“You mean they’re aware of people like you?” the pastor asks, but it comes out slanderous, as if Madeline’s a part of the scandal. “People that can do what you do?”
“What you have to understand is that some people—people like me,” she says. “Some of them take that Bible shit just as seriously as you do. All the talk about how we shouldn’t be allowed to live and we’re agents of evil and all that—they’re retaliating. It’s payback,” Madeline explains. “Sometimes a molestation case is just some sick asshole touching a kid. Other times it isn’t.”
“A curse,” Father Johnstone says.
“Right. And they have no way to detect which is which,” Madeline reminds him. “So they give them the benefit of the doubt and move across the country. Still doesn’t change the fact that it gives the church a bad name.”
The relationship between pastor and parish can be a shaky one. The flock is cultivated and trained, taught how to follow the Lord’s Word and refrain from sin. With the right leadership, they will follow to the ends of the earth. One mistake though, and all is compromised. Bedlam ensues. All hope is lost.
“Why do you care if the church gets a bad name?” Father Johnstone asks. “You’re not a part of it.”
“I’m not against it though, either,” she says. “This isn’t my war, Johnstone. I’m not going to go after an institution over some shit that was written centuries ago. It has nothing to do with me.”
“Are you saying it has something to do with me?” the pastor asks.
“I’m saying that whoever did this to you isn’t going to stop until they get what they came here for,” Madeline says. “They buried that thing in your yard to break you down and control you, and they put a lot of thought into it. We just undid a lot of hard work by incinerating it.”
“Why wouldn’t they just cut their losses and leave then?” he asks. “I mean, as little as I know about this, it sounds like the operation was botched.”
“No,” she says. “You don’t get it. It’s a relationship.”
“You’re saying I know this person.” He looks at her doubtfully. It’s difficult for the pastor to pinpoint just which resident of Pratt is capable of this.
“No, I’m saying they know you,” Madeline specifies. “They know your weaknesses, your fears, and more personal information than you’re probably comfortable with. They know the exact timeframe in which to go into your backyard and dig a three-foot hole without anyone noticing,” she says, an eyebrow cocking. “A curse isn’t just a bunch of random shit thrown together and calling it good; it’s a bond, an investment. It’s the process of polluting you with their own self.”
It wasn’t simply a matter of not being able to sleep or not feeling like himself. The pastor’s spirit, his soul, it felt poisoned. And what an opportune moment that would be for someone else to step in: to influence, to instruct him on what to do.
“Now that it’s broken, they’ll seek another means,” Madeline says. “Another way to hurt you. And they’re not going to be subtle about it anymore.”
Father Johnstone doesn’t like the sound of that. It was bad enough when his assailant kept their distance. “So what do we do?” he asks.
“We get your flock back. We turn the tide back to you,” Madeline says with confidence. “And I’ll be by your side the entire time, walking you through it.”
“At the sermon tomorrow, you mean?”
“Correct,” she nods. “And hey, not to put any undue pressure on you, but if we don’t nail this thing tomorrow, it’ll be the last sermon you ever do.”
On the Road with Billy Burke, Truck
Stop Preacher
“There’s a gay bar down the street from here. Now what comes to mind when you think of gay bars? I’ll tell you: a bunch of sweaty young men rubbin’ their peckers and fingering each others’ shitters—that’s what. They’re dancing to that crazy techno music and playing grab-ass with each other—kissing on each other…one guy jerkin’ another guy off until he squirts a hot load on his forehead in the bathroom. Lord as my witness, these guys are taking piles of dick butter and using it to style their fucking hair. I seen it! Now, you may be asking yourself, ‘What the hell was ol’ Billy doing in a fag bar?’ Well, I wasn’t sucking on no dicks, I can tell you that. I was scouting…formulating the attack, as it were. See, you lot here, you drive by it…you curse it under your breath and ignore it, but ol’ Billy here, he ain’t afraid to get his hands dirty. Let it be known, Billy Burke will step into the Devil’s den if that’s what needs doin’. And make no mistake, it does need doin’, gentlemen. If they’re going to ignore the Lord and His Word, then we gotta bring the Word to them. We gotta get our hands dirty. This is Divine intervention, my friends! Now how are we gon’ do it? What’s that, Frank? Huh? No! No, we’re not gonna beat the snot outta them. We’re not hate-crimers. We’re better than that. No…what the Lord is telling me—He’s telling me that Chet and Donny need to bring their wives to Tootsie’s tonight…and…and He’s saying you need to bang their fine asses right there on the dance floor. As for the rest of us, we will provide protection in the form of a human barrier prayer circle…keeping out Satan’s homoerotic influence. What’s that, Frank? Yes. Yes, you can drink and pray. We all will. First round’s on ol’ Billy Burke.”
