The Preacher's Daughter

by Fiona Wilde

  "Yeah," she said, trying not to sound too sarcastic. "I'll be sure to thank him for that."

  Her mother turned and walked out of the room. Naomi sighed and turned to the mirror as she did, holding the dress up in front of her body. Nearly a year of dancing had left her leaner and more toned than when she'd left; the dress was too big now.

  "You want me to wear this?" she asked. "Fine. Just remember, you asked for it."

  Five minutes later she was walking down the hallway lined with family portraits and into the dining room, where her mother scurried to put food on the table as her father chatted with a man whose back was to her. It was a solid back, and muscular through the fabric of his polo shirt.

  The way his father was laughing and nodding, she guessed Rev. Eric Feagans to be another middle-aged conservative stick-in-the-mud who told lame jokes between attempts to put the fear of God into their flock. She wondered what the youth in the church could see in someone like that.

  Her father glanced up, saw her and instantly his smile died away and he stood. Taking a deep breath he gestured in her direction.

  "Ah, Naomi. Finally come to join us."

  The man stood then and turned, and when he did Naomi found herself surprised. Rather than being middle aged, Rev. Feagans was no older than his mid-thirties. He was taller when he stood up than she imagined. His face was handsome and square-jawed and his well-tanned, athletic appearance suggestive of someone who did far more than sit behind a desk writing sermons.

  "Reverend Feagans, my daughter Naomi. Naomi, Reverend Feagans."

  Her father's tone carried a taint of warning, as if to remind her that this man was important, and that she should be polite.

  "Nice to meet you." Naomi took his outstretched hand.

  "Likewise," he said, looking at her more intently than she liked. "Your parents tell me you've been away."

  Naomi pulled her hand away and went to her seat. "Yeah," she said. "I've been away."

  He sat across from her, studying her, as if waiting for more of an explanation.

  "Well, they're glad to have you back," he said. "They've been worried."

  "I know," she said curtly. "They told me already."

  Her mother returned with a bowl of mashed potatoes and sat it on the table. Then she stopped, staring at her daughter's shoulder. Her face was ashen and the Rev. Frank Kindle looked at his wife, puzzled. Their guest, too, looked at Lilly Kindle before following her gaze to her daughter's shoulder.

  "You got inked."

  Naomi glanced from her mother to the youth minister. "Yeah. Last year."

  "What is it? I know tattoos have symbolic significance to young people. They say a lot about the wearer."

  Naomi turned and pulled the loose-fitting sleeve down, letting it drop to reveal the angel.

  "It's me," she said. "It represents my loss of faith." She stood and walked around the table, hiking her dress up enough to reveal the cross of thorns on her toned and tanned calf. "This one represents the painful influence of religion on my life."

  Her mother was still rooted to the spot, her father speechless and then sputtering.

  "What on earth. NAOMI! How dare you insult our guest with that display!" He stood and pointed to the hallway. "Go to your room! At once!"

  She stood. "Gladly, father."

  Tossing the napkin down she looked at him. "Just tell mother the next time she decides to pick my clothing that jeans and a t-shirt cover tattoos better than Sunday dresses."

  Naomi stalked off towards her room then and slammed the door. Sitting hard on the bed she put her face in her hands, listening as her father's voice floated to her from down the hall. It was mingled with her mother's exasperated tone. In between she could hear the youth minister's reasoned one.

  She lay back on the unfamiliar scratchy lace coverlet and wondered if her other one was still in the closet. Naomi got up and checked, but it wasn't there so she took the duffle bag out and searched until she found a Twinkie she had left over from her trip. Eating it, she fished through the bag again for her bag of weed. She was looking for a place to stash it when she heard another knock at the door.

  "At least you knocked," she said, tossing the pot back in her bag and shoving it under a t-shirt.

  She answered the door, expecting to find one of her parents. Instead she stood face to face with Eric Feagans.

