Good Sex, Great Prayers

by Brandon Tietz

  “That’s where miracles are made,” Madeline said.

  Ms. Doakes curls her toes inside her old house slippers, flexing her foot and testing the integrity of her ankles. The silence of the audience breaks, peppered with murmurs and chatter that the pastor takes as a sign of the plan’s success. He moves in front of the wheelchair, carefully folding the stirrups of the wheelchair back so Ms. Doakes’ legs are unencumbered. She places one foot down on the church flooring, then the next. She motions for Madeline and the pastor to help her to her feet, waving her arms. Her head is upright and alert, traced with a smile the town had long forgotten. Father Johnstone and Madeline take an elbow on either side, assisting Ms. Doakes to her feet. They bring her upright until she’s standing. Standing and smiling, looking down at her own slippers.

  The pastor asks, “How do you feel, Bernadette?”

  She turns her head, smiling stained false teeth. “Tall,” she says. Her head gently dips forward, thanking him. Ms. Doakes walks down the aisle, splitting the crowd. She heads toward that place she played as a young girl, that part of town so beautiful is was like walking inside a painting. Slowly, steadily, she walks out of the church to the daisy hill.

  “The first one always quiets the doubters,” Madeline said that morning. “You’d be surprised how quickly one little run-of-the-mill miracle can get people to shut the hell up.”

  As it happens, the pastor isn’t surprised at all. Like much of the attending crowd, he too can’t help but stare at Ms. Doakes, pacing along heel-to-toe through the arched entryway in her stained gown and house slippers. Jaws go slack as they watch one of their resident cripples stride by as if she had never used a wheelchair in her life, smiling all the while.

  “Don’t get caught up,” Madeline whispers to the pastor. “You need to keep going.”

  Yet again, Madeline pulls her next miracle from the galley of the church, another afflicted individual stationed in the front row. She plays the part of the assistant, folding Mr. Gibson’s hand into her own and escorting him to the head of the church. As she’s doing this, Father Johnstone pushes Ms. Doakes’ wheelchair stage-right where it careens into a cluster of grain plant workers and farm hands.

  “We’re far from done,” Father Johnstone says, recapturing the attention of those still lingering over this first miracle. “Some of you came here looking for a show, so we’re going to make sure you get what you came here for.” He waves over the next candidate, saying, “Madeline, place Mr. Gibson next to me, if you’d be so kind. I feel the Lord may be able to help him with his little problem.”

  Just as the Bible makes mention of witchcraft and sorcery, so too does the inverse relationship exist between texts. “We’ve been writing about the clergy and the distinct power they possess for centuries,” Madeline explained last night, citing a section of one of her books written in French, entitled: rupture malédiction norme.

  “What this section tells us,” she said, “is that men of the cloth have the ability to infuse materials with special properties. As it happens, the best way to break a curse is to incinerate it by way of Holy fire—your lighter fluid and firewood, to be specific.”

  Extenuating on the ‘everything is ingredients’ premise that Madeline often referenced, it appeared that faith was no exception. It could be used to heal, to summon the elements, and to either combat or combine with Craft, depending on the scenario. Some priests and pastors formed alliances and became faith healers; others subscribed to the idea that witches were intolerable and needed to be exterminated, becoming aggressors.

  From Leviticus, the pastor recalls: ‘A man or woman who is a medium or spiritist among you must be put to death. You are to stone them; their blood will be on their own heads.’

  This is the slander that Madeline spoke of. Permission to commit genocide, to murder, all for the sake of eliminating any potential threat they might pose. People read those words and they followed them to the letter. No alliances were to be made. No helping hand extended. Only a rare few members of the clergy ignored what was written in the Good Book, deciding it was best to see for themselves why witches were regarded with such umbrage.

  “Through harmony and cooperation,” Madeline told the pastor, “we can be more together than we ever were apart, and I think it’s time Pratt saw a little of that.”

