Good Sex, Great Prayers

by Brandon Tietz

  “Indeed, yes,” Madeline says. “Can’t be too soft, can we? One day it’s an illegal fire pit and the next day you’ve got houses burning down, right?”

  “Escalation, Mad,” the sheriff says with a nod. “That’s what we call it. Got to weed out the undesirables before they influence the rest of the folk. Could tell you some stories, I surely could.” He puts a foot onto the threshold, the toe of his cowboy boot breaching the doorway. Mary gives a little growl of warning that he ignores. “For now though, why don’t you go ahead and run along home? I’ll have a little chat with the pastor…get this all sorted out. Ain’t no need for you to be here.”

  “But you won’t hurt him…will you, Sheriff?” Madeline asks, contriving deep concern and feigning vulnerability. The sheriff doesn’t know her well enough to pick up on it. “You promise you won’t be too stern?”

  “Well, y’know, I guess we’ll just see,” he says, non-committal. “If he works with me, I’ll work with him. Like I said…law’s the law, and I run a tight ship ’round here.”

  “That you do, Sheriff. And I just love a man that makes me feel safe…protected,” Madeline says, her voice dropping to more of a whisper. It’s so low the pastor can barely make out the last sentence. A few seconds pass by, and then a few more. It’s silent, and Sheriff Morgan isn’t responding. Not verbally, anyway. There’s a sharp breath, the sound of lips mingling. Deep kissing. The pastor can hear it over Mary’s curious grunt. Then another few seconds of silence before Madeline says in a less-girlish tone, “Kitchen! Now! Move it, redneck!”

  The front door slams shut, and Father Johnstone hears the sound of rushed footsteps nearing the kitchen to the tune of Mary snarling, nipping at Sheriff Morgan’s pant leg. He steps onto the linoleum looking catatonic, face smoothed over his normal expression of wrinkled disdain. Madeline pushes him along, her hand gripping the back of his neck and escorting him to one of the empty wooden chairs at the kitchen table. She says, “This guy’s mouth tastes worse than what’s in that bucket.” And then to sheriff, sternly, she orders, “Sit. Now.”

  The pastor observes Sheriff Morgan in the chair, emotionally neutral with vacant eyes, much like Mrs. Tiller was in the hospital. He looks at the black fluid in the bucket, to Madeline, asking, “What did you do?”

  “I took control of the situation,” she says, pulling out a chair for herself at the table. Madeline sits down, crossing one leg over the other, sighing. “Did you not hear any of that in there? The guy had it in for you.”

  “No, I heard,” the pastor says. “I just—“

  “He wanted me to leave so he could beat the shit out of you,” she interjects.

  “Well,” Father Johnstone frowns. “He didn’t exactly say all that.”

  “He didn’t have to.” Madeline takes a handkerchief out of her pocket and wipes her lips off, scraping it against the sides of her mouth. “It’s not what you say; it’s how you say it. I thought you would have picked up on that by now.” She turns to her left, asking the sheriff, “I’m not wrong, am I, Kip? You were going to beat the shit out of him, right?”

  “Oh, yes ma’am, Miss Paige,” Sheriff Morgan says, nodding concurrently. “Yes, indeed. Was fixin’ to take a few of them pearly whites out with ol’ Shelby here.” His hand fondles the butt of his pistol, and Father Johnstone inches back on the floor, unsure as to whether or not he’ll actually use it. Sheriff Morgan smiles at the pastor all yellow teeth, stroking the gun with the tips of his fingers. Mary positions herself between the two of them, snarling at the sheriff.

  “Relax. He’s harmless. Can’t hurt a fly unless I tell him to,” Madeline says, more to the pastor than Mary, although she too seems to calm down. Her haunches ease slightly, lips uncoil. The sheriff continues to smile, continues to stroke the gun with great affection, almost lustfully. He stares at Father Johnstone, knowing he’s supposed to hurt him, to punish him. The desire is there, but he’s been rendered immobile. He’s being held back, being contained, and he doesn’t like it.

  “He’s fighting,” the pastor says.

  “He won’t win,” Madeline says. “Stuff is too strong.”

  “That?” Father Johnstone looks at the bucket, the fluid.

