Good Sex, Great Prayers

by Brandon Tietz

  The priest nods and I begin.

  I confess my sins, telling him about all the various whores—both in regards to the endeavor and those purchased out of sheer indulgence. Sometimes my gratification was limited to fornication and that alone; other times I proceeded to experiment on them after reaching sufficient climax. If death came to pass, it was never achieved out of malice, but rather, a test taken too far. An accident. When I want to understand something, I explain to him, I have a tendency to push the individual to their absolute threshold.

  “I’m currently pushing faith,” I say. “I’ve heard so much about what it can do…miracles, even…and now I wish to see that for myself. Rules have been broken in the process.”

  I tell him about my various undertakings involving Christian lingerie and pious role-play, the candles and the Holy water and the Good Book itself. They are used to protect me, to protect others, and yet I’m haunted by a string of failures. Disease spreads and I’m no closer to understanding the Lord and how His power functions, even when utilizing Divine materials and their by-products, such as the seminal fluid of Father Latimer. There’s an honest attempt on my part to convey the logic I’m using, although it quickly becomes obvious that I’m confusing him, offending his sensibilities. Yet again, the clergy doesn’t understand the concept of wielding Divine power in a practical sense.

  “You speak of faith as if it’s a skill,” he says.

  Alchemy, which is the knowledge of elements, concentrates on the composition and transformation of different components. Faith is little more than a spiritual form of that. It is an aptitude, a competence to be learned, practiced, and mastered. Biblical texts confirm this much. I’ve read it. I’ve even seen it on late-night television: clergymen healing members of their flock.

  “A disabled individual approached the stage. The priest then proceeded speak in Divine tongues before delivering a swift blow to this person’s skull,” I say. “They fell out of their mobile chair device…stood…and regained the ability to walk under their own accord. The priest then praised the Lord God for his ability. So explain how that’s not a skill.”

  The priest looks down, shakes his head, sighing. I attempt to read him but the over-indulgence of Christ blood clouds me. Intangibles blur.

  “It’s falsehood,” he says. “A trick. A show. That’s not real faith, understand? Whether you’re absolved or not, that is something that can’t be taught.”

  “Perhaps you’re the one who’s deficient,” I say. Anger swells. I can feel the sores burn again, the sting at the tip of my urethra. Nothing is going to plan. I’ve wasted my time.

  “You may release me now.” The priest begins tugging on his restraints, even going as far as to attempt to pull his hand through the cuff. Suddenly, he becomes overtly eager to distance himself from me. I can feel that, his disgust. He keeps pulling on the cuff, coiling his empty hand in order to slide it through the metal loop.

  “No,” I say.

  What happens next I credit to pure instinct. In reaction to his attempted escape, I reach out to tighten the cuff, however, I remain in a seated position due to my level of intoxication. It simply slips my mind that I need to stand and physically walk over. Instead, my arm extends, homing in on the metal around his wrist. I can feel it, the difference in composition compared to the surrounding air, its organic make-up. I feel it in my fingers. Consciously, I don’t even mean it to happen, but the cuff contracts. Without me even touching it, the metal loop closes, causing him to scream. It cuts through this skin, applying pressure to the tendons. Blood seeps down the metal of the restraint, dripping onto the arm of the chair.

  After so many months in Las Vegas and countless trials ending in failure, I finally realize what I’ve been missing. The hunt can resume. I can go looking for her again.

  My Madeline.

  The Pawns

  “How did you do it?”

  This is the first question Deputy Clarke asks the pastor, which may or may not be part of an official interrogation. He doesn’t say: “Are you okay?” or “Would you like to press charges?” He wants to know the trick, the secret to how Father Johnstone walked out of the church without a gaping hole in his body.

  “Cos you know what I think, preacher?” the deputy asks, taking a pull on a Marlboro. He blows the smoke across the desk, cocooning the pastor who’s seated opposite. “I think you’re full of shit. You may have them fooled,” he points at one of the windows with his cigarette, indicating beyond the wall, the people of Pratt, “not me, though. Not by damn sight.”

  “Am I under arrest, James?”

