Danny Gospel

by David Athey

  "Shh. It's all right, baby. Nothing can hurt you. Not here in church."

  "We're not exactly in church, Frank. We're under it. And we're not exactly praying down here."

  I padded through the hall and down another flight of stairs, and then turned left into dimmer light. Doggie dug his claws deeply into my chest. My pace quickened while Doggie hissed and yowled.

  A door opened, and Brother Paul appeared. A tall Franciscan with a ponytail, he looked at me with a mix of friendliness, concern, and bewilderment. "Danny, are you okay? What's that blood on your clothes? What are you doing with that cat?"

  Knowing that Franciscans traditionally get along with animals, I yanked the cat out of my flesh and said, "Doggie needs sanctuary."

  Brother Paul took the animal into his arms. "Good kitty. Good kitty. Ouch. Don't scratch." He hurried up the hall and into his library, held the door for me to enter, and slammed the door shut. A library may not be the best place to pacify a yowling cat, but Doggie immediately sprang through the air, hit the ground gracefully, and began sniffing at the books as if his nose were hungry for theology.

  Brother Paul sat at his desk, whispered something to God, and then asked me quite bluntly, "Are you taking any medications?"

  I turned away to browse a wall of books. There must have been a thousand volumes. I said, "What would medication do? Make me numb? Why would I want to be numb?"

  "Well, are you still feeling depressed?"

  One of the books on the wall was called The Problem of Pain by C. S. Lewis. I'd read that book three times. After each reading, I'd felt better for a while. And then the pain returned. And that's the problem.

  "Yeah, I sometimes feel depressed. Who doesn't?"

  Brother Paul had seen me in pain before. He was quiet for a while and then asked, "Did you want to talk about Rachel?"

  "No. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

  Brother Paul searched my eyes. "Danny, what's going on? I can't help you unless you tell me everything."

  "It's a complicated story. Anyway, my trailer is no longer safe. Would you please take care of Doggie for a while?"

  "Sure, Danny."

  I reached for the gun and placed it on his desk. "Can you turn this into a plowshare?"

  The Franciscan's eyes grew wide, and then he nodded gravely. "I'll turn the pistol over to the police."

  That sounded like a good plan, because the last time I saw Brother Paul with a gun, he seemed intent on killing someone. And he wore animal horns.

  When I was fifteen, my father gave me permission to go into town for Halloween, "As long as you remember that Good and Evil are at war and not at play." My mother had mixed feelings about my going. "Danny, be careful. It's a dangerous night. And please get me some chocolate." My grandmother was strongly against Halloween. Fist on hip, frown on face, she said what she'd been saying for years. "It's paganism, pure and stupid."

  "But I'm not a pagan."

  She nodded. "Right. You're a Gospel."

  "Grandma, I won't do anything creepy. I'll just be myself. I won't even wear a costume."

  Her fist was so buried into her hip that she could have been the angel that had injured Jacob. And yet there was a slight twinkle in her eye. "Oh, you'll wear a costume all right."

  "I will? What costume?"

  Her whole face brightened with a mischievous grin. "You'll wear the costume that I made for you."

  I gave her a hug. "Do I get to be King Arthur?"

  "Better."

  "Francis of Assisi?"

  "Better."

  "Billy Graham?"

  "Better."

  My costume, as it turned out, was Scripture itself.

  Grandmother had taken an old choir robe and sewn

  Bible verses onto it. Not only was I wearing my faith on my sleeve, I was wearing it from head to toe, with large words sewn in red. On the front of the robe was the Twenty-third Psalm. THE LORD 1S MY ShEPhERD ... And on the back was John 3:16. FOR GOD SO LOVED T14 E WORLD ...

  My brother came down the stairs and strode into the living room, laughing. "Danny, you look like an idiot."

  Holly came down the stairs and showed me a little Christmas card. She said, "It's not quite finished, but it will be in a few hours. I'm making one for Jon, too. I'll leave them on your pillows tonight."

  The card was decorated with a magic-marker image of a manger beneath an autumn tree. Inside were the words: "Christ is born this day! October 31St, 1991. Love, Holly."

  "Thanks for showing me that," I said, and gave her a hug.

