Package Deal

by Jess Bentley

  “So how does it feel to be Jesus's mechanic?”

  “It's a living, I guess,” I tell him.

  That's kind of a funny joke. The truth is, I don’t make a living. I have a job, but not a living. I just kind of haunt the edges of my brother’s great Calling.

  “When are you gonna get with the program? Find yourself a little wife and settle down?” Dustin asks me. He pours himself another shot. By the smell of him, he's about a half a bottle in tonight. So far.

  “I don’t think that's for me,” I say, trying to breeze past it. I feel like that's probably true, but I don't like to think about it.

  Dustin shrugs. He rubs his palm across his stubbly grey chin and points with his knuckle at the far side of the bar. There's a group of three stragglers, teenage girls who don't realize that they look like teenagers. They’re huddled in a table the dark corner of the bar, probably trying to work up the courage to attempt to order a pitcher of beer. Probably trying to scrape their quarters together.

  We get a lot of runaways. There are two highways that intersect here, and if you're lucky enough to hitchhike with a trucker, this is where they are generally going to drop you off. At the truck stop they point out here in this direction, and somehow runaways just end up here at Dustin's, the unofficial hub for people who feel like trafficking in earthly delights of a certain sort.

  You would never know it from the outside. Just a cinderblock building, with a single lit sign that says Dustin on it. Cars out front. Gravel parking lot. You'd never even suspect that this is where half the missing children end up. Not for very long, though.

  “Looks like I got some new converts for your cult,” Dustin chuckles. “I'll let you have them for cheap.”

  “I don’t want them.”

  “Sure you do,” he replies. “You’re always looking for new mates, aren't you? Gotta keep the genetic diversity and whatnot?"

  “Not, I think we’re good for right now,” I observe grimly. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar. I look gray.

  “What's that supposed to mean?”

  I shrug. “Just that it's been sixteen years. Some of the young ones are just about ready to be married off. We’re gonna have a whole new generation in the kingdom in just about a year. Assuming we can keep everything going that long.”

  Dustin nods slowly. Despite his gross exterior, he is one of the few people that actually listens to me. He's known me since I was a kid, and has treated me like I was a man since I was old enough to reach the top of the bar.

  “Money’s tight?”

  I don't say anything.

  “Yeah, that happens,” he sighs. “But I tell you what, having a little wife he could really smooth over them rough patches, Owen. You should give it some thought. Really. If you got girls over there, ready… seriously. Give it some thought.”

  I shake my head. Silas would never allow it. He's got this idea about how we’re supposed to be outside that part of life. Not the way Catholic priests are, but like Egyptian kings or something. How they didn't want to pick favorites among the peasants or whatever.

  I don't know. Frankly, it sounds kind of weird to me sometimes.

  But Silas has strong ideas about these things. He's afraid of what would happen if everybody in the compound got jealous of each other. He is afraid of what would happen if he took a wife, or if I did. They would think that they were Queens. There would be jealousy. There would be divisiveness.

  He is probably right. But it is still lonely as hell.

  “Come on, there is probably one you like, right? Big strapping boy like you? All those fresh, innocent faces walking by you every day? No backtalk, no status symbols, no Snapchat or rap music or anything? Fuck, Owen. You live in paradise on earth, and you're telling me that you don't want a little taste for yourself?”

  I choke back another shot of tequila. Dustin won’t mind. Still going through my dad's old tab. The liquor warms my belly.

  “Yeah, there's one. Maybe. It's hard to say.”

  “Oh, now this is interesting…” he says. “What’s she like? Big tits? No brain? That’s what you religious types like, right?”

  I shake my head. I shouldn't be thinking about her. If there was ever one, it would be Angel. She's just like her name. Just like an angel. She shines a light. She's beautiful, and so sweet her soul brightens the room. She makes me feel good in a giddy, stupid way.

  “No. She's perfect. She's gorgeous.”

  “You don't say,” Dustin says slowly. “Yeah, every once in awhile I guess he does get a real beauty there? One with all her teeth and everything?”

  “You remember Melissa?”

  He pushes himself back in his chair, crossing his arms. I see him go defensive. He remembers Melissa, all right. She came through here like the other runaways, with one black eye and a two-year-old that she tried to hide in the ladies room. Strung out and filthy. But somehow, irresistible.

  “Hell yeah, I remember Melissa. You think she remembers me?”

  I have to laugh. “Don't think she remembers much from those days, Dustin. Sorry to let you down.”

  “Yeah… you guys got lucky you got her. Or I thought so at the time. Then again, I didn't have to pay her bail money or pay off her pimps, did I? Maybe I ended up getting the better part of the deal after all!”

  “Angel’s her daughter,” I tell him after a sip of beer. The cool liquid spreads through my chest.

  Dustin lets out a low whistle for a long time. He's quiet, maybe remembering what Melissa used to be. Which she definitely isn't anymore.

  “Hey, you know…”

  I shrug and look at him. He glances at me and then looks away, rubbing his jaw again.

  “You know, Owen, maybe there's a way to help us both out. Maybe it's time to do another trade?”

  “I don't think Silas would go for that. He remembers what happened to Rose.”

