Brad Bucknell smiles. He does not sit down. “Are you saying that God didn’t create the heavens and the earth?”
“God? Well, Mr. Bucknell, not that it’s any of your business, but I like to imagine a world where God does not exist. Because everything would be permitted.”
“What?”
“If someone can tell me who said that – without resorting to Google, I will be very impressed.” Tulah looks at Brad Bucknell’s face. He’s confused and a little off guard. “We were discussing the idea of scientific theory and creation is not a theory.”
“Are you an atheist, Ms. Roberts?”
“My beliefs about God are irrelevant in this class Mr. Bucknell. Sit. Down.”
Brad Bucknell can hear the crazy edge to Tulah’s voice. Her voice has become a high-pitched razor wire. He sits down.
Tulah wants to assign her class an essay on the differences between religious doctrine and scientific theory. She wants to force feed them the understanding but she steps back and smiles.
“Jean-Paul Sartre attributes that quote about God to Dostoyevsky. ‘If God did not exist, everything would be permitted.’” Tulah looks around her classroom. “Jean-Paul Sartre, anybody?”
Kyla Rubins, who always sits near the front of the class – never right at the front of the class, raises her hand. “He was a philosopher.”
“That’s right, he was a French philosopher, playwright, novelist, and more. Anybody want to weigh in on Dostoyevsky?”
* * *
“Why are we so wired up to know the answers to why we’re here, and how we’re here?” Tulah looks at Principal Hartman. They are standing in the hallway after school. “What the hell, Jerry.”
“Okay, come with me.” He guides her to his office, shuts the door and locks it. He unlocks the bottom file drawer, pulls out a bottle of bourbon and pours two drinks.
“I mean, this kid has an uncle over in Afghanistan fighting the Taliban. Little Brad Bucknell would be the first to agree that the Taliban are fundamentalist pecker-heads, and he has no idea that he’s on his way to becoming a fundamentalist pecker-head himself.” Tulah shoots back her bourbon and Principal Hartman pours her another. “Little Brad Bucknell is just a few baby steps away from stoning homosexuals in the square and insisting that women be completely covered, and all men grow beards.”
“Was it that bad?”
“You should have heard this kid today. Loud and cocksure and so dense.”
“I’ve met the parents. The nicest, sweetest couple you could imagine.”
“Go figure,” Tulah says.
“Salt of the Earth. I’d venture to say, enlightened.”
“So what happened to their kid?”
“God works in mysterious ways.”
“Thanks for this,” she says, holding up her glass. “And for letting me vent. It’s been a rough couple weeks. I’m overreacting. I overreacted. Poor Brad Bucknell.”
“I saw him in the hallway after class. He looked no worse for wear. He was fine.”
“We shall see what tomorrow brings.”
“I’ve got your back, Tulah. You know that, right?”
* * *
Ray’s mom dies on a Sunday morning in early February. Edith Daria Daniels gets up and dresses for church. Five years ago she became a member of the First United Pentecostal Church on Downy Avenue. She sits down at the kitchen table with her usual cup of instant coffee and a muffin. At some point, halfway through her muffin and with half a cup of coffee left, Edith exhales and everything stops. She didn’t choke. She just keeled over onto the floor.
Ray finds out from her doctor that his mom had breast cancer and she had refused treatment. She did not tell her doctor this, but she was convinced God was going heal her – she believed in divine healing. She believed in the power of the faith healing at the First United Pentecostal Church. When Ray read this in her journal, his mouth fell open. His mother was a bright woman but it was apparent in her writing that she was terribly lonely.
In fact, she did not die because of the cancer. She died because she had a massive heart attack.
