Cheesus Was Here

by J. C. Davis

  When we reach his front porch, Gabe pauses, a hand resting against the door. “You sure you want to hang around? This isn’t going to be pretty.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got your back.”

  Gabe nods his head once. “Fine. But no butting in. You stay in my room.”

  “Sure.” I almost mean it. But if Gabe needs me, awkward as it’s going to be, I’ll come tearing out of his room faster than a twister through a trailer park.

  Inside, the low rumble of a TV announcer fills the living room and I can see the flickering light from the screen reflected against the white walls. It dances on the edge of a framed picture in the hall, red-haired Lila holding a tiny baby and grinning at the camera. Her head is cocked to the side at a playful angle and she looks on the verge of laughter. Gabe stares at the picture and then yanks it off the wall, putting it face down on the entry table.

  Reverend Beaudean’s voice booms out, “Gabe?”

  I bolt for Gabe’s room. When I’m safe behind his door, I press my head and back against the thin wood. Gabe doesn’t bother keeping his voice low.

  “I know about Mom.”

  “What are you talking about? Did your mother send a postcard finally?” Reverend Beaudean’s voice sounds confused, groggy with sleep. He must’ve been napping in front of the TV when we arrived.

  “Stop lying!” Gabe yells. “She’s dead and you’ve known about it for years.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Mr. Beaudean’s voice is higher, all sleepiness gone.

  “This!” There’s a pause and I imagine Gabe brandishing the obituary at his dad.

  “Where did you get that?” Mr. Beaudean demands.

  “From your office. Where you’ve been hiding it. How long have you known, Dad? How long have you been lying to me?”

  I pick at a loose thread on the arm of my T-shirt, hands shaking. Part of me wants to be out there beside Gabe, demanding answers. Reverend Beaudean’s always seemed like the perfect parent, if a bit absentminded. He never would have run off the way my dad did. He’d have stuck by his family. But maybe I was wrong. If Reverend Beaudean could lie about Lila’s death, if he could fake those miracles and not say a word, maybe he was never the person I thought.

  “Gabe, you don’t understand,” Mr. Beaudean says.

  “Then tell me! I deserve to know that at least.” Gabe’s voice is hoarse now, like he’s holding back tears.

  “I’m so sorry, son. I couldn’t bear to break your heart any more than your mama already had. You took her leaving hard, so tore up inside you had nightmares for months. You watched me like a hawk every time I stepped out of a room.”

  Gabe interrupts. “You pretended she might come back. You helped me write letters, pick out Christmas cards. You made that stupid box for me to put them all in, knowing she was dead.”

  “I didn’t know she was dead until weeks after it happened, when a lawyer contacted me, and that was a full year after she left us. You were just beginning to sleep through the night again. Most days, hope’s the only thing that got you up in the mornings.” The reverend’s husky voice is pleading and so low I can barely hear him.

  I press the back of my head harder against the door and close my eyes. I don’t want to listen in, but at the same time, I don’t want to miss a word.

  “Hope’s the only thing that kept you sane,” Mr. Beaudean continues. “It’s the most powerful thing in the world and after what Lila did, I couldn’t take that away from you. You’d already lost so much. I told myself I’d tell you when you were a little older. When you could handle the news. But it never seemed like the right time. And eventually, I’d waited too long. How could I tell you she’d been gone all these years? I didn’t ever want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now. You’re all I’ve got, Gabe. I didn’t want to lose you as well.”

  Gabe makes an angry noise, half under his breath but audible even through the door. “I had a right to know. When it happened. But you kept right on lying. How am I ever supposed to trust you again?”

  “I wanted to protect you.”

  “You were a coward. Too afraid to admit you couldn’t control her because maybe then I’d start getting ideas too.”

  “I’ve never tried to control you or forced you to do anything!”

  “No. Nothing straightforward like that. You’ve manipulated me and everyone else instead. Just like you did with Mom. Maybe she left because she couldn’t stand the games you play with people.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mr. Beaudean sounds genuinely mystified. I’m kinda wondering where Gabe is headed with this as well.

  “The miracles, Dad! I know you faked the whole thing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  A Plea for Clemency

  Holy shit. I never thought Gabe would actually confront his dad about the miracles.

