Well, make yourself at home, Anne said. And be sure to get me if you find you’re thirsty after all.
Then Anne walked away, but not before noting his white button-down shirt tucked into his blue jeans. His black shoes. His slouch. The word sad came to mind and Anne supposed maybe the man was just that.
Michael took a seat on the couch. For Anne the image was interesting, if not striking: the lone stranger sitting solo as the old gang talked and moved in quick rapid gestures around him.
The music continued to provide energy. The familiar conversations lifted and lowered, lifted and lowered. And, walking through it all, Anne noted how Christine was watching Michael. Then she realized that almost everybody was unduly focused on the stranger. Why? What did they know that she didn’t? Clearly the man was damaged in some fundamental way. He hadn’t been able to look Anne in the eye. Didn’t shake hands or want a drink.
Need anything? Hank asked her, heading toward the kitchen. Yes, Anne said, following him. I need to know why everybody is looking at us like we’re the only ones not in on a secret.
Hank looked at her questioningly. Then, as Anne passed him and entered the kitchen first, Hank looked to the troubled newcomer Adam had brought and saw he was sitting on the edge of the couch, rocking subtly back and forth, his eyes on the hardwood floor. Michelle, who was always looking for party romance, made to talk to him and Michael looked up at her and the Christmas lights above the mantel hit his eyes in just such a way that Hank saw they were wet. Not crying. But wet.
Hank followed Anne into the kitchen and saw her talking to Kerry by the sink.
What do you know? she was saying. And Kerry kept saying he didn’t know anything, until Anne said you’re lying and you’re not doing a good job of it. Then all of Anne’s smiling and reasonable veneer took a hit as Kerry told her that he’d heard the guy Adam brought had once led a cult in the thumb area of Michigan. That the cult had grown large enough to concern the State of Michigan and that the guy, Michael, had “done some time” for it.
Anne looked to Hank and saw her own astonishment in his eyes.
Done some time? Anne asked Kerry. Hank placed a hand on her shoulder and Anne gently removed it. Yeah, Kerry said, sipping his fourth gin and cranberry juice. He was in jail for four years. That’s just what I heard.
Who told you that? Hank asked. Then Kerry said Roger told him and that Adam had told Roger and oh you know how information travels through the old gang. Hank smiled and fanned a hand to suggest he wasn’t going to let this ruin his night. But then he actually thought about what it meant, what a cult leader must do, the impetus to coerce people, to get them to do things for you, the lies and false ideology that must have been tossed around like truth.
Hank looked at Anne and saw she was looking to the kitchen door. Adam was standing there, smiling his easy-free smile, saying, What? What’s up, Anne? Why are you looking at me like that?
* * *
—
You brought a fucking cult leader into our house?
Anne had decided this wasn’t over-hosting.
Kerry sipped his drink.
Oh come on, Anne, Adam said. You’re better than that.
Excuse me?
We don’t judge people. We never have.
What exactly did this guy do, Adam? For Christ’s sake he looks shell-shocked.
He is. He has no friends. His family disowned him.
What did he do?
Adam looked to Hank, then back to Anne. He smiled the smile of the deeply frustrated and composed himself enough to continue.
Michael was put away for all the wrong reasons, Anne. He and his followers—
Followers, Anne repeated.
The record came to an end in the living room and was quickly replaced with music from the same era. Music from the past.
I mean, yeah, Adam said. He had followers, Anne. He actually…led a cult. Yes.
I’m going to ask you one more time, Adam. And please, be open with me. What did your friend do to go to jail?
Adam hesitated and for the first time all evening his real face showed through the many expressions he’d been wearing.
I didn’t ask him.
Anne looked to Hank. Hank kept his eyes on Adam.
Okay, Hank said. So you’re trying to help him out.
Yes.
You’re trying to be his friend.
I am his friend. Yes. His only friend.
Hank looked to Anne.
Let’s not let this rule our night. We have guests. Friends of our own. A houseful.
Anne made to say something but stopped. It seemed, to Hank, that she was about to ask Adam to leave.
Then Adam said: We’ve always been open-minded, haven’t we? Come on. How much can we have changed in ten years? The guy is down. I mean you can see for yourself he’s…he’s a mess. Obviously, he made a mistake. And obviously he’s living with it. Let’s celebrate the holidays and let Michael see that there’s still some joy in this life. That’s what I wanted to show him tonight. You know? The guy hasn’t seen joy in like…four years.
How long ago did he get out? Anne asked.
Ten days ago, Adam said.
Silence in the kitchen. The sounds of a holiday party beyond the kitchen door. Distant now. The image, too, of a dangerous man seated on the edge of the couch.
Ten days, Anne repeated. I just…don’t know.
Don’t know what?
But Anne didn’t answer. Rather, she was imagining desperate families, young girls, broken men and women who had come to this man Michael looking for some kind of answer to questions Anne couldn’t invent on her own. And what had he given them? What had he given them instead that had sent him to jail?
If you’re uncomfortable I can take him someplace else, Adam said.
Anne continued to stare into the probable recent past.
Don’t worry about it, Hank said. It’s the holidays, after all. The right thing to do is to…welcome him.
