“And what do you plan on doing with these?” He knows the answer before Madeline even says it.
“Set fire to the room, of course.”
Father Johnstone nods approvingly.
“Bless these objects,” he says. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and give Madeline sanction as she uses them for the destruction of words that make this house and the spirit of Helena Wright unclean.” His fingers draw upwards, a few inches down, right, then left, forming a cross. “Amen,” he says. Madeline takes the candle and hair spray as Father Johnstone dials Dr. Keller, yelling out to her as she exits the room, “Be thorough.”
Mrs. Wright quakes, lead-colored veins branch up her neck and past the curvature of her jaw. They extend and darken as the pastor holds the phone to his ear, waiting for Dr. Keller to pick up his end. He presses the back of his hand to Helena’s cheek and it’s somehow even colder than it was only moments ago.
Meanwhile, Madeline torches the bedroom of the widow Wright. Starting low at the baseboards, she shoots hairspray through the candle flame and fans the bottom fringes of the wallpaper. Flames creep upwards, eating old glue and tiny pink and blue representations of flowers. Blood symbols blacken, char, deform to ash with a crackle. Madeline starts another wall, setting down the spray and the candle to wrap a nightshirt around the bottom portion of her face like a mask. Smoke is filling the room, crawling along the ceiling and moving throughout the house.
Father Johnstone is on the phone with Dr. Keller in the living room, telling him, “You know I wouldn’t be calling you at this time of night unless the circumstances warranted it, David. You know that.”
“Yes, but you’re not giving me a lot to go off of here. I can bring my kit but that might not be enough,” Dr. Keller says on the other end. “You said she’s cold?”
“Freezing,” the pastor stipulates.
From the hallway, the smoke detector sirens loud enough for Dr. Keller to hear on the other end of the line.
“Another fire, preach?”
Madeline reenters the living room at a run, gasping for clean air. She coughs hoarsely, keeling over and saying, “We need…to go…now,” panting between words. Madeline bolts out the front door, sucking down fresh air.
Father Johnstone can smell the smoke entering the living room area, the warmth of the house intensifying. “I’d bring oxygen, if you’ve got it handy.” He approaches the living room window and peels back the curtains to see if Madeline is okay. The lights of the Challenger flick on, cutting through the dark.
“I’ll come but if there’s nothing I can do, I’m bringing her in. You have to know that,” Dr. Keller says. “I can’t risk someone’s life for the sake of discretion.”
Helena starts hacking up fluid, black blood. Father Johnstone peels himself away from the window to check on her, and she’s shivering, crying on the couch. Her lips are moving now, forming words, but they’re impossible to make out over the sound of the smoke detector and Madeline honking the horn of the Challenger in the front yard.
“Fine, David—meet me in five minutes,” Father Johnstone says. He hangs up. Patting Helena on the back, he tells her soothingly, “We’re getting you out, okay? I called Dr. Keller.” But it’s as if she doesn’t hear him, still attempting to communicate her own message. Her lungs and throat are choked with fluid, obstructing her breathing, her speech. She can barely hear anything through the congestion in her ears and the whining of the smoke detector.
Outside, the sound of the Challenger’s suspension being mistreated makes a loud crunching noise as Madeline jumps the curb, parking the vehicle in the front of Mrs. Wright’s yard. Headlights pour through the living room window, illuminating the smoke that’s creeping through the residence. Madeline gets out of the car and runs back into the home, her breathing almost normal again.
“Well, that ought to get the neighbors talking,” the pastor says.
“They’ll have bigger problems to worry about soon enough,” Madeline says. “You take the legs this time. I don’t want her kicking me.” She hooks her arms under Mrs. Wright’s, clamping her hands on the back of her neck. It almost looks like a wrestling hold, only a bit more disgusting with the blood and various fluids leaking out everywhere. “What’d Keller say?” Madeline asks.
“He’s en route.” The pastor bundles Helena’s legs together under an arm and lifts. Cold perspiration and blood soak into his shirt, black fluid as thick as syrup. As Madeline forewarned, Mrs. Wright isn’t exactly cooperating. Her legs randomly spring outward making it hard to hold onto them, so he chokes up, wrapping her knees and clamping down hard. “David sounds apprehensive about the whole thing.”