  “Eh. Nobody really knows what happened to Rose,” Dustin counters. “But I tell you, there a lot of lonely old dudes around here. These runaways, they get rougher every year. If you got one of your shining, virginal cult pussies over there…”

  “Don't call her that.”

  Dustin holds his hands up apologetically. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. That wasn’t nice. But, understand… There could be a mutually beneficial agreement. Unless you want her for yourself…”

  “Yeah right,” I say sourly.

  “Hey, Dustin!” Rhonda yells out from across the bar, facing off with the old guys in some kind of argument. She whistles through her teeth until he stands up.

  “Just think about it,” he asks me. “Mutually beneficial arrangement. Seriously.”

  I don't say anything as he shuffles off to handle whatever emergency Rhonda cooked up. The thing is, there is something magical about her. Some light that used to be in her mother got passed down to her. It didn't get crushed out like a stubbed out cigarette yet either. She still flows with light. And knowing I can't be a part of that makes me a little bitter.

  Mutually beneficial arrangement. Something to think about.

  Silas

  I use the bookmark to open the huge leather-bound book to the last page and try to focus. The numbers all line up in columns, but they don't want to stay still. As I try to focus on them, they seem to swim. They wriggle from their spots and change lanes, swirling back and forth like kids at the pool.

  But I can see the red numbers, the bloody hints that the Kingdom Come Family compound needs to do something if we are going to stay alive. If we are not going to drown. Those red numbers leak all over the rest of the page, taking over everything.

  I’m not sure how it has come to this, or what to do about it. The surrounding community still makes donations like they have for decades. Good-hearted people who think they can buy a little goodwill to get into heaven, even if they're not really willing to do the hard work. It’s like insurance.

  But as the years have gone by, our biggest supporters have left, died off, or just lost inter
est. They still make donations of goods, maybe drop off a truckload of corn or tomatoes every once in awhile, but we still need cash money for gas, electricity, clean water. That's just reality.

  And everybody thinks I will magically find a way. Somehow, I always have, but it's not always easy. And one of these times, it just won't be enough.

  What happens then? What happens when they find out their Father Daddy can't provide?

  The screen door swings open and Owen fills the void, blocking the light briefly with his body. He stomps across the small room and drops into a chair. He taps his fingers together three times before clasping his hands over his broad, thick abdomen and nods at me in a friendly but respectful way. Though we are brothers, we haven’t been able to be really close in a long time. My responsibilities seem to have gotten in the way of that too.

  “Owen,” I say in greeting.

  I'm not sure what he's doing here. He knows I'm supposed to be working on the books at this time, and we don't have a meeting scheduled. But he's looking at me like he's ready to continue some conversation we must have started before. Obviously he wants my attention, so I push myself back in my chair and look him over, waiting for what he's going to say next.

  It takes him a few seconds to gather his thoughts. He seems relaxed, his knees falling open, his shoulders resting heavily against the chair cushions. He's a rather large fellow, with a distinct animal presence. Anytime that he feels uneasy, those emotions transfer immediately to his body. So I know that he's eager to tell me something. He wants to open a dialogue. I read it all over him.

  “So I thought things with Gina —”

  “Obedience,” I correct him.

  He flinches a little, then nods. “Right, right. She is Obedience now. I thought her deflowering went pretty well, right?”

  I press my lips together and simply look at him. This is not a good start to this conversation. Now that she's a woman, discussing her like this, even if she hasn't been assigned a Master yet, is not appropriate.

  He can sense my discomfort and glances sideways while he tries to figure out another way around to whatever it is he's come here to tell me.

  “Obedience,” he mutters again.

  “Owen, I still have so much work to do,” I say, urging him to continue.

  “So what happens next?” he blurts out. His hands flex into fists briefly, belying his discomfort. But now at least I understand why he's here.

  “We prepare the next group,” I suggest slowly, watching his face carefully. He nods again, as though this is the answer he was expecting.

  “Right,” he sighs. “Tulip, Abbie, and… Angel?”

  As he says her name, his shoulders hunch forward a little bit. That's it. He wants to talk about Angel.

  “Yes, those three need preparation, and then we can join them into the Family. And the cycle begins again.”

  “Yes,” he murmurs.

  I wait for a few moments, hoping he'll say something else. “Owen, is there something that you want to talk about?”

  “We are very blessed,” he sighs. His posture relaxes.

  “Yes we are,” I agree. “Our new women are unlike any I've seen in years. Three at once, plus Obedience… It’s an unusual blessing.”

  His tongue slides out, wetting his lower lip as he thinks.

  “That Angel, especially. She's ripened so quickly, did you notice?”

  “Angel? I'm not sure I did notice,” I admit.

  I sense the eagerness in his features, so I try to think back. Angel came here when she was in her early teens, but her mother, Melissa, drew most of my attention, and not always in a good way. She has always been teetering on the brink of being lost. On one hand she’s a natural leader, but on the other hand she’s capable of base acts of spite. Keeping her straight is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

  In some ways I'm sure being here is a far better life than she would've found outside the compound. But at the same time sometimes I wonder if I've invited a rattlesnake to sleep in our bed. She's prone to anger. Stupid, vengeful fits. And worse, if the rumors are true.