It’s 4:30 a.m. and Ray is standing at the graveyard. The snow is a sigh in the air, as if it is falling in slow motion. His mom was put to ground yesterday afternoon and at 3:30 a.m., after trying for three hours to fall asleep, he decided to go back to the graveyard and have a chat with her. He writes a note for Tulah and drives to Speyside Cemetery. The snow starts as he turns onto the main road. He parks and starts out toward the spot where she’s buried. The snow falling through the lights along the road makes the light a clearly defined thing – it only goes so far. A rabbit watches him as he walks by. It doesn’t move but it’s ready to move. The rabbit is hunkered down in front of a headstone for Jessie Abernethy – born December 4, 1825, died December 5, 1895. Jessie Abernethy is ‘Not Forgotten.’ Ray wonders who it was who was not going to forget her.
He arrives at his mother’s grave and stands under the two, robustly healthy Douglas firs. He looks at the mound of dirt that is quickly being covered by the snow.
“I’m sorry you were lonely,” Ray says.
You read my journal, he imagines his mother saying.
“I hope it’s okay that I read it. I’d forgotten how well you write.”
I have always had nice handwriting.
“You know that’s not what I mean. I mean you put words together in a way that is pleasing, entertaining and often moving.”
You’re upset about the Pentecostals, aren’t you? It was comforting. That’s all it was. It was an extended family.
“I don’t care about that but faith healing, mom? Really? I mean, it’s superstitious insanity. You’re smarter than that.”
I know. I know.
“Do you? I mean the Bible is not a medical journal, mom. You had cancer and your response was something out of the Dark Ages.”
I know what I had.
“I’m just saying, people recover from breast cancer all the time, and it’s not because of faith healing, or prayer.”
Tell me how you are.
“I’m not done with you and the Pentecostals.”
It doesn’t matter now. Anyway, I had a heart attack.
Ray pats his left shoulder to knock the snow off, then his right.
“You’re right,” he says. “Sarah has mononucleosis. She has mono but she’s going to be fine.”
Poor dear. You had mono when you were in grade 2.
“What? I don’t remember that.”
You missed six weeks of school. The kids in your class sent you get-well notes. I still have them somewhere. Well, you have them now.
“Did you at any point take me to church to get healed? You know, when I had mono?”
You don’t want to let it go, do you?
“I’m fine now. I had to get that out of my system.” Ray inhales the cold air and then exhales in a long stream. “I should have come around more. I should have been there for you. I didn’t know you were so lonely.”
Never underestimate loneliness, she says. It’s an affliction. It’s a pack of barking, yipping dogs and sometimes it’s difficult to control. It can even bite you when you’re in a crowded room, or in bed with a lover.
“I’m sorry…I should have noticed. I…”
He imagines no response. He does not want to forgive himself so he lets his mother’s voice go silent. He leaves her with her Pentecostals, the foot-washing, the healing God, and Hallelujah, and amen.
* * *
After his mother’s death, Ray becomes more desperate for life. He hugs the girls a little longer every night. He watches them sleep sometimes and the act of standing in the doorway becomes a long prayer for their safety and their happiness.
He and Tulah drink better wine.
He wants to make love with Tulah. He wants it to be raw and uncertain, as if t
hey are discovering something. But he has no idea how to lean over and start kissing her. Nor does he remember how to touch her body. She is far away and he feels clumsy and stupid and inadequate. The last dozen times he tried to start to make love with Tulah, she was not interested. His mind has been telling him to stop struggling – his mind wants him to give up, to accept a marriage with no sex, that it’s fine. His body just wants pleasure. He feels betrayed by this, and older than he is, and sad. He feels betrayed when in the middle of the night Tulah will reach out and hold his hand, because this is the act of a lover, and they are not lovers anymore. These vague intimacies are petty deceits and they stab at him – they mock him. Ray is stalled between decidedly doing nothing and moving blindly forward on faith.
3½
The Summoner’s Tale
They meet at the river. Monsieur Gauguin and his wife are on the far side and Garamond wades into the stream; he pushes across the river to greet them. Natalii pulls her skirts up to above her waist and the two men, Garamond and Gauguin help her across the river. Marie Isabelle sits on a rock and watches. She laughs when Natalii almost falls into the water and the two men almost fall with her. There is much splashing and finding footing on the tricky river stones and then they’re safely across. Gauguin turns around and goes back into the river to fetch his bag on the far shore and he moves much quicker by himself. Once he is back with them, they walk through the forest toward the Durand villa.