  “It’s Deputy while the badge is on, preacher,” he says smugly. “And no, you’re not under arrest. But I can think of a few reasons. Being uncooperative comes to mind, and we don’t want to start off on the wrong foot, now do we?” he muses, pulling on the cigarette again. “So why don’t you make this easy and tell me how you did it.”

  At the last possible moment, it kicked in just what exactly Madeline meant when she said the word ‘fork.’ He remembered that moment in the kitchen, a piece of silverware hovering just above her palm, rotating slowly. Even when he went to grab it, there was a force preventing him from removing it, as if it was stuck in mid-air. ‘Biomagnetism,’ Madeline called it. With her ability, she could amplify naturally occurring magnetic fields in the body, thus, controlling metallic objects to a certain degree.

  “How do you stop a bullet, preacher?” Deputy Clarke asks, leaning closer, exhaling another cloud of smoke. “Don’t even think about lying to me.”

  Years ago, Father Johnstone had some long overdue dental work done. It wasn’t as bad as he initially thought it was going to be: a couple fillings and an under-the-gum cleaning that left his mouth sore for the next three days. No root canals or bridge work, thankfully. He’d forgotten all about it up until this morning when old man Clevenger fired that bullet. The memory of it came rushing back when he felt the silver in his teeth move. Splinters of metal spiked and rattled inside his molars, singing in pain as Madeline sent out a wave of magnetic force.

  Deputy Clarke places a bullet on the table, sealed in a tiny plastic bag marked: Property of Pratt County Police Department. Besides a little char from the firing process, the round remains mostly unspoiled, silver with a stunted copper head.

  “This here should be crunched in,” the deputy says, fingering the tip of the bullet through the plastic. He picks it up, displaying it to Father Johnstone. “Or inside your chest,” he adds. “Any theories?”

  This is his way of saying: ‘I know you know, so let’s not bullshit each other.’

  He remembers feeling ice shoot through his fillings, the metal on his belt buckle pouncing forward as Madeline Paige cuffed his wrist and squeezed so hard the tendons ached. The bullet from old man Clevenger’s pistol slowed, easing to a standstill before dropping to the church floor with a hard tap. Then a riot broke out, but not the one everyone in Pratt had originally conspired. Father Johnstone had not been lynched or beaten or dragged behind old model Ford pick-up trucks. No one assaulted him. Not a drop of spit was launched his way. Instead, it was old man Clevenger who inherited the rage of mob and the flock—first, by disarming him, then the beating ensued, incited by an assembly of grain plant workers, laborers, and generally vengeful people. Along with the bullet, three teeth were collected and put into evidence bags.

  “A man tried to kill me today,” Father Johnstone says. “He fired upon me in my own church, and yet, it feels as if you’re blaming me.”

  “Right,” the deputy snickers. “Play the victim card. That’s good. I like that.”

  “Am I allowed to inquire as to the current location of my assailant, Deputy?”

  “Where the hell you think?” he says. “Hospital. Dr. Keller’s got him in a room, locked up and cuffed to a bed. Man his age can’t take a beating like that.”

  “But I should be able to take a bullet?” the pastor snipes.

  “Don’t sass me, preacher. Just because you
healed a couple cripples today ain’t making me forget what a piece of shit you are. Ol’ Magda Tiller done hinted at it,” the deputy says, pulling on the Marlboro again. Once again, Father Johnstone feels the smoke lick his eyes, stinging, but he doesn’t blink. He doesn’t take the bait regarding Magda and what she may or may not remember about her visit in the hospital. Deputy Clarke says, “She told me there was something not right about you. And now you can do things, huh? Stop bullets? I’m inclined to believe her.”

  “I’m guided by higher powers,” Father Johnstone says sagely, although usually it’s more specific. Usually he says ‘the Lord’ or ‘God.’ Not this time. “Crack a Bible if you want to understand how I can do what I do.”

  “Now that’s a crock’a shit you can feed to someone who ain’t had lunch.” Deputy Clarke takes one more pull off the Marlboro before stumping it out in a nearby ashtray. Years of cinder scorch the glass, crusting it black. A thick husk of coal. Another ingredient that Madeline could probably use. Envy, ash, magnetism—these are all ingredients. “I just wonder…if I pulled out my own pistol here,” he says, a grin spreading over his face. “I’m wondering if you could do it again.”

