I can imagine.
I understand you’re not much one for this spectral world, am I correct?
That’s right.
Have you ever been off-body before?
Long ago. Gave it up.
I understand. As with any dream, a lot depends upon the dreamer. Well, you’ve seen a little of what my dream looks like. But let me lay it out for you. I want to lead my followers here, to this world, a refuge of simplicity and peace. A sanctuary of my own devising.
He sweeps his hand over the church. Through the windows, sunlight sneaks in, pools in the corners, keeps to itself.
You know what’s become of the world back there, Mr Spademan. You better than anyone. It is not a place to waste your days. How you live in that poisoned swamp of New York City, I will never understand. Not when you could live here. Like this.
Mr Harrow, I get that. I do. But why do people need to sign on to your dream? People should dream how they like.
Because I offer them something better. More than the dream. I offer them a new life, Mr Spademan. A life after life. With no wait list. Something remarkable. That is what I wanted to show you. Do you have time for a short demonstration?
Sure.
Harrow gestures to someone unseen. Two girls walk in through a side door. Identical twins, short hair, bright eyes. Persephone’s age or a few years younger. Dressed in matching pinafore smocks. Prairie-style.
They stand before us, shoulder to shoulder, like soldiers awaiting inspection.
This is Mary and Magdalene. Go ahead, Mr Spademan. I want you to stroke Mary’s cheek. She’s the one on the right. Don’t worry. She won’t bite.
I reach my hand out and pass my knuckles lightly over her downy cheek. Soft. She giggles.
Very good. And now Magdalene.
Same thing. Knuckles grazing. On this pass, though, I get a little charge.
The first cheek was like experiencing the memory of something. Like a reminder of a feeling you once had.
The second one is like feeling it for the first time.
I settle back into the pew.
What do you think, Mr Spademan? As real as real. And that is my proprietary technology. You can’t get that in any other dream.
He dismisses the twins. They curtsy and exit, like it’s the end of a school pageant.
I’m still rubbing my hand.
That’s very convincing.
That it is.
So what’s the secret?
Just that. A secret.
Well I’m sure it will prove very lucrative.
Wait. There’s one more person I want you to meet.
He stands.
You might want to stand up for this.
I stand.
And in she walks.
My Stella.
17.
My wife.
In the same dress I last saw her in. She smiles.
That smile.
Brown hair in a bob. That bob I begged her not to get.
Looks good on her though.
I grasp Harrow’s arm. For balance.
He gives me the satisfied look of a salesman who’s just unveiled the luxury model.
I assure you, it’s perfectly safe. It’s not the real, no. But it’s as real as real.
I look at her.
Her.
Here.
Brown eyes a little too close together. Front teeth a little too far apart. That smile that’s spring-loaded to burst into a laugh.
In other words, perfect.
Don’t be shy, Mr Spademan. Please give your wife a kiss. This is a place of sanctuary. And I promise to avert my eyes.
I turn to Harrow.
Shut it off.
Don’t be afraid.
No. This isn’t real.
I think you’ll find, Mr Spademan, that those kinds of distinctions quickly become immaterial.
I turn back to her. Trembling.
Tell myself it’s not real.
It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.
As I say this I take her face in my hands.
Feel her face.
Hesitate.
Kiss her.
Like a man drawing breath after years underwater.
I pull away.
I whisper.
I’m sorry.
Harrow lays a gentle hand on my back.
You understand now? What I am offering?
My Stella smiles. Her hand trails my face.
Don’t worry, Mr Spademan. She will always be here. And I can arrange for you to see her whenever you like. In total privacy. Frankly, if you choose, you can leave that toxic world behind and relocate here, if that’s what pleases you. You won’t be the first. I know you’re familiar with my farm. I can reunite you and your wife and I guarantee, after a time, you won’t remember that you ever weren’t together.
So this is what you’re offering?
Yes.
And I’m guessing you’ll want something in return.
Only something that is already mine.
Sounds fair. Just one question.
Anything.
Not for you. For her.
I turn back to face my Stella. Her look says she longs for me.
I choke back something. Then say it.
What’s my name?
She smiles.
Spademan.
I smile back.
No, it’s not.
She looks confused. Says it again.
Spademan.
I turn back to Harrow.
I want out.
He waves her away. The sales pitch gone sour.
She retreats out the side door. I can’t help but watch her.
The door closing behind her.
Just like that last morning.
Then she’s gone.
I lean on the pew. Struggle to get my balance. Fail.
Look at Harrow.
Tap me out.
Mr Spademan—
Now.
—I know it can be very overwhelming. It reminds me a bit of that first moment after baptism. When people come up again out of the water. Gasping for air, fighting for balance. But new. Brand-new. Like newborns. Come into a new life.
But it’s not real.
No. But after awhile, I assure you, that hardly matters.
I want out.
He grasps my shoulders to stand me up. Steadies me.