  “Gabriel Beauregard Beaudean, you better explain yourself this instant and exactly what you’re accusing me of.” Mr. Beaudean’s voice is flat and stiff as a fence post.

  “Del found proof. She has a picture of the wood planks from the wishing well after you’d begun painting them.” Gabe sounds calm. Too calm.

  I wince, uncomfortable at being dragged into the conversation. Which makes me consider, for the first time, what we’d have done if I’d found more proof that it really is Reverend Beaudean faking the miracles. Could I have confronted Gabe’s dad? Face to face? Could I have accused a man who’s served me hot cocoa, driven us to the movies, listened to made-up stories of daring adventures, and patiently allowed us to wreck his kitchen while making chocolate chip cookies? My stomach gives a tiny lurch.

  Mr. Beaudean takes so long to answer I start to wonder if he walked out of the room and left Gabe standing there.

  “I might have guessed it’d be Del who figured things out. That girl can’t ever leave well enough alone.”

  I barely recognize Mr. Beaudean’s voice. He was pleading and upset with an edge of anger when talking about Lila. Now he sounds like he ran a double marathon and can’t catch his breath, exhaustion coating every word. I wrap my arms around my chest and squeeze. I want to run away as fast as I can, turn into Superman and fly backward around the Earth so I can turn back time. This is worse than not knowing.

  How could it be Mr. Beaudean? That question and a dozen others get me moving. I stop hugging myself and pull Gabe’s door open, leaving the false safety of his room. My feet are on autopilot as I zombie shuffle into the living room.

  Gabe and Mr. Beaudean are standing a few feet apart, Gabe with his mouth hanging open as he stares at his dad, Mr. Beaudean rubbing a hand over his face.

  “Why?” I croak out. There are tears clogging my throat.

  Both Gabe and his dad swivel to face me.

  “Del.” Mr. Beaudean sighs and his shoulders slump. “Lurking in doorways is a nasty habit.”

  “So’s lying.” I fling the words at him, half hurt, half furious.

  Gabe moves to stand next to me and my heart turns into a hot air balloon, swooping up into my throat. He might still be mad, but he’s here beside me the way we’ve always been. He’s got my back and I’ve got his.

  “Let’s sit down,” Mr. Beaudean says. “I can’t abide all this looming about.” He waves toward the couch and eases himself into his chair. His fingers pluck at the threadbare seat arm.

  The chair is a ratty brown thing, lumpy from years of use, yellowed stuffing visible through a small hole on the cushion front. Sometimes, when Gabe and I have movie marathons, his dad joins us, always in that chair. This feels like a pantomime of those nights; a sick, twisted parody where we’re each taking our place but nothing is what it should be.

  I drop onto the couch. My knees are a bit wobbly anyway. Gabe hesitates but sits beside me, twisting to face his dad.

  “You’re admitting it? You faked the miracles?” I whisper.

  Mr. Beaudean shakes his head. “Not all of them.”

  “Because that makes it better!” Gabe leans forwar
d, glaring at his dad. “What else have you been lying about? Any other dead relatives you want to mention?”

  “That’s enough, Gabe!” Mr. Beaudean’s weariness slides away and he’s got his stern preacher face on again. “You have every right to be upset, but pettiness won’t help the situation. I had reasons for what I did, whether you agree with them or not.”

  “What possible reason could you have for lying to the entire town?” Gabe says.

  “Wake up, son. We can barely keep the church open. The board voted to stop half our ministries because there aren’t enough funds. Holy Cross has been in financial trouble for a while, but not like this. Ballard isn’t exactly a rich county and there are so many people who need our help. People who don’t have anyone else to turn to. Mrs. Deardly with her fifteen cats, more concerned with feeding them than herself. Ida Wentzel, who just had her sixth child and can’t even afford diapers because Kenny drinks away his paycheck.

  “There are people needing help on every farm and in every house. And we can’t do anything about it. I can’t afford to run the meal truck because the cost of gas is too high. The church roof is caving in, but all we’ve been able to do is patch it for two years now. This community has never had much to give, but they’ve done their best and we put their tithes to good use doing God’s work.