  He didn't say anything for a moment.

  "Can I come in?"

  She smirked. "My parents don't let me have strange guys in my room. It's sinful."

  He gave a small laugh. "They've granted an exception in my case." He leaned towards her conspiratorially. "Just between you and me I think it's because I'm a minister." Then he winked and Naomi couldn't help but laugh.

  "All right." She stepped aside.

  He walked in and looked around. "It's not what I expected."

  "That's because I haven't put my personal touches on it yet," she said. "Come back next week. By then the walls will be covered with pentagrams and autographed pictures of Satan."

  He frowned. "That's not funny, Naomi."

  "Yes it is," she said. "So what do they want? Did they ask you to read Bible verses to me?"

  "No, they asked something more serious," he said. "They're at a loss for what to do with you. They fell like they've lost you and they want you back."

  "No they don't," she said. "They want their version of me."

  He ignored this. "They've asked me to help. Neither of them knows how to deal with you. Your father said spanking you always helped, but now that you're an adult he doesn't think it's appropriate for him to do that."

  "Duh, do you think?" Naomi scoffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  He ignore this as well. "Your mother is too upset. She's in her room crying."

  "So how are you supposed to help?" Naomi asked.

  "As of now, I'm in charge of you," he said.

  Naomi fixed the young minister with a shocked stare. "You can't be serious."

  "I am," he said.

  She was silent for another moment. "This is ridiculous! I'm outta here."

  Reaching for her bag, she lifted it from the bed but as she did Eric grabbed her arm, upsetting the contents, which spilled to the floor.

  The minister kept a grip on his arm as he leaned down and picked up the bag of pot. Looking up at her, he shook his head.

  "Do you know how much trouble you can get in for this?" He held it up as if showing it to her for the first time.

  "That's mine," she said.

  "Yeah." He tucked it in his shirt pocket, keeping a grip on her as he continued to go through her things. Her little pipe and pack of rolling papers joined the weed in his pocket. Then he stood. His grip was still firm on her arm.

  "Let me go," she said.

  He shook his head.

  "No," he said. "I'm not letting you go. In fact, we're going for a little walk."

  Chapter Two

  Naomi jerked her arm away.

  "I'm not going anywhere with you," she said.

  "Is that how your final decision?" Rev. Eric Feagans looked at her sternly. "Because if it is, I'll just call your father in here and recommend that he phone the police."

  "You wouldn't do that," Naomi said. "My mother is upset enough as it is. What kind of a jerk would expose her to that?"

  "Less of a jerk than the person who brought an illegal substance into her house." He raised an eyebrow. "Don't test me, young lady. I will do it."

  Naomi assessed him, wondering whether to call this man's bluff. Living in the mean streets of L.A., she had learned how to read people quickly and accurately. Her instincts, she knew, had saved her life. They were accurate. And now they were telling her that this man was not to be trifled with.

  "Fine," she said through gritted teeth and walked past him down the hall. He said nothing to her parents as he guided her out the front door and across the lawn towards the church.

  "Where are we going?"

  "To my office," he said. "Wh
ere we can talk."

  They entered the church through a side door. There was no noise inside. The building was empty. Naomi fumed as she followed the youth minister down the hall, past the Sunday school classes and into what used to be a counseling room.

  Now there was a simple plate on the door reading "Rev. Eric Feagans, Youth Minister." Underneath was a poster reading "You are beautiful in God's sight."

  He unlocked the door and stood aside so Naomi could walk in. The room was now an office, with a desk, a chair and a bookshelf containing books on everything from the ministry to camping.

  "Sit down." It was an order, not a request. Naomi considered ignoring it but decided against it. For now she'd humor him, but once she'd had enough she'd tell the good reverend where he could stick his bossy attitude.

  He sat in the other chair across from her and pulled the pot out of his pocket.

  "This kind of behavior, young lady, stops today."

