Good Sex, Great Prayers

by Brandon Tietz

  The First Tribute

  Anxiety mounts within Father Johnstone, the fear that another one of Pratt’s residents will emerge from the shadows to finish the job that old man Clevenger couldn’t. They could come from anywhere. At any time. They could strike him down on the very sidewalk he tours now. The pastor can finally relate to the paranoia that triggered all those witch-hunts of the past. It almost justifies why the clergy acted so irrationally. Madeline, of course, can sense the pastor’s turmoil beyond his tense body language. It’s one of her gifts.

  “Nothing’s going to happen. You can relax,” she says covertly out the side of her mouth. Madeline smiles and offers a salutation to Mr. and Mrs. Bellow, who are currently drinking iced sweet tea out of jam jars on their porch. “Try to act normal,” she whispers, waving off an invite to join the Bellows for a glass with an apologetic hand. “We’ll take a rain check,” she shouts up to them. Again, smiling. Pretending everything’s fine. It’s all part of hiding in plain sight.

  “I am acting normal.” The pastor keeps his head on a swivel, searching for another pistol or a sawed-off shotgun aimed his way. He checks over his shoulder to make sure they’re not being followed, eyes darting to the blind spots, bushes, and dark corners—hiding places. “I’m trying,” he amends.

  “You’ve got the aura of an electric fence right now. Stop thinking everyone’s going to shoot at you.” Madeline pulls a sleeve up on her brown leather jacket, exposing an arm. Every strand is raised off the skin, saluting, as if it’s just been massaged by a circus balloon. “See that? You’re making my hair stand up.”

  “I’m not meaning to do it. Honestly.” It’s just like all those times the pastor’s had to go to Dr. Keller for a flu shot: how the pain receptors would bunch up around the injection point like a beehive in his skin. His entire person is buzzing, sensing harm in every direction.

  “It’s broad daylight,” Madeline says. “We’re walking through a populated area and half the town is out enjoying the rest of the weekend.” Yet again, Madeline gives a smile and wave, this time to William Hicks and his three boys who are playing horseshoes out on their front lawn. They briefly pause to acknowledge her, tipping their hats in turn. “No one is going to attack you under these circumstances, especially with Mary around.”

  Father Johnstone lets his eyes drift down to the little Yorkshire terrier taking the lead in front of them. Mary jogs along energetically, sometimes stopping to sniff plots of Bermuda grass or a nearby elm, as if she’s checking for clues rather than a desirable spot to urinate.

  “What’s Mary got to do with anything?”

  “Dogs have their own set of abilities,” Madeline says. “You and I only have five scent receptors; Mary has over a hundred million. It’s why she was able to sniff out that curse in your yard through all that dirt,” she explains. “I’m having her scout the area for us. Believe me, if something’s funny she’s going to know long before we do, so relax, okay?”

  The pastor walks along, attempting to follow Madeline’s advice. “I’m still not sure why you don’t want to check in with Kurt at the hospital. Seems like he might know something we could use.”

  “I guarantee you he doesn’t. Even sober, that guy was of no use,” she says. “And I’m not exactly keen on the idea of taking you back to the guy that tried to kill you.”

  “He wasn’t responsible for his actions,” the pastor reminds her. “You know that.”

  “Just like you weren’t, Johnstone. I know. I get it,” she says, slightly exasperated. “You’re Mr. Morals, and that’s really great and all, but the clock is ticking here. You need to focus on the larger problem.”

  Madeline warned him about this before, that there were going to be occasions in which the difficult choice would have to be made. As much as he doesn’t want to, Father Johnstone is compromising, and he suspects it’s not going to be the last time.

  “I promise we’ll sort everything out once this is over,” Madeline says. “But right now we need to focus on Travis Durphy.”

  “I don’t mean this to sound rude,” Father Johnstone says. “But are you going to try to sleep with him? Because I really can’t endorse that.”

