And before Father Johnstone has a chance to react, gather a coherent thought, or even blink—that’s when the flame touches the pit.
That’s when the pastor starts to believe.
On the Road with Billy Burke, Truck
Stop Preacher
“I want you to pray for your health and the well-being of your kin…your wives and parents and kids. Pray that the Lord allow you to provide for them: food, shelter, warmth, and love. Pray He keeps you on the Divine path, and let you not fall to the temptation of meth hookers and strippers with shaved cooters. If you take a tab of ecstasy, pray to Him that you don’t wind up breaking into someone’s home so you can rub your pecker on their shag carpet. We are men alone on the road, voyaging across the country with little else to count on but ourselves. Let the Lord be the company you keep—not some Puerto Rican escort named Charlo. It may make all the difference between getting home safe and having sores crop up on your pecker. You know why sores are red? Do you? The goddamn Devil, that’s why. Red is shade of the beast, and the beast lives in the saliva and cunt of every lot lizard and meth hooker you come across. Their shitters, too. The Good Book says to be wary of a dirty shitter. Now, I see a lot of men here with tattoos. Well, I’ll tell you this: AIDS and herpes is the tattoo the Devil needles into your skin and your blood. Ain’t no removing it. That shit sticks with you forever…even in the afterlife, and the last thing you want is to arrive at the pearly gates with a cold sore on your lip. So stay on the Lord’s side. Ask that he keep you out of the bad cooch. For you married men that need to get back out on the road, you can get on your way. I’ll say a prayer for you. Everyone else, we’re all going to Candy’s Playhouse on 17 th Street. We’re going to practice keeping the Lord in our heart while there’s a big ol’ set of titties in our faces. Ol’ Billy Burke here believes in a practical approach. I surely do. You know what…fuck it— married guys, you come along with us!”
The Sheriff
“I’m glad we’re getting this chance to talk,” Madeline says, handing over an old mop bucket that still smells of bleach and industrial cleaners. Father Johnstone notices grime looping the interior as he takes it, fingers clamping firmly on either side. Knuckles turn white. He proceeds to vomit and spit, hacking up black fluid in the middle of the kitchen. Not blood. Something thicker and foreign, originating from his chest just below the sternum. He can taste the sulfur as it passes over his tongue. Rot scalds his nostrils. The bottom of the bucket begins to pool with fluid, staining the beige plastic like house paint.
Madeline sits down next to the pastor on the floor, bare knees kissing the old-fashioned linoleum. She smoothes her right hand over the pastor’s back, patting him, saying, “That’s going to get a little worse before it gets better, I imagine.”
They were in the back yard only a moment ago, waiting for the flame inching along the twine to touch the contents of the pit: lighter fluid, mesquite logs, animal carcass, and a myriad of other ‘ingredients,’ as Madeline referred to them. Ingredients to manufacture a curse, one that wears its target down: affecting their mood and temperament, compromising their judgment. The recipient suffers night terrors too real to be written off as dreams. They experience blackout spells and lapses in memory. For the better part of two weeks, Father Johnstone had felt these effects intensify to the degree of barely being able to function, then past that. He wound up in the care of Dr. Keller, unable to decode the origins of this supposed illness and its culminating bleeding episode at the Pratt bake-off, but that was the intention. Curses, as Madeline explained, can’t be medically detected or diagnosed. That’s the beauty of them. It’s why they’re so dangerous.
“When a curse is broken,” Madeline says, “the body begins the process of purging it from its system…kind of like food poisoning.” She gives the pastor another pat on the back and more fluid comes out of his nose, his tear ducts, a small amount through the ear canal that crawls down his jaw line and neck. It stains the collar of his shirt. She tells him, “And you’ve had this thing festering in you for a while now—so hate to break it to you, but you and that bucket are going to be pals for a bit.”
Another wave of fluid charges its way up the pastor’s esophagus, boiling the back of his throat and splattering at the bottom of the bucket. His insides pinch and cramp. Lungs collapse. He spits. Hacks and spits, asking between heaves, “How…long?”