  Naomi felt her face grow warm. This was the second time he had called her 'young lady.' What did he think? That she was a child?

  "Says who?" she shot back.

  "Says I."

  "Why do you care what I do?" she asked.

  "Because your parents are good people and they're worried about you," he said. "And because I made them a promise to help you."

  "Help me?" Naomi punctuated the question with a bitter laugh. "That's nice and all, but there's just one small problem. I don't want your fucking help."

  "You don't have a choice, Naomi. You need it. What's more, you do want it, even if you don't want to admit it to yourself."

  She stood, pushing her chair away and leaned over, pointing her finger just inches from her face.

  "You sanctimonious Christians are all alike, aren't you? You say you care about people when all you care about is your stupid pious images. You think you know what everybody wants. You think you know what everybody needs. And you can't wait to cram your way of doing things down everyone else's throat, especially if you think other Christians are watching. Well you know what I say to that, preacher man?"

  Eric Feagans shook his head. "No," he said. "Why don't you tell me?"

  "I say fuck you." This she punctuated with a one-finger salute, but no sooner was her middle finger upraised than the muscular preacher had grabbed her by her arm and thrown her, face-forward over his lap.

  "Your father," he said, "informed me that he considered spanking you today. But he said he knew he could not because - as he put it - you were 'too old.'"

  When Naomi began to struggle he wrapped a strong arm around her waist and gripped her so tightly she could not move.

  "Well guess what, Naomi? I don't think you're too old at all. In fact, I think you're just the right age to be turned around with the appropriate direction."

  Naomi had no time to really comprehend what was about to happen until it did.

  He smacked her bottom - hard. So hard in fact that she immediately burst into tears. But her pained response earned her neither pity nor reprieve.

  "Don't!" she cried out pitifully, but the youth minister ignored her and began to spank her in earnest, the large hand nearly covering the whole surface of her bottom with each dedicated blow.

  Naomi kicked and cried as tears ran down her cheeks and into her open, bawling mouth. She kicked, she beat the floor with her hands, but nothing she could do came any closer to stopping Eric from delivering a spanking that made her deeply regret her defiance.

  When he finally did stop, he lifted her to her feet in front of him. Her bottom throbbed and burned so badly she staggered a bit and he supported Naomi by her elbows as he looked into her eyes.

  "Are you ready to listen?" he asked.

  Naomi nodded her head, her breath coming in gasps.

  "Good." His voice grew gentle. "Regardless of what you think, my interest is not in impressing your parents or anyone else. It's not in shoving my beliefs or opinions down your throat. It's about helping you, because you need it. And because you deserve it."

  Naomi shook her head. "I can't be what you and my parents want!"

  "You don't have to be," he said, and she was so surprise she nearly stopped crying.

  "What?"

  "You don't have to be," he repeated. "I'm not God, and neither are your folks. They can't make you be a Christian. They're not supposed to. And if they've tried then it's no wonder you're so angry. What the are supposed to do is set an example, guide you and love you."

  He paused. "Above all, they're supposed to love you. That's what Jesus taught."

  And then Naomi was crying again. Something in what he said touched her and she didn't now why. Her hands flew to her face and the sobs came from a wellspring inside of her that would not stop pouring out sadness.

  Eric did not try to stop her. Instead he just held her and stroked her hair until exhaustion robbed her of the ability to cry any more.

  It was a few moments before she realized she was being cradled in his lap and she slid off, embarrassed.

  He didn't try to hold her.

  "Now that's better, isn't it?" He gave her an understanding smile. "I bet it's been a long time since you've had a really good cry."

  She accepted the handkerchief he offered her and dabbed her eyes with it.

  "I haven't really had time," she said quietly. "I was too busy trying to survive. Out where I was staying, the world eats crybabies alive."

  He appeared to consider this.

  "Where were you staying?"

  "L.A.," she said with a sniff, blowing her nose.

  "What were you doing out there?"

