“For fuck’s sake...” Matthew shook his head, but could not refute the blushing of his face.
The two boys rounded off the end of the picnic line. After they had departed, the remaining congregation in the sanctuary was almost exactly halved.
Michael walked over to Gary and slapped him hard on the back with his meaty palm.
“Well, Gary, what do you say? They’re gonna need some muscle getting those tables out there.”
“Sure,” he said with a grin. “Let’s be useful.”
“That’s the spirit!” Don encouraged from his pulpit. The room was filled with people wanting to help, and although Don was not completely convinced Rick would be in the mood to eat anything, the task brought people together and gave them some much-needed focus. He could not help but succumb to pride as his flock showed the compassion he had been preaching for years.
The room gradually emptied as people busied themselves with tasks until Flora Thompson was the only one left. She sat, abandoned – and perhaps a little forgotten – by the youthful doers flying around her.
Don stepped down from the pulpit and took a seat in the pew in front of her.
“Hi, Flora.”
“It’s very exciting isn’t it?” Her aged voice quivered.
“It is. It’s not every Sunday the Lord bestows us such a miracle.”
“Life is a miracle.”
“That’s true.”
“I’m glad Matthew brought me today. I’m glad I got to see with my own eyes. He’s going to be a fine gentlemen, Matthew, don’t you think?”
“As long as he keeps up with his Bible studies.”
“Oh, I’ll see to that.”
“I’m sure you will. Would you like to accompany me to the mess hall? I was going to make sure preparations were going smoothly.”
“No. I’m just fine here. I have some things I’d like to say to the Boss first, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, by all means.” He took his leave.
Flora adjusted her heavily-patterned dress, thick with colourful, entwined flowers, and rested her clasped hands on the pew in front of her. Twenty years ago, when she reached the ripe old age of seventy, she had forgone the burden of fashion and committed to wearing the same dress every Sunday. Her resolve was thwarted only a few times when the gloom of funerals had demanded less jubilant attire. She had recently decided this dress, with all its lively silliness, would be the dress she’d be buried in.
“Dear God,” she began. “I want to thank You for Your blessings. For the love You’ve shown in reuniting the Morris family. May Your kindness continue to shine on them as they try to rebuild their lives in Your glory. Also, regarding my grandson, Matthew. Please, give him the strength to overcome whatever has come upon him. He’s distant these days, You may have noticed. Whatever he’s gotten himself into, please help him to climb back out of it. In Heaven’s name, I pray. Amen.”
Her eyes opened with refreshed energy. She sat alone on the empty pew, in the empty room, with a full heart.
CHAPTER 13
The basement remained blissfully ignorant of the commotion upstairs. The children had completed their drawings and were now playing the clean-up game, which was very similar to regular clean-up and was really a game in name only. Susan, who had been left in charge of the children in Clara’s absence, had used this cheeky tactic to clean many houses during her rounds as a babysitter. Though some children were clever enough to see through Susan’s deception, they still tidied and dusted with the rest, for no child’s will was stronger than Susan’s charm.
Through the fabricated hallway, Clara emerged with an almost visible cloud following her.
“You okay?” Susan asked instinctively.
“I’m fine.” Clara’s performance lacked conviction.
Susan leaned closer and whispered, “I haven’t told Alex about anything yet. I thought Angela should.”
“That’s probably for the best.”
“Did you find her?”
“Yes, I did. She’s okay, just a little overwhelmed.”
“Of course, totally. I’m sure she’s just losing it right now. I mean, I can’t even imagine.” When Susan shook her head, Clara could not help but be distracted by flawless yellow strands of hair sent dancing about her face.
“Thanks for watching the kids. You can head back upstairs now.”
“Really, you don’t need me for anything?”
“No, that’s great. Thanks for helping out.”
“No problemo, Clara! If anything changes, just let me know; the kids are adorable.”
“Will do, for sure. Thanks again.” After the teen vanished out of sight, Clara’s attention turned back to the children.
“Alex,” she called lightly. “Your mother would like to speak to you.”
With that, she led Alex away from the other children and out of the maze of portable dividers. She brought him to the farthest end of the basement where the space narrowed. Angela was waiting for them there next to a pile of old decorations and a rusted, gas generator.
At first, Alex was afraid to approach his mom because she was standing in a spot right next to a terrifying plastic Santa head that was badly deteriorating. One of its eyes had been punched out and that hollow cavity leered at him, following him wherever he stood, like how a cat watches its prey.
“Come here.” Angela kneeled down and put her hands out to welcome him closer. He closed his eyes, blocking sinister-Santa from his vision, and joined his mother.
While they embraced, Alex mumbled into her shoulder.
“Dad’s back,” he said, barely audible.
“Who told you?” Angela pulled back from the tenderness. She looked up at Clara, who only offered a shrug.
“Yes, Alex,” she said, returning to her son. “Dad is back. But he won’t be living with us. We’re going to stay at aunt Clara’s for a while. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
“Miss Muller?” Alex questioned hesitantly.
“’Miss Muller’? What's with that, Alex? We’re talking about Clara. She’s been real nice to us, hasn’t she? And you like her, right?”
