Sweet Jesus (26 page)

There’s a story in the Old Testament, he said, about Mishak, Chadrak, and Abednego. Three brothers who survive the fiery furnace. I always had a vision I’d have three sons.

There’s a camp song, Hannah said, about those boys.

Maybe that’s where the seed was planted, Caiden said and gave a boisterous laugh. You know, Hannah, some amazing things have been happening in the church, here in the States. Have you ever heard of the Vinyard? Well, they had a revival, a number of years ago now. I first went to one in
California and caught the laughing syndrome. You ever hear about this? Whole congregations coming over laughing. Even the Anglicans caught it. In fact, I think it
started
in England. Can you imagine? Prim little country ladies, in their Sunday best, laughing like drunkards. When I was in California, this preacher touched my forehead and I fell over. They have bouncers there to catch you, and I lay on the floor and laughed and cried and was totally paralyzed but full of the Holy Spirit. It was so powerful, Hannah. It was like being on acid, only I felt totally lucid.

Hannah envied Caiden’s ability to be so easily transported. She would have liked to have had an experience like that. They were passing brick-and-glass bungalows on wide lawns with three-car garages. The air was windy, the sky full of contrast. Big white clouds steamrollered across the blue, strobing the sunlight, making the world loom bright and large one moment, then recede into the shadows the next.

God has been using me in amazing ways, Caiden said. I feel called, at times, to say things to people. I don’t know why I’m saying them or what their relevance is, but it ends up being exactly what they need to hear at that precise moment.

Hannah had forgotten what it was like to talk to Caiden. How egotistical he could be. They had never really talked. Maybe it was the age difference. But he’d always seemed more interested in the potent physical effect she had on his body than in anything she might have to say. He liked her wordless, daredevil willingness to try anything – and she liked the electricity his presence sent through her body. But then, there had always been a lot of women.

How’s your wife?

She’s a strong, virtuous woman, he said. Well, she’d have to be to keep a man like me in line. I’ve made love to that woman thousands of times and I’m still not tired of it yet.

He indicated and they turned into a vast parking lot in front of a Walmart.

Remind me to get brownie mix for the boys, he said, and milk.

In the canned goods aisle, as Caiden was taking down a can of chickpeas, his cell phone rang. He said, Okay, honey, whipped cream. I’ll go get it, Hannah said, and as she was walking off, she heard him say, I love you too. A slightly wincing tone. Check up on your husband and use whipped cream as an excuse. That was the Christian way. Appear at all costs to have grace. It made Hannah want to get drunk and swear, make a porn film on the cold linoleum floor of an American box store.

They drove west to a wealthy neighbourhood with houses set so far back off the road they had their street addresses nailed to trees. Flagpoles marking the driveway entrances.

I hate patriotism, Hannah thought, and felt a sudden deep craving to see Norm. They were so compatible. They wanted the same things. There was no desire to emulate the trappings of success. They sought inward, intangible rewards – surges of feeling, intellectual achievements. They liked their rented apartment, the art on the walls they’d made themselves, the duets they sang together, Norm on guitar. They liked the fact they’d never had Cheez Whiz growing up, or juice boxes or store-bought cookies, and how ashamed they’d been by their hand-me-down clothes, and how they’d both had paid jobs by the time they were fifteen and what that did for character. Maybe she could live without a child. There were other considerations.

At the door, Julia was beautiful and ripe with her fourth pregnancy. She was wearing an apron and her hair was shiny brown, her skin glowing. A box of pasta in one hand, her other
hand affectionately resting on the back of her son’s neck. Two more boys came around the door, curious and enthusiastic as puppies.

Hi, Julia said in a flat tone, and Hannah understood this visit was a mistake. She suddenly felt like an emblem, a symbol of Caiden’s reform and fidelity, and a concession to forgiveness on Julia’s part. Hannah might as well have sent a cardboard cutout of herself, or a blank screen onto which they could have projected their new better selves, void of those lawless and inappropriate joyful urges.

But just as quickly, Hannah summoned up a generous spirit and held out her hand, and Julia shook it politely. Then Hannah said to the children, Okay, which one of you is the troublemaker.

It was five-thirty in the afternoon when Rose arrived in Wichita. She’d made two flight connections and been travelling for nearly ten hours. She walked out past the baggage claim to where people were being met by their families and friends. A child ran into the arms of a joyous grandparent. Two young people embraced, his hand inside the back of her sweater, an exposed crescent of pale skin. Rose felt tired and hungry. She stood beside her compact wheelie suitcase and felt like a fool. What was she doing here, really? She should never have let Tim convince her. Now she was dreading calling her daughters. And how was Zeus going to feel? She had to get a cab, and to book a room near the church. Off to her left was an airport bar and grill – first things first. She wheeled her suitcase over and sat down in a dark booth and ordered a porter house steak and a glass of red wine.

What was she expecting to accomplish by making this surprise appearance? She told the waitress she was stressed. I just flew out to drop in on my kids unannounced.

The waitress gave a quick snort and said, Oh, they’re gonna love that! Well, maybe your family is different, I don’t know. You want a baked potato or french fries?