  Father Johnstone smiles back, brave, watching Deputy Clarke finger the handle of his pistol not totally unlike the sheriff. It’s the toy he never got the play with, forbidden fruit. He’s tempted to pull it out, to point it right at the pastor’s face, maybe even press the barrel against his cheek. Press it real hard until it leaves an impression in the skin. He wants to. He wants to watch him squirm in the chair a little, doing that thing where the target brings their hands up to protect their face. Like that would help. Fucking bullet would tear through those old fingers like hot dog meat, the deputy thinks. Shards of knuckle and phalanx showering the office, and blood—it’d take forever to clean up the mess.

  “There’s plenty I could do. And the town,” the pastor reminds him. “Pratt can hold its own when it needs to. Like today,” he says, throwing the deputy a combative look. “Impressive how they took down old man Clevenger on such short notice, don’t you think? Basically did your job for you.”

  “Oh, I do the job fine, preacher. Don’t worry about lil’ ol’ me,” he says. “Let’s just hope you can repeat your little trick should the occasion arise. I’d expect you’ll have to…sooner or later.” He smirks again.

  “Then I pray the Lord allow me the strength to rise to the occasion again,” the pastor says coolly. “And I pray the responsibility of serving and protecting our town doesn’t prove to be too much of a chore in the absence of Sheriff Morgan.”

  “Yeah, I bet you do,” Deputy Clarke says cynically, glaring at the pastor. “And after your little show today, I find it a tad peculiar our good sheriff would decide to skip town after paying your home a visit. Don’t you?”

  “Yes. Quite.”

  “He hasn’t been in contact…not even picking up his radio, but don’t worry yourself too much about that. I’ve been on the phones,” the deputy says. “Told law enforcement in the surrounding counties to keep an eye out for his cruiser. Only a matter of time, I think.”

  Father Johnstone is oddly reminded of the sheriff uttering these words himself: “Only a matter of time.” It feels that way to him, as if this is all counting down to something. The curse, the insects, the miracles—they’re all adding up to an event, a composition. These too are ingredients, Madeline would tell him.

  “He’ll turn up,” the deputy says. “He may have drove himself out but I’m not convinced he was completely behind the wheel, if you know what I mean.”

  Years of the sheriff’s bitterness have been passed down to his second-in-command, inciting suspicion at every turn. He’s on to the pastor, but there’s one aspect Father Johnstone can take comfort in; the deputy hasn’t incarcerated or cuffed him yet. If that was a card he was holding, he’d have played it by now.

  “I know you’re up to something,” the deputy says. “You and that Maddy Paige you’ve been spending so much time with. Word around town says you’re more than friends. You and anyone willing to tip 20%,” he chuckles.

  “Are you asking me a question, Deputy?”

  “Course not,” he reclines back in his chair, relaxed. “You and her? Together? Fine woman like that ain’t gonna give a ride to an old prick like you.”

  Father Johnstone feels his face flush, hot needles in the back of his neck. Anger—not at what the deputy is saying, but how he’s addressing it. It’s different with the sheriff; he’s a pillar. Equal footing allows for the relationship to be strained, and at times, disrespectful. Deputy Clarke, on the other hand, is a stand in. He’s temporary.

  “Maddy needs a young man,” the deputy says. “Like me.”

  Fire burns his ears and neck, watching the deputy chuckle, laugh. Father Johnstone shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the muscles in his back tightening. He’s tense, knowing full well he’s being taunted. Father Johnstone is being tested, but not by thy Lord and savior. Not by God. Deputy Clarke, as crass as he might be, is trying to do the thing the sheriff never could.

  “She’s probably one of them shavers, don’t you think, preacher?” the deputy asks, grinning. “Bet there’s not a single whisker on that biscuit. Maybe you could put in a good word for me? Or should I just pay her a visit myself?”

  Anger mounts in the pastor’s chest, his neck, but it lasts only as long as it takes for him to figure out the game. Deputy Clarke is goading him for reasons beyond simple intimidation or personal joy. He’s looking for something specific, something the sheriff never got out of him: a reaction.

  “Not really much that can stop me, now is there?” Deputy Clarke asks. He’s looking for a heated response, something to bring Father Johnstone down to his level. “Certainly not you, preacher. Probably never had a fight in your life.”

