by Lisa Samson
Never mind He was acquainted with grief.
“Over! Over! Over!” they chanted. One lady stood up, raising fists of joy and victory, shuffling in her high-heeled pumps.
Daisy looked for a place to sit down.
I settled the crowd. “Glory to His name. The One who banished pain and sorrow and death.”
It wasn’t so much that what I said wasn’t true. I just failed to flip the coin over and expose the rest of the picture: the bloodied Christ, the dirty hands of service, the dusty feet with miles of calluses, the bruised heart of making oneself vulnerable for kingdom come. Whatever that is.
I had rehearsed my message ten times, so seeing her didn’t cause me to misplace a single syllable. I was that good. I planned on heading to the top. A publishing contract and a few New York Times best sellers with my picture on the cover. A huge church and a television ministry. The televangelists had already garnered a bad rap, but Drew Parrish would change all that. I could do it. It wasn’t all selfish. Or … well, I don’t know. I think I convinced myself a small portion of me desired the growth of God’s kingdom.
Whatever that is. I didn’t understand it then either, but I knew it was something attainable if you could even semi-understand it. Jesus said it was among us and within us, and yet we still pray for it to come.
How could it be all of that?
Yes, I know the seminary answer, Father. But look around you. Is it really playing out that way? I don’t think so.
I knew measurable success. I knew seats filled and cash in the drawer and if both of those were overflowing … kingdom come it is.
You might call it greed. In fact, you’d probably call it exactly that here in your small parish in Ocean City, Maryland. You’d be right.
Pride too, you say? Okay. Yes.
When I came to Elysian Heights, there were only one hundred and fifty members.
Her mother pointed to a seat and Daisy sat.
Just like a hundred other late people. Their hair caught my attention, I suppose, and the bright pink of her mother’s suit. Nothing more.
I moved forward in my message, seasoning it with jokes and shrugs, half comic/half friendly professor, never too close to the bone.
Never talking about sin. That just wouldn’t do—I had them right where I wanted them, the closing prayer, the final flourish, “Thanks be to God who gives us the victory. Amen.”
Only I pronounced it Ah-men.
And they gave it to me, the last note of the service, as planned.
“Amen.”
Only they pronounced it Ah-men.
Normally, due to our numbers, I couldn’t stand at the back of the sanctuary like an old-time preacher or—perhaps like you do, Father Brian—shake hands with the Mrs. Grandys of the world who hold their Bibles like treasure chests, eyes crinkling at the corners when the pastor mentions something personal about their lives, something to let them know I care. How did that outpatient surgery go? Your daughter fly in safely? I’ve got a copy of that book we were talking about for you over at the information desk.
No, those personally delivered sentiments jumped ship a few years before. Collateral damage I called it. It should have been a warning sign. I see that more and more.
But Senator Randall, a friend of my father’s, was visiting, so instead of heading to my study in the office area behind the sanctuary, I walked down the aisle amid the confused stares of those who expected the same thing every Sunday. I winked as if I was letting them in on it all.
The senator was one of the first to leave and we talked for a minute or two. I’d been raised in politics. It was all second nature. But I couldn’t very well leave upon his departure so I stood at the door to the worship center, smiling easily because I had a lot of practice at it.
What a church Elysian Heights had become under my watch. The board loved me and maintained high expectations. I delivered.
What a place for God’s people!
The gray-green carpet, the cream walls, the plain windows of the vestibule all served as a backdrop for bulletin boards, the information center, the coffee and juice bar, and a sweeping staircase up to the balcony which housed more seating, the projection and sound systems, and the choir. We called them the Community Singers, because choir sounded so old-fashioned. We kept them out of sight.
No crosses to be found.
Shocking to you, Father, I’m sure. “Ashamed of the cross?” you ask. We just didn’t want to be offensive, even though—yes, I admit it—the Scriptures themselves claim the cross is an offense.