The Last Sermon
Father Johnstone’s guts twist—not due to illness or unnatural manipulation, but from nerves. Pure and simple anxiety, the kind he hasn’t felt since his twenties when he first took the helm as pastor of Pratt. He was inexperienced, but found this could be compensated for with enthusiasm and an unmitigated passion for the Lord. It was something the prior pastor, Father Hilliard, had lost some time before through no fault of his own. At eighty-one-years-old, he could hardly get through a reading without becoming winded, and patrons were often lulled to sleep by his brittle voice or the void of silence beyond the fifth row of pews in which his words couldn’t carry. Their patience had grown so thin that when Father Johnstone finally took the helm, it was as if he breathed new life into their faith, if only by the trivial virtue of being young and easily heard.
“That new preacher got a real chip on his shoulder,” they used to say. “Got somethin’ to prove, that one.”
His inaugural sermons were a tad on the clunky side, but refreshing in that they had discarded that feeling of stale routine Father Hilliard had accustomed the congregation to. Their new shepherd had no beaten path nor any established order. It was a rebuilding year, and so they rediscovered the Lord in a sense with Father Johnstone, through his sermons and his zeal for the Good Book that many described as ‘infectious’ and ‘captivating.’ None of them ever knew how terrified he was on the inside, always afraid they wouldn’t accept him as a suitable replacement.
It is today—a burgeoning spring afternoon—that the pastor is reminded of the sermons from his former youth: the panging nerves and a pre-game nausea that has compelled him to vomit not once, but twice. The pressure to win back the flock, despite Madeline’s assurances that all will be well, has proven too great for his system.
“They’ve seen the cracks and now they’re waiting for you to fall apart,” Madeline said that morning. “They’ll arrive in droves to see you fail.”
Indeed, much of the casually devout are coming out of the woodwork today. Mr. and Mrs. Larkin haven’t been to church since last Christmas for the annual midnight mass ceremony. Others, like Luke Hagen and Bob Orson, haven’t shown their faces for many years. Father Johnstone can’t remember the last time he’s seen such a turnout, and yet, their arrival is predicated on disaster. Each face is either laced with disgust or a sort of twisted fascination, like an audience watching a man strapped to an electric chair. They’re counting down the seconds to when the switch will be thrown and the fireworks begin. They want to see the pillar break.
“But you won’t fail,” Madeline said. “In fact, you’ll inspire. You’ve been reading to them from the same book for over thirty years, instructing them on ho
w to keep to the Divine path. It’s time you rewarded them for their devotion.”
Father Johnstone meanders about the front of the church, watching as the pews steadily fill with the residents of Pratt. Two hundred, then about fifty more that have to stand or lean against the walls of the church. Sometimes the pastor will say ‘hello’ to a familiar face, a regular of the flock, but these are returned with a haphazard nod or empty salutation. No one smiles. No one shakes his hand, still offended by his outbreak of blood at the Pratt bake-off. They’re not afraid anymore. It’s since shifted over to abhorrence.
Meanwhile, Madeline ushers certain members to the front row of the church, most of the escorted being elderly and hard of sight. Sick and old and weak. It’s an unspoken rule that the decrepit are allotted prime audience space, and today is no exception. Ms. Doakes, who hasn’t walked in some years, sits flaccid as Madeline pushes her along in her wheelchair. The campfire eyes rest upon the pastor, and with that, a smile just as warm.