“Not sure,” Madeline says. “Never seen this side of it, but it’s gotta run out sometime.” She stands up and moves to the cabinets, opening them one at a time. She finds glasses and tumblers, chipped coffee mugs. Another contains the pastor’s modest dining set he picked up at Mrs. Daltry’s garage sale some years ago, lined with a floral and vine pattern that she deemed as “too fussy.” Madeline shuts the doors on these items and continues searching, asking, “Isn’t there something you’d normally do in this situation?”
Father Johnstone ejects more fluid. Vomits. The vomit carves skin out of his throat like fingernail scratches. Pale slivers of flesh float over the surface. He can barely catch enough time to breathe let alone attempt an answer, so he winds up shaking his head to communicate his lack of perception. The question doesn’t make sense to him.
Madeline opens a cabinet on the bottom row, two over from where she found the bucket under the sink. She pulls out his old aluminum teakettle, reminding him, “You’d pray, right? For your health and all that?” Father Johnstone hears her pry open the top of the kettle at the hinge, followed by another couple of cabinets being explored. He looks up just long enough to see Madeline raiding the spice shelf, talking over her shoulder, saying, “And what is prayer if not the conscious application of faith? It is the directive. It is the formal appeal for that which we cannot do on our own.”
The pastor hears Mary’s nails clicking on the linoleum, getting closer as he retches into the bucket again. It wasn’t that long ago that she was lying still on the ground, charred and smoldering. Fur turned to ash, organs cooked inside of her. She was as dead as dead can get, and yet through prayer, or perhaps by the hand of God Himself, Mary was brought back to him. Divine power returned her to this world, healthy and alive. Madeline Paige, however, would have the pastor believe otherwise, that this was the result of witchcraft. And although he’s witnessed acts to corroborate her claim, thirty-odd years of devotion to the Lord and His Word challenge otherwise. Old habits die hard, as they say, even if those habits have no definitive proof to back them up.
Into the teakettle, Madeline sprinkles in thyme, sage, a pinch of cinnamon. She grabs the canister of fennel and drops three seeds in, all to the tune of Father Johnstone coughing liquid rot into the bucket. His hands brace tightly to the rim, fingernails spattered in black. Mary wanders over and gives her owner an affectionate lick on the knuckle while Madeline adds more ingre-dients: honey and cane sugar and a sprig of grass that she plucks out of her hair. A spoonful of vanilla extract.
She says, “A prayer isn’t that much different than an incantation, when you think about it. They can be used for good, or in your case, they can be used to hurt and control people.” Madeline turns away from the spice cabinet, peeking over her shoulder, telling him, “You’re almost out of bay leaves, by the way.”
Father Johnstone heaves into the bucket again, the fluid standing about an inch high and bubbling, stinking of rot. His fever begins to slip, skin cooling, he’s granted a few moments of reprieve from purging. He looks up to see Madeline tossing in a few teabags of Earl Grey into the kettle, and then adding water from the faucet to the mix. She turns on one of the gas burners and places the kettle on it, telling the pastor, “But prayer without direction, without power, equates to nothing. They’re just words. It’s why some people die of cancer and some go into remission.”
Father Johnstone considers that theory. He’s lost members of the flock to illness, to the versions of death in which Dr. Keller gave them so many months or weeks to live based on calculation and medical trends. The patient prayed, and the pastor pray
ed with them and their families, but it always ended the way Dr. Keller predicted. Death always came to pass, no matter how often they reached out to God. It didn’t matter. Everyone’s efforts seem wasted, not to mention the spiritual depletion one experiences in the presence of hope unfounded. Then Father Johnstone would give his spiel about how they passed on comfortably, in the care of friends and family and loved ones. “They’re in a better place now,” he’d say, but this always came off patronizing after all the emotional investment to keep this person alive. Heaven seemed like a consolation prize.
“Ever wonder about that, Johnstone? Why some people get better and others don’t?” Madeline asks. “You ever wonder why faith—especially when you really need it to work in your favor, is so unreliable?” She soaks a nearby hand towel in cold tap water, bringing it to the pastor and pressing it firmly to his forehead. Cool water cascades over his cheekbones, nose, and lips, briefly muting the fever. He gags again, lungs punching upward. Another dollop of black careens over the gashes in his throat, chewing on his gums and lips, but Madeline is still composed, still nursing him. She says, “The answer, the truth, is that a prayer is only as good as the person doing it—and until today, you never had it right. Ever.” Madeline drags the cloth down the pastor’s face, across his lips and chin, mopping up the fluid. She tells him, “That’s the first thing you need to accept: that your relationship with God isn’t what you thought. And if you don’t believe me, think back on all the things you’ve prayed for—for both yourself and for others. Think about that, and then do the math on how much of it was actually granted.”
