METAtropolis:The Wings We Dare Aspire

by Jay Lake

  “Why would I—”

  Frost’s eyes narrowed. “If you want to talk, I’m fine with talking. But it’ll be between you and me and the Lord God His Ownself. No one else.”

  George thought about the suitcase, packed for travel, and ready a day ahead for the agents to pick up. He knows.

  The wiry man reached beneath the seat and pulled out a wad of clothing. George saw a pair of sweats, a CHRIST IS LORD t-shirt, a lightweight windbreaker and a pair of rubber boots. “You can put these on. It wouldn’t do for folks to see a naked preacher in my boat.” His grin seemed sincere.

  George kicked off his shoes and started peeling off his socks. Billy grabbed them up as they came off and tossed them over the side. George started to protest but Frost raised his eyebrows. He fished his wallet and keys out of his pants and looked for a place to set them. Frost extended a hand.

  “Not these too,” George said.

  “Every stitch,” Frost answered.

  George placed them in the waiting hand and watched them plunk into the water. Then, he watched as his Bible followed.

  “That part grieves me,” Frost said, “but I’ve got another you can have.”

  George stripped in silence, realizing suddenly that if they really had doctored everything he’d brought, it meant they knew this was happening. But he knew better than to expect them to swoop in now and pull him out. When he was finished, Frost pushed the clothing into his hands and he dressed, already shivering from the cold. He sat heavily and glared.

  “Now tell me,” George Applebaum said.

  Billy Frost nodded. “I sent those boys out your way, George, on the Lord’s work. I did it and I’d do it again.” He leaned forward. “I feel bad that they blew themselves up and I feel bad that I involved you and your church in any way. But I’d do it again.” He sighed again. “Hell, I am doing it again right now.”

  George didn’t know what to say. He simply blinked and waited for Billy to continue.

  “World’s going the wrong way,” Frost said in a quiet voice. “Moving away from Armageddon and back toward a false and godless Eden. And isn’t it funny how the further we move down this road—sustainable this, recyclable that—the less relevant and more sinful this once great Christian nation becomes. We’re making Jesus weep, Brother.” He tapped the Bible in his lap. “Now I know you believe this book. I remember preaching it with you on the highways and the byways of Texas.”

  The memory of it intruded involuntarily. For a moment, the smell of fish and coffee and peanut butter was replaced with the smell of hot asphalt and sweat. George opened his mouth to say something, then closed it to let Billy continue.

  “And I know you know how it’s supposed to end,” Frost said. “Once this world is used up, a new one awaits God’s faithful.” He licked his lips, then recited the verse from memory. “‘And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea.’”

  George nodded and picked up where Frost left off. “‘And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.’”

  Then, they were reciting the words in unison and George felt a collision of emotions—nostalgia and doubt and regret—as they finished. “‘And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God.’”

  They stopped there, though George knew well what followed. Tears wiped away. No more sorrow. No more pain. For the former things are passed away.

  They were quiet together for a minute and George thought about it. He’d not heard anything that surprised him but he realized now that knowing it rather than supposing it added a layer of sadness he was unprepared for. The man he’d known had become someone else. Somehow, his faith and zeal had crossed that line into something dangerous for anyone who didn’t agree and George realized now that the line where that happened was blurry indeed. And here, in the rural outlands, with small towns largely abandoned by government and left to die a slow and lingering death, George could imagine Frost’s message of hastening Armageddon with a zealous push here or there was gasoline on a mountain of dry sticks.

  “So it’s true,” he said quietly, looking away.

  “Yes,” Frost said. “It’s true.”

  George hesitated before his next words, not sure if he should say anything or not. “You know that they know, right?”

  Frost shrugged. “Sure I do. And when they come for me, I’ll go. I’ve got no trouble telling the truth with my hand on God’s holy book. His work is bigger than the folks He uses to do it.” He paused for a moment and George saw the lines of conviction on his face. “I’m doing the right thing here, George.”

  No, George thought, but you think that you are. Just like I thought for most of my life. Only this man who used to be his friend had taken a road that he could not fathom. He’d done his share of railing against the system and complaining about the emerging new world order that his own grandfather had likely preached against. But what did it take to tip a frustrated, backward grasping toward a perception of better times into a quiet, resolved rage? A rage that turned to violence to force change?

  He tried to think of something to say but could find no words.

  Frost offered a strained smile. “I know this is hard. And I’m sorry for it. But it’s the truth, Brother. And the Lord himself said he did not come to bring peace but a sword.” He lifted his rod and started reeling in the line. “I’ve got some work today. Visitations to make. I’d like you to come with me.”

  George felt sick. “I think I should head home, Billy.” He thought about the keys now at the bottom of the river. “I can call someone. Or maybe get a ride from someone.”

  But Billy shook his head. “Too late for that, George. I’m afraid I have to keep you around for a bit longer.”

  When he opened his mouth to protest, Billy drew an old revolver from his jacket pocket with a heavy sigh. “This,” he said, “is one of those moments that you accept the thing that you cannot change, Brother.”

