by Lisa Samson
“I should go, Brian.”
“Did you leave your church voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I finally began to see myself in a real mirror, the way I really looked.”
“Did you have good intentions, though?”
“Does that actually matter when you’re leading people astray?”
“Hard to say.”
“I’ll get back in touch after I meet her.”
“I’m still praying.”
Sure you are, Father Brian. You’re good at what you do.
Hermy and I decide to camp for the night. We drive on I-70 an hour out of DC, pull off a small exit, and set ourselves up in a grove of trees at the side of the road, just outside a farmer’s fence. We’ll be out of here early.
Inside the tent I reexamine the address, flashlight highlighting the words Slade, Kentucky.
Hermy sets up the lantern. “You ever been there?”
“No. Have you?” He looks light purple, a little eerie in the battery powered light,
“Yeah. It’s near Natural Bridge. Was into rock climbing in college. Great place.”
Hermy in college? “How far away?”
“Eight or so hours.”
He nabs a book out of his rucksack. I fold up the paper and shove it back into my pocket.
“So what did your old man do that was so bad?” He unrolls his sleeping bag.
I follow suit, untying the laces that hold the bedroll together. “I have no idea what he did.”
Hermy’s face splits apart and out charges a stampede of laughter like I’ve never heard before. I swear, if I didn’t think the guy was nuts before this, I’d think it now. “You got the stuff, man.”
“Thanks.”
He slips into his bag as I venture into my own backpack and pull out a small book of Shakespeare’s sonnets.
Hermy looks over. “Ah, the bard hisself.”
I didn’t realize people actually called him “the bard.” Huh.
“A friend gave it to me for Christmas one year. She’s disappeared. I guess I keep in touch with her this way.”
Hermy lays his book facedown on his chest. “Did you love her?”
“Somewhat. Yes and no.”
“That’s not a hard question. You either do or you don’t.”
“I don’t have an answer for you.”
“Do you love her now?”
“In a way.”
“Did she love you?”
“Yeah. Yeah she did. Big-time.” I grab my notebook then slide into my sleeping bag. “But that seems like years and years ago now.”
“So, you squandered a good thing?”
“Yeah, Hermy.”
“Maybe the best thing that ever happened to you?”
“Yeah, Hermy. Sheesh.”
“Sorry, man.”
I examine the title of his book. Paradise Found by Barbara Cartland. “Never heard of her.”
“Historical fiction. Heavy stuff.”
“Oh. Cool. A takeoff of Milton, I assume.”
Hermy doesn’t answer.
I read my previous entries. Poor Father Brian. Having to read all this glurge. I feel sorry for the guy.
“You know, I traded my mother in, in my mind, when I was about seven,” Hermy says.
“What?”
“I watched reruns all the time. Whenever I could, which was a lot with cable, ’cause I just needed to stay out of her hair, right? I’d watch Andy Griffith, Father Knows Best, Bewitched, Ozzie and Harriet. I chose Samantha Stevens as Replacement Mom. Man, she was the best.”
“I can’t believe I’m admitting this. After my mom left, I had Aunt Bee fantasies.”
“Oh, yeah?”
I shake my head. “I wanted her to come stay with us. She could have called me Andeeee! Just like she did her nephew.”
“Cool.”
“But I haven’t watched any of those shows in years.”
“Naw man. After a while … well, you know.”
“Yeah. Yeah, Hermy, I know.”
When they removed Daisy’s bandages, she squealed with delight. “Even swollen it looks better.” She set the mirror next to her on the bed. “What do you think, Drew?”
“Good. When the swelling goes down we’ll be able to tell more.”
Her eyes widened. “Do I need more done?”
Trician took a good look. She crossed her arms, the bangles on her arms clanging, spicy perfume puffing out with her movements like always. “Hmm.” She tilted her head to the side. “Hard to say. But I think it will be fine. That’s the thing with all this, it may take some fine-tuning. Some tweaking, if you will.”