  “Then, all of a sudden, half our congregation disappears over to St. Andrew’s after some ridiculous cheese wheel. St. Andrew’s tithes doubled. Bobby was bragging about it. But does he funnel that money back into the community? No, he buys a fancy glass case for that cheese wheel, prints color programs, and orders a new microphone for Sunday services. I’m not saying Bobby’s a bad person, but he focuses more on his church than his congregation.

  “I thought the cheese wheel situation would blow over but it’s been weeks of half-filled services and no end in sight. Weeks without being able to scrape enough together for the work we normally do.”

  Gabe opens his mouth to interrupt but Reverend Beaudean holds up a hand and stares Gabe down.

  “You want to know why, then let me finish. I thought long and hard about what needed to be done. Prayed for hours. But I couldn’t see any other way through. Not without giving up completely. No one would listen to reason, not when talk shows were calling Bobby, not when every stubbed toe was cause for a visit to that blighted cheese wheel. I thought, if I found our own miracle, something we could use to take the attention off Bobby’s cheese wheel, everything would even out. So I painted Jesus’s face on the drive-through window. I thought for sure Robert Henderson would let me have the thing when he found it, but he outright refused, despite six years of friendship.”

  Mr. Beaudean continues, leaning forward, face flushed and earnest. “But I was right about another miracle taking the focus off the cheese wheel. If I’d been able to get Robert to let me have that window everything would’ve been fine. I never thought he’d be so greedy, wanting to use the window to draw people into a restaurant of all things.” Mr. Beaudean’s outrage is kinda funny. Guess he doesn’t see the irony in what he’s saying. He wanted to use McJesus to lure people in as well—he just wasn’t trying to get them to buy jumbo fries with it. “So I had to figure out another miracle, one I could be sure would come to Holy Cross.”

  “So you faked the wishing well,” I blurt out. Mr. Beaudean jumps a little, as if he’s forgotten I’m there. His frown adds more wrinkles to his forehead.

  “Yes.” His voice is subdued now. “I made the wishing well panel and attached it. Melanie has been coming to Holy Cross since she was little and she has a good heart. I knew she wouldn’t keep the well for personal gain.”

  “And her mom flipping out on live TV?” I accuse. “That was collateral damage?”

  Mr. Beaudean slumps lower in his chair. “I didn’t realize how bad things had become. Melanie never said, and LuAnne seemed rational the last time I stopped by for a visit.”

  “What happened to trusting God?” Gabe shifts next to me, mouth puckering into a sour expression. “How many sermons have you given telling people to be patient, that God acts in his own time. Did you mean any of it? Did you even listen to the words you were saying?”

  “Sometimes God needs help. Aren’t missionaries passing out food to the poor doing God’s work? Doctors providing free vaccines in Africa? Congregations coming together to build homes and schools for the needy in South America? Aren’t all of these people acting in God’s name to help make the world a better place? Our parish, your neighbors, Gabe, they need us and I can’t help them. How could I stand by and watch all our good work disappear because for a brief time our congregation was seduced away?”

  “None of those missionaries or doctors used fake miracles to do God’s work,” Gabe snaps.

  Mr. Beaudean looks stricken, but he squares his shoulders. “I don’t expect you to understand. You’re too young and you haven’t seen enough of the world. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made.”

  “Like the truth?” I half whisper, still reeling.

  It feels like there’s a caged lion sitting next to me, Gabe is so tense. He clenches and unclenches his hands. “What happens now? Because it’s not a secret anymore. Del and I know.”

  I wince, but Gabe has a point. What do we do now? I never planned further than finding out who was faking the miracles.

  Mr. Beaudean turns so he’s looking directly at me. “You understand what I’m saying, don’t you, Del? You can see how important it is to help this community?”

  I shake my head, heart breaking. “Everything’s a lie. How could that ever be good?” Turns out I was right and miracles aren’t real. I expect to feel triumph, smugness, something. Instead, I feel hollow.

  “Del?” Gabe asks sharply. He takes my arm. It’s only then I realize I’m crying.

  I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve cried since Claire died.