  Mr. Gibson is another one of the town’s hard cases, another piece of dead weight on the community. “He’s just milking that disability money till he croaks,” Mrs. Sugarman candidly remarked once. Everyone in town knows he’s a blinder than a bat on a mug of moonshine, but only Dr. Keller refers to his condition by its formal term: Retinoblastoma; a form of eye cancer.

  Jimmy Gibson has lived in Pratt for thirty-nine years; he hasn’t seen the town in over three decades. Not with his eyes, anyway. He lost those before all of his baby teeth fell out, but some say he knows the town better than anyone, tapping left-right-left-right on the cracked sidewalks with an old cane. He counts to himself, just like his mama taught him. “Takes two-hundred and forty-seven paces to get from my house to the Presto,” he said. “Seven paces from the front door to my favorite booth where the sun hits my face.”

  Kids in Pratt sometimes stop Mr. Gibson on the street, asking him how far the gas station or the daisy hill is in paces from their current location. Rarely is off by more than one or two steps. Other kids—the ones in their teens with too much time on their hands—they’ll follow Mr. Gibson, shouting out random numbers in an attempt to confuse him and throw his count off. It never works, though. “Know this town better than most folks know the back of their own hand,” he tells people. Finger tapping one of his temples, he says, “Best map of Pratt is right up here.”

  Inside the church, Father Johnstone addresses the audience again, telling them, “Mr. Gibson will see the sun today. He’ll see the daisy hill and the spring sky and every single one of your faces.” He says, “Today is the last day that he’ll ever need to count his steps,” and unlike his last proclamation regarding Ms. Doakes and her ability to walk, there are no scoffs of disbelief this time. No one laughs. The anger and wrathful intent that originally brought them to the church has since shifted to fascination, to hope.

  “The more you do this with me, the easier it’s going to get. The relationship gets stronger with practice,” Madeline said. “Just do what comes naturally based on what you know.”

  Father Johnstone is positioned face-to-face with Mr. Gibson, his eyes milked over white and foggy, ghosts swimming over the corneas. He studies them, regarding their filth, their unclean nature, leaning to Mr. Gibson’s ear, the pastor says, “This is going to feel a bit weird, Jim.” He leans back, aiming his mouth slightly upwards, and spits. Father Johnstone spits into Jimmy Gibson’s left eye, and then again into the right, massaging the fluid into the ocular tissue with his thumbs. Audience members gasp, offended by what their shepherd has just done.

  Madeline plays the supportive assistant, a hand on the hip of each man, connecting them. She cleanses the cancer cells, washing away the damage using the sanctified fluids of the pastor. She restores light and depth-perception, color and hue distinction. The spit is an ingredient like vanilla extract is an ingredient like beryllium, magnesium, and arsenic are ingredients. Yet again, the pastor and the witch are right there in the middle, that little gray area between faith and science where cripples walk and Mr. Gibson begins to regain his sight.

  “How do you feel, Jim?”

  “Honestly?” Mr. Gibson says. “I feel like you just spit in my face.” He pauses slightly, lips pursed until he can’t hold it any longer. Jimmy Gibson laughs, slapping the pastor on the shoulder like an old friend and bringing him into an embrace. Arms wrap around so tight Father Johnstone’s ribs bend. Madeline looks on, smiling.

  “Faith is more than showing up at to a certain place and reading certain passages,” she said that morning. “It’s more than following the rules. It’s a relationship…with people. It’s something Jesus had with his followers and no
w you need to have it, too.”

  As Mr. Gibson walks through the center aisle, the mood in the room shifts over once more. Their anger has been quelled, fists unclenched and expressions soft. Heads turn, following the once-sightless Jimmy Gibson, smiling, looking at the sun beams pouring through the stained glass windows of the church. He takes in their faces, of both the flock and the mob, nodding at them in turn. No walking stick or counting required, Mr. Gibson exits the First Church of Pratt to rediscover what a spring day looks like, if the grass is as green as he remembers it being from when he was just a boy.

  “The relationship you have with these people will make you capable of great things,” Madeline said. “But you must maintain absolute honesty and candor. That means no secrets, Johnstone. No reservations. Their faith in you has to be pure.”