  After throwing up over the side of the boat, George Applebaum reeled in his own line, stowed his rod, and sat in silence while Frost fired up the engine and pointed them upriver.

  As the water slapped the boat and the wind moved over him, George closed his eyes and tried once again to pray.

  But now, more than ever, he suspected strongly that no one was really listening after all.

  * * *

  Charity Oxham lowered the handles of the wheelbarrow and wiped the sweat from her forehead. It was a cool day, overcast yet dry so far, but running up and down Cathlamet’s residential streets hauling Molly’s donations was tiring work.

  She’d approached the girl after breakfast, catching her as she mopped the tile floors of the storefront. She’d transformed the space into something passable and had hung a cardboard sign on the door declaring that the Cathlamet Community Club would open on Friday with its kick-off event.

  The girl was surprised at Charity’s offer of help and took one look at her navy blue skirt, gray blouse and pumps before grinning. “I’d love your help,” she said, “but you’re not dressed for it.”

  So fifteen minutes later, she was back in a sweat suit and ball cap still damp from her morning run. They walked to the hardware store and bought the wheelbarrow first. From there, it was a morning of walking and pushing.

  They went out together from house to house. Molly introduced herself to each person who answered, telling those who’d listen what she was doing with the old Cathlamet Pharmacy and dropping off simple fliers with anyone who’d take them. If a person expressed interest, she shared more and then put what she called “the ask” to them.

  “What’s one thing you have lying around that you can live without?”

  Charity had never seen anything like it. Slowly, the wheelbarrow filled. Old candles. T
attered paperbacks. Cans of food and bags of beans. Sacks of clothing and an old blanket. Some even had larger items—an old sofa, a paint-splattered wooden chair—that they promised to put out on the street. She had no idea what Molly would do with it all and when she asked between houses, the young woman shrugged.

  “Hard to say. But I’m sure we’ll find a use.”

  Charity shook her head. “And this heals the world how?”

  “Just watch,” Molly said with a grin.

  They pushed the latest haul through the glass doors and unloaded quickly, stacking like items with like items around the edges of the room. Then, they sat against the wall and nibbled on salami sandwiches while Molly checked her list and Charity read the flier again.

  “A casserole cook-off?” she asked between bites.

  Molly looked up, her pencil poised above the sheet. She grinned. “I make a pretty bad-ass casserole.” She slid the pencil behind her ear. “It’s just an excuse, really, to get people together.”

  “And once they’re together?”

  The young woman sipped her Dr. Pepper. “We’ll just talk. And we’ll keep getting them together. We’ll find out what needs doing around here and then we’ll go do it. Towns like Cathlamet have lost the tax base for government sponsored community programs. There are other groups filling in those gaps but some of them are—” here, she paused and Charity watched her look for more careful wording. “Some of those groups have a less positive agenda.”

  She knows. It wasn’t clear just how much, but it stood to reason she’d know something. This foundation intrigued her more and more—a charitable organization that combined guns with casseroles to do its work.

  She opened her mouth to ask another question but a knock at the door interrupted her. She looked up to see two men standing in the doorway. The first was tall and nearly gaunt, his salt and pepper hair close-cropped over jutting ears and his intense blue eyes and crooked grin oddly charismatic. He wore jeans and a dress shirt with a western-style tie. His companion looked less comfortable. He was a larger man wearing ill-fitting slacks and a sweater, his gray hair thinning and his expression blank.

  Molly stood. Charity did the same.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” the first man said with a lazy southern drawl. The man behind him said nothing.

  Charity watched recognition flash across Molly’s face, then watched her subdue it. The young woman stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Molly Clark,” she said. “This is my friend Charity.”

  “Pastor Billy Frost,” the man answered. “And this is my friend George Applebaum. A visiting pastor from Portland. We wanted to come by and introduce ourselves, welcome you proper-like.”

  Frost. He didn’t look the way she’d imagined the head of a terrorist organization might look, but Charity knew from experience that they rarely did.

  She glanced at Molly, whose posture and tone suggested something more formal, more guarded than what she’d seen of the girl so far. “I appreciate the welcome, Pastor Frost.”

  Frost held up one of her fliers and his smile widened. “I love a good casserole. When I heard Bob Drexler’s old pharmacy had been bought, I had no idea it was going to be used for the community.”

  “It was centrally located and empty,” Molly said. “It seemed like a good spot.”

  The minister looked around the room. His friend was oddly silent and when Charity made brief eye contact with him, he looked away. She saw something in his eyes that gave her pause.

  He’s afraid. And he should be, she thought.

  “So do you both work for this so-called foundation?” Frost asked, walking over to one pile of donated odds and ends.

  “Just me,” Molly said. “Charity is helping out for a day or two.”

  He looked up and at Charity. She watched his eyes move over her in a calculating way. “You’re also new in town.”

  “I’m on my way back to Longview,” Charity lied. “I’ve been on vacation at the coast.”

  Frost nodded. “Not much of a place for a potluck.”

  “It’ll do.” Molly’s smile was brief.

  His own smile was expansive. “Why don’t you let me help you out some? How about I make my fellowship hall available for you out at Wahkiakum Bible Temple? We have ovens and tables and chairs. Nice comfortable place.”