Madeline mouths to him, “Relax.”
The pastor notices Travis Durphy holding the hand of his wife, a despondent Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax, and Helena Wright who is sitting stoically in the ninth row. Her hair is tied back with a red ribbon, and Father Johnstone wonders if that’s supposed to mean something, if she’s inviting him into her life one final time.
Madeline approaches the pastor, whispering to him, “Just like we practiced last night. Don’t over-think it.”
His eyes survey the crowd again, spotting Dr. Keller at the back of the church, cleaning prescription glasses with a pocket handkerchief. Another irregular entering the fold. And not even two feet away from him, Mrs. Tiller is accompanied by Deputy Clarke, opting for the tan uniform and badge instead of plain clothes. Mrs. Tiller turns to the deputy, whispering something to him that the pastor can only assume isn’t favorable. They appear to have an agenda beyond simply seeing whether or not the pastor will crumble or have another medical outburst. Even if today’s events go according to plan, the pastor fears he may be leaving the church premises in a squad car.
“Don’t worry about them,” Madeline says. “Just do what we talked about and the rest will take care of itself.”
The crowd is restless—close to three hundred people crammed ass-to-ankles in the pews, pushed up against the walls and support columns of the church. They’re murmuring, gossiping with no regard for tact or secrecy. Sometimes the pastor can hear his own name being said, along with something to the effect of: ‘Can’t wait to see what this asshole got to say for himself.’
And then from another section of the church: ‘He better not try and tell me my Lord was some trickster again. Either he give up a dag-gum apology or get the hell out of Dodge.’
Madeline snaps her fingers. “Focus,” she says. “Take control. I’ll be nearby when you’re ready.” She turns to take a seat in the front-left pew, right near the aisle, which is no longer a clear path down the center of the room. It’s overflowing with people who couldn’t find seats or showed up long after the perimeter had been filled, angry and waiting for answers. Waiting for an explanation. The pastor stands poised, allowing the din of the room to shrink, smaller and smaller until only a few random whispers can be heard. Then nothing. Silence. Silence and the occasional creaking of pews as people adjust within their close quarters. Father Johnstone looks in the eyes of his oppressors, telling them what they already know.
“The Lord’s house swells with wrath today,” he says.
It was at the behest of Madeline that he address this: the elephant in the room. “When an angry mob shows up to your doorstep,” she said, “the last thing you wanna do is play dumb.”
“You’ve heard rumors,” he says. “You believe me to have fallen out of favor with the Lord, that I’m damned and no longer fit to lead. This is what’s been going around town, if I’m not mistaken.”
The gallery shouts in agreement, a voice, a man’s voice from the middle of the crowd shouting, “You got that right, preacher!” They tense, seething.
“And you believe that I am evil,” he presses on. “That I should be dealt with, hung, strung up and shot, yes? Battered, beaten, made an example of? This is why you’re here today, right?” And once again, the crowd agrees, cheering, raising their fists. They edge a little bit closer, ready to accept the invitation the pastor is so willingly extending to them.
“Over thirty years here, and just like that, you’d break my neck and burn me alive. Is that what I’m hearing?” the pastor asks. “Have I fallen out of favor with you that quickly? Have I sunk into the same league as Mason Hollis?”
A hush falls over the crowd, be it ever so brief. They remember Mason, the stories, the rumors of what had happened to him. And even though it’s been years since his residency in the town abruptly ended, the mere mention of his name still inspires a certain disquiet amongst the assembled. Pratt is reminded that they’ve done this before, but their vengeance and paranoia outweighs their logic. They won’t let an old wound distract them from the current blight on the town.
“Ya done fucked up, preacher!” Mr. Landry, one of the local mechanics yells. He points a finger at Father Johnstone, still stained with dead motor oil and engine grit. “Got the goddamn Devil in ya and we all seen it!”
From the head of the church, he notices the distinct glisten of metal from different parts of the room. Most of them are oversized cowboy belt buckles, like the ones Danger Durphy used to wear back in his bull riding days. Some of these objects are bladed. Knives, a pistol here and there. They’re either being held discreetly or concealed within a small jacket. And Deputy Clarke isn’t going to do anything to stop it. His loyalty has always been to Pratt and Sheriff Morgan’s brand of law.