  He doesn’t want information. He doesn’t care about what happened in the church today, miracle or otherwise. These issues were merely an appropriate reason to get the pastor down to the station for questioning, although their meeting has since devolved to a barrage of ridicule. Deputy Clarke would never deprive the sheriff of taking down the pastor, but he relishes the opportunity of ‘playing with his food,’ as they say.

  When the father leaves the homestead, it is their next of kin that will find themselves drawn to their earthly possessions. In this case, Sheriff Morgan’s unofficial claim on the pastor. The Good Book identifies this as coveting; it’s yet another ingredient being tossed into the recipe that is Pratt’s recent state of disquiet.

  “And what do you plan on doing the next time someone steps out of the crowd ready to attack?” the deputy asks. “Cos you can’t always count on one of your little miracles. Or the town, for that matter.”

  “I have faith that I can,” the pastor says. He intentionally stands up from his chair slowly, so as not to give the deputy any reason to remove his pistol. A sudden movement is the last thing he wants to make, lest he be faced with another bullet coming at him from a much closer range than this morning. Deputy Clarke follows in suit, also rising to a standing position. Mixed emotions cross his face, mentally weighing the outcomes of allowing the pastor to leave the station versus containing him, if only for a while longer.

  In the end, the deputy leaves Father Johnstone with an official warning, informing him, “I will be keeping an eye on you.” He says, “You and the cunt.”

  “Then I pray, Deputy, that you don’t miss anything more threatening while your attention is diverted,” the pastor retorts. “You are the law in Pratt now, after all.”

  “That’s right, preacher. Glad that’s clear,” Deputy Clarke nods. “And I think it’s best you stay put until we get all this mess with old man Clevenger and the sheriff sorted out. Consider yourself lucky I’m letting you walk out at all.”

  Father Johnstone formally observes the deputy’s sentiments with a nod, choosing not to respond to the final barb. Luck has nothing to do with it, he thinks. ‘You treat a puppy like a mean bastard, yo
u’re gonna have one mean bastard of a dog on your hands,’ folks say.

  As the pastor exits the police station, he comes to realize that the exchange between himself and the deputy was the longest they’ve ever shared. Apart from the congenial nod or polite wave, their interactions have always been limited. Sending away the sheriff hasn’t delayed a problem as Madeline originally thought; it’s merely transferred it to another agent. Today’s events at the church were indeed a success, but whatever the next part of the plan is, it won’t be without a watchful presence as originally assumed. Deputy Clarke is aching to prove himself, and the letter of the law will factor in very little (if at all) in his quest to achieve that.

  “Only a matter of time,” he said.

  Father Johnstone walks the streets of Pratt, stomach panging from all the recent excitement, not to mention the state of affairs regarding his last meal. Madeline’s bacon and eggs are currently touring the town’s sewage system instead of his guts, and so he’s hoping now that the deed is over, he’ll be able to keep down his chow. Something heavy, like a steak and a baked potato topped with sour cream. Buttered bread would hit the spot, too, but that may have gone to mold in his cupboards some time ago.

  Over the course of the week’s events, it wasn’t just Father Johnstone’s health and temperament that went to hell. Both his home and his flock were compromised, and in an abrupt fashion, no less. Vandalism and violence brushed against his existence, threatening his livelihood through methods he believed too archaic to exist beyond scripture. Madeline proved that assumption was wrong, that he had indeed been feeling the effects of a curse. Poison would slip into his mind and body, his dreams, and had it soaked in a little bit more, he might not even be walking the streets under his own accord. It is Madeline that saves, that guides. It is Madeline that is able to do more than he’s ever been able to in over thirty years.

  She comes into view as the pastor nears his home. Madeline stands on the cracked sidewalk just outside Father Johnstone’s house, Mary saddled over one of her arms. Her floral print dress billows as the wind pushes dust and grime along the street. Figures are all over the property, working, toiling. Silver tins of paint and bags of mulch line the house. Ladders are leaned against the east face of the home, granting rooftop access. Four trucks are parked along the street, and from the within beds various men remove toolboxes and more buckets of paint. Brushes and power washers and plants in plastic housings.