Sweet Jesus

by Christine Pountney

  It’s ironic, Zeus said, but when they speak in tongues like that, it sounds Arabic. Close your eyes and you could be in a mosque in Tripoli.

  But we’re not in a mosque, Connie said. We’re in an ugly aluminum hangar, in the middle of America, with a thousand charismatic right-wing Christians. But I’ve got to go forward. I came here for prayer and I’m going to get prayed for. Are you coming?

  Hannah shook her head.

  Zeus stood up and said, This is bullshit, and he wandered off.

  Connie watched him go. I can’t help him right now, she said to Hannah. I need to think of myself, and she stood up and walked towards the stage and the crowd swallowed her up.

  This was madness, Hannah thought. And Zeus was right. If you closed your eyes, it could be a mosque. And Tripoli sounded like an exotic bird. Or a famous blue sapphire. Maybe the medievalists got it right. Maybe the mass should be recited in Latin, with incense and bells. In a language you can’t understand. To remain a mystery, Hannah thought and opened her eyes. Her sister was right as well. Here was ugliness and an appetite for the divine. And what did the Jews think of it all? Had the Jews come? Or were they racing for the exits?

  Hannah lost the truck in the parking lot, then found it. Zeus was lying on his back in the truck bed. I thought you might be here, she said. Is everything okay? He was staring at the elaborately sculpted clouds in the blue sky overhead. Do you want to go for a drive? she asked and Zeus sat up.

  Where are we going? he said.

  I don’t know, and Hannah tossed him the keys. Check on Rose first? Then I thought we could go into town. Grab a beer or something?

  When they got to the hotel, Zeus waited outside by the truck and Hannah took the elevator up and knocked on her mother’s door.

  Rose opened it, then headed straight back to bed. Her hair was vertical and waving around like grass. Her eyes were puffy. Her skin a little shiny.

  Come out with us, Hannah said. Come have lunch and see the city.

  Rose shook her head, then yawned so violently it seemed to come from another source that overpowered her. Hannah sat down on the edge of the bed. There was a bottle of pills from the hospital on the bedside table, next to an inhaler. How are you feeling?

  Like an idiot, if you must know, coming all this way and look at me. I just need to rest and I’ll be fine later. She lay back down. Hannah noticed a small spot of blood on the pillowcase next to her head. Maybe it was the tetanus shot, Rose said. I just can’t get out of bed.

  Though it was ridiculous, childish really, Hannah felt mentholated with hurt, some stupid feeling of rejection. That’s okay, she said, I understand. Do you need anything? Do you want me to get you some tea or something?

  Rose grunted, Uh-uh.

  Connie said the front desk would get you something to eat, Hannah said, if you called down for it.

  As she was shutting the door, her mother called her back. I forgot to tell her this morning, Rose said, I was half asleep, but I have a letter for Connie, from Harlan. Can you give it to her for me? I don’t think it’s urgent, but I told him I’d give it to her right away.

  Sure, Hannah said, and her mother pointed to her purse. Hannah opened it up and beneath the kleenex and keys and lipstick found an envelope addressed to Connie Foster.

  Hannah went back out to the truck, where Zeus was waiting in the passenger seat. You drive, he said, and they headed downtown. A man in an open-air Jeep, wearing a turtleneck under his sweatshirt and mirrored aviator glasses, passed them while talking on a CB radio. At the next red light, he was stopped in the lane to their left. Hannah watched him lift an enormous insulated mug to his face, the size of a small, tightly rolled sleeping bag. From his rear-view mirror dangled a black wooden cross. The most religious, she thought, always have the darkest dispositions. That’s why they’re the ones most in need of rescue. It’s why Jesus spent so much of his time with the prostitutes, murderers, and thieves. And lead us not into temptation. But why not? So many of the things prohibited in her youth were not as scary or carried such negative consequences as had been forewarned. People were so easily cha-grinned. When someone said, Have you no shame? Hannah wanted to say, No, and why should I? Shame was the invention of nervous people.