  After two miracles, the audience is primed. Although they’re not aware of Madeline’s covert involvement regarding the actual process, in their eyes, the pastor has done his due diligence. Despite any initial doubts or rumors, he’s convinced them that he truly is in the Lord’s favor, and this much can be seen by the looks on their faces. Optimism and awe. Inspiration, just as Madeline foretold that morning over breakfast. Whispers mist over the galley of this newly revealed power, how Father Johnstone must be closer to the Lord than he’s ever been. Then he speaks once more.

  “I’ve sinned,” he says.

  Murmurs flood the audience, once again recalling all those nasty stories they heard about the pastor, how the Devil got a hold of him, got inside his soul. Blackened him, twisted him to the absolute worst of himself.

  As Mr. Buelle so eloquently put it earlier in the week, “Lucifer done took that man’s spirit and wiped his wet, red ass with it. Men don’t bleed like that. Unnatural, it was.”

  Father Johnstone stands at the head of the church, hand held high, beckoning for the flock’s silence and the mob’s momentary cooperation. He shouts, “I’ve sinned, and I’ve hurt people close to me.” His eyes fall on Mrs. Tiller, who gives him a definitive nod at this admission. So too does Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax and Helena Wright. Travis Durphy fans his cowboy hat up and down at the people around him, aiding his pastor in obtaining a level of quiet so his voice can be heard.

  “Like most of you, I strayed off the path,” Father Johnstone says, connecting with select members of the flock: the adulterers and those who covet. He looks at them, and they know they’re no better. “I lost my way, I’ve seen my share of temptation, but I’ve since consulted the Lord. I sought His forgiveness and His sanction, and I’m back a better man now.”

  Part of the gallery cheers with approval hearing that last proclamation. A few scattered shouts of “Amen!” trickle out, easing the pastor’s original swell of nerves. He’s making headway, winning them back just as Madeline said he would. “The first miracle gets their attention,” she told him that morning. “The second removes the possibility that what you’re doing is a fluke.”

  There was never any talk about a third miracle, but the pastor couldn’t help but think that Madeline was holding something back intentionally. Ms. Doakes’ and Mr. Gibson’s exploits notwithstanding, the spectacle of the sermon doesn’t feel complete. Something’s missing. A singular ingredient is all that stands from completely turning the tide back in his favor, and whether it’s another phenomenon or prayer or apology, the pastor is uncertain.

  He says, “Some of you came here looking for vengeance. You entered the Lord’s house with motives of anger, believing that it was upon you to exercise God’s wrath in His stead.” Father Johnstone points this out, noticing certain individuals tilt their head down in shame or look away. “And I forgive you,” he says. “Fear compels us to act irrationally, but this is the instance in which we should seek God, as I have.”

  Father Johnstone stands at the helm with Madeline just behind him, hanging back idly, hands folded in front of her and listening to the sermon. The two of them notice movement in the crowd, a man making his way forth from the back of the church. Just loud enough so only the pastor can hear, Madeline very distinctly says a word to him, a warning of sorts. At first it sounds like a curse, but it’s not, he realizes. She’s saying the word ‘fork.’

  Father Johnstone says, “We should seek peace. We should seek harmony together.”

  The church is calm, hanging on the pastor’s every word—all except for the man. One man continues to cut through the crowd gathered in the center aisle, pushing people aside and cursing at them for not making way. Father Johnstone hears Madeline shuffle forward slightly, saying the word yet again. “Fork,” she hisses.

  “I will not tolerate vengeance nor wrath,” the pastor says. “I will not allow the Lord’s house to become a poisonous place for those who wish to walk the righteous path with me.”

  The pastor can see the man’s face finally: grizzled and chapped, slightly red in the cheeks from what most of the town describes as ‘a constant booze binge.’ Old man Clevenger is making his way to the helm, pushing people with a sense of sobriety that’s unlike him. There’s no stagger in his movements or drunken eyes. His jaw has reeled in from its usual slacked position. He looks focused.

