by Joan Dempsey
Now the organ increased in volume, and the people quieted. Ordinarily this was the time Ludka would close her eyes, working to keep in check her deepest yearnings for her home country, yearnings that inevitably arose from the familiar ancient mass and the murmurings in Polish. But today Ludka kept her eyes open. She craned her neck, searching in every direction until Tommy gave her an inquiring look, at which point Ludka methodically studied the backs and sides of every old man’s face she could see without turning around.
Marta settled into the pew and leaned across Tommy to smile at Ludka. Lolek genuflected and crossed himself, groaning inwardly as his hips and thighs pushed too tightly against the fabric of his pants, as his waistband pressed into his gut. He took off his overcoat, draped it over the end of the pew, and then reached out a hand toward Ludka, palm down. He flapped his fingers.
“Dzień dobry, Matka.”
“Dzień dobry, Lolek.”
And then Father Skurski was there at the altar, and everyone stood and made the sign of the cross.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
After murmuring Amen, the congregants were meant to turn inward to reflect on their own relationships with God, as channeled through the ages-old liturgy and the presence of the priest. Some of them still missed the lyricism of the Latin and wished the sign of peace that interrupted their reflections had never been instituted, but Ludka was not one of those. She believed strongly in offering her hand to others, because despite personal experience littered with examples to the contrary, despite the pessimism of history, she was still at heart an optimist who wanted to believe that even a small connection like a proffered handshake could make a difference should push come to shove.
For Lolek, mass was the one hour in his week when he could retreat into himself and cease to be a senator, and for most of the service, except when he prayed, he took in only the church itself, not the faces of the people, not even Father Skurski. He had trained himself to relax into the cadence of the mass, the scent of the incense, and the beauty of the basilica. Today, though, because of his foul mood, he had trouble letting go. His son had just angrily dismissed him in the parking lot, and Marta had been utterly silent on the drive over. He felt too heavy inside his suit, his armpits stuffed tight with three layers of fabric from his undershirt, Oxford, and jacket. Next to him, Marta’s eyes were closed, head tipped up, hands resting on the back of the pew in front of them. She wore her wedding band, engagement ring, and mother’s ring with two birthstones all on the same finger, a bit crowded, Lolek thought. And what in God’s name was his mother doing, glowering around at the crowd? He was startled to find Tommy eyeing him warily. Tommy quickly averted his gaze and faced Father Skurski.
“Lord have mercy,” said the priest.
When it came time for communion, the organ music escalated and the whole family rose and moved in a line along the pew toward the center aisle. As Ludka stepped out into the aisle before Tommy, a man from the end of the pew behind them took hold of Tommy’s jacket sleeve and held him fast.
“Don’t you dare take communion,” said the man, loud enough to compete with the organ.
Brozek, thought Ludka insensibly, and turned just in time to see Tommy pulling back against the man’s grasp, trying to extricate himself, a panicked look on his face. Without thinking, Ludka reached out and smacked the man’s forearm.
“Desist!”
“No need to make a scene,” the man said to Ludka. And then to Tommy, almost conspiratorially, he said, “I heard all about you, son. Just sit back down.”
People were peering around now for the source of the disturbance, and Lolek and Marta had crowded out into the aisle.
“Mr. Kulek,” said Lolek. “What’s this about? Is there a problem?” The man seemed surprised that Lolek knew his name.
“No problem, Senator.” He let go of Tommy’s sleeve, and the release catapulted Tommy’s arm back across his own chest in an angry-looking gesture. Kulek circled around them and hustled forward to join the dwindling communion line. Ludka glared at him.
“And so it begins,” murmured Tommy.
“What begins?” said Lolek.
Ludka gestured toward the altar, but Tommy shook his head. At first it seemed like he’d go back into the pew, but then he turned away and strode down the center aisle, trying—and failing—to walk as naturally as if the service had come to an end. The people were polite and tried not to stare, but most cast sidelong glances as he passed. Those who’d somehow missed the commotion admired the cut of his Gibson London jacket. One of his students pressed her hand over her mouth to suppress a giggle and elbowed her friend, who looked him over with obvious appreciation. Still others perceived it was all he could do not to break into a run. Tommy finally made it to the foyer. He ignored the holy water in its marble font, pushed through the enormous wooden door, and stepped out into the cold February morning.
The chill of the air outside felt almost warm compared to the stillness inside the church, and Tommy breathed it in, trying to calm himself. Less than a block away, a raucous group of people burst out of the wide entrance of the old Regent Theatre that five years ago had become home to the Hampshire Redeemer Fellowship. As if they were heeding a fire drill, the people quickly burgeoned into a thick and steady stream flowing out onto the sidewalk. Tommy squinted through the direct sunlight at the crowd, certain the superintendent of schools would be among them, the one person he wanted to avoid. He started down the stairs, but behind him the door opened and Ludka emerged, the spikes of her galoshes click-clacking on the granite. She detoured over to the black iron handrail to make her way down, and Tommy retraced his steps and offered her his arm.