  But then, some people had nervous upbringings and scrambled all their lives to manage with the rules they were taught. When she was nine years old, Hannah had given her mother the finger. Rose had looked so shocked. Do you know what that means? she said, and Hannah shook her head. There were no words for it because it meant fuck you, which she didn’t want to say out loud. She already felt embarrassed and didn’t need to be punished. It means, Rose said, that you want to put your finger in my vagina. It still made Hannah shudder to think about it now. But it was what her mother thought was the appropriate thing to say at the time. It’s what she knew. What’s wrong, Hannah wondered, with the way I think things ought to be now?

  The closer they got to the downtown area, the more opulent and bigger the buildings became, as if wealth was the fertilizer that made lifeless things grow. The streets were clean. Things gleamed. Election posters cluttered the windows.

  There’s so much shit you have to put up with when you’re gay, Zeus said, and for a moment Hannah was silent.

  But that’s why you’re so great and compassionate, she said. Because you know what it’s like to be excluded.

  I don’t think Rose will ever look at me again as just myself, he said. Just Zeus, the person.

  You can’t listen to her about certain things. You can’t listen to either of my parents when it comes to anything that isn’t traditional or conservative. I love them, they’re my parents, but they can be totally narrow-minded. Whatever she might have said, I’m sure she didn’t mean to hurt you. She tries so outrageously hard to be irreproachable. I mean, what’s that all about?

  You belong to her, Zeus said. You never have to doubt that. You know she loves you.

  Oh, I know she loves me, Hannah said. I’m just not so sure she’s ever really liked me. Hannah had never realized how true this was, but instead of opening her heart to the pitiable fact of it, she quickly pushed it away. Whatever, she said. It doesn’t matter.

  Hannah almost ran a red light, braking hard at the very last moment. Zeus grabbed the dashboard. Sorry, she said, as a very pregnant teenager waddled across the intersection. She was wearing a t-shirt that said, I’m not with stupid anymore!

  Zeus sighed and said, What if people started caring? The sun was just coming out from behind a cloud and the light was travelling towards them at a stately pace, making things emerge as if for the first time. What if people actually started to care about all the things they pretend to be indifferent about? he said. What difference would that make?

  People don’t feel important, Hannah said. They don’t feel like they matter. I mean, I never really felt like I did, you know, growing up.

  The side of a building went orange as the sunlight moved across it. Cars across the intersection flared and the bright boundary of the sun slid across the pavement and up over the white hood of the Ranger and soaked the windshield and made it go milky. Hannah’s hands on the steering wheel felt warm in the light.

  Once, that may have been true, Zeus said, raising his head. But I kind of see you surrounded by people who tell you all the time how much you mean to them. But maybe you can’t hear them. This Norm guy. Your mother. Your sister, even. Would you believe me if I said I really cared about you too?

  Hannah turned to look at him. Someone behind them honked, and she drove on. In a minute, they passed a billboard that read, RAMADAN – 1.5 BILLION CELEBRATING – FIND OUT WHY against the backdrop of a blurred and rippling American flag.

  You know, this country is the mirror image of ourselves, Zeus said. We’re all so divided. Did you know that the Christians, the Jews, and the Muslims all come from the same family through Abraham?

  Did I know this? I’m not sure I do. The problem with being a rebel, Hannah said, is that you disinherit a lo
t of your education. There’s so much about the Bible I’ve forgotten.

  Fenton was sort of obsessed with this stuff, Zeus said. Apparently, Abraham had two sons. The first one, Ishmael, leads to the Muslims, and the second one, Isaac, leads straight to Mary and Joseph.

  Why isn’t this talked about more often?

  Their mothers didn’t get along, and that’s why they went their separate ways.

  So they’re not enemies at all, Hannah said. They’re siblings.

  Exactly.

  They parked the truck and asked a man in a wheelchair where they could get a beer. Try Frankie’s at the end of the block.

  Frankie’s it was.