All right. But first, let me tell you what I want.
His smile exiled.
I want my daughter back.
I don’t know where she is.
He laughs.
Lying is not an effective tactic in this world. Not with me. And you should be wary of breaking commandments. Here, of all places, in the Lord’s house. We certainly don’t want to start down that road.
What road?
Breaking things.
I can’t do it.
She is of no consequence to you.
Doesn’t matter.
Mr Spademan, do you understand what I’m offering you?
Yes.
And why exactly are you protecting my daughter?
I don’t know.
Do you even know why my daughter ran away?
I have some idea.
Do you? Well, let me fill in the blanks.
Harrow retreats to the pulpit and pulls down the massive leather-bound Bible. He opens it and flips onionskin pages.
I wipe my mouth, still unsteady. Sit.
I’m not in the mood for a parable, Mr Harrow.
He looks up.
That’s not what this is.
He turns the book around. Upends it, cradling it in his arms, held toward me. Like it’s story time.
On one page, the usual march of verses under a single illuminated letter, painstakingly painted.
On the other page, a large photo of Persephone naked.
This is my daughter, Grace Chastity. Whom I raised from an infant, as you know. Whose diapers I changed. Whose blankets I tucked in. Whose
cries in the night I comforted.
He flips the page. More Grace Chastity. More naked.
Girls grow up. I understand that. And mine did too. All of them. Especially Grace.
He flips the page. In each photo, Grace is smiling, posing, puckering her lips. In most photos there’s a starburst of a cameraphone flash. In each one she is exposed. In some more exposed than others.
My Grace found a boyfriend, as little girls do. They break their fathers’ hearts eventually. But I caught my Grace sending these pictures to her boyfriend. Shaming herself. Before him. Before me. Before God.
Flips the page again. A homemade porn mag, starring his daughter. In the next shot, she’s on a bed, legs spread. Fingers finding their way inside her.
So you can imagine, Mr Spademan, that when I found these I was very cross. Very cross indeed.
Flip. Next photo. Shot from behind. Displaying a gymnast’s agility. Among other things.
You don’t have a daughter, do you?
No.
But you can understand how this might make you feel.
Sure. But she’s eighteen. She’s free to live her own life. Should be, anyway.
Well, she wasn’t eighteen when she took these, Mr Spademan. She was sixteen. And she promised me she’d stop. More recently, she broke that promise to me. Again.
Flip. Young Grace Chastity explores sex toys. Makes them disappear.
Do you know how I found these? A parishioner. A member of my own congregation. He came to me and told me his son had brought them to him. They’d been circulating. At his school.
He closes the book. Mercifully.
So I forbid her from seeing her boyfriend. Forbid her from having a phone. I forbid her from doing just about anything I could think of. And naturally, as young girls do, when the devil has their ear, she ran away.
He replaces the book on the altar.
You’ll forgive the dramatics of my presentation. I just want to make sure you understand why I want her home. Whatever she’s done to break my heart, break my rules, to humiliate me in public, to taint my congregation and flout God’s commandments, I know she will be safer with me, in my care, than rambling around out there, living hand-to-mouth, in the gutters of New York. So I want my daughter back. You’ve already seen what I can offer in return.
You know she’s pregnant.
Yes. Another souvenir of the boyfriend. A worthless sort.
That’s not what she told me.
What are you suggesting, Mr Spademan?
That the father is right here in this church.
Really? An immaculate conception, then?
Not exactly.
Harrow clutches the sides of the pulpit. Enters full-on preacher mode. His cadence sounds something like Mark Ray, but soulless. The stern father, not the kind shepherd, sowing brimstone, not comfort.
He starts in.
For, lo, the wicked bend their bow, they make ready their arrow upon the string, that they may privily shoot at the upright in heart. But ask yourself this, Mr Spademan. How pregnant is my daughter? And when exactly did she run away? Not long ago, correct? A few weeks, maybe? Why, we only just contacted you last week.
He’s right.
He goes on.
So in your version of the story, this foul act was committed, and she—what? Lived under my roof for another few months? And then suddenly one day woke up and decided to flee? Does that make much sense to you?
He’s right again. It doesn’t.
He goes on.
Well, let me provide you with an alternate version. In an act of brash but not uncharacteristic youthful rebellion, prompted by my admittedly severe punishments for her extremely humiliating acts of licentiousness, she had a foolish encounter with her no-good boyfriend. Which she managed to hide from me. For a time. When she could no longer hide it, she ran.
Which is when you contacted me.
That’s correct.
And now you want her back.
Yes, I do.
Hmmm. Well, that does make more sense, I guess.
I’m glad you’re starting to see the whole picture, Mr Spademan.
Sure. There’s only one thing I don’t quite get. And you’ll have to forgive me. I can be a little dim sometimes.
And what is that?