The doctor frowned. “Don’t judge it yet. I think you’ll be pleased.
With the bruising it’s impossible to see the reality of it.”
The reality of it. Even now I remember those words. I wasn’t so far gone at the time not to catch the irony, Father Brian, believe me.
I laid my hand over Daisy’s. She had the softest skin I’d ever felt on an adult. “I say we get you home and we’ll celebrate. In two weeks we tape our first show. You’re going to look great, we’ve got some great guests lined up, it’s all going along as planned.”
Daisy grew quiet. She’d gone through so much already. Even just having Trician as a mother. I knew she was in pain as she recovered and that the outcome didn’t seem good enough must have added another layer of discomfort. Not that she showed it. Why I couldn’t just say, “Hey, Daisy, you look great!” I don’t know.
Maybe I should have esteemed her better than myself, right Father? If we could all get a handle on that, we wouldn’t need to confess much, now would we?
After we got Daisy settled into bed at home, Trician pulled me aside. “Have you encouraged her about the diet yet?”
For some reason, she’d decided to make me the enforcer. She said Daisy had taken a shine to me and that she’d listen to me. She kept dangling that Nashville carrot in front of me. “No, I haven’t.”
She nodded. “Daisy has a somewhat slow metabolism. But we’re going to see a diet specialist on Monday. Also, I’ve employed a trainer at the gym. A real dictator from what I’ve heard. He’ll get her into shape.”
“In two weeks?”
“Oh no! It’ll take months, but she’ll be fine. Her voice will carry her on Faith Street until then. But I need you to encourage her, Drew.”
“Trician, she’s a grown woman.”
She acted like she didn’t hear me. “And you can get the director to fill the cameramen in on what angles not to focus on.” Just like that, she laughed at her daughter. That didn’t sit well, even then.
Daisy slept. Trician and I planned. She’d already made contact with three of the people on my guest list and wanted to know if she could call my father. Of course, I said, of course.
Dad fell in line, happy to supply names and numbers.
It was easy to see why Trician was so gung-ho. She wanted to be rich, successful, and able to leave her husband in style. But she had no talent herself.
“Daisy’s your ticket, isn’t she, Trician?” I asked her once as we sat going over the lists of guests for the coming months.
“You know she is.” She hated me in that moment because she realized I held all the cards at that point. I knew she’d work even harder on getting Daisy a recording contract, which would benefit me.
I encouraged Daisy as much as I could with her newfound nose and her slimming body. Looking back now, it must have seemed like immense pressure to be perfect. The fact that she wanted to please me, to get me to love her, worked into it well. It would keep her around once the Nashville contract hit. And I was pretty sure it would one day.
I can’t believe how much I used her for that half-baked little show. But it was a stepping stone to greater things. I told myself that every day. People were going to hear my message and they’d buy my books and I’d be on Larry King Live apologizing all over the place if he asked any hard qu
estions about the gospel. More and more people would come to Elysian and the money would really start to flow.
And that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, would it? It would sure make it seem like my gospel was working for me. Why wouldn’t it work like that for everybody else as well?
TEN
VALENTINE: 2009
Lella points her head in the direction of my comic book sitting on the nightstand. Betty and Veronica. “Why them most of all, Valentine? Why not the superhero types? X-Men and all of that?”
I gather her hair and begin to brush it back. “Well, Lell, I don’t know. I just don’t relate to all that other stuff. Betty and Veronica just have everyday high school stuff going on. I can’t handle a whole lot of conflict where the outcome might destroy the world.”
Lella laughs. “I surely don’t blame you. I was lying on my bed the other day thinking about comics and how one centering on human oddities would be so interesting, don’t you think?”
“Sure. It’s like that old movie Freaks.”
“I truly love that movie!” She turns her head and looks at me. “Do you know I met Johnny Eck the Half Man once?”
“No way.” I’m impressed. Johnny Eck literally was half a man. His twin brother was born perfectly normal, but Johnny Eck was nonexistent from the bottom of his ribcage on down. “When?”