Eloise has prepared a feast of roasted chicken and a mix of vegetables, including turnips, leeks, and beans. The dinner is rounded out by the addition of a smoked ham and a selection of pork sausages with a creamy peppercorn sauce. After dinner they nibble on a slab of Brie with a platter of plump Gamay grapes.
“I have a story from the English writer Chaucer,” Gauguin says.
“Not Chaucer again,” Natalii says. “Please, Maurice. He is a crude writer. Soon Marie Isabelle and I will be having conversations about the chickens and asking each other if our cocks are okay. Is your cock performing? Does your cock stand?”
Marie Isabelle looks at Natalii with amusement, her eyes glistening and intrigued.
“I heard this one only three weeks ago,” Gauguin says. “A soldier in the tasting room shared it. He said it was one of Chaucer’s but of course, there is no way to know for sure.” Gauguin called the small tavern attached to the vineyard a tasting room because that’s what it was used for.
“I would love to hear a story,” Marie Isabelle says. “Please, Monsieur Gauguin.”
“Maurice,” he says. “Please call me Maurice.”
“Very well, Maurice,” she says. Marie Isabelle looks at Natalii. “If it is not too much of an inconvenience for you, dear Natalii. I love stories. I would love to hear a story.”
“He has promised that it is a new story, so I have no more objection in me. But I warn you: once you leave the gate of the corral open, the horses will run for many, many miles and soon it will be the middle of the night and you will have forgotten that you started out trying to find the horses.”
Gauguin looks at her as if he is not quite sure about how deep her insult cuts, but he lets it go. “Chaucer, in these tales, is writing about pilgrims,” Gauguin says. “They are on their way to the cathedral in Canterbury, and they are all telling stories. It’s a competition of sorts.”
Of course, Garamond knows about Chaucer’s audacious manuscript, and has read some of the tales. Though his English is not as refined as it should be, he managed to get the gist of Chaucer’s work. Garamond is intrigued to see which tale Gauguin intends to share.
“There is a Summoner,” Gauguin says, “and his tale involves a friar who travels from church to church, preaching and begging for payment. As soon as this friar gets his payment he moves to the next church. He would often write down the names of his benefactors on a tablet, with a promise to pray for them, but he would then erase these names as soon as he was on the road again. He is more charlatan than holy man.”
Gauguin pours wine into glasses all around the table, plying his audience.
Garamond is intrigued. He has not read the Summoner’s Tale. He thinks about the summoners he knew in Paris, men who worked for the church and would call people before the court for their spiritual crimes such as adultery, or heresy, or witchcraft, with the threat of excommunication always front and centre.
“This friar visits the home of a wealthy man who is sick in bed and attempts to extort money for prayers. Imagine the wickedness of such a thing. This supposed holy man, this shit of a friar tells the sick man that he has not recovered because he has not given him enough money. The friar then delivers a sermon about the dangers of anger and the importance of giving money, and at this point, the sick man reaches his limit. He tells the friar that he does indeed have something more to give him, but that he must swear to divide it evenly with all the other friars. The friar nods his head contemplatively and then solemnly he agrees to do it. So the sick man tells the friar to put his hand down his back and beneath his buttocks, where he has hidden something of great value.” Gauguin starts to laugh. “Can you imagine this scene? Come, Natalii. Stand up with me. Let us make a demonstration.”
Natalii shakes her head. “No, thank you, Maurice. I am comfortable where I am.”
They have all been drinking wine and so Marie Isabelle stands up and pulls Natalii with her. “You tell the story, Maurice, and we will perform the actions.” She smiles at the Vintner’s wife. “Okay?” And Natalii nods.