  She held on tightly and whispered into my ear, "Jon's in trouble. Help him, Danny."

  I whispered into her ear, "I'll do what I can."

  Jon grabbed my robe and tugged me toward the door. "Let's go, bro. It's your big night."

  He drove us into Iowa City, nervously smoking a cigarette and muttering to himself about money. Then he dropped me off at Brown Street, near a large Victorian home, where I was scheduled to meet some friends. I climbed out of the truck, closed the door, and spoke into the open window. "Why don't you join us, Jon? You could sing with me."

  "Sorry, Danny. I have work to do."

  "What kind of work?"

  He revved the Chevy. "I'll pick you up in three hours. Right here."

  "Jon, why won't you sing with me?"

  My brother shrugged. "I don't have a robe."

  "You can wear this one. I'm fine with a T-shirt."

  He laughed. "See ya later, Danny."

  The truck rattled over the old-fashioned brick pavement. I waved good-bye half-heartedly, knowing Jon wasn't looking back. And when the Chevy disappeared down the road, I found myself looking to the sky. It was a perfect twilight, and there was something about the wind and the geese near the clouds that made everything seem more alive than ever. While I thought about All Hallows' Eve and what it really meant, in church and out of church, the darkness descended or arose or appeared as if out of nowhere. Standing on the street corner in my Scripture robe, while ghosts and witches and little clusters of pop-culture creatures began swarming the porches, I kept glancing at the sky, the gloaming drawing my mind away from the fun-filled pretenders, reminding me, like Grandmother, that real powers and principalities, in all of their manifestations, were just one fell swoop away.

  Grease suddenly appeared, waddling down the sidewalk, dressed as a pig.

  "Oinky Halloween, Danny!"

  "Yeah, oinky to you, too."

  The Samsonov brothers were with him. Slopper was dressed as a vampire. He didn't have fangs, but he had big yellow dentures jutting out of his mouth. Mud Eye shuffled stiffly about, all wound up with toilet paper, a cheap mummy. The brothers carried candy bags that were already half full.

  I asked, "What time did you start trick-or-treating?"

  The mummy smirked through his toilet paper as if keeping a secret.

  The vampire drooled through his dentures. "We're carrying rotten eggs. We've been saving them since August."

  Grease leaned down for a sniff. "Yech. These things are killers."

  I leaned down for a sniff. "Yech. Oh, please, don't throw those eggs within a mile of anything with a nose."

  The mummy and the vampire laughed, mad laughter that went on and on, while Grease and I waited patiently for the fit to pass.

  Finally, the streetlights flicked on, buzzing like firebugs.

  The mummy said, "Now is the official start of Halloween. Let's egg the next car that comes down the road."

  The vampire agreed, and the brothers reached into their rotten bags and grabbed a handful of stink bombs.

  The next car to enter the neighborhood was a truck, a garbage truck that wasn't stopping to pick up any garbage. The Samsonovs waited until the monstrous vehicle was almost upon us, and then hurled their horrid grenades.

  Splat! Splat!

  Sploosh! Sploosh!

  Ooze like gangrene slimed down the windshield, and with the hissing of air brakes, the truck came to a sudden stop beneath the streetlight.
Despite the ooze, we all saw the driver clearly enough, and that sight must have terrified the brothers, because they'd just egged the biggest hell-raiser in Iowa City. Paul Renkendorf, the twenty-year-old son of a garbage man, was a known drug dealer with a habit of bizarre violence. He rolled down the window and stuck his head out. It was horned. Paul had somehow fastened antlers to his head. Real antlers. He looked both silly and murderous.

  "I'm gonna kill whoever threw those eggs," he said.

  The mummy and the vampire dropped their bags and went flying up the sidewalk. Paul yanked his antlers back into the truck and drove off in pursuit, leaving me and Grease behind in a cloud of dusty stench.

  Grease said, "It's gonna be a great night."

  "Are you sure?"

  He nodded. "You're gonna sing and I'm gonna eat."

  Grease grabbed the collar of my Scripture robe and dragged me into the yard of a fine home with a jack-o'lantern grinning in the window.