Even the most modest requests, the commonplace, the paltry favors of continued health and strength to lead the flock—even those were met with the occasional spout of illness, self-doubt, challenges of spiritual and personal nature that proved disruptive. As a man of the cloth, one would assume the Lord would grant these simple graces in order to further enable his preaching of the Word. As Madeline said though, there was a lacking in consistency. Even when he believed to have the Devil in his blood and was on the verge of losing himself, no Divine presence descended. In fact, his condition worsened—that is, until Madeline Paige intervened.
“Do you remember what I said about praying?” Madeline asks. “All the components have to be there.”
Like the Challenger, every piece is essential. Distributor, radiator, pistons and spark plugs—without these, optimal functionality isn’t possible. Missing pieces yield incomplete results.
“Both faith and Craft work on a formula,” Madeline says. “The difference is that some of the ingredients aren’t tangible. They’re open to interpretation, like how much a man loves his dog.” She caresses the pastor’s face while giving Mary an appraising look. Madeline says, “Love can make a person very powerful if they know how to use it.”
Father Johnstone feels another wave of sick surge upward, washing over his tonsils and lips. The fluid is thinner now, diluted to the point where it looks more like Travis Durphy’s chaw spit than molasses. Madeline wipes the area below his mouth with the damp cloth, flipping it over and pressing the clean side to his forehead again. She gives the pastor an encouraging smile when he looks up from the bucket, blotting his forehead. The kettle begins its shrill whistle, and Madeline tells him, “Keep that on your forehead. We’re gonna have company soon.”
Father Johnstone accepts the cloth, patting down either side of his face and watching Madeline move back to the stove where she turns the burner off. He asks, “Who’s coming?” but his throat is so raw it’s nearly inaudible. The dying screech of the kettle overpowers him, and he ends up having to repeat himself after the noise has subsided. “Who’s coming?” he asks again, a little louder this time.
“You’ve got a curse smoldering in your back yard, and it’s made the whole area smell like rotten eggs and smoke,” Madeline says, removing a ceramic mug from one of the cabinets and placing it on the kitchen counter. She puts a coffee filter inside the mug and begins pouring the contents of kettle onto the paper, slowly so it doesn’t overflow. “If logic dictates anything around here,” Madeline says, “I would imagine someone has already called the cops and they’ll be stopping by shortly to check things out.”
She’s right, the pastor thinks, and a flaming pit of animal remains in his back yard is the exact kind of attention he doesn’t need right now. Sheriff Morgan, like the majority of Pratt, doesn’t take kindly to abnormality in his town, and a burning curse on the property of the local preacher is about as abnormal as it gets. Even if the sheriff doesn’t figure out the true depths of what’s happening, Father Johnstone’s reputation can only be further tarnished by this. It will only reaffirm what people are whispering about him in every corner of the town.
Madeline, on the other hand, doesn’t appear to be worried in the least. Her fingers pinch down on either side of the coffee filter, allowing the kettle water to strain through, leaving behind soft fennel seeds and various other remnants from the spice cabinet. The aroma cuts through the rotten smell that has all but taken over in the kitchen, replacing it with a pleasant robustness. “You look worried,” she observes.
Father Johnstone nods curtly. There’s no point in hiding it or attempting to lie. “Sheriff Morgan isn’t exactly a friend,” he says, still hoarse in the throat. He spits another rope of brown into the bucket, explaining, “He thinks man’s law is above God’s law. Doesn’t do well with people questioning his authority.”
Madeline tosses the coffee filter in the trash bin, asking, “And you think he’ll what—arrest you? For a little fire in your yard?”
“If he wants,” the pastor says. He coughs a few times, spitting into the bucket again. “I don’t put it past him.”