  “Of course you noticed her,” he insists. “Flowy, light brown hair. Grown about four inches in the last year. Can barely keep up with the clothes her mother makes for her. Walks around in bare feet all the time.”

  He's right. I do know exactly what he means. There's a light to her. She shines. She's so moist, so dewy and fresh, something about her looks like she'd be good to taste. Like candy. Like fruit. And she shines. There’s an honesty there - something that reaches me. I’ve felt her glance sail past me like an arrow during many sermons.

  Which is exactly why I have not been looking at her. Some temptations are better to simply ignore.

  “I had an idea,” he begins carefully. His eyes flicker toward the book of accounts open in front of me. I feel defensive already, but closing the book would make me look weak.

  “She'll be part of the next deflowering,” I assure him. “You’ll have your chance. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  His eyebrows go up. “Are you telling me that I could… execute the ceremony?”

  “Absolutely not!” I reply without even thinking. His eagerness is an affront. He puts his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Okay, I'm sorry. I didn't understand,” he mutters defensively.

  “I take the flower, Owen,” I remind him sternly. “It’s my role. It’s my duty.”

  He looks away, embarrassed. “Yes, course. Of course you do. I was just thinking… Just never mind. I was just trying to help.”

  “I don't need that kind of help,” I growl.

  He sighs, his breath coming out through flared nostrils. I'm not sure why I spoke to him so sharply over a girl I barely know. She must be quite a prize. I should definitely take another look at her during my next sermon. Maybe I underestimated her value.

  “But she is looking for a Master, right?”

  I half stand out of my chair. “All right, Owen, we need to be done with this conversation,” I warn him. “You know the rules. I take the flower. You give the lesson —”

  “What if there's more?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. He looks up at me, his gaze keen and aggressive.

  “What do you mean by more?” I ask him warily.

  “Maybe she could be of more help to us? More material help?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Doesn’t her mother still owe us quite a bit?”

  I sit back in my chair. His eyes skate over the red entries in the book, though I doubt he can really read them from where he is sitting. Still, it is something to consider.

  “Are you suggesting Angel could pay her mother's debt?”

  He shrugs.

  “Owen, is this why you came to talk to me?” I ask. “Did you already have something in motion?”

  He shrugs again. The way he’s wringing his hands, I can sense this is something he already thought out. He just didn’t prepare a speech. It’s not his strong suit.

  “Owen, please just speak plainly. Are you suggesting that we —”

  “— we could sell her? Sell her flower?” he blurts out, his voice breathless and excited.

  My chest tightens. It's a scheme of last resort, but it has its usefulness.

  “What makes you think we could do that?”

  He clears his throat, leaning forward and rubbing his palms together quickly. He takes a deep breath before beginning again.

  “I just remember you saying that her mother owed us. For bail. For rehab. And you asked me to think of ways to help the Family, remember?”

  “I do remember,” I agree.

  I remember very well. It happened last month, when the fluctuating price of natural gas emptied our shallow bank account in one fell swoop. I had a moment of panic, trying to piece out how I was going to push us through another month with almost no money coming in. A lucky check from an ex-member who had passed away appeared the next week. Of course, we can't rely on that kind of windfall every mo
nth.

  But just before I got the check, Owen and I sat on my front porch one evening, watching the small, golden lights in shack windows over the small compound. He could tell something was weighing heavy on my mind. Even though he didn't know what it was. I felt far away from him. Somewhere in a dark future. I was imagining that there was some invisible countdown of nights when I would be able to watch my flock, safe in their homes. That it was almost over for all of us. And nobody knew but me.

  So when he asked me what was wrong, I reached out to him in desperation. It probably wasn't the right thing to do. I shouldn’t have burdened him.

  But now here he is, with an idea.

  “She's ready, Silas,” he says quietly. His voice thickens, and I can tell he's really thinking about it. Those full hips. Those eager, wanting eyes.

  “I don't think that would make a long-term difference,” I object weakly. What would a virgin really bring us? Another couple weeks? Maybe some goodwill? Just as likely to bring us a County Sheriff. Sheriff Dooley has been prowling our perimeter for some months, probably looking for a chance to make trouble. I’ve seen his cruiser rolling slowly back toward the main road at odd hours.

  “I heard… Let’s just say it could make a big difference,” he says slowly, his eyes laser focused on mine. He's measuring my reactions, becoming more bold every second. “Maybe not even just the flower… maybe sell the whole girl?”

  I spread my hands on the desk. Clearly he's thought about this quite a bit. “Go on.”

  “There's been some talk… down at Dustin's. Some people have seen her. They want in.”

  Dustin's… that makes some sense. A biker bar about two miles from here. I was wondering where Owen was, disappearing for hours at a time. Apparently he's been negotiating the sale of some of our assets. I appreciate his initiative, but this is a very touchy subject.

  “They want in,” I repeat, turning the words around on my tongue. They want Angel. One less mouth to feed? Is she worth it? I’ll have a lot of explaining to do for the rest of the Family.

  “I'll think about it,” I announce finally.

  “No, I really think —”