“We aren’t staying with dad?”
“No, no we’re not.”
“Why?”
It was a simple question, yet it managed to undo Angela.
Because your father is even worse than my father. He’s a monster, Alex. He wants to hurt us, even though he loves us, because he loves us. And if we stay with him, we’ll die. This played in Angela’s head in real time, as if it were a prepared speech, read in a slow, matter of fact voice.
There was only one way out of this, Angela was sure of it. While everyone was distracted by Rick’s return, she and Alex were going to make their escape. They would drive home, but only long enough to collect a few things. Then they were going to Clara’s house, where she had offered up a spare room for Alex, and a couch in the basement for Angela (though Clara had plans to force Angela to take the bed in her room, instead, while she herself suffered the sharp springs of the couch). They would stay with her for as long as it took to sort through the messy, legal jargon of divorce. Rick would be allowed to visit as little as possible, or not at all, if Angela had her way. Clara also offered to help out with Alex while Angela searched for a job. Then, once Angela could support both herself and Alex, the two of them would move, together, into whatever promising new life awaited them. It all seemed so simple. Simple until Alex asked ‘why?’, and Angela realized there would be questions, questions she couldn’t answer. Not yet, anyway.
“’Cause we need time away from each other right now, that’s why. He needs time and so do we. So, we’re not staying with him. It’s just going to be the two of us, okay?”
“Can I see dad?”
“Yes, just not right at this moment.”
“Does he want to see me?”
“Yes, he does, your father loves you.” Those words hurt more than his punches ever could. “Alex, we both love you very, very much. We just aren’t
going to be around him. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” Angela asked, shocked by Alex’s curtness. “Good. Okay, we can talk about this more later, alright? We’re just getting ready to leave now.”
“We can’t run,” Alex said with the same unnerving certainty. “Not from him, we can’t.”
Two waves came upon Angela. She rode the first, gliding on the serene connection she felt with her son, who had just pinpointed the exact fear she was trying to hide from him. It was a sense of togetherness she had rarely experienced and one that filled her with tingling light like a jar of fireflies. Darkness was banished, as long as their love and understanding of one another held true. The second wave, however, crested far above the first, engulfed its predecessor and then came crashing down. There was dread to be found in what Alex had said. He was warning her of the dangers swimming deep down below. And what would Rick do if he ever found them? Maybe there was more to fear than Angela knew.
The weight of dark, flooding thoughts drowned her and she sunk deeper and deeper into their bottomless depth, discovering new horrors as she went. Her throat closed somewhat and her breath was cut shorter. Soon all she could think was, He’s going to take my baby. He’s going to hurt him. He’s going to take him, and hurt him, and make him disappear. She didn’t care if she drowned, but she could not drag Alex down with her. Rick would know that. Rick would use that.
From behind Angela, Santa’s demonic face suddenly twisted toward Alex, leaning in, as if for a taste. Alex shifted away from the not-so-jolly, old Saint Nick. The head now stared directly at him, wearing a deformed grin, like the rotting, red smile of a clown. Alex became lost in the secret depths of its missing eye; he swore there was some life there, and it wanted him.
And there was life, though not the life Alex feared. All the old decorations started shifting, but not because they were hungry for child flesh; Michael was spotted pulling the old table free from behind the pile, and Santa’s head had merely been knocked over.
With a mighty heave, he yanked at the twelve-foot piece of furniture and maneuvered it with surprising ease.
Angela stood and pulled Alex to her, watching Michael closely to discern how much he might have heard.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” he apologized quickly.
“That’s okay.” Angela kicked Santa’s head back into the heap of misfit decorations. “What are you doing?”
“Just moving the table for the picnic.”
“Oh, I see.”
“You excited to have your father back, little man?” Michael loomed over Alex like an ogre.
Alex, still shaken up by the possessed head, could not assemble a reply.
“I said, you excited?” he forcefully asked again.
“We’re not staying with him,” Alex replied honestly.
“What’s that?”
“He’s excited,” Angela interjected. “We both are. We’ll join everyone in a moment.” She wrapped her arms around her son.
Michael and Angela exchanged a smile and he seemed satisfied she was sincere.
He returned to his giant table and lugged it toward the stairs. Angela was not sure what to make of Michael. The man seemed a simple one, but there was a pushiness in his pleasantries that suggested something was being restrained. What it was he restrained from, Angela could only guess, but she had a suspicion it was not something good.
Clara stepped closer to the two of them, but not so close as to impose, just enough to reassure them of her support.
Angela bent down and kissed Alex on the forehead. She rubbed his arms as a way to give comfort, but who actually received more comfort from this action was up for debate.
CHAPTER 14
Bruce, having lost all sense of time waiting in the minister’s office, situated himself at the huge desk next to a towering stack of old bulletins dating back two decades ago. He had made it as far down as the early nineties and found humour in the steady decline of clipart integrity. On the cover of the current day’s bulletin was an inspiring snapshot of a flower blooming. The vibrant yellow that beamed out from the centre of the oxeye daisy was a classic symbol of nature – and therefore God – at its height of esthetic perfection, like a sunset breaking through wisps of clouds, or the crisp snowfall of a fresh winter day. On the cover dated early September nineteen ninety-two, however, was the unsuccessfully photocopied line drawing of a flock of sheep being herded by a malformed shepherd. As St. Paul’s United Church was not, to Bruce’s knowledge, providing sanctuary for Quasimodo, he assumed the distorted figure was due to the ineptitude of the copier. The fleeting amusement this offered only urged him to grab the next bulletin that much sooner. So, he did.