Outside, the distinct sound of a car door is heard shutting, to which Mary begins barking, bouncing off her front paws and running a couple tight circles on the kitchen floor. Madeline hands the mug of tea to Father Johnstone, telling him, “Drink this,” and even though the pastor knows that any sort of food or beverage coming from Madeline may have side-effects (he can’t help but remember Mrs. Tiller), the aftertaste of rot in his mouth is unbearable. Teeth and gums feel chalky and sore, stained from fluid now contained in the mop bucket. He brings the mug to his lips, sipping the tea and feeling the sulfur flavor dissolve from his taste buds. Steam assails his nostrils, cleaning them of rot and burn, almost as if he were inhaling pure menthol.
“I want you to sit there and finish that while I take care of this,” Madeline says, lowering her hand into the waste bucket. She dips her forefinger into the black liquid, soaking the print and then bringing it to her lips where she applies it, still warm from the pastor’s insides. Her finger smoothes the fluid over her bottom lip, painting it a shade of syrup brown. Madeline rubs one over the other, spreading the fluid over her mouth like cosmetics. She tells the pastor, “Don’t say a word.”
A series of knocks—pounding rattles the front door in its frame. Madeline exits the kitchen with Mary at her heels, barking yet again. The pastor drinks quietly on the kitchen linoleum, ears tuned to the living room where he hears the door creak open and the distinct drawl of Sheriff Morgan saying, “Afternoon, Miss Paige.”
“Afternoon, Sheriff,” Madeline chirps, as if she’s happy to see him. “And to what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Oh, I think you know,” he says. “Think you know exactly why I’m here. Got the whole goddamn neighborhood calling about that smell, telling me the ol’ preacher and Maddy Paige are starting fires and the like,” he says, almost relishing the moment. He tongues the toothpick in his mouth, shifting it side to side. “Ain’t legal, of course. Law’s the law. Might have to issue a citation or two. Probably going to eat into all that tip money you’ve been makin’ at the diner.”
“I see,” Madeline says, non-argumentative. Non-combative. She doesn’t give him a lick of sass to work with. Father Johnstone can hear the smile in her voice, a warm campfire smile beams at the grizzled sheriff as the pastor sits
in the kitchen, quietly drinking the tea. Silent, just as Madeline instructed.
“’Course, this ain’t your property,” the sheriff points out. “Everyone know Maddy Paige lives in that fine house o’er by the daisy hill. Damn fine house,” he says. “And who’s to say that you ain’t headin’ back o’er there right now, hmm?”
“Nothing standing between me and home but the law,” Madeline says playfully, and Father Johnstone can hear Mary give a disapproving growl. Surely she wouldn’t leave, he thinks. She can’t.
“You a damn quick learner, Maddy Paige,” he chuckles. “Cute and clever girl—that’s right…ain’t nothin’ standing between you and home…but the law, and right now the law thinks you wasn’t really here, y’know, being an accessory and the like,” he shifts the toothpick in his mouth again. “So tell me…before you get on home, where might that ol’ wily preacher be? He ain’t hidin’, is he?”
“Not at all, Sheriff,” Madeline says, almost flirtingly. “I’m afraid poor Father Johnstone breathed too much of the smoke and he took ill. He’s most definitely still here.”
“Damn shame,” sheriff says, clearly pleased. “Damn shame, indeed. First, the poor feller’s getting sick at his little church party and now he got the smoke lung to boot? Mighty unfortunate,” he says, but he doesn’t sound sympathetic in the least. Quite the opposite, in fact. He continues on, adding, “Law don’t take sick days, though. Sure you can understand that, right, Maddy? Not like we can start cuttin’ criminals loose for coughin’ fits, y’know.”
Father Johnstone swallows his tea, fuming at that word: the word “criminal.” For years, an unspoken truce has existed between the pastor and the sheriff, if only to keep the peace and maintain a state of normality in Pratt. As much as Sheriff Morgan resents Father Johnstone for holding power over the flock (or whatever ill-contrived reasoning), he’s always maintained a respectable distance, almost as if he was waiting for him to step out of line. A pillar can’t go after another pillar without just cause, and now that Father Johnstone had fallen out of favor with the town, he had it.
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 15