  And for the next few hours, while my friend rang doorbells and begged for treats, I stood beside him and sang hymns and spirituals and Christmas songs. Some people stared at me like I was from another planet. Others laughed, and a few hurled insults. But many appreciative people recognized me from the Gospel Family concerts. One nice old lady said, "Danny, I think you understand this night better than anyone else. Here, have a pie."

  Grease and I sat on her steps and ate a whole apple pie (he had five of the six slices), and then we continued our journey through the sacred night. I sang my heart out and shared the Scriptures while Grease filled his bag and himself with sugars to the point of bursting. We stayed out later than most of the other trick-or-treaters, visiting all sorts of neighborhoods throughout Iowa City, and by the time we circled back to the Victorian homes of Brown Street, it had begun to rain. Shimmering water kissed the trees, and the last of the leaves swirled in the air.

  It was one of those strange late-autumn storms without thunder but strobed with lightning. In the flashes we saw the last of the Halloween creatures scurrying away for shelter.

  "Well," Grease said, yawning, "I'm supposed to meet my mom over at the Cottage Deli. I better hurry over there before she eats too much potato salad."

  "Your mom didn't have to come into town. Jon could've given you a ride."

  "No, she won't let me ride with Jon. She says he's a party animal. Anyway, see you tomorrow, Danny."

  "See you tomorrow."

  Grease waddled away, hefting his candy bag. And now the rain and the lightning, which had been wildly inspiring, began to bother me while I shivered beneath a tree and waited for Jon's arrival. It must have been half an hour, or maybe a whole hour later, when the headlights of the old Chevy appeared, peeking through the raindrops as if searching for me. The truck squealed to a stop near the sheltering tree.

  Jon opened the window a crack. "Hurry, get in!"

  Before I moved, a garbage truck came roaring up the road behind us. It hissed its brakes and proclaimed its stink. Paul Renkendorf jumped out into the storm, his antlers flashing white in the lightning.

  While Jon scrambled out of the pickup, Paul pulled out a gun and aimed it at the Twenty-third Psalm and my heart. "Aren't you one of the kids who egged me tonight?"

  "No. I've just been singing."

  Jon rushed toward Paul, who then pointed the gun at my brother.

  "Back off, Gospel."

  Jon stopped dead in his tracks. "Okay, okay." And he whispered, "Danny. Let me handle this."

  I almost said, "Will you handle it like you did at the hog plant?" But I bit my tongue.

  Paul said, "I don't take kindly to people getting into my territory."

  Jon forced a smile and tried to act cool. "Paul, you and I aren't really competing. I know it's all yours. And I'm only temporary. Just passing through town until the farm is good again."

  Paul laughed, his antlers shaking. "You're pretty slick, Gospel. If it weren't for your family's music, I'd hire you to work for me. But I'm not a hypocrite, understand?"

  Jon nodded. I noticed how the raindrops fell darkly on his pallid face. He looked ancient and miserable.

  Paul re-aimed the gun at me. "Don't look so stupid, you idiot. The banjo player has been stealing my hard-earned business. Do you understand?"

  I nodded.

  My brother had been selling marijuana to make money to save the farm. Back in the summer, he'd suggested that our family sell an album of the songs we performed. Father, who was anguishing over a failing corn crop, listened carefully and then slapped his elder son. "We will not profit from the gospel!"

  "So be it," Jon had replied, his lip bleeding. "There are other ways to save ourselves."

  Paul stepped closer and aimed the gun at my mouth. "Danny, I've heard you sing. And I don't like you."

  Jon whispered, "Danny. Step back, very slowly. I'm going to make my move now."

  "Danny. Step back. Let me handle this."

  "Danny-"

  I whirled around, offering Paul the words on the back of my robe. There was just enough streetlight and lightning for Paul to see FOR GOD SO LOVED T1EE WORLD . .

  The son of a garbage man was silent for a few moments, and then he burst out laughing, as if God's love were the funniest thing on earth. I turned around and said, as gently as possible, "God is not mocked."

  Jon made his move and threw a punch at Paul's face. He missed, and the horns came down quick and gashed Jon's cheek to the bone. He fell to his knees, dazed, while the blood poured. I rushed over to apply my robe to the wound. Paul leaned toward me, swinging his antlers, and one of the horns cut viciously across my chest. I fell to my knees beside my brother.