“You’re calling him in the middle of the night from a burning building,” she says, straining to keep Mrs. Wright’s torso elevated as they clear the threshold. “I should’ve taken the legs. This end’s heavier.”
A moderate amount of squirming aside, Madeline and Father Johnstone manage to move the body to the Challenger, opting to lay her down in the confines of the backseat for the sake of space. She’s still shivering, still hacking up spurts of black fluid onto the interior. Sulfur overwhelms the scent of Armor All and pine air freshener, filling the vehicle with its stench as the outlines of neighbors watching from their windows can now be seen, either due to the fire or the sound of the Challenger hopping the curb.
“We should have called the fire department,” Father Johnstone says. “Whole damn house is gonna burn down now.”
“Like I said: bigger problems,” Madeline repeats. She does a quick check on the rearview mirror before peeling out in reverse, abusing the suspension again as the Challenger hops off the curb. Another violent clang for the neighbors to hear. She shifts into drive and heads back towards Father Johnstone’s place, asking him, “Because you know what happens next, don’t you?”
“With what, specifically?”
“This place,” she points out the window, the barren yards and petrified insect life hidden by dark. Bald trees turning grayer by the hour, depleting in earth tones to shades more akin to granite. “It gets worse,” Madeline tells him. “The insects and the land are the start, but then it begins to affect the birds and the squirrels. Dogs,” she says, turning to look at the pastor for a moment. “All your food, your produce and all the grain at the plant will have begun to sour. I pity anyone who eats it. And then you know what’s next?”
“Us,” the pastor says.
Madeline nods, taking the next corner going over 45mph on cracked asphalt. The tires barely hold and Mrs. Wright is sliding around the backseat, still hacking, sobbing. A streetlight catches the side of her face and the veins in her cheeks have subsided somewhat, much to Father Johnstone’s relief. He prays for her health. He prays her soul not be tarnished.
“There’s two ways about this,” Madeline says. “Either these people need to jump ship or they’re going to get sick and die like the rest of the town.”
“And what about stopping it?” the pastor asks.
“That’s on our shoulders, Johnstone.”
“It’s possible, right?”
“It’s going to be our burden to bear,” she says, sidestepping the question. “Because when these people come out of their homes tomorrow…when they realize the land is dead and the water has soured and everything around them is cursed—it’s going to be you they come to. They’re going to come to you, Johnstone, and they’re going to want another miracle,” Madeline says. “Even the non-flock will change their tune about you. That’s how desperate they’ll get.”
“And what am I supposed to do when that happens?” he asks.
“What any man of God would do: make them believe,” she says. “That is your job, after all.”
Madeline pulls the Challenger into Father Johnstone’s driveway, which is now covered in crude chalk drawings wishing him well. Pastel blue and pink thank-you notes and Easter yellow crucifixes. Flower arrangements lie upon the front porch. They’re dead, of course, but
the crisp petals and hardened stems make his stomach drop with a peculiar sense of guilt. It is not Deputy Clarke nor the mayor the people of Pratt will reach out to; they’ll seek out the pastor, and they’ll expect a solution, Divine or otherwise.
“It’s starting already,” he says.
Mrs. Wright’s breathing amplifies under the silence, fluid glugging with every breath. Her respiratory system is flooded with the stuff, and it brings back a few memories the pastor wishes he could forget about his own experience. It was like breathing soy sauce, he remembers, but with more of an acidic quality to it. Mrs. Wright is still shivering and coughing in the backseat, seemingly unaware of where she is or who she’s with. This is when Dr. Keller pulls up in his late-model sedan, a silver Honda. He parks in the street, getting out of the car and rushing up the pastor’s driveway with a handled black case. “How is she?”
“About the same, I think,” Father Johnstone answers. “Maybe a little better.”
Dr. Keller removes a flashlight pen from his jacket pocket, clicking it on and shining it in the backseat where Mrs. Wright is curled up and shaking, coughing up wet black. The sweat seems to have thinned out, but her body glistens with blood. Nostrils twist when the sulfuric smell finally hits him; he flinches, turns to the pastor and says, “That’s not from smoke.”
