel terrain of Route 9. Father Johnstone had put it together that Madeline must somehow know when certain things are about to happen. The scope of that, he’s unsure of—but she knew that lightning would strike at that exact place, at that exact time, and she put Mary in the path of it to teach him a lesson. She wanted to show him that God would let an innocent creature get hurt, even if such a creature was all the pastor had in his life to call his own.

  “God is in everything,” he said. “Even when it hurts His creations.”

  Madeline had brought Father Johnstone out to the fields for one simple reason: to get him to forsake his idol. Because it’s difficult to keep worshipping the same thing that hurts you, especially when you’ve been led to believe you’re exempt. Maybe that’s the pastor’s vanity at play, but he never thought the Lord would intentionally hurt him, or Mary for that matter. It’s a cruelty he never anticipated.

  “You’re thinking about this the wrong way,” Madeline says. “Consider this: how many times have you seen lightning strike on a clear, blue day?”

  Never, he thinks. A singular bolt of lighnting without the presence of clouds isn’t just unnatural, it borders on impossibility. However, ‘impossibility’ has taken on a very different definition as of late.

  “How scared would the people back in town be if they had seen what we just did?” Madeline asks. “They’d freak.”

  She clenches her left hand again, balls it up tight and shakes it loose. The palm is singed, reminiscent of a sunburn. It reminds Father Johnstone of the sensation that went through his own appendage, like hot needles threatening to burst out of his skin. White hot pin-pricks.

  Madeline says, “There couldn’t be any witnesses, Johnstone. They’re not ready yet.”

  “Ready for…” the pastor trails off, thinking about what just happened with new perspective. She’s right, he realizes. He has been thinking about this wrong. Madeline didn’t predict the bolt; she caused it. They caused it. Together.

  Madeline glances over to the passenger seat where the pastor is clutching Mary, holding her tight to his chest. She says, “Figure it out, did ya?” noticing the look of panic on his face. The wheat continues to blur in gold as the Challenger speeds along, and Father Johnstone remembers what she said about praying: that he was doing it wrong. Just like the car, if one of the pieces is missing, it won’t functi
on.

  “You made that bolt happen?” he asks.

  “We,” she corrects. “We killed Mary. We brought her back.” Madeline pats Father Johnstone on the leg, attempting to put him at ease. She says, “Look, I know that probably wasn’t your finest moment back there, but believe me, it was completely necessary. If I had told you what we were about to do you never would have gone along with it.”

  “Let you kill my dog?” he asks incredulously. “No, I certainly would not have gone along with it.”

  “We killed her,” she corrects him again. “But like I said, it was completely necessary. I couldn’t have just told you. You would have thought I was crazy or something.”

  “I’m not totally convinced that you aren’t,” the pastor snips.

  “Don’t be pissy, Johnstone. I could zap you right now if I wanted,” Madeline says. The pastor recoils in his seat slightly, clutching Mary even tighter as Madeline glares at him, eventually letting her mouth break into a smile. She gives him a playful slap on the leg and says, “Honey, I’m kidding. Relax.”

  Father Johnstone sighs, allowing his body to ease off the passenger side door. He can see the intersection of Route 9 and Main in the distance now. The gravel of the road begins shifting to a more compact substance, granting the tires and undercarriage a reprieve from the beating of rocks and pebbles. Madeline eases off the gas, allowing the Challenger to coast along. She gives her left hand another shake and flex, balling it into a fist and releasing, gritting her teeth.