  The pastor says, “Violence will be the end of us.”

  Old man Clevenger emerges from the crowd, a pistol drawn. He’s grinning, holding the gun level and aiming at Father Johnstone’s chest, his heart.

  “I’ll always find you,” he says.

  Madeline rushes up behind the pastor just before the hammer of the pistol drops and the gallery screams in panic, saying the word one more time. “Fork,” she says, pressing herself against his back, using him like a shield. Fingers clip around the pastor’s wrist as the hammer drops, igniting the powder.

  A bullet is heading their way.

  The third miracle.

  Las Vegas, NV

  I go Catholic for a stint.

  There are a few places of worship on Cathedral Way, which is just off South Las Vegas Blvd. Western religion, I’m realizing, is just as much a financial institution as the hotel and casino business. The ‘down on his luck’ degenerate gambler sits next to the family of five which sits next to the reformed whore. Under the eyes of God, they’re all equal. They’re all a source of tribute to the Lord and the church, a monetary offering known as a ‘tithe.’ It’s the only city in which casino chips appearing in the collection plate is considered normal.

  Although there’s no specific usage of the words ‘gambler’ or ‘gambling’ in any of the religious texts that I’ve studied, I suspect that the source of my income would be deemed impious considering the method in which it’s procured. I have an ability. I’ve been using said ability to extort the individuals known as ‘dealers’ for the past several months. Players too. I can tell when they’re lying to me, can smell the oils in their skin change and feel their eyes dilate when they attempt to ‘bluff,’ as it’s referred to. The casino staff that watches over these games suspect that I’m using a rudimentary mathematical system of cheating known as ‘counting cards,’ however, this couldn’t be further from the truth. My skill set lies in being able to read people, and if I so choose, exploit them. I’ve been exploiting a lot of people throughout my time here in Las Vegas: the casinos, the whores, the hotel staff, and the various clergymen I seek out for answers, and so far the answers haven’t been clear.

  “Bless me Father for I have sinned,” I recite.

  The man across from me is old, nearing his twilight years. I’ve done my due diligence by restraining him in the most humane way I could fathom, a couple pairs of handcuffs that bind him to the arms of the chair. He’s bound but not in pain. Father Latimer didn’t receive such comfortable treatment.

  “This isn’t how it’s typically done,” he says, tugging at one of the handcuffs to test its durability. They’re forged out of steel, and although they were bought at Frederick’s of Hollywood, I made sure to boil them in Holy water to cleanse them of any sexual impurities.

  “I seek absolution,” I explain,
burping. All around the basement are filing cabinets, old décor and dusty paintings, office supplies. Cases of wine. Cases of wafers. The blood and body of Christ. I’ve been eating and drinking them in turns, waiting for the first man of the cloth to come down the stairs. “Your assistance would be invaluable to me,” I say, holding back the next flux of air in my throat.

  After having imbibed three full bottles of Christ blood and four boxes of His body, the pain of my genital sores and the urethral sting have muted significantly. Physically, there has been no change. The dermis remains infected and raw, but I can feel His strength pulsing through me, restoring health. My vitality heightens with every bottle and box of Him I consume.

  “You will refrain from harming me,” the priest says. “You will let me go. Those are my conditions.” Unlike the others, this one does not fear death. In fact, he looks forward to the next stage of non-existence known as ‘the afterlife.’ It’s not bravery that allows him to speak to me this way. He simply isn’t threatened.

  “And what of the tithe?” I ask, taking another drink.

  “You wish to pay a tithe?” He seems surprised by the offer, but I confirm this with a stern nod. “It’s one-tenth of your earnings,” he says.

  From my jacket pocket, I pull out a variety of casino chips (red, black, and midnight blue). They’re made of clay and a myriad of other ingredients to keep them durable; I feel this just by touching them, the intangibles. “Open your hand,” I say, and in the clergyman’s palm I place $200,000 in tokens that he may exchange for cash at Caesar’s. Bony fingers wrap around them. Tight. Not a drop of greed in his fragile little body. He won’t keep a single chip for himself.