Anne didn’t argue. She couldn’t find it in herself to demand the man leave. It was over-hosting. It was inconsistent. It was…unlike the old gang.
Thank you, Adam said. And hey, unless you’re staring at him, you won’t really even know he’s here.
* * *
—
Laura and Steve left when they heard that the newcomer Michael had gone to jail for presumably persuading people to do things they didn’t want to do. Or worse. Who knew? Steve heard about it from David over by the sliding deck door, as a pop song ten years old played crackly through the Chamberses’ speakers. Often, Steve hid little things from Laura that might upset her. Other times, like when he was three drinks deep, he blabbed. Sometimes he got a big response from her. He got one here. Laura smiled at first, disbelieving, then asked what a few times, then grew cold and couldn’t stop pivoting to look at the guy. He was sitting on the edge of the couch, hands on his knees, staring at the hardwood floor, making a face that said, What can you do? Or, perhaps, What have I done? Or, perhaps, How did I get here? Where did everything go? Finally Laura couldn’t take it. She couldn’t stop imagining young girls and guys, lost teenagers, listening to whatever implausible poisoned philosophy he’d once fed them. She imagined a farmhouse, an empty warehouse, a church. And in every vision the lost teenagers walked in a row with wide, blissful eyes and the man Michael (who was sitting right there) wore a robe or wore nothing at all and told them what to do. She kept imagining young men and women on their knees.
It was, Laura thought, somewhat like being privy to the bad stuff about a person long before that stuff was made public. Like when the neighbors say he was a nice guy about a local who went berserk and now they’re reconciling images of him alone, planning, with that friendly face they’d seen on the street. And while Laura understood that the Merrick University gang had long prided
themselves on being open-minded, this was simply too much.
She asked Steve if he was ready to leave. Then she demanded they go.
Darla and Berry left, too, which to Anne made a bit of a dent in things because a party of chitchatters needed the quiet ones if they wanted somebody to talk to. Hank told her not to think about it. Called it a “weird night.” Then he squeezed her arm gently because it was their way of saying don’t worry.
But Anne worried.
A lot of the old gang worried. Adam introduced Michael to all of them, as they came close to the couch. But once word had spread about who Michael might’ve been and once everybody’s imaginations had pictured the worst possible scenarios (brutal, idiotic, sad scenes) they all gave the couch some distance, forming something of a semicircle, as though Michael could suddenly reach out and convince them of something impossible.
Anne and Hank noted how the conversations were getting louder. How some of the guests (many) kept looking at the solitary man on the couch, the hard stare in his eyes, like he was currently reliving every beat and breath of his days as a leader of the lost. Hank turned the stereo up a notch, hoping to combat the rising tide of edgy opinions, the drunk lift of familiar voices, slurred and blurred.
But the mood would not be abated.
And Greg Henderson was the first to crack.
It was no surprise to Anne, as Greg had long been the most volatile drinker in the Merrick gang. His nose was always red, his body always bloated. He’d been eyeing Michael with disgust for many minutes.
Hey, you.
He was bending forward, his bulk testing the seams of his gray suit. He was close to spilling his martini on the hardwood floor at Michael’s feet.
Hey, you, he growled. What were your tenets?
Half the room got quiet but the whole room was paying attention. Kerry actually turned the radio down.
Hey, you. I’m talking to you. What were your tenets, buddy?
Hank crossed the room and Greg turned slightly to face him. His saggy jowls and watery eyes made him look something like an old English bulldog. Like he was saying: This is my bone, Hank.
Michael looked up into Greg’s eyes.
Kerry turned the radio down even more.
Adam intervened. He said: Michael’s had a rough go of it recently, Greg. Leave him be.
A rough go, eh? Greg said, still bent at the waist, his hands on his knees, the drink tipping toward the floor. I hear you led a cult, buddy. What did you get those poor people to believe in?
Michael looked to Adam.
I’m right here, Greg said. I’m the one asking you. Surely you’ve got answers. A man like you. What were your tenets, buddy?
Again, Anne imagined a guilt-ridden dog. Bowed and beaten.
Then Michael spoke.
We believed in loyalty.
His voice was quiet, each syllable an Everest to climb.
Bloated Greg, still leaning, smiled and shook his head. Loyalty, he repeated. Young girls? Old people? Huh?
Women, Michael said. Yes.
Greg made a sudden move toward him. Michael flinched back. Then Greg smiled disgustedly and rose to his full height.
You’re garbage, Greg said.
Hey, Adam barked. Michael is rehabilitated. You have no right—
Fuck off, Adam, Kerry said.
Hank stepped toward the couch. Like he was going to smooth this over. Like he was going to fix this.
What did you go to jail for? David suddenly asked.
Even Hank paused and waited for the answer.
The old gang from Merrick U. Always better to talk things out, to say them out loud.
Answer him, Beth slurred.
Michael didn’t look anybody in the eye when he said: I punished a man for leaving. For being…disloyal.
How did you punish him? Christine asked.
Torture? Kerry asked.