“What the hell are the fundamentalists putting in their sacramental wine?” Tommy inclined his head toward the crowd. “I didn’t think the old Regent could hold that many.”
Ludka gave the crowd a passing glance, then peered intently at Tommy, who was surveying the crowd as if they might attack.
“What’s trouble?” She gave his arm a little shake. “Tell Babcia.”
Tommy sighed, closed his eyes, and lifted his face to the sun. After a moment, he glanced behind him at the doors to the church and said, “He’s not coming, is he.”
Ludka shook her head. “But your mother already is right behind, after communion. We will wait here for her.”
“The devout senator.”
Ludka winced at his bitter tone but knew enough to keep silent.
Most of the fellowship’s congregation were gathered in groups in front of the old theater or out on the sidewalk, and many others walked past St. Hedwig’s, heading for the municipal parking lot less than a block away. Thigh-high piles of freshly shoveled snow bordered the sidewalks, and in the parking lot a group of kids clambered up a huge snow pile and pushed each other down, jockeying to be the next King of the Mountain. Ludka realized with some surprise that she didn’t know anyone who belonged to the Regent—as she thought of it—although just then someone called hello, and there were Sophie and Ashley from class. Ludka gave them a little wave and they walked on, their heads nearly touching as they conversed.
Hampshire wasn’t a small town, but it also wasn’t so large that people didn’t know each other, especially people affiliated with the university who’d been around as long as Ludka had, and she wondered where all these people had suddenly come from, and when. It seemed the old cinema was a hive full of strangers, disgorging its congregants into animated clusters; it unsettled her. Still, like America herself, Hampshire had a history of welcoming immigrants—most notably the Poles—and Ludka supposed that just like the Poles, the new people had fallen in love with the town and encouraged a surge of their friends to join them. Nothing wrong with that. The Poles, though, no matter which century, had come to America largely to escape something: unemployment, foreign occupation, Communist oppression, and ethnic discrimination. Ludka and Izaac were no exception. They’d looked with hope to America for s
afe harbor, and they’d found it. But what was the story with these people? They were not foreigners, but Americans. She pulled the edges of her shawl out of the neck of her cape and snugged them up against her chin.
“Will you come see Dziadzio, Tommy?”
“I’ve been fired, Babcia.” Tommy spoke calmly, but she could feel him trembling. “I need to talk to all of you, back at the house. You’ll need to be prepared.”
4
God’s Warriors
Inside the recording booth in the old projectionist’s room at the Regent, Warren Meck plucked a thumb drive out of the console and flipped off the final switches. He would upload the recorded sermon to his website as soon as he got home. The numbers of people who streamed Pastor Royce Leonard’s sermons had swelled by the tens of thousands in the last five years, and sharing the videos on Meck’s website had been instrumental in marshalling support for their campaign, as well as providing a fivefold increase in Meck’s radio listenership.
Out in the hallway, he buttoned his navy sports jacket and pulled on his camel hair overcoat as he trotted happily down the broad staircase to the gold-leaf-festooned lobby. Even after five years, Meck could still feel the initial excitement from when Pastor Royce had recruited him to lead the statewide effort of the national campaign to restore America to its Christian roots. Sitting at the right hand of one of the most important Christian leaders in the country while leading an educational campaign of this magnitude had been the greatest challenge and honor of Meck’s life. So far the effort to unburden the Christian kids from the homosexual agenda that pervaded the public schools had progressed exactly as they had envisioned, and to win Massachusetts under Pastor Royce would mean Meck could move his mission—and his radio program—to the national stage. It also meant he could continue working with Pastor Royce, and Meck could think of nothing he’d rather do more. Soon they would head into the campaign’s final phase, and Meck’s confidence was high.
He scanned the crowd for his wife and boys but didn’t immediately see them. Whit Hammond, the man Meck had five years ago considered a capable colleague and who was now his dearest friend, saw Meck coming, smiled broadly, and swept his arm in a wide arc to encompass the size of the milling crowd, which slowly moved its way toward the exits.
“We’ll need a stadium before too long,” said Whit, when Meck reached him. “Getting to be a fire hazard in here, all those people standing in the back.”
Whit was an imposing man, especially next to the unusually diminutive Meck, who stood only five foot four and about whom everything was small except his uncommonly large voice. He’d never quite gotten used to people’s shocked expressions when they heard him for the first time, the way they’d snap back their heads, then awkwardly try to recover. It wasn’t until he’d found his place in radio that he learned of the power inherent in modulation.
Whit leaned down and whispered.
“We need to talk. Immediately.”