“A perfect solution, my dear,” Gauguin says. He plops himself down at the sturdy wooden table and takes a gulp of his wine.
Garamond is amused. He is happily drunk, but not so drunk as to be silly. The dinner sits well in his gut and the wine is a fine companion. The company is delightful.
Gauguin clears his throat. “Put thy hand down by my back, the sick man says. And grope well behind. Beneath my buttocks. And this is exactly what the friar does. He thrusts his hand into the cleft and feels around, looking for the valuable prize.”
The men watch as Marie Isabelle snakes her hand under the waist line of Natalii’s dress and reaches down beneath her ass, and curves into the beyond. Natalii giggles, a nervous, hesitant sound in the room. It is wet between her legs, and warm.
“And?” Marie Isabelle grunts. “And?”
Gauguin continues. “The friar is groping around down there, feeling all around the sick man’s anus…”
“…Oh,” Natalii says and they all recognize that it was not a voluntary utterance. All four of them start to giggle.
Marie Isabelle can feel the shiver that starts in Natalii’s lower back. They share this secret.
“Just as the friar is groping all around sick man’s ass, the sick man lets loose a voluptuous fart against the friar’s hand.”
“What?” Marie Isabelle says.
But Natalii bears down quickly and releases a fart into Marie Isabelle’s hand, and they are all laughing. They can hear Eloise laughing in the pantry. Marie Isabelle leaves her hand between Natalii’s cheeks and only when they stop laughing does she remove it.
It feels as if she is moving her hand slower than she ought to, as if it has its own mind, and does not want to leave this place.
When they finally calm down, Garamond pours wine for all that want wine, which is everyone. He is happily excited and he is aroused.
“You beautiful actors upon this trifle of a stage can sit down now,” Gauguin says. “You were an excellent representation of the tale, and funny as funny can be, but let me tell you, there is more, and it gets better.”
Natalii sits down next to Garamond, who is trying to hide his erection by pulling himself a bit closer to the table. She looks at his lap, smiles and shakes her head.
Eloise comes into the room, her eyes down and away from the possibility of any engagement. She tends the fire, making it bigger, and then retreats to the pantr
y.
While everyone is watching Eloise, without looking, Natalii reaches behind and places her hand on Garamond’s cock, as if she has actually put her hand on his knee and the gesture is completely innocent. He does not remove her hand. He does not react at all. “Carry on, Maurice. Take us to the end,” she says, squeezing.
Natalii’s hand remains in Garamond’s crotch, and he looks across the table at his wife, who sneaks her hand up to just beneath her nose and inhales deeply.
Gauguin, who was watching Eloise at the fire and followed her retreat, smiles at his wife’s encouragement and clears his throat.
* * *
A week later, Gauguin and Garamond have ridden high up into the mountains as Gauguin wanted to show him the route of an escape, if it came to that. At the edge of a meadow, they dismount and lead the horses. They push across the meadow and up the mountain toward a rock wall. At the base of this wall is a small lake where they will rest the horses.
“There was something honourable in the friar,” Gauguin says. “No matter how corrupt, or despicable, he could not hide from his own honour.”
They have returned to their ongoing discussion of the Summoner’s Tale.
“That is the real joke of this story,” Garamond says. “The heart of the story is that the friar is tortured by this promise to share what he found. He made a vow and something inside him insists he must stay true to that vow, no matter how absurd, or abhorrent.”
“Do you think we all possess that kind of honour?”
Garamond stops, caresses the side of his horse’s face. “I do not know, my friend. I would like to think so.”
* * *
What if you don’t like it that the Kapitán died? Maybe you thought he was a decent enough man and even though drinking himself to death seemed true, you just didn’t like it. You’d like to see him survive. Do you actually know anyone who has died of liver failure? Okay, even if you do know someone, do you know two people? See? It’s rare. Think about the telltale signs that there may be some whopping lies in this story. What if the title of this book is true? What if the Kapitán’s death is one of the big whoppers?
This Is All a Lie Page 29