This bulletin was not like the rest. While the other dates harkened back to anonymous times and faceless Sunday services, this one certainly brought back memories, and it certainly had a face. It was dated the week before his wife’s miscarriage. He remembered it clearly, the way she had excitedly informed all the church members about how the baby was kicking and must be eager to get out. By the end of the service, she practically had a line of people waiting to feel her belly as if it were some holy shrine. They had left the baby’s sex as a surprise for the day of its birth, but they were prepared for either. For a boy, they liked the name Ethan, and if they were blessed with a girl, they chose Bruce’s grandmother’s name, Eleanor, or Ellie for short. After the miscarriage, they did try again a few years later and that’s when they had Dylan. During those dark times, Bruce’s devotion to the church never faltered. No service was ever without his piano playing. His wife on the other hand could not bring herself to face God after how vehemently she had cursed him. As it turned out, their daughter would have been named Ellie.
He sat, frozen in the tragedy of another time, with the bulletin hanging from his hands, unaware that the bathroom door had finally opened.
Rick filled the doorway. How long he had been staring at Bruce was impossible to gage; but it was clear he was content watching. His soft breath gave no hint of his presence. He was as stoic as the portraits hanging on the wall. The blue clouds that swirled within his eyes were hypnotic in their patterns, like a building storm, and it was all focused on Bruce.
It was not until Bruce escaped his memories and reached for the next bulletin that he even noticed Rick. The sudden vision of the other man sent him back a few feet, while his hand scattered the pile of neatly folded papers across the floor.
Once Bruce had regained some semblance of composure, he pushed his way out from the desk to properly greet him. That’s when he noticed the man standing before him was naked.
Though fresh towels were readily available and could have easily been wrapped around for modesty, Rick stood as uninhibited as a freshly birthed baby.
Despite Bruce’s attempts to look elsewhere, or anywhere, he could not convince his eyes to abandon the flesh on display in front of him. Firstly, his keen sight focused on the other man’s cock – as men’s sight often does. There it was, a substantial tube of scarred masculinity nestled in a bed of dark fur. Looking past the obvious slash that scored down Rick’s member, Bruce’s mind automatically started to compare length and girth, and found himself marginally intimidated. When the phallic shock wore off, Bruce’s eyes roamed the rest of his body and gathered as much information as they could. Something about Rick’s unabashedly wide stance reminded Bruce of the good old days in the high school change room. Bruce was always a skinny guy, and his physique was never a source of pride, like it seemed to be for most of the other kids in the class. Their muscles had been well formed and bunched into tight knots right where you want them. They had the bodies of sexual, feral beasts, whereas Bruce was endowed with ribs you could have played like a xylophone. While his body suggested death and sickness, the other boys exuded only vitality and virility. Rick would have unquestionably belonged to the later category. His well-formed structure was built from endless physical exertion, which was the only good Rick had ever foun
d to offer the world.
There was no arousal on the part of Bruce for all his ogling, only envy; yet he examined with precision the rising and falling of Rick’s chest and how it set into motion a visible ripple effect as his bulk swelled and then relaxed, each cog in perfect support of the other. Bruce had become hopelessly lost in the intricate configuration of the specimen before him.
Upon a more studious inspection, however, he came to realize some of what had appeared as musculature, was in fact deep scar tissue. The reality dawned on Bruce that above Rick’s imposing build was a layer of skin that had been methodically carved, but by whom? Bruce could barely slow his mind down enough to form a half-decent response to the question. Was Rick kidnapped by a group of sadists? Could an animal be to blame? Maybe he had done it to himself? The third option was the one Bruce considered most disgusting.
Before he could expect any answers, Bruce knew one problem above all needed to be solved first. Rick had to stop being so naked. Finally, the long awaited first words entered the equation.
“Rick, um, there are some clothes here for you,” he said nervously, and pointed to the dresser behind him. “There’s lots of stuff in there, lots of things for you to put on. You could put them on right now, if you wanted.”
Rick’s eyes followed Bruce’s finger and searched out the bottom drawers of the dresser. He stepped free of the doorway with a slow, sturdy stride. Bruce understood, then, that he was unfortunately stationed between the dresser and Rick, so every step toward the dresser was also a step toward him. The closer Rick’s swinging nakedness came, the more discomfort Bruce felt.
However, when Rick brushed past, Bruce surprised himself by how little effort he had put into getting out of his way. His brief contact with Rick’s engraved body was unsettlingly exhilarating. He had allowed his right hand the indulgence of Rick’s hip and when their skin met, Bruce felt electrified. This foreign sensation, especially with a member of the same sex, was a reality he had now to toil with.
Rick ignored the bottom drawers, turned and reached into the open cabinet where a dark blue minister’s robe hung lifelessly.
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