Meck felt a flutter of anxiety, and asked Whit what was up.
“Not here. Green room.”
Meck looked again for his family and found them—most of them—at the refreshment table. Jill, even smaller than Meck but just as fair-haired, was pouring a cup of juice for their middle boy, John, who bounced up and down on his toes like an eager terrier about to be fed. He hadn’t stopped moving since the day he was born eight years ago. Andrew, the five-year-old and their youngest, stood with his back to the table, chewing studiously on a plain donut as if it were the most important meal of his life, seemingly oblivious to the crowd around him. Ben, as usual, was nowhere to be seen. Meck felt a sudden and profound sense of well-being, and wished he could join them for their usual Sunday brunch instead of hearing Whit’s news. Jill smiled when she caught his eye. Meck gestured to Whit and mouthed for her to go ahead home, he wouldn’t be long. She nodded.
Whit and Meck made their way back toward the theater. Three senior boys from the high school basketball team, all standing tall in shirts and ties, stood between them and the theater doors. A gangly boy, Brandon Braddock, stepped forward and looked down at Meck.
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Meck, but we were wondering. Would you say it for us? You know.”
Meck could feel Whit’s tension, but smiled up at the boys, squinted, and cocked his head, pretending to consider. The boys exchanged glances. Then, as if he were their coach, Meck beckoned them to lean down into a small huddle. In a slow, wavelike cadence, he said in a deep and gravelly voice, “You are on the air with Warren Meck.” And then, in a lighter, almost whispered staccato: “Tell-it-like-it-is.”
“Yes!” Brandon stepped back and pumped his fist. “Tell-it-like-it-is!”
Meck awkwardly mimicked Brandon’s fist pump to cover an unexpected rush of emotion. That he meant something to these boys had been a surprise, and an ongoing source of joy.
“Are you ready for this one?” said Brandon.
He lifted his hands as if poised to play a piano.
“Come on now, Brandon,” said Whit. “Even Mr. Meck needs a day off. It’s Sunday.”
“He’s fine, Whit, we’ll only be a minute. Go ahead, Brandon, give it your best shot.”
One of the other boys whispered to Brandon, who nodded, repositioned his hands, and sang in a high, breathy voice:
“Even when the rain falls, even when the flood starts rising, even when the storm comes, I am washed by the water.”
“Needtobreathe, from The Heat. 2007. Track thirteen.”
“Encyclopedic! I told you guys. He’s invincible.”
“Easy one, though,” said Meck. “Give me something more challenging next time; we’ll see how I fare.”
Inside the theater, Whit clapped a hand on Meck’s shoulder. “They adore you, Warren.”
“I don’t know about that. I know they like the music.”
“There’s some false modesty if I ever heard it. Anyone who can make a call-in program that appeals to both adults and high school kids clearly has a gift. Take the compliment: they adore you.”
Meck smiled. At the old green room’s door, he unlocked the dead-bolt and door handle. Meck and Whit both loved this room—the seat of power, as they thought of it. Meck loved it not only because of the incredible strategy they’d put together over the past five years from within its confines, but because other than the radio station it was here he felt most at home, which for him meant most competent. In front of one wall stood a mobile whiteboard on which was drawn a complicated flowchart with accompanying timeline. On another wall they’d fastened an enormous corkboard. Across the top of it stretched a red, white, and blue plastic banner: Imagine America—Restoring Our Christian Nation. Below it was a large group photograph taken about four years ago on the Regent’s stage. Someone had written God’s Warriors on a piece of scrap paper and tacked it up on the lower left corner of the photo. Another scrap said Acts 29, a metaphorical shorthand for their ongoing missionary work, which carried on beyond the 28th and final chapter of Acts of the Apostles. Meck’s favorite Bible passage was one among many tacked on the bulletin board: “Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it (Proverbs 22:6).” There were two desks, shoved face-to-face under the corkboard, both gunmetal gray with dented drawers and tidy surfaces, and a long dining table that seated twelve on the other side of the room in the area that used to house racks of costumes. They’d kept the old couch that came with the theater but cleaned it up with a new slipcover, on which Meck had insisted.
Whit closed the door behind them.
“You’re going to want to sit down for this one, Warren.”
Whit himself sat in one of the desk chairs, closed his eyes, pressed his large hands together as if in prayer, and lowered his face against them. Again, Meck felt a stir of alarm. He carefully folded his overcoat and laid it on the arm of the couch. He hiked himself up onto the dining table, tucked his hands under his thighs, and leaned forward. His yellow bangs fell over one eye. Whit bumped his head aga
inst his hands.
“They fired the Adams River teachers. Friday.”
Abruptly Meck’s energy fell away. Had he been standing he would have needed to sit. He gaped at Whit.
“Pastor Royce gave them the green light. He told me just before the start of the service. He’s supposed to join us shortly.”