  Madeline hasn’t been entirely transparent with her plans thus far, vaguely citing how this ‘needs to be done’ and it’s their ‘best option.’ Time constraints being what they are, the pair of them really can’t afford to go on a virgin hunt around Pratt. All Madeline said was that Travis Durphy would be serving as ‘a tribute.’ Nothing more. She won’t even share the contents of the satchel that’s slung around her shoulder.

  “No, Johnstone, I’m not gonna sleep with him. Geez!” Madeline groans. “I’m not into guys that chew, anyway. It’s like kissing a wet cigarette. It’s disgusting.”

  “Then what do you want with him?”

  “I want what you want,” she says, yet again, vague. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, we’re not going to be breaking any of your little rules.”

  “They’re not mine. They’re God’s,” he says.

  “You know what I meant,” she waves him off. “Nothing is going to happen that you wouldn’t be okay with.”

  Father Johnstone prays: for their safety. He asks the Lord to protect them from those that would wish them harm. Most of all, he prays neither he nor Mary ever have to endure another experience like the one out in the fields. May God spare them both having to go through that kind of pain again. May God spare Travis whatever trials he’s about to endure.

  “I can feel that, too,” Madeline mentions, looking left to the pastor who’s walking alongside her. She throws a knowing smirk his way.

  “Feel what?”

  “That Holy insurance policy you’re taking out,” Madeline says. “Don’t worry. Travis is going to be fine.”

  Durphy Ranch—or ‘Danger’ Ranch, as it’s informally known—lies on the outskirts of Pratt on a half acre of land, a ten-minute walk from Madeline’s place out by the daisy hill. It consists of small barn, horse stable, and the main residence, which is a small three-bedroom. Its main attraction, however, is the makeshift bullring that Travis’s father had built back when he was on the circuit. Heavy wood planks reinforced with steel framing. “Enough to hold ten of these angry bastards,” he used to say. An entire summer was spent by himself and his crew of volunteers, usually on weekends under the skin-peeling heat. Once it was constructed though, Durphy Ranch became a resident hot spot for beer, barbeque, and best of all, bull riding.

  Going to work on Monday mornings with cuts and bruises meant one of two things: either you got into a tussle or you got thrown off and ripped to shit by Brisket, the Durphy family bull (God rest his soul). Men wore those wounds like badges of honor, more proud of those than any tattoo or barroom bottle scars they’d acquired. Up until Danger died, Durphy ranch was the proverbial hot spot in town.

  As the trio approach, Father Johnstone offers a wave to Travis, who is currently working on a lawnmower out in his driveway. He’s glazed in sweat, wearing jeans splattered in white fence paint and an old undershirt with holes in it. A mixture of confusion and pleasant surprise cross his face, but Mary plays her part of the ambassador well. She sprints to Travis, licking his oil-stained fingers and bouncing on her hind legs happily. It seems to convey the message well enough that Madeleine and the pastor mean no harm.

  Travis finds his feet, cleaning his hands off with an old rag. He says, “Quite the sermon today, preacher. Didn’t know you had it in ya. Whole town’s talkin’ about it.”

  Father Johnstone is unsure how to respond. He decides to avoid the topic entirely, hoping that Travis will simply think he’s being humble. “Have you met Madeline Paige?” he asks, making the introduction.

  “Not formally, no,” Travis says, displaying his hands. They’re still caked in oil and motor grease. He fumbles with the rag a bit before tossing it on top of the mower. “I’d shake but I don’t want to make a mess outta you.”

  “It’s fine,” she says, turning on tha
t campfire smile, the warm eyes. “Our own fault for coming over unannounced, I’d say.”

  “Not a problem, Miss Paige,” Travis says. “I think the missus has a new batch of cider whipped up if y’all are thirsty,” he offers, looking to Madeline then the pastor, gauging their interest.

  “I’m okay,” the pastor politely declines. “Madeline?”

  “Oh, me? No, I’m good,” she shakes her head.