  Molly shook her head. “I’ve already distributed the fliers.”

  “Oh, most folks round here are easy enough to contact,” Frost said. “We’ve got enough time to get the word out.”

  “I really appreciate the offer,” Molly said, “but I think we need to stay with our plan. We want folks to see this as their gathering place and they can’t do that unless they … well … gather here.”

  At first, she thought Frost would argue but instead, he turned those calculating eyes to Molly, sized her up and then nodded. “Fair enough.”

  But there was ice in his voice when he said it.

  Molly repeated herself, this time firmly but with a smile. “I really do appreciate the offer, though, Pastor Frost.”

  He stared at her for a moment longer, his eyes hard beneath furrowed eyebrows. “Just keep in mind, Miss Clark, that Cathlamet is a town that was chock full of community before you and your foundation ever showed up. And that community is Wahkiakum Bible Temple … God’s community.”

  Her smile was sweet but challenging. “Not everyone believes in God, Pastor Frost. Those folks need community, too.”

  “Around here,” he said, “they do believe. So you just be careful which boats you go rocking.”

  With a last smile, he and his friend left.

  Molly sighed and shuddered after he left. “That man is dangerous,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Yes. He is. “Even his friend is afraid of him,” she said.

  She wanted to ask Molly how she knew George Applebaum but decided not to ask. Instead, she went back to her sandwich as Molly went back to her list.

  Outside, the rain started up again.

  * * *

  What started as a drizzle became a downpour as Frost’s pickup made its way back to the church buildings.

  After their conversation in the boat, Frost had made only a half-hearted effort to conceal what he was up to, taking calls on an old fashioned brick-style cell phone with frantic voices on the other end. They spoke in some kind of code, George thought, making references to pies and chickens or to obscure scripture references that even he couldn’t conjure up in memory. But still, he was talking … a lot. And he’d even taken him to visit Molly.

  She’d done a good job of pretending they’d never met and he wondered why. Of course, his conversation with Frost on their way to the old pharmacy was enough to convince him to do the same. It was obvious from the time he took the call from Steve Wilkes that Frost bore the girl ill will. They’d exchanged words, Billy’s voice rising in frustration. “No,” he told the associate pastor, “you wait for the doctor. I’ll see to her.”

  Truck tires crunched the gravel of the church driveway and George looked up to see a scattering of cars in the parking lot. He saw Steve Wilkes getting out of one, accompanied by a dark-skinned man in a green windbreaker, carrying a black case. He watched them walk quickly to one of the side buildings and disappear around a corner.

  The doctor. For whom? He thought about the young men he’d see running earlier. And the four others he’d met in Portland. George looked away quickly, hoping Billy didn’t notice. They parked and went inside.

  Frost led him past his office and into the foyer. The doors to the sanctuary were open and George heard angry voices inside. “Now, listen,” Frost said. “I’m bringing you with me to this. I don’t have to, you know. We could do this without you.”

  George’s look of puzzlement must have been obvious.

  “This meeting,” Frost said, “is about what to do with you, Brother George. Among other things.”

  “What to do with me?”

  Frost nodded. “I don’t make all of the decisi
ons around here. I figure the least I owe you is an opportunity to hear the argument with your own ears.” He scratched his gray hair. “It’ll save me explaining it to you later, I reckon.”

  Frost slipped into the room then and George followed after. The room went quiet when they did. He felt the eyes upon him as they walked to the front and sat.

  “So boys,” Billy said, “I figure we have some things to sort out. First, there’s the matter of the arrests. A lot of us are going away and we have families to provide for and chores to finish.” He looked at George. “And some messes to clean up.” He glanced across the circle of chairs to an older man. “Brother Tom, will you open us with a word of prayer?”

  They bowed their heads. When the ‘amen’ was uttered, Billy launched right into business. George noted that Wilkes had slipped into the room and now sat just outside the circle. He and Frost exchanged a look.

  “We are underway, Brothers,” Frost said. “I’ll keep this brief. We have strangers in the yard. Two women up at the pharmacy. One says she’s passing through but I don’t like the look of her. Her friend’s staying up at Drexler’s and she’ll be having her first event tomorrow evening. Let’s make sure it’s her last.” He thought for a moment. “Don’t hurt her. Just help her out of town.”

  The man to his left nodded. “I’ll put out a call.”

  “Good. Now, I won’t always be around to keep the wolves out of the pasture. So make sure whoever you call understands that more are no doubt coming.” He raised his eyebrows in Wilkes’ direction. “What do you have, Brother Steve?”

  “Tomorrow night,” he said. “Two by two, just like you said.”

  Frost smiled. “That’s what I like to hear.” He looked at George. “Now we have another decision to make.” He stood and smoothed his slacks. “I’ve known Brother George here for a good long while. We preached together. We studied together. We’re going to have to keep him quiet for a few days and I don’t take to the notion of shooting him in the head, though I will if I need to.” He raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly in George’s direction with the words. “But I think he’s harmless enough now. We’ve burned or drowned all his things.”