  Paul immediately put the gun to Jon's head and squeezed the trigger. I tried to punch the gun away, but I wasn't fast enough. In a flash of lightning there was a click. My brother flinched and I shuddered and Paul laughed. The pistol wasn't loaded.

  Paul laughed again. "God might not be mocked. But you are."

  Then he jumped into his garbage truck and revved the engine and roared down the street, and it seemed like the lightning was giving chase.

  Jon and I knelt in the rain for a while, and I could hear him praying under his breath, and cursing, and making promises, and mostly just breaking down; and finally he stood and pulled me up. "That's enough of that. Let's go home." And we got into our pickup and drove out of the city.

  "Danny," Jon said, grabbing my robe and holding it to his face, "I was only trying to save the farm. And I was only selling to people who were already smokers. Please don't think I'm a bad person."

  "I don't think you're bad."

  "Thanks. That means a lot to me."

  I looked into his sorrowful eyes. "I think you're lost."

  We drove in silence into the fields while the rain turned to open sky and burning stars.

  When we reached the farm, my big brother wandered off toward the root cellar while I sloshed into the house. Everyone was in bed except for our mother, who was reclining on the sofa, reading a Bible. Her hair was laid out beside her like two silky blankets.

  "Danny," she said sleepily, "it rained. I hope you didn't catch a cold."

  I leaned down and kissed her cheek. "I forgot to bring you a chocolate bar."

  Mother smiled. "I don't need it. I'm full of good words."

  "Like my costume."

  She noticed the torn bloody robe and jumped to her feet. "Danny! What happened?"

  "I'm fine. It's just a surface wound. It doesn't even hurt."

  She dropped her Bible on the sofa. "Let's get you cleaned up. ))

  "Okay, but first listen to what happened tonight."

  "You're bleeding."

  "No, it's stopped. I'm okay, really."

  "Where's Jon? Is he down in the cellar, smoking? Was he involved with you getting hurt?"

  "Please, Mom, sit and listen. Something very important happened. I think Jon is starting to believe in our songs."

  "Are you sure?" Mother sat nervously. "Tell me what happened."
/>   I related most of the night to her, and she smiled at the beginning, especially at the part about the pie, and cried at the end. "Oh, Danny. What are we going to do? What's going to become of our family?"

  "We're gonna keep singing."

  She wiped away tears with her hair, and then hurried into the bathroom to get some rubbing alcohol, a washcloth, and bandages. She hurried back. "Danny, take off your robe and shirt. And stand very still."

  Her voice was weak, but I obeyed.

  Farm wives see a lot of blood in their lives, and this wound shouldn't have bothered her much, but my mother's hand trembled while she rubbed my chest. "At least the scar will be in the same place as the other one," she said.

  I grinned. "Makes it easier to find my heart."

  She covered the cross with large bandages, and suddenly got angry. "I'm calling Paul's mother. Doris needs to know what's going on. A gun? And animal horns? I'm calling her right now."

  "No, Mom. You have enough to worry about. I'm a big boy. You don't have to watch over me."

  She stood on her toes and kissed my forehead. "I'll always watch over you, Danny."

  chapt six

  I SAID GOOD-BYE to Brother Paul and Doggie and left them in the Catacombs. I wound my way up the stairs and out the door. Through the brisk November air I walked over to Dave's Foxhead Tavern. The place is famous for being the hub of the Iowa Writers' Workshop. On any given night, you can exchange words and shoot pool with poets, novelists, and playwrights. The Foxhead is a small wood-frame rectangle that resembles an old train car. When I entered the tavern, it was half empty but filled with a sense of momentum.

  The bartender, wearing a blue racing shirt with yellow stripes, said, "How can I help you?"

  "Water," I said, bellying up to the bar.

  The bartender threw a wet towel over his shoulder and walked away.

  Knowing it was his job to return, I waited patiently and contemplated the three shelves of antique clocks on the wall behind the bar, clocks of many shapes and sizes, including a stately grandfather and a funny cuckoo. All of the clocks had their hands mixed up. And I tried to imagine a scene for every hour and minute.