“You believe that I am unfit to preach the Lord’s Word, and you have arrived to deliver punishment in His own house,” the pastor says, taking note of the mob inching a little bit closer. “But you forget that you don’t speak for the Lord. In fact, I’m more in his favor now than I’ve ever been.”
Father Johnstone signals to Madeline, who promptly stands and positions herself behind Ms. Doakes’ wheelchair. She pushes her so that she’s stationed at the front of the center aisle, facing outward to the crowd of people, the flock and the malevolent alike. They pause, holding steady and wondering just what exactly the pastor is playing at by bringing out ol’ crippled Ms. Doakes to the center stage. Seems wrong, they think. He’s just pestering that poor woman. He’s going to hurt her or defile her in some way.
Father Johnstone says, “I believe you all know Ms. Doakes.” Knobby knees like misshapen fruit are pressed together, extending downward to slippered feet in rusted stirrups. Bernadette Doakes is plopped in the chair like a sack of old spuds, head slung lazily to one side. She’s been wheelchair-bound for the last seven years. Dead weight just waiting to have her number called; everyone knows that.
“She will walk today,” the pastor announces to the crowd, drawing guffaws and a few more scattered jeers. He maintains his sentiment, as impossible as it may sound, telling them once more, “By the power of Christ, she will walk.”
Father Johnstone says this. He says it with conviction, just as Madeline instructed him to. “Tricks are for magicians,” she said that morning. “So whatever we do, it has to be real. It has to be so convincing that there’s no room for debate.”
The pastor squats down next to old Ms. Doakes, hand resting on her shoulder. He tilts his head forward, resting it on her forearm with his eyes closed, ready to pray. He prays for Madeline to come through, to save him from thy neighbors and enemies. As she told him last night, this is one part of the equation, the formula.
“Faith is an ingredient like love is an ingredient like flour and water and sugar are ingredients. Some of these you can keep in your kitchen cupboard,” she said. “Others, you have to draw from people.”
Madeline stands behind Ms. Doakes, one hand resting upon the nape of her neck, the other on the shoulder of Father Johnstone. The pastor’s he
ad rests upon the stale arm of the woman in the wheelchair, completing the triangle: the source, the conduit, and the recipient.
“It’s where the term ‘faith healing’ comes from,” Madeline explained. “If a pastor came to town and made your cancer go away or restored your sight, more than likely it wasn’t God that did that. It was someone like me.”
In these instances, the man of the cloth served as a battery of sorts. That’s why the practice of faith healing was so frowned upon: it was the partnership of conflicting ideals, and therefore, couldn’t be officially sanctioned in the eyes of the church as it was deemed ‘impure’ and ‘blasphemous.’
“The clergy spurned us for having an ability and knowledge they didn’t,” Madeline told him, sometimes citing specific examples from her spell books, although they usually were in another language. Father Johnstone was thankful for the regular usage of diagrams and schematics, as they were the saving grace in spelling out the concepts he couldn’t read for himself. He learned about elemental summoning, alchemy, and anatomical manipulation. He learned that witches were called in to treat cancerous tumors before civilization really knew what cancer was. Hippocrates discovered it and gave it a name, but it’d be another five centuries before a witch would successfully cure it.
“We remedied disease, we quenched droughts and harvested the properties of the earth for food and medicine,” Madeline said. “And for these acts, we were hunted, stoned, burned at the stake, and slandered in every ancient text.”
Today, in the First Church of Pratt, something happens that this town hasn’t seen in a very long time: movement from Ms. Doakes’ lower half. A twitch. They stare at the pastor in awe, still on bended knee at her side, eyes closed. All the while, Madeline stands mute in the background, healing, repairing nerves and deteriorated bone. She directs blood flow to the lower extremities and nurses atrophied muscle tissue. According to her, this is the space where faith and science meet, that little in-between gray area she mentioned.
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 20