  “Sure? It’s really no trouble,” Travis says. “But I dare say Heather might try to get a recipe or two outta ya, Miss Paige,” he warns her with a smile. “I heard you’re quite a talent in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, Mr. Durphy,” Madeline laughs girlishly, bringing her palm—the burned one—to her chest. “You have no idea.”

  “Was looking forward to trying some of your dessert at the bake-off. Damn shame about what happened.” He cranks his head off to the left to spit, wiping the chaw juice off his chin with a bare arm. “Heather and I, we prayed for you,” he tells the pastor. “Looks like the Lord gave you a little more than your health back though, I suspect,” he says, once again attempting to breach the subject of this morning. Travis and his wife were there; they witnessed the miracles for themselves. Now he’s searching for the explanation.

  “Indeed,” the pastor says. “My situation has improved.”

  “You will understand if our good pastor isn’t exactly talkative about the matter,” Madeline interjects. “Rumor mills, Travis. It’d be a great disservice if people tried to turn this into some kind of scandal.”

  “I hear ya,” Travis says. “Not into the gossip myself. Had a scandal or two of my own I’ve had to deal with.”

  He could be referring to a few things: his father gone too soon and the alcoholic widow he left behind, the weight of following in the footsteps of Danger, or perhaps all the salon talk about his little problem in the bedroom.

  Tragedy and faded glory. Wasted potential. This what people think of when the Durphy name is mentioned, and Travis has lived with it most of his life. People aren’t exactly chastising him and spitting on his boots, but he’s smart enough to know when he’s being talked about. Rumor thickens the air.

  “So what brings the two of you out here?” Travis asks, launching another rope of chew spit to the gravel and dirt at his feet. Madeline flinches at the sight of it, repulsed. “Figured you’d be—I don’t know—celebrating, I guess.” It comes out sounding like a question.

  “No, I’m afraid there won’t be any of that just yet,” Madeline says. “We’re here on business.”

  “And what business might you have with me?” Travis asks, although he gives the pastor a shifty look, wondering if their confidentiality has been broken. “You thinkin’ of casting another one of them miracles?”

  It bothers the pastor hearing that word, even in a joking sense; the word ‘casting.’

  “No, Mr. Durphy,” Madeline smiles, attempting to ease the tension. “We come to solicit your services, if you’d be so willing.”

  “You wantin’ the ring?” Travis nods his head into the distance where Danger’s bull-riding arena stands, which is now a liability of splintered wood and rusted metal. That hasn’t stopped him from renting it out, though, mostly to kids in their late teens trying to make it out of Pratt the way Danger almost did. The Durphy name allows Travis to do this without Sheriff Morgan getting on his back about permits and the like.

  “We’re actually wanting you to judge,” Madeline says, surprising both the pastor and Travis. “In light of Mrs. Tiller’s health problems—you heard about it, of course, yes?”

  “Yep.” Travis nods.

  “Well, I’m going to be helping out a bit,” Madeline says. “Y’know, balancing the books and hopefully, should we get enough people again, organizing another bake-off,” she explains. “Getting the food never seems to be the problem, though. It’s the judges. Father Johnstone thinks it’s best if he sits this one out, ain’t that right?”

  She’s not helping out with the books nor are there any plans to arrange a bake-off, and considering the conversation they just had, the timing couldn’t be worse for an event. Pratt is under a plague. He’s seen that with his own eyes.

  “There is a condition, though,” Madeline says, not waiting for Father Johnstone’s affirmation. A hand reaches inside the leather satchel she has around her torso, removing a small white take-out box with folds on the top. She peels it open, revealing a small dessert: a cupcake emanating cinnamon and cocoa, overtaking the smell of cow shit and dust hanging in the air. “We need to see if you can do the job,” Madeline says to Travis mock-seriously before breaking into a smile. The campfire smile that no man can resist. She lifts the box upwards slightly, offering it to him. “Take a bite and tell me what you think.”