  The bar was small and dark. They sat down at a round plywood table and both ordered a Bud Lite. Hannah took a swig and fell back into her own element. The TV above the bar blurted out more election coverage, a campaign ad, Obama shaking hands in a crowd, looking confident and relaxed. You know, Hannah said, this is where you’d find Jesus, if he were alive today.

  I am alive today, Zeus said.

  Hannah gave him an indulgent look. What people don’t understand, she said, is that Jesus was one of the original shit disturbers, a revolutionary. He went after the establishment. He believed in the redistribution of wealth, that everyone should get a fair share. Jesus wasn’t a republican, he was a democrat.

  Zeus wasn’t interested in a rant. It was the middle of the day. At the bar, two women in cowboy shirts were having a drink. One of them said, People in the south, they smile with their mouths but not their eyes.

  Zeus went over to the bar and started up a conversation with them, Beverly and Sandy Lanache, and soon they joined Hannah at the table. After half an hour, Sandy invited them to stay at their place. With me and my wife here.

  You’re married? Hannah said. That’s so great.

  We have a king-sized bed, she said. You guys can sleep in the middle.

  The come-on made Hannah feel bashful.

  I’m just joking, she said. Sandy was a dentist and explained that she did free dental work on the weekends for the poor of Wichita – she was used to taking in strays. As she talked, her silver bracelets clinked. She had soft-looking hands with long, slender fingers. Hands you wouldn’t mind having in your mouth, Hannah thought.

  For a moment she considered the possibility and regretted the circumstances of her life that sometimes made her feel constricted, slightly uptight. My dentist in Toronto, she said, just lost two fingers in a car accident and had to shut down his practice.

  I hope they were insured, Sandy said, leaning back in her chair and putting her hands behind her head.

  They ordered another round of drinks and talked about the upcoming election and the Republican Party, the Arab Spring, and the old war in Iraq. They talked about the economy and how bad the recession was, and how Kansas seemed to be at the centre of it all.

  Forget that people used to be successful farmers in this region, Sandy said.

  Or that we have a rich local history of religious and political dissent, Beverly said. Now all the farmland is owned by multinational corporations, and we’re under the thumb of right-wing evangelicals. Beverly took off her baseball cap and put it on the table. She pushed her hands through her thick grey hair and massaged the back of her neck. There’s still a big deception afoot, she said. Four years ago, good Christian working-class people heard his moral rhetoric and thought McCain had their best interests at heart because they’re on the same page when it comes to abortion. But the Republican Party hasn’t changed. It’s still an exclusive party representing the interests of the wealthy elite. Only they don’t like to talk about that anymore because being rich isn’t the proud mark of superiority it once was.

  If it was up to the state of Kansas, Beverly went on, Obama would never have won in the first place. McCain would have got into the White House, and the lies and misinformation perpetrated after 9/11 would never have come to light. But it’s not over. There’s still a lot of crap flying around, what with the right-wing media and bullshit from preachers like this Fred Phelps guy we have here.

  Oh, my God, Sandy said. He’s so horrendous!

  This guy, Beverly said, rounds up a group from his church whenever he hears that somebody’s died of AIDS. They go and picket the funeral with signs that say, God hates fags. They chant faggot at the top of their lungs near the graveside, right in front of the grieving family and friends. Can you believe that?

  Zeus shook his head. He was clawing the sticker off his beer bottle.

  Sandy squeezed his arm gently, in sympathy. She said, This morning I was reading about the latest university campus shooting, and recognized in the list of victims the name of one of my professors. He was a prominent biomechanics researcher. Maybe one of the top five researchers in the country. He was working on movement dynamics in cerebral palsy. I saw him a few years ago at a conference on socialized medicine. A good man like that gets shot, while the Phelps of this world seem protected.

  They’re protected by the people they can bully, Zeus said. His fury seemed barely contained.

  It’s true, Beverly said. Look at how cowed we all are. Where are all the free thinkers, willing to put themselves at risk? Why aren’t we all more outraged, all of the time? Like that Chinese student who stood in front of the tanks in Tiananmen Square. That’s what we should all aspire to be. As brave as that solitary, determined student, with his white shirt sleeves rolled up, carrying his briefcase.