Father Johnstone nods. “You are correct.”
Dr. Keller shines his light in the backseat one more time, glancing over Mrs. Wright and attempting to devise some sort of pre-diagnosis. He’d like to ask more questions: where the blood came from and how long she’s been in this state. The issue is that it’s late, it’s dark, and he’s standing in the driveway of a pastor who’s got a half-naked woman in the back of his car. It’s the exact thing Deputy Clarke has been looking for. If he were to drive by right now, no amount of testimony from Dr. Keller would keep the two of them out of cuffs.
“I guess I’m an accomplice now.” Dr. Keller takes a breath, holding it as he reaches into the backset of the Challenger. The sulfur smell remains strong, and black fluid and blood shine opaquely on the black leather, much to the pastor’s displeasure. The two men carry Helena’s body into the house. Madeline assists with front door and tends to Dr. Keller’s medical kit.
“Get her a bucket,” she says. “That’s what she really needs right now.”
Father Johnstone and Dr. Keller lay Helena down on the couch, positioning her on her side just in case she vomits again. Helena maintains a wide-eyed stare at no particular object, tears streaming freely with gravity. Hair is soaked from sweat, flecked with pebble-sized clots of blood. Lips continue to move silently when she’s not hacking into the bucket that Father Johnstone has brought her from the kitchen.
“You two certainly seem calm under the circumstances,” Dr. Keller says.
Neither the pastor nor Madeline respond. Father Johnstone takes a seat in one of the nearby chairs, sighing heavily. He’s exhausted. Madeline dumps out the doctor’s kit like a bucket of toys, spilling medical scissors, cotton swabs, and a myriad of silver instruments.
“We could say the same about you, Keller.” Madeline sets a small bottle of disinfecting gel on the coffee table. Next to that: a Tylenol 3 tablet in foil wrap and a roll of gauze. “You ever see someone bleeding tar out of their head like that? Or is this the second time?”
Dr. Keller doesn’t respond—not immediately, anyway. He shines his flashlight into Helena’s right eye, then her left. Another wave of fluid can be heard churning in her neck, and so he halts the examination, backing away as another torrent of rot spills from her mouth. Helena shivers, cries; the doctor removes his blazer and drapes it over her.
“Kurt Clevenger is dead,” Dr. Keller says. He clicks off the flashlight pen, pocketing it in wrinkled trousers that were laid crumpled on the floor when he got the call. His dress shirt is in the same condition, but now blood and black fluid blemish the sleeves. He says, “Word has it our fair deputy is itching to question you again—and yes, Miss Paige, this is the second time.”
“And I imagine you examined it, yes?” Madeline asks the doctor as she makes her way over to Father Johnstone who is sitting in his chair. She takes his wounded hand with the slice across the palm and begins to mend it. First, by applying a generous amount of disinfectant. The cut stings but he doesn’t wince. “Lemme guess,” Madeline says. “Inconclusive?”
“As a matter of fact, it was, Miss Paige,” Dr. Keller confirms. “And it makes me wonder how a simple waitress would know that…amongst other things.”
“Oh? Like what?” Madeline asks innocently, wrapping the pastor’s hand. After the third revolution she cuts it with the medical scissors, using a gauze clip to secure it.
“I examined Bernadette Doakes and Jimmy Gibson myself, ran the tests and confirmed the results. I’ve even had them back for follow-ups over the years,” Dr. Keller says. “They were what they’ve always been: a cripple and a blind man. Then you show up, Miss Paige.”
Madeline nods, smiles. “That’s right, I show up. And?”
Dr. Keller stares at her grimly. “What are you?” She doesn’t appear to be offended by the question. In fact, Madeline welcomes this turn in the conversation. “What do you think I am, doc?”
“Honestly?” Dr. Keller smirks. “I think you’re the thing he’s pretending to be.” He motions to Father Johnstone who is sitting in the chair, testing the integrity of the bandages by flexing his hand. “The figurative ‘man behind the curtain’,” he says. “I think it’s very strange what’s been going on with the Presto and Magda Tiller and the bake-off…and these so-called ‘miracles,’ as people have been referring to them,” he says with a fair amount of skepticism. “It’s not in my nature to believe that, but I can’t explain it, either.”