“Oh, when I was little. He was old then, painting screens in Baltimore where my family hails from. My parents took me to see him and he was lovely, so encouraging, and I knew that if he survived and had a good life, I could too. Had a twinkle in his eye. It made all the difference in the world.”
Her hair now gathered tightly, I reach for an elastic band and begin looping her heavy locks through the ever-tightening circle. “Did you figure out how he went to the bathroom?”
“Valentine!”
“Well, don’t you wonder?”
“People must wonder the same thing about me.”
“Not at all, you just don’t have legs. Big difference than not having half of your torso.”
“That’s true.”
“But you’re right. It would be a good comic book. Freaks as heroes. That would be good.”
“Although there is the discomfort factor to consider.”
“That’s true.”
Blaze enters the room. “Augustine’s still feeling under the weather, but he’s good enough to go to the concert tonight. He wants to know if you’re coming.”
“Yeah. I’m curious about this group.” I pick up the hot curling iron. “I’m coming in right before they start and I’ll stand at the back.”
“Suit yourself.” She shuts the door behind her.
“I’m glad to hear Augustine’s feeling a little better!” Lella.
“Me too.” She still likes him. Poor Lell.
“I heard from Aunt Dahlia today. She’ll be here in a couple of days. Isn’t that good news?”
“Do you want me to curl your ponytail?”
“Oh, no. I don’t want to be too much trouble.”
“It’s no trouble.”
I curl her hair anyway, apply her makeup, take her down to lunch, and practically scratch Bindy’s eyes out when she says, “Hey, Lella. All the makeup and hair in the world won’t begin to disguise the fact you’ve got no appendages.”
“If you two didn’t share a heart or a liver or whatever it is, I’d separate you right now,” I say. “The hard part would be figuring out which one deserved to live. And what are you doing at the table this afternoon anyway? I thought you were banished.”
Rick laughs and nods. “You tell ’em, Val.” He sits down. “You having lunch too? Blaze made her special soup.”
Ten cans of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle plus two Cream of Mushroom and a Cream of Celery. “Uh, no thanks. Not hungry.”
Clifford the Human Blockhead, also the big attention hog, sits down. He’s normal looking with short brown hair and wide cheekbones. He doesn’t really wear a costume when he performs, just a business suit and tie. For some reason, that makes the whole act even more ludicrous, more stunning. He’s back from Florida and his winter visit with his kids, Cliff Jr. and Lexy. His ex-wife, Melody, is a piece of work. I ask him about his trip.
“Well, the kids are doing fine. Melody did all she could to horn in on our activities. But I stood firm on the whole. Great kids.”
“That’s wonderful, Clifford!” Lella nods effusively.
“She’s still mad because Cliff Jr. tried to put a nail up his nose and had a nosebleed. I told her, ‘But hey, there are a lot of jobs guys do that kids shouldn’t.’ She didn’t want to hear it.”
“Well, glad you’re back safe and sound.” I turn to Rick. “You going to the concert?”
“Sure thing.” Rick rakes his fingers through his heavy blond hair. He really is a nice-looking guy. “I’ll walk over with you. If you don’t mind.”
“Why would I mind?”
“I think it would be safer, that time of night.”
He doesn’t say, “With the holy family and all,” but it’s what he means.
“At least it gets dark early now.” I hand him a napkin.
“Thanks.”
Back up in my room I turn on my computer and look up Johnny Eck, probably my favorite freak, and then Mary Ann Bevan, the sideshow performer who billed herself as The World’s Ugliest Woman.
Well, she’s dead so I don’t have to beg to differ.
Mary Ann had four kids when she came down with a giantitis condition that elongated her face. After her husband died, she didn’t know what she’d do to support herself and her children. Then she got the bright idea of billing herself as The World’s Ugliest Woman. She went from England all the way to Coney Island.