  “Are you okay?” Gabe asks and I give a watery laugh. His life just fell apart and he wants to know if I’m okay. That thought helps me pull it together.

  “I’m fine. I mean, I knew the miracles were being faked. I just wasn’t ready for it to be …” My voice trails off and I look at Reverend Beaudean.

  He seems so sad, but his jaw is set, and he’s watching Gabe and me closely. I’m not sure what he sees that makes the lines in his face deepen.

  “I think the three of us need to discuss everything that’s happened and what we’re going to do,” Mr. Beaudean says.

  Gabe snorts. “What’s to discuss? You need to publicly apologize for faking the miracles and lying to everyone.”

  Mr. Beaudean shakes his head. “If I admit I faked the miracles, we’ll lose Holy Cross and be forced to leave town. And what about this community? They believe, with all their hearts, that God has blessed them. They’ve been given hope. You snatch that away and it’s going to breed a whole lot of despair. Our church does so much good. This will wipe all of that away.”

  My vocal cords have seized up, strangling me, and Mr. Beaudean’s words repeat over and over in my head. They wouldn’t really have to leave, would they? I can’t lose Gabe. I can’t.

  “What do you expect Del and me to do? Lie to everyone? Pretend the miracles are real? Pretend you’re not a fraud?”

  “I expect you to put the needs of your community first.” Mr. Beaudean’s hands tighten on the arms of his chair, his voice hoarse. “Think before you do anything, and pray. God will guide you to the right decision. Sometimes the world isn’t black and white, it’s every shade of gray, and you have to decide which is the least evil to achieve the most good.”

  “Don’t you dare bring God into this. If you believed, truly believed, like you’ve always told me to, you wouldn’t have faked anything. You wouldn’t have needed to.”

  Their words whip back and forth and Gabe’s are barbed, designed to draw blood. I know it’s more than the fake miracles, it’s everything to do with his mom and the lies upon lies. I can hear the thread of accusation underlying each syllable.
He says his dad should have trusted God, but what he means is that his dad should have trusted him.

  Part of me agrees with Reverend Beaudean. Not with what he did. But I can understand why he felt he needed to fake the miracles. When God is silent, how can we not act on our own?

  I tune back into the argument when I hear my name again.

  “And Del?” Gabe asks. He squeezes my hand and I realize that at some point he twined our fingers together. “Does she get a say in whether we’re going to lie for you?”

  “I’m not asking you to lie.” Mr. Beaudean leans forward, hands gripped together and resting on his knees. “All I’m asking is that you not announce to the world that the miracles are fake. Clemency needs them to be real and our congregation needs them too. Think about the damage you’ll do!”

  “No more miracles.” My words are so low it’s a wonder anyone can hear them. Gabe swivels to stare at me and Mr. Beaudean goes still. “Not one more,” I add.

  “Of course not,” Mr. Beaudean says. He clears his throat, straightening a little. “We have the well now, that’s all Holy Cross needed.”

  “Are you serious?” Gabe demands, still looking at me. “You’re going to let it go?” He loosens his grip and our hands slip apart. My fingers rest in my lap and I wish I had something to hold on to: my camera, Gabe’s hand, or a safety net.

  I shake my head. “It’s not okay. It’s never going to be okay. But your dad losing his job and the two of you moving away is worse.”

  “You spent weeks trying to figure this stuff out.” He’s looking at me the same way he was looking at his dad a minute ago. Betrayed.

  “What am I supposed to do, Gabe?” My voice is bordering on hysterical. “Who am I going to tell? Call up the Weekly World News and offer them an exclusive? ‘Extra, Extra, God Doesn’t Exist, Miracles Proven Fake.’”

  “Of course God exists.” Mr. Beaudean slips back into his preacher’s voice, gently chiding. “And there are real miracles. Sometimes the Lord just needs a little help.”

  “Don’t,” I snap, all hysteria gone. “You don’t get to say those words to me. Not after this. I won’t tell anyone about the fake miracles, but I won’t help cover up any more lies. And I won’t listen to any lectures about God.” I get up before Gabe or his dad can say anything else. “I’m gonna head home. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell Gabe and hurry out.