  “Yes,” she says. “It’s potent. Stronger than what you saw with Magda.”

  “It doesn’t affect you?”

  “No,” she says. “I’m using it. It’s not using me.”

  “What are you going to do with him?” the pastor asks, staring at the sheriff fondling his gun, still smiling like he’s got an invisible coat hanger stretching his mouth apart.

  “Well, you’re smart. What would Johnstone do?” Madeline asks. “You know what his intentions were now. Go ahead and take point on this one.”

  “I wouldn’t hurt him, if that’s what you’re asking,” he says.

  “No, of course not. You’re better than that,” Madeline smirks. She looks at the sheriff thoughtfully, mischief flashing across her eyes. “We could have him hurt himself,” she says enticingly.

  “No, I don’t want that either,” the pastor says. The sheriff’s fingers are still drumming the butt of the gun, trying to grip it. He fondles the handle, getting closer and closer to wielding it, and the smile becomes even more pronounced. Broader. At any moment, he could pull the gun out of its holster and shoot. One shot, point blank, right between the eyes. Father Johnstone says, “I want him to stop doing that,” motioning to the sheriff’s hand on the gun, his fingers.

  “Kip, keep your mitts off the gun,” Madeline says, and the sheriff’s hand locks, shuttering at the wrist. His arm slowly moves away from the handle, resting in his lap. “And wipe the Joker grin off your face. It’s creepy.”

  The corners of Sheriff Morgan’s mouth pull down, making him appear more like his normal disgruntled self, all except for the eyes. He’s livid. He knows what’s happening to him and can’t do anything to stop it.

  “So we can get him to do what? Anything?” the pastor asks.

  “Probably. I don’t know. I’ve never used something like this before,” Madeline says, leaning over to get face-to-face with the sheriff. She looks into his eyes, using her thumb to pull down on the lower lids. First the left, then right, she turns to the pastor and tells him, “Oh yeah, he’s pretty pissed off in there.”

  Then the sheriff’s radio chirps from his belt. Dispatch asks, “Sheriff, what’s your twenty?”

  “Kip, radio back that everything’s fine here,” Madeline says, leaning back in her seat and crossing her legs again. “Tell them it looks like some kids have been vandalizing the property and you’ve got it all under control.”

  Sheriff Morgan unclips the radio from his belt, bringing it to his mouth and thumbing down the button on the side. “Katy, I’m still at the preacher’s place. Everything’s…f-fine,” he says, stammering slightly. “Looks like…some kids been givin’ him…trouble.” He releases the radio’s button, clipping it back on the belt.

  “Hmm, well that sounded terrible,” Madeline says. “Kip, you trying to fight me off in there?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am, Maddy Paige,” the sheriff says, his smile returning. “If it were up to me right now, well I think I’d fuck that pretty lil’ mouth of yours while ol’ preacher here sat and watched. We’d have a real nice time, you an’ me.”

  “Is that right?” Madeline coos. “And what if I said no?”

  “Well, I s’pect you’d be havin’ a short conversation with ol’ Shelby here,” the sheriff says. “And she don’t have to say much to get her point across, if you know what I mean. People that don’t wan’ talk to the law usually end up talkin’ to Shelby.” His smile gets a little larger. “You wan’ talk to Shelby, Miss Paige? I can bring ‘er out…if ya let me,” he suggests, hand drifting over to the gun, hovering, but not touching.

  “No, how about we just keep those hands off of Shelby for now,” Madeline says, and the sheriff abides, begrudgingly so.

  It’s different with him than Mrs. Tiller, the pastor notices.
Mrs. Tiller was gentle and subdued, completely conquered emotionally-speaking. Sheriff Morgan, however, is clearly attempting to rebel. He knows he’s stuck, being controlled, and it doesn’t agree with him. Much the way Father Johnstone resisted the effects of the curse, so too does the sheriff.

  “So what now, Johnstone?” Madeline asks.