  Connie started to eat a damp tuna wrap she’d bought at the snack bar in the lobby. The eating area was full, so she wandered outside, where she chucked the rest of her sandwich in the garbage and thought about going back to the hotel to see how her mother was doing. She looked at her watch. It was ten past two. After the service, she’d been prayed for and it had left her feeling tired but thoughtful. She must have written in her journal for over an hour. It was coming up to her appointment time with the prophecy team and she didn’t want to be late for that. What would it be like? she thought. Would God speak to her through the agency of a prophetic counsellor, and would she recognize it if he did? She so badly wanted to feel, on this trip, like she’d got some irrefutable proof, beyond her own decision to believe in him, that God existed. Other people spoke with such certainty about hearing the voice of God, but she’d never even gotten close. She wondered where her sister was, and if she’d make it on time.

  To her left, a small group of people were gathering around a van. The back doors were propped open and a girl of about ten, in overalls and a sweater, was standing there, clacking a pair of metal tongs. There was a steel coffee urn in the van and a tower of styrofoam cups. A woman held out a white paper napkin, and the girl used her tongs to pluck a cinnamon bun from a sticky metal tray and hand it to her.

  You gonna have one? a man asked. He seemed to have magically appeared at Connie’s side. I recommend them.

  They smell good.

  My wife makes them.

  She must be a good baker.

  She’s the best.

  The man extended a hand the colour and texture of a worn baseball glove. But then I did marry her. The name’s Dashiel Flander.

  Connie Foster.

  You’re not from around here, are you.

  Vancouver Island.

  God seems to have called people from the four corners of the globe to come here this weekend. He pushed back the crown of his trucker’s cap. You’re smack-dab in the heart of the United States of America, here in Wichita.

  I can feel it, Connie said. I take it you live around here?

  Dashiel turned a little and pointed beyond the big hall. We’re about thirty-five miles southwest. My wife and I run a residential detox centre. We’ve been hearing about Chad Dorian and his ministry for some time now. Got wind of this here jamboree and thought we’d check it out. See if we could help. See if anyone needed hot coffee, he laughed. Cinnamon buns are a real ice-breaker. My daughter and I call them my wife’s ministry muffins. You got kids?

&n
bsp; Three, Connie said. One girl, younger than yours, and two boys.

  Bet the boys are a handful.

  Emma has her way of keeping me busy too, she said. So what do you make of this here jamboree?

  Well, I had a poke around inside, Dashiel said, and I think we’ll take part in the service tonight. But this here is what I’d call some large-scale evangelicalism.

  There’s something about a crowd, Connie said.

  Oh, yes, there’s powerful energy in a crowd.

  And support.

  You hit the nail on the head there, Connie. Now that’s something there just ain’t enough of in this world. That’s why I opened up the detox centre. Had a little stint with the booze myself when I was younger. Booze and pills. Wound up on the streets in Fort Worth. Oh, it was the best of times, Dashiel said and his delivery was comical. It was the worst of times. You see, I had no support. There ain’t two ways about it. My parents had both passed away and you never think you’re gonna end up one day without a friend in the world to help you get by, but you’d be surprised how many people find themselves in that position.

  When I finally crawled back home, he said, with my tail between my legs, I knew what it was like to be homeless and rebuked. Dad’s farm was still in the family name, but it had fallen into disrepair. I wasn’t up to the new farming methods and that’s when God must’ve looked down on me and thought, Okay, now there’s a sinner I could use. I found myself in the Salvation Army building one night, sitting in a little circle of men. They were all chain-smoking and sucking back this terrible black coffee, and every time a man raised one of those soft white styrofoam cups to his mouth, his hand shook so bad the coffee would spill all over his knuckles. When I took a sip from my own cup, I realized I was no different from those guys. I’d turned into one of them. That night, I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Saviour and was born again. Three months later, I opened the farm to some other addicts who wanted a chance to get clean, without the hassle of the streets, you know, pushers and other addicts.