Folks milled around the coffee bar, the aroma of freshly ground beans perfuming the gathered ones. People can slam down the idea of a church coffee bar all they like, but when we installed ours the year before Daisy came and stuffed it with good beans and syrups, the congregation grew by twenty percent. That was a great move.
We were set to start our own sports league the next fall. Plans for a Christian school were already on the drawing board. The more we had to offer, the more likely they’d be to come and then to stay.
I didn’t have a huge organization like the Catholic Church behind me, Father. We were pretty much on our own.
“I saw your father on TV just last night!” Lacy grabbed my hand and shook it like thunder. Lacy volunteered for nursery every month even though she had no children of her own.
“Good! Good!”
“He was really giving it to, well, the other guy on that talk show.
The one with the two guys? I can’t remember their names, but it’s on after the eleven o’clock news.”
I smiled. “He has that way about him. Have a good week!”
I smiled. I smiled. I smiled so much I often wondered if it would divide my head in two.
Fred Hastert was next. “How’re ya, Pastor?” Needed to bleach his teeth what with all those cigarettes he smoked, but he worked wonders with our budget and headed up the men’s prayer breakfasts early Tuesday mornings.
“I’m fine, Fred. Take good care.”
Raynelle Pierce came after that. Enjoyed her fruit salad at church dinners. And she always showed up for cleaning days. Unfortunately she was sleeping with our janitor. No wonder she showed up for cleaning days. I know. I know. I kept meaning to talk to them about that. I pushed her along through the line as well.
Maggie Reynolds stood there next.
“Maggie! How’s the new job?”
“Great. A lot of travel. Was in DC this past week for several meetings with the FCC.”
Maggie worked for a media conglomerate. She was nobody’s fool and we were lucky to have someone of her caliber coming to Elysian Heights. I kept trying to get her to help with the vision or financial committees, but she was always strapped for time.
She and the other big timers rushed off to other commitments and the humble backbone of the church filed by. They offered their compliments onto my altar and I nodded, smiled, and pressed their hands lovingly, accepting their adoration if not their affection. Always looking slightly over their heads for the next bigwig about to step in line.
“Fine sermon, pastor.”
“You gave me a real word from the Lord.”
“Anointed. You’re anointed.”
I smiled. I smiled.
Yeah, it kinda makes me sick too. Hopefully that’s a step in the right direction.
After ten more such interactions, the tardy pair made their way toward me. Daisy wore a light brown sitcom-lawyer suit, complete with a short skirt, but she had a few more curves than that skinny actress with the strange name who popularized them a few years before. I loved something about that actress, her taut skin stretched like latex across the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones, those dowel legs that seemed almost like a fairy’s, able to be broken by a harsh glance.
She changed the look of Hollywood. One person. I admired her.
I smiled. “Hello there! Good morning! Thanks for coming today!”
Trician, the mother, hair frosted the same color as Daisy’s but a little shorter and
half again as big, smiled back. “Wonderful sermon, Reverend.” Her jewelry jangled and sparkled, pushing a heavy, cloying perfume my way.
A country accent contrasted with the glitzy getup. You can take the girl out of the hollow …
“Oh, I’m just Drew.” Nerdy charm engaged, I turned to Daisy.
She thrust forth her hand, manicured tastefully, and shook mine with a firm grip. Well. That surprised me a bit. I took her for the same sort as her mother.
“This is my daughter Daisy.”
“Nice to meet you, Drew.”
Well, she might not have been stick thin, but her shocking blue eyes and ample chest said hello in ways skinny legs never would. Just couldn’t help noticing. She had an allure about her that any hetero-sexual male would pick up on if he had decent vision.
“Thanks for coming today.”
She withdrew her hand, and in the withdrawing I saw the truth.
She dropped her eyes and smoothed her jacket. So the bravado was learned, practiced, perhaps thousands of times in the full-length mirror on the door of her bedroom closet.
Too bad.