  The pastor stands up, legs shaking somewhat from the effort. He slugs the remainder of the tea Madeline made, lukewarm but still pleasant to the palate. The taste of rot seems to have vanished, but the smell in the kitchen is enough to make the walls peel. He places both the mug and bucket on the kitchen counter, staring at the sheriff and considering what to do, if anything. As shepherd of the flock, the pastor has led, but only to the extent that he gives advice and preaches the Lord’s Word. Never though, has he controlled a person. Not like this—not in the way in which he can have Madeline make this man do whatever he wishes. He could just as easily make the sheriff leave his home as he could pull out ol’ Shelby and eat a bullet. It’s an overwhelming power, one that gives justification as to why people with supernatural abilities were so ill-regarded in the scriptures. They had a power that wasn’t fully understood, and was therefore feared and rejected. Pratt would react no differently. Just as Father Johnstone anticipated violent reprisals for his diversity in behavior, so too would Madeline Paige. A modern-day witch hunt: the entire town looking for the two of them with their torches and pitchforks and shotguns. At the very least, Father Johnstone thinks, he can remove one part of the equation, the immediate threat that Sheriff Morgan seems so eager to wield.

  “I want his gun,” the pastor says.

  “Ah, good choice,” Madeline says. “Kip, hand Shelby over to Father Johnstone.”

  “Don’t wan’ to hand Shelby over,” the sheriff says, although his hand is already drifting over to his hip, fingers wrapping around the silver handle and pulling the weapon from its holster. He extends his arm forward, weapon in-hand, saying through gritted teeth, “No fucking faggot preacher is gonna touch Shelby. No goddamn way.”

  Father Johnstone takes the gun by the barrel, prying it out of the sheriff’s grip before he has a chance to put a finger on the trigger. Sheriff Morgan squirms in his seat, attempting to get up but his legs won’t cooperate. Knees shake. He stares at the pastor hatefully, cursing still. Cursing and blaspheming. Father Johnstone looks at the gun, at Shelby, laid out over his two palms: a Colt .45, all silver. The sheriff has obviously been taking good care of his firearm, which gleams polished under the kitchen lights.

  “How does it work, Mad?” the pastor asks, staring at the gun in his hands, admiring the weight and craftsmanship. The power. It’s the first time he’s ever held one. “In a way that I’d understand,” he adds. “Laymen’s terms.”

  “Point and shoot,” she says. “But I don’t use guns.”

  “No. That,” he points at the bucket with Shelby. “Curses. Witchcraft.” Father Johnstone almost winces saying these words out loud. “How does all this work?”

  “That’s kind of a loaded question, Johnstone.”

  “Loaded how?”

  “Because you’re asking me to explain something you don’t want to believe, even after seeing it for yourself,” she says.

  “Humor me,” he presses.

  “Well, there’s faith, there’s science, and then there’s the in-between,” she says, pausing a moment to see if there’s any disagreement from Father Johnstone. He nods for her to go on. She says, “It’s the gray area, the fringe between the two. A harmony.” Madeline sighs, standing up and approaching the pastor who is still looking at the gun. She lifts it from his palms, saying, “To the untrained eye, this is nothing more than metal and gunpowder. For someone like me it’s more than that. I can feel the intangibles. Hatred. Wrath.” Madeline Paige looks at the pastor with those campfire eyes, braving a smile, “My skill set lies in knowing how to manipulate the intangibles.”

  “How am I supposed to buy that, Mad?” the pastor asks.

  “The same way you buy your relationship with God, I’d expect,” Madeline counters. “You can’t see Him. You can’t see electricity or air or magnetism or radio waves. You can’t see love, but you accept these things.”

  “I suppose I do,” he says, a tone of skepticism in his voice. He’s still having trouble subscribing to Madeline’s ideas, despite all that he’s seen so far. A part of him still believes there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything, even if that explanation meant he were mentally or physically unwell. It would be easier to swallow than Madeline being able to manipulate intangibles, as she puts it.

  “Ingredients, Johnstone. Everything is ingredients,” she says. “For cooking, for praying, and yes, even for spell-casting.”

  “And what ingredients are those?” the pastor asks, pointing yet again at the bucket of black fluid, now simmering on his kitchen counter. Still smelling of rot and sulfur. “This man just handed me over his most prized possession, so it—what? Makes the person have no will of their own?”

  “Hey, Kip, the pastor wants to know if you have no will of your own right now,” Madeline says. “You want to take this one?”