Greg moved fast back to the couch and this time planted both hands on either side of Michael so that his palms sunk into the leather.
Quit the vague speak, garbage man. We’re smarter than the poor souls you fooled into sucking your dick. What did you do to the man who expressed his disloyalty? How did you punish him?
Adam reached for Greg and Hank held Adam back.
Then Greg slapped Michael and Hank let Adam go and Adam grabbed Greg and threw him hard against the wall. Greg’s arm cracked against the record player and the music came to a violent stop.
Only there was music. Music did remain. Music after all.
Carolers outside, down the street it seemed, their voices floating upon the cold white air, bringing back, if only momentarily, the spirit of the holiday reunion to begin with.
Michael bent an ear in the direction of the singing and brought a hand to his red face.
Then he started sobbing and every guest at the party imagined the stranger beating an old man near to death. Cutting him with unwashed knives from a farmhouse sink.
Anne told him he had to get out. Get out now. Adam, she said, take this man out of my house this minute.
It wasn’t the first time the old gang had seen Anne angry. There were times at the university. But it had been long since then.
Go on, Kerry said. Take him home, Adam.
Michael rose, stiffly, like an aged and beaten man, and the guests inched away from him. His eyes seemed to be peering through old filthy glass.
The carolers’ voices rose outside.
That was our main tenet, he said through his tears. That if you…left for any reason…even if they dragged you away…even if you didn’t choose to leave…you’d be punished.
Jesus fucking Christ, Greg said.
I’m sorry, Adam said. He reached for Michael, to comfort him.
Get out, Hank said.
Then the doorbell rang.
* * *
—
Anne answered the door. It was the carolers of course. They’d made their way up the street and were eager to sing for the Chamberses’ house. At the sound of spry female voices, the old gang slowly shuffled into the foyer. What we must look like, Hank thought. He wondered if the eight young women on the front porch could detect the mood, if the mood had seeped out the open front door.
They started singing “Away in a Manger” and their voices did something for the mood straightaway. Put a dent in the horrible vibe Adam had brought with him. And yet, there was an edge to the singing. Something thirsty in the timbre. It sounded to Anne like they were perhaps too forceful. She wondered if it was because they felt they needed to over-sing, to make the people in this house feel a holiday spirit that had been bled.
But Christine detected something else yet. Something behind the big white flakes, the earthy voices.
The eight young women on the front porch wore matching brown dresses that flowed like desert sand and Christine wondered how? How could they be wearing only dresses in all that cold? How could they stand barefoot outside?
They sang “Away in a Manger” and Christine started to feel cold inside. She wanted Anne to close the front door. Some of the carolers had dirt in their hair. Some had bad teeth. Wide-eyed and wide-mouthed they sang. And they all seemed to be looking at the same person within the foyer of the Chamberses’ house. They all seemed to be looking past Anne and Hank, Jane and John, Kerry and Greg and Adam.
Christine turned slowly to see Michael at the back of the pack, a horror in his eyes that suggested a stronger imagination than her own. As if he was picturing things she could not.
“Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,” the carolers sang.
“Be near me, Lord Jesus, I ask you to stay,” they sang.
Christine saw it as two of the young women turned from looking at Michael and smiled as they sang. As if they knew him. As if they’d found something. Something th
ey were looking for.
“Bless all the dear children in your tender care,
And fit us for heaven, to live with you there.”
GOOD DEEDS
JEFF STRAND
I just wasn’t feeling the Christmas spirit this year, even after chugging a quart of eggnog. I’d put up the Christmas tree, hung the stockings haphazardly over the chimney, gobbled a dozen candy canes, and bought new lights to replace the tangled ones, but nothing was working.
Was it because I couldn’t get my drum set to make a rummy tum tum sound? Or was it because my wife had left me three weeks ago and taken the kids? I wasn’t sure. Either way, as I stood in line on Christmas Eve to buy a couple of last-minute gifts, I was more Ebenezer Scrooge than Clark Griswold.
A little boy stood in front of me. Every time he fidgeted, a cloud of dirt came off his clothes. Poor little orphan. He held a pair of shoes.
When it was his turn at the register, he took a handful of pennies out of his pocket and began to count them out, one at a time. This was going to take years. I sighed with frustration.
“Son, there’s not enough here,” said the cashier.
Of course there wasn’t. That was an eighty-dollar pair of shoes, minimum, and the kid had set down maybe thirty cents. He was trying to act like he was some toddler who didn’t know basic math, but I’m sure he was in fourth or fifth grade, so there was no excuse for the whole handful of pennies thing.
The boy looked crestfallen. “But I want to buy these shoes for my mama.”
Oh, he had a mother. So he wasn’t an orphan after all. I didn’t have to feel sorry for him anymore.
“Daddy says that she’s running out of time,” the boy continued. “You see, she’s been dying of cancer, and today she got hit by a car, so she’s going to meet Jesus from one or the other tonight, if the brain aneurysm doesn’t take her first. And these shoes would fit her perfectly, because it says they’re size seven and my mama is size seven. I can’t have my mama meet Jesus in hospital slippers. I just can’t.”
Hark! the Herald Angels Scream Page 10