“Go on.” Madeline gives a little nod.
Father Johnstone doesn’t speak, remembering how this was all explained to him some time ago: “There’s faith, there’s science, and then there’s the in-between. It’s the gray area, the fringe between the two.” When one can’t explain something medically nor put any stock in faith, the gray area is all that’s left.
“And now the land is dying. People are getting sick in a way I’ve never seen and can’t explain, and that includes the preacher here,” Dr. Keller says, disheartened. “You’re the common denominator, Miss Paige.”
“Yes,” she says. “Common denominator. Quite right.”
Dr. Keller takes in the two of them: Madeline and the pastor. They’re a tad worse for wear, dirty, running on fumes. Father Johnstone has bags under his eyes like grocery sacks. Brown eyes; Dr. Keller can’t remember if this is right or not. Nevertheless, this is a look that has become commonplace as of late, ever since he began his association with Madeline. It’s as if her arrival marked the beginning of the town’s renaissance affair, a period in which Pratt’s people soured right along with the land itself.
“But you’re not the reason for what’s happening out there,” Dr. Keller says. In his heart, he knows the two people in front of him aren’t responsible for Pratt’s recent deterioration. “If I had to guess,” he says, “I’d say you had a bit of trouble follow you to our fair town, Miss Paige. Pratt may not be aware, but I know the difference between a girl looking to escape the big city life for calmer pastures and a girl in hiding. Makes me wonder though what a girl like you would be hiding from,” Dr. Keller muses. “Or who.”
“Indeed, Dr. Keller,” Madeline says. “Who does a girl like me run from?”
“Someone like yourself, I’d imagine,” Dr. Keller says. “An individual who can also do what can’t be explained by men like me.”
Helena Wright’s throat churns again, spitting up more black fluid onto the couch and the bucket next to it. She’s pale, sweating, but when Dr. Keller presses his fingers to her leg, it’s slightly warmer than it was when they first moved her inside. Old man Clevenger—despite the doctor’s best efforts—he never went into any sort of remission. Mrs. Wright appears to be ridding the substanc
e from her system. With Kurt, it’s as if it augmented inside of him until his body couldn’t handle the overflow. It leaked out his nostrils, his tear ducts and mouth. Every word he spoke was laced with that rotten-egg stench. He was pissing and shitting the stuff towards the end. Two of his nurses lost their lunch over the smell, and his head RN kept asking whether or not they should call in outside help, if Mr. Clevenger was contagious.
“Kurt’s death was slow, painful,” Dr. Keller says. “That poor man lost his mind right in front of me…handcuffed to a bed and bleeding that stuff out of every hole in his body.” Dr. Keller pauses, taking a moment to get his bearings. “He kept saying a name.”
“And what name might that be?” Madeline casually prompts, but she already knows. Both she and Father Johnstone are well aware of the other variant lurking around town. According to Dr. Keller, the pastor said the name himself while he was unconscious in Pratt Medical. Three days lost, all because of him: Pollux.
“Miss Paige, it is my belief that the two of you are on the right side of things,” Dr. Keller says. “I can’t say for sure who you’re hiding from, but if you’re familiar with Mason Hollis like the rest of us are, I’d say that’d be a damn good reason.”
Father Johnstone leans forward in the chair slightly, brow furrowed. “What does he have to do with any of this?”
“That’s the name he kept repeating,” Dr. Keller says. “Doesn’t make a lick of sense, but I think Kurt was trying to tell me he’s back.”
“Of course it doesn’t make sense. Mason’s been dead for years,” the pastor says.
“Did you see a body? Was there a funeral?” Dr. Keller asks rhetorically. “You know as well as I do that story has been through the rumor mill so many times it’s lost all credibility,” he reminds him. “Mason Hollis is a ghost story now, and the only guy that can tell you what really happened is the sheriff. Good luck finding him, though.”
Good Sex, Great Prayers Page 31