  “Oh yes, ma’am, everything in me wants to get up out of this chair and beat the ever-lovin’ shit out the two of ya,” Sheriff Morgan says, still squirming in his seat, teeth gritted and knees quavering. His arms are braced at either side, trying to push off the seat of the chair but unable to. “All I was gon’ do was smack around ol’ preacher, but now that he done and put his filthy mitts on Shelby…oh…he’s gon’ be dead man ‘fore he know it. I gon’ make it slow, too. Nice and slow so he know he done wrong.”

  “But you can’t get up, can you, Kip?” Madeline teases. “I mean, we’re both standing right here. What’s stopping you?”

  “Maddy Paige threw herself at the law, all kissin’ on me like the whore everyone says she is,” the sheriff says, grinning, as if he’s recalling the moment fondly. “Whore got inside my head and the like…can’t move under my own accord. Want to. But can’t.” The smile broadens, getting wider, and he says, “Only a matter of time, though. Matter of time.”

  Madeline turns back to the pastor, “Certain parts of the brain regulate certain things: heart rate, breathing, sensation, motor skills. Like anything though, they can be manipulated. You can plant thoughts or alter the person’s personality. You can make them forget how to move.”

  “How come that never happened to me?”

  Madeline says, “With a curse, like the one outside, it builds slow. It takes some time for the effects to manifest, like cancer. The stuff in the bucket, though—that’s concentrated,” she explains. “It’s hitting his system directly. Make sense so far?”

  “I guess.”

  “The bad news is that his body is already trying to process it and get rid of it,” Madeline explains. “It’ll wear off eventually.”

  “Yes, it will, Maddy Paige,” the sheriff says, grinning. “An’ then the law gonna come find you and ol’ preacher. Gonna teach both you cunts a lil’ lesson for what you did to me an’ Shelby. Only a matter of time.” He chuckles, straining in the chair. “Matter of time.”

  “How long?” the pastor asks.

  “Hours? Days?” Madeline shrugs, glancing at the sheriff again. “Dunno.”

  “Can you give him more?” Father Johnstone almost feels guilty asking this, but after hearing all of Sheriff Morgan’s threats, he’s able to look past it. It’s the lesser of two evils.

  “In theory, yes, we could,” Madeline says. “But we run the risk of him going into a coma or having a bleeding episode like you did at the bake-off. Not that I’d care but you probably do.” She pauses a moment, offering, “We could always cuff him in the basement.”

  “No, the police know he’s here. This is the first place they’d check,” Father Johnstone says. “Even if that wasn’t an issue, I couldn’t do that to the man. It’s not…” he trails off.

  “What? Christian?”

  “
Not right. We’re better than that, Madeline.”

  “This guy is a liability, Johnstone.”

  “Kip, are you seriously going to try to kill me first chance you get?” the pastor asks, ignoring Madeline. He walks over to the sheriff who is still sitting in the chair, fuming. “Do you honestly have that much wrath in you?”

  “Don’t need to talk to no faggot preacher,” he answers.

  “Kip, answer,” the pastor tries again.

  “Fuck yourself,” he chuckles. “Maybe give Shelby back an’ I’ll consider it.”

  Father Johnstone turns to Madeline. “Why isn’t he answering me? Isn’t he supposed to do whatever we ask?”

  “No,” she says. “Just me.”

  “Why just you?”

  “For the same reason I can’t baptize or marry people. You have to be ordained,” she says.

  “So you’re saying that he’ll only answer to you and only follow your orders?” Father Johnstone asks. He doesn’t want to hold the sheriff hostage, but he also doesn’t want to cut him loose only to have him come right back. As Madeline said, he’s a liability, and one that seems keen on taking the both of them down, especially after this incident. “Just you, right?” he confirms.

  “Technically, no,” she says. “The other one could do it, too.”

  “Other one?”

  “I told you, I didn’t plant that curse,” Madeline reminds him. “That means there’s someone else out there…someone like me.” She hands Shelby back to the pastor, moving to the kitchen window where the curse continues to smolder gray, misting the back yard in sulfur. The tin shed in the rear of the yard isn’t even visible anymore through the fog. Madeline stares into the void, shaking her head slightly. She sighs deeply, hands braced on the kitchen counter, saying, “This is usually the part where I run away.”