You hired me to kill her, Mr Harrow. Not bring her home. He smiles.
Someday you may know how it feels to be a father. You want to protect them, even from themselves. In any way you can.
Yeah. Well. I’m not buying it. But thanks.
The plain fact, Mr Spademan, is that someone in my security department overstepped his authority. That individual has been reprimanded severely, as you know. I believe you received a souvenir of that disciplinary action just recently.
So now you want her back. Like the Prodigal Daughter. Just like that.
Something changed my mind, Mr Spademan. I saw the light, as it were.
Really? What was that?
I learned I had a grandchild. That altered my way of seeing things. But I wouldn’t expect you would understand something like that.
No.
I would never harm that child. No matter his provenance. Or the circumstances of his conception. I want that child back. I want both my children back.
And you won’t hurt Persephone?
You mean Grace? Of course not. I just want her back in my arms.
Well, that’s a very good sermon, Mr Harrow. And I do thank you for your time and the tour. And I’m sorry. I am. But I don’t think I can do that. She’s a grown woman and I’m not a truant officer. I only provide one service, and if you’re no longer interested in that service, we should probably just go our separate ways.
Harrow steps down from the pulpit.
All right. I understand. You clearly see yourself as a man of principle. I respect that. However misguided.
I stand up.
I want out. Now. I’m tapping out. Unplug me.
I know you are new to the off-body experience, so let me explain how this works. This is my church. My construct. My world. You are my guest. And you’ll wake up when I wake you up.
The light pooling in the church’s dusty corners dries up. The stained-glass sunbeams snuff out.
The church door creaks behind us. All the way open. Then all the way closed.
I told you I learned a lesson from my dear old Miss Savonarola, yes? Do you want to know what that lesson was?
I glance back over the pews. Three gentlemen approaching up the aisle. Two are huge, wear overalls, and look like farmhands who bulk up by eating other farmhands.
The third is a black man. Trim build. Trim beard. Shoulders as wide as a roadblock.
I look back at Harrow.
What was the lesson?
He smiles.
First the sweets. Then the switch.
18.
I’m not much of a brawler and this one’s over in a blink. Harrow’s world, Harrow’s rules, so I’m like a twelve-year-old fighting high-school bullies in a wading pool.
After a few good kidney shots, one of the farmboys gets behind me, loops his arms in under mine, kicks my knees out, and bends my arms back like butterfly wings.
Pinned.
I dangle.
The black guy steps to center stage.
Mr Spademan, hello. Pleased to meet you. They call me Simon the Magician. I am Mr Harrow’s head of security.
Sure. I’ve heard of you.
Good.
I’m going to guess you’re not a real magician.
I don’t do card tricks, if that’s what you mean.
He holds up a fist. Shows it to me. No tattoos. Just fist.
Pow.
Recocks.
But I do have this one nifty trick that I like.
Shows me the fist again. Tightens it like he’s crushing coal.
The skin starts to grow over the gaps between his fingers.
Thumb absorbed into knuckles to make bigger knuckles.
His fist
reborn as a wrecking ball of bone.
His world. His rules.
The Magician pulls the fist back. Lets it fly. Like the plunger in a pinball machine. My head’s the pinball.
The left comes right after. Right left right, like a ball between bumpers.
I hear ringing.
Harrow’s delivering a sermon from the pulpit.
Simon the Magician was a contemporary of Jesus. Also called Simon the Sorcerer, Simon Magus, occasionally Simon the Holy God.
While Harrow goes on with the history lesson, Simon’s namesake lets another loose across my chin. He might be named for some magician, but like Samson, he’s got a thing for jawbones.
Harrow preaches.
Simon the Magician was a miracle-worker. He was considered the most powerful holy man in Samaria. Some thought him a deity. That is, until Jesus came along.
Simon stands over me, legs spread in a fighting stance. Fists hover like bees outside a hive, looking for the way in. He’s not much for words but he puts his two cents in. Simon says:
When I heard about him, I took to him immediately.
Right cross.
Simon says:
I like to think of him as the alternative Jesus.
Left cross.
Simon says:
You know. Black Jesus.
Right cross. Ah, the old rugged cross.
Harrow bangs on the pulpit with the flat of his hand.
And do you know what Simon the Magician did, Mr Spademan, once he was upstaged by the one true Lord?
I wonder if I’m expected to answer. I was always taught not to talk with my mouth full of teeth.
Harrow plows on.
He converted. Followed Jesus. A convert, Mr Spademan. A smart man.
Farmboy lets me drop like a feed sack.
I cough. Dribble blood.
You made your point. Wake me up.
I can’t do that, Mr Spademan. As real as real, am I right?
Harrow steps down from the pulpit. Toes me with a work boot.
I spit on the boot. Blood-colored polish. Spit-shine.
You may as well put your suit back on, Harrow. I’m guessing the country charmer portion of the program is over.
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