“I’m Trician.” The mother leaned forward, a glint in her eye even a monk would recognize. “Trician Boyer.”
She’s coming onto me! I wanted to laugh. This used-up thing who’d obviously been tugged and pulled by a surgeon into some sort of Kabuki mask?
I whispered, “Nice to meet you,” and then turned toward the next member in line. But I caught Daisy’s eye and winked. She winked back and scooted through the door, squeezing her behind in between two of the elders.
Just before she disappeared onto the patio, she turned back around and caught my eye. She was swallowed by the crowd.
But she stayed behind in my second layer of vision, trapped in a greenish freeze-frame. Huh.
I escaped soon after, pretending to hear my name from someone in the stairwell. I waved with a smile to the people remaining in the lobby. What a nice guy, that Drew Parrish. What a really nice guy.
Always so clean-cut and presentable. Never a hair out of place or a crease not ironed.
They had no idea.
Hiding in my locked office until the building quieted down, I held a decorative orb carved of rose-colored marble. It calmed me, the smooth coolness reminding me of my mother who left the orb behind.
Footsteps approached, knocks vibrated the wooden panel of the door, footsteps retreated. I pretended I was gone. Sitting there, staring at the reflection of the lamp on my desk, getting ready for my father’s Sunday call. I wished I truly was ready. I was never ready. Not once.
12:59 p.m. The alarm on my desk clock beeped three times. One minute until the most calculating, ridiculously sleazy, and perfectly groomed man in existence would call me on the phone and grill me as to the productivity of my week. And numbers, son, how are the numbers? Any new people of importance?
I know, it’s hardly respecting one’s parent, is it? Another sin on the list.
I picked up the phone upon its third ring. “Dad.”
“Drew.”
Yeah, but I admired the guy nonetheless. He had the ear of the president, congress, and every major preacher and Christian ministry leader in the United States. And while his clients spouted Scripture, he knew the Word of God was of little value on Capitol Hill, where he tucked himself away with representatives and senators.
At least he called once a week. How many fathers failed to do that once their sons were on their own?
“Happy Birthday, Drew. Did you get my card?”
“Yes. Thanks, Dad.”
“Thirty is a big year for a man. No excuses left, full forward from there on out.”
“Yes, I believe you’re right. So will you be coming down sometime soon?”
I always fell into the formal tones of my father.
He remained silent, for he knew I already knew the answer so why ask a worthless question? It was his way, my father, of reprimanding me for being foolish. He’d always been that way. I’d come home from school with a new idea. If he didn’t agree, he said nothing. If he didn’t like my clothing, he’d drip a silent stare down my frame.
No wonder my mother committed suicide.
How’s that for a confession? Nobody in the world knows this but my father and myself. And now you.
“So are you traveling this week, Dad?”
“Yes. To Lynchburg, Virginia Beach, and then out to the Springs.”
“The big three.”
“I’ve planned a new strategy. You won’t recognize things in a decade. It all hinges on the gays. They should have never opened up this marriage can of worms. I think we can use it to the hilt.”
The man’s nerves would bong like a gong if you struck them with a tire iron.
“Won’t that bring up other marriage issues that people don’t want to think about?”
“You’re talking about divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a separate issue.”
The last thing my father wanted was for any of his candidates’ supporters to think about sanctity in marriage across the board. My father understood that people used votes to express a morality their lives didn’t mirror. They count on hypocrisy in politics.
Outside the window snow fell, and I said I had to go. I’d never cut my father off before. But I couldn’t listen to one more word.
Twelve noon and all is well. I lean over and grab the bottle of gin beside the bed. There’s a bullet hole in my nightstand. A bullet hole. What’s next? Roaches? A severed head?
I take a sip.
The phone rings. Gotta be a wrong number, but might as well get it.
I reach over.
“Is Drew Parrish there?”
“Yes, I’m Drew.”
The woman hangs up.
I feel almost scalded.