  Her mind flashed back to the strip joints, the leering men who watched her dance, their tongues licking hungrily over their lips as they ogled her with undisguised lust.

  "I was a waitress. Did some bartending. The usual."

  She didn't know why she felt compelled to lie. But for some reason, Naomi felt reluctant to tell this man something that would make him think worse of her. He was the first person in her life who had treated her as something more than an obligation or an object. It was different, this kind of attention, and she wasn't eager to see it replaced by condemnation. Not just yet.

  "The streets can be a rough place," he said. "A young person has to be pretty hurt and angry to stay out there as long as you did without breaking."

  He smoothed a strand of wet hair away from her face. "I can understand why you were angry. But you've got to learn to deal with your anger without being destructive to others or to yourself.

  Naomi shook her head. "I can't help it, though. Sometimes I just can't stop myself."

  "I know you can't stop yourself. But I'll teach you," he replied. "And until you can I'll stop you if I have to. Like I just did."

  His words sent a chill through her. Under her dress, Naomi's bottom still felt like it was on fire and she couldn't remember ever receiving such a painful spanking, not even from her father. It felt strange; Eric wasn't all that much older than she was. Being punished by someone only fifteen years her senior had increased the humiliation of the experience for her. But at the same time, his promise - and the threat of consequences - was strangely comforting.

  Tears sprang to her eyes again.

  "I'm afraid," she said without really knowing why.

  He put his large hand to her face and gave her an understanding smile.

  "I know. And fearful people are angry people, Naomi. They lash out at everyone - friends, family....even God."

  "God." She gave a little laugh. "When I think of God I think of my father - cold, judgmental, unfair."

  "Your father is a man. He's frail. He's flawed. He's a sinner like the rest of it even if he doesn't want you to think so. God is different. He's perfect. And he's merciful."

  Naomi looked away. "Yeah. Maybe."

  He turned his face towards him. "No, young lady. Not 'maybe.'" He sighed. "But look, I'm not going to try and convince you of anything. I can guide you on your journey back, but it's not one you can be dragged on."


  She felt comforted again. Somehow this man gave her the perfect balance of both limits and freedom.

  "How is it you know so much about people?" she asked.

  "Training."

  She snorted derisively. "Let me guess. Crandall."

  He shook his head. "No, not Crandall. I went to seminary at North State and after graduation served as a military chaplain. I saw a lot of troubled young people there."

  "In the military?"

  He nodded. "Not everybody runs to L.A. Some kids rebel by joining the military. In a way they're the lucky ones. They end up with structure and oversight whether they want it or not. Most of the time they end up grateful and come out as better people."

  He stood then. "We'd better get you back. You O.K.?"

  Naomi bit her lower lip. "It hurts still."

  He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her towards the door.

  "Good," he said. "Spankings are supposed to hurt and this one will leave you sore through tomorrow at least. Every time you sit down I want you to think about the potential cost of cursing at people or flipping them off. Maybe you won't be so eager to do it next time, huh?"

  "No," she said quietly.

  Eric cut the light and shut the door. The day was even warmer when they walked out of the church. As they walked towards the parsonage, Naomi could hear the sound of her mother humming a hymn by the open kitchen window.

  She felt a surge of panic at the thought of walking in and didn't know why. Somehow, Eric sensed this and grasped her hand, giving it a quick squeeze.

  "Don't worry. It'll be O.K," he said.

  They walked in and Naomi's mother looked up. Her mouth pursed in anger when she saw her daughter.

  "You should have told me about those horrible tattoos," she said after a moment. "I don't know how on earth we're doing to find suitable clothing to cover them until we can have them removed."

  "Mom, I'm not..."

  But Eric stepped between them.

  "Mrs. Kindle, I'm not intended to offend you but you need to be aware that body art is not at all uncommon today. In fact, when I took the youth group to the lake today I saw about four kids with tattoos. Just because you don't see them doesn't mean they aren't there."