“Ugly will take you places you never thought you’d go,” I say, thinking about that icon of the disciples even though they’re stuck in Augustine’s kitchen.
I’m standing at the back of the Shalom Laundromat. I know this is supposed to be some community house/monastery, but a Laundromat’s a Laundromat.
The Psalters are quite possibly the loudest band that bows the head to Jesus I’ve ever heard in my entire life. They have this gypsy, eastern European sound, that hollering kind of yelly singing that goes well with the accordion, the banjo, the fiddle, and the percussion that accompanies it.
During a break between songs I lean over to Charmaine. “The main singer’s a hottie. I just have to say it.”
“Don’t I know it!”
Wild, feral almost, his intense black eyes would pull your soul from your body if you let them.
“He makes you want to get up and do something, doesn’t he?” Charmaine asks. “Like life is some glorious, whirling gift.”
“I heard he liked the white bean chili.”
“Oh, Valentine. Someday you’re going to have to admit these things affect you like they do everybody else.”
“And the stew was a big hit.”
Augustine weaves his way through the ragtag group gathered for the show, stopping to say a word to Charmaine who looks as out of place as Gene Simmons in full makeup at a Red Hat luncheon. But she’s jumping up and down, praising her Jesus, even though this music sounds nothing like her own. Lella’s sitting on her donut on a chair at the front, having been strolled here by Rick and me. The sound must be crackling her eardrums like tissue paper.
“Hey, Val!” Augustine sidles over.
Rick stands closer to me.
“Looks like Lella’s having a good time,” Augustine says right in my ear.
I lean into his ear too. “She’ll be accepted by these people, that’s for sure. They’re nice-looking young people, but they’re misfits like we are.”
“I guess you could say that.”
“How’s the cough?” My face touches his. I pull back.
“Much better. You’re an angel. You know that?”
Oh, brother. He pats my shoulder and moves back through the crowd.
The Psalters version of “Holy, Holy, Holy” ho
lds a compelling melody, and on the second go-round I sing along. Rick presses closer still.
Charmaine whips around, looks right at me, and says, “I knew it.”
Knew what?
That night Rick knocks on my door and peers around as I lean out the window smoking a cigarette.
He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t smoke with a voice like yours. How come you don’t sing?”
“I haven’t sung since that Daisy woman destroyed my face. But I just couldn’t help myself tonight.”
“So that was her name, then? Daisy?”
“Yep. Don’t ask another thing.”
“Okay. You know, I play the violin. We should do something together sometime.”
“For who, Rick?”
“I dunno. Just a thought, Val. Sorry.”
I throw the burning cigarette out the window, hoping it doesn’t land on some tuft of dry grass and end up burning down the house. That would stink. I pull down the sash. “Some things about people should just be left behind forever. You know?”
He puffs air out between his lips. “Boy do I.”
“Not you, surely.”
“You know, Val”—he shoves his hands in his pockets—“there are a lot of really stretchy people in the world just like me. But not many of us run away to the circus.”
“So—why are you here, then?”
“Oh, you’d like to know. But I’m not saying a thing.”
“Suit yourself. Hey, I made some chocolate truffles earlier today. They’re in the fridge if you want one.”
He smiles, realizes it’s a dismissal, and pushes off against the door frame. “Sounds good.” Turning to leave, he pauses. “Hey, you don’t like that Augustine guy, do you?”
“Oh gosh, no!”
“Really?”
“He’s really great, but he doesn’t have a lot of sex appeal, if you know what I mean.”
“Well, no, I mean it’s not like I would notice something like that.”
“Go get a truffle, Rick. It’s late.”
No walks for Lella and me tonight. The concert wore her out.
As for me, I just ordered a catalogue from Big Sky Log Homes and I’m going to look over every single model. Aunt Dahlia’s visit tomorrow doesn’t scare me.
Augustine pulls up to the front of Blaze’s on his motorcycle. A two-seater. A man in tatters clings to him from the backseat.