  It is the third time that Father Johnstone has seen Madeline do something of this nature. Mrs. Tiller was manipulated for the sake of keeping the pastor’s name intact. ‘A necessary evil,’ she would say. Then there was Sheriff Morgan, the would-be assailant (and possible rapist) in hero’s clothing. He’ll be walking that lonely interstate road by now, blood and blister juice flooding his boots. Starving and dehydrated and wincing with every step.

  Travis Durphy will be the third to experience the reticent powers of Miss Madeline Paige. Oil-black fingers reach towards the take-out box, pinching off a sample of the dessert and placing it in his mouth. His jaw churns. Curse fluid enters his system, soaking into the bloodstream and swimming to his frontal lobe where it begins to go to work, altering chemicals and synaptic firing. It changes Travis Durphy’s decision-making and behavior. It bends his emotions. His trepidation slips and he can’t remember why he’s eating, only that what he’s consuming is good. He likes the flavor, the texture, how it makes him not feel and not think. For the first time in a while, Travis doesn’t feel like the son of his father. He’s beyond, outside himself.

  “What are you doing to him?” Father Johnstone asks.

  “We,” she corrects him. “I keep telling you this is a two-person gig.”

  “He looks brain-dead.” Father Johnstone remarks on Travis’s slack face, the glazed-over eyes staring off into the middle distance.

  “Technically, he kinda is,” Madeline says. “He’s not thinking. Unlike the sheriff, he’s not resisting it.” To Travis, she says, “Feeling okay there?”

  “Hmm, just peachy, Miss Paige…like I ain’t got a care in the world,” he says dreamily.

  “See? Told you he’d be fine,” Madeline says.

  The pastor takes a moment to observe Travis, the facial expression he’s currently wearing that’s akin to a happy drunk. “So what are we doing here then?” he asks.

  Madeline says, “We’re here to finish the job you couldn’t.” She folds the tabs of the take-out box back up and stows it away in the leather satchel. “Paying tribute,” she tells him. “You came to Father Johnstone with a problem recently, didn’t you, Travis?”

  “Yes ma’am, I sure did,” he says, although the words come out slurred. Something’s muffling him.

  “Spit the chew out,” Madeline says. “In fact, I don’t ever want you to chew again. You got that, Travis? No more chew ever. It’s gross.”

  “Yes ma’am, Miss Paige,” Travis says. He hocks out the wad of dip, swiping his tongue in the space between his lip and bottom row of teeth, cleaning it out and spitting a final rope of yellow chaw juice. “Not gonna plug no more, ma’am. Never again.”

  “It’s just that easy,” Madeline says to the pastor. “We can make a sheriff give up his gun or have ol’ Travis here kick his dipping habit cold turkey. We can even access memory and alter it, if we so choose. You can understand why the clergy were on edge about us,” Madeline says. “Nobody likes having their decisions made for them.”

  “And are we choosing to do that with Travis?” the pastor asks. “Besides kicking bad habits.”

  “The same way we can remove lung cancer or arterial plaque, we can remove other things, too. Things that aren’t t
angible,” she says, turning away from the pastor. “What happened when you came to Father Johnstone with your problem, Travis?”

  “I told the preacher I wanna do my duty as a husband. Told him I need to consummate my marriage to make it right in the eyes of God and the church,” Travis says. “He got cold on me. His soul went dark and he talked to me in a way I ain’t ever heard.”

  Father Johnstone recalls his meeting with Travis, however, not this particular section of conversation to which he refers. It’s blank, washed over by the thoughts of someone else.

  “He told me I need to fuck my wife like the Devil himself was inside of him,” Travis says. “Told me my daddy fucked all these women behind my mama’s back…made them scream the Lord’s name so loud they heard it up in heaven. He said I’d never be half of what Danger was until I did that, and he had a mean smile on him, the preacher did. Grinnin’ like a coon over a fish carcass, Miss Paige.”