So familiar. I give my ear a good rubbing with my index finger. Can’t place the voice.
And how did she know who I was and where I was? I thought I was pretty good at covering my tracks.
TWO
VALENTINE: 2008
No kids I ever knew pictured themselves being sideshow freaks someday. I didn’t either.
I pack away my costume, folding it in tissue paper and laying it gently into a shallow plastic tub. The sequins wink in the illumination from the hood light over the stove where a pot of chicken and dumplings simmers, almost ready. Atop the gown I lay the iguana green evening gloves.
Lella watches as I do the same to her costume. “Valentine, you surely pack more neatly than anybody I’ve ever seen, even my mother, God bless and rest her, and that is truly saying something.” The dinette made into a bed, Lella lies with her head propped on two decorative pillows.
A cold snap woke us up this morning.
“I’m glad the last show is done, Lell.”
We’ll get on the road this afternoon, and then Mount Oak, here we come. I hate Mount Oak, but that’s where Blaze lives, and Lella loves staying at Blaze’s during the off-season.
A knock shudders the door to my truck camper in which I’ve traveled with Roland’s Wayfaring Marvels and Oddities for the last four seasons. We’re a freak show, or sideshow if folks prefer. Most prefer sideshow and I don’t blame them. I’m off base calling us freaks, but I can’t help it. I look at myself in the mirror and I see a freak and that’s all I see, all I’ll ever see.
“It’s Roland. That’s definitely his knock.” Lella.
I get the door. Lella can’t. She’s our legless-armless woman. She’s not a freak. She’s disabled but has been doing this for so long, the thought of getting government assistance hasn’t occurred to her, and I’m not about to clue her in.
“Hey, Roland. Come on in. You’re in time for grub. As usual.”
“I could smell it all the way in my own trailer! Smells like chicken.”
“Chicken and dumplings!” Lella announces.
“It’s not bouillabaisse or anything.”
Roland, dressed in his usual je
ans, flannel shirt, and quilted jacket of completely non-coordinating plaids moves Lella over a bit and sits down on the end of the bed. “The circus is already gone.”
“I figured. Those guys are good.”
Sometimes we set up our own circus tent for smaller venues like county fairs and carnivals. Sometimes, like here in Omaha, we join with Max’s Magical Circus, setting up along the midway, our acts leading folks into the tent to view Max’s offerings. Mixed in with the usual circus fair, the magic acts keep folks gasping. Little do they know how many people can actually swallow a sword.
“Did Buddy leave?” Lella asks with a shake to her voice.
Max has the requisite clowns too. Including Buddy. Buddy’s been eighty-sixed from our campsite.
“Yeah.” Roland rubs a hand over a short, gray crew cut. “Yeah, thank heavens. What a jerk.”
“How somebody that mean can be so funny in front of a crowd is beyond me, it truly is.” Lella closes her eyes. “I mean it’s one thing to be gawked at by the crowd as they file past us and get the occasional insult, but from one of our own?”
“He’s not one of us.” Roland. “Not even close.”
I give the stew a final stir. “No, he’s not one of us. Just think, Lell, in a few years we can leave all this behind.” I pull three bowls down from the small cupboard over the small sink in the small kitchen.
Hey, it’s home.
Roland holds his heart. “I know you two girls can’t be on the road forever, but at least have the heart not to talk about your end game with me around.”
I slide a ladle out of the drawer. “You’ll be fine without Lizard Woman and The Human Cocoon. Besides, the days of our kind of attraction have come and gone.”
“People are curious. They’re always gonna look.”
“We cause discomfort now, the way we remind people that life sometimes isn’t perfect. People years ago understood all that.”
Lella and I have this conversation all the time. I guess we think if we talk about it enough, some vibes will go out to the general public that we’re glad they look at us. We need the work. We understand.
Roland nods. “That’s right. Too bad you girls aren’t like Clifford. I’d have you around for a good long time.”