Rose was humiliated. Fries, please. If she had called them first, what then? Would she even be here? Perhaps she was just caught up in her own needs, after all. Rose picked at her steak and sipped her wine and finished neither of them.

In the taxi, she looked out at the lights of Wichita city, all the young people heading out for a Friday night on the town. Perhaps she was trying to create a little adventure for herself, however selfish she was being. She felt like she’d been looking after people all her life, propping them up behind the scenes. She thought back to when her husband was first ordained and assigned to a parish in Montreal. He was out nearly every evening, attending one meeting or another, visiting elderly or dying parishioners in the hospital, rushing off to help a poor family being evicted or immigrants in a panic because they couldn’t read their utility bills. They had met so many people, their stories so compelling. There was that drug dealer, Teddy, who’d grown up Hassidic but had converted to Christianity. He started bringing his associates to prayer meetings at the church. They’d take a seat in the sidechapel and their pants would slide up past their ankle boots to reveal the butt of a gun or the handle of a knife. Rose had had to ask Tim to talk to them about their hardware. He made a gentle request, and after that, they left their guns and knives in the silver collection tray by the door. Teddy was so fond of Tim he invited him on a fishing trip with his buddies. When Tim fell asleep in the boat, Teddy and his friends hooked a fish to the end of his line, then
tugged on it and jostled him awake. Pastor! Pastor! You caught a fish!

But those were hard and exciting times for both of us, Rose thought as the taxi turned off the highway into an industrial section of the city. There was that soup kitchen she’d started in the basement of the church, that took up so much of her time and energy, where she sold secondhand clothes, and taught sewing and cooking classes to single moms. It’s where she’d met that frightening homeless man, Hunter, with whom she found herself doing spiritual battle.

Hunter had a messianic complex and a small following of disciples. One day he walked right into her soup kitchen and tossed the plywood tables into the air. The coffee urn exploded in a brown spume, and a boxful of sugar cubes went scattering across the floor. He tipped over the racks that held the donated clothes she’d so painstakingly cleaned and labelled, then he threw a black taffeta ball gown in her face – the same shiny blue-black as a raven’s feathers. The ball gown seemed to swirl around and engulf her head. He said, I know that your father died of a heart attack four years ago, and that he never approved of you. She’d run to the phone and called the police.

He came back again on a Sunday morning before the service and Tim had to escort him outside. It was in the middle of a snowstorm, and Rose could remember how the snow had swirled around Tim’s black cassock while Hunter towered over him, shouting obscenities. You motherfucking hypocrite! You parasitic dog-fucking son of a whore! It was terrible, but Tim had shown such courage. He’d stood his ground, even bursting into song at one point, belting out ‘Onward Christian Soldier’ at the top of his lungs. It almost seemed funny to her now. But then she recalled that awful vision she’d had of Hunter lifting Tim up by the armpits and throwing him backwards, impaling
him on the spiked, wrought-iron fence in front of the church. She’d squeezed her eyes shut and begged God to protect her husband. When she opened them again, Hunter was crossing the street with his hands on his head, like he was being arrested. Twenty minutes later, composed as anything, her husband was leading the morning service. How had he been able to do that? He never complained about a thing. He just went on about his business with a quiet and dignified confidence. He was such a private man, and it meant they never talked about all that stuff.

It was that same year he got possessed by an evil spirit. It was that Ida woman, after a Bible study, complaining about the flowers on the altar. Tim had tried to interrupt her, and then Ida stood up and loomed over him like Hunter had done. She said a few words that Tim could never recall, and a coldness like a grey fog, with a foul sulfuric smell, rose up out of her and swept down onto him and covered him like a lead apron. Ida walked out of the church and Tim struggled to make it from the chapel to his office. This time the girls were there, doing their homework. He collapsed into a chair, pale as a corpse, and told them to call home.

As soon as she heard Connie’s voice, Rose knew something was wrong. She arrived at the church fifteen minutes later and ran into her husband’s empty office. Tim’s watch was on his desk, next to his priest’s collar, his cardigan on the floor. She called out his name and ran back into the cavernous church and down the stairs into the basement. She came around the corner to where the washrooms were. The door to the men’s room was open. Connie and Hannah stood in the bright fluorescent light, in that white tiled room, thirteen and fourteen years old. They looked terrified. The door to one of the stalls was open, and Tim was sitting on the toilet, pants around his ankles, vomit
on the floor, crying like a child. Why had she and Tim never tried to talk to the girls about what they’d witnessed? There hadn’t been any talk about that either. These were the kinds of mistakes she’d go back and fix, if only she could.

Tim stayed in bed for two weeks after that while a procession of priests came and went through the house, sprinkling salt and holy water in all the rooms, even the bishop with his miter and staff. The bishop had a warmth that Rose had appreciated. He was the only one who took the time to ask the girls about school. Eventually, Tim got better. Meningitis was mentioned by a visiting doctor, but everyone knew it was the work of the devil.

The taxi had stopped and she was in front of The Global Kingdom of Salvation Center. It was dark outside. Things didn’t quite look the way she remembered. She was starting to feel anxious again. It was her effort to do the right thing and her insecurity, clanging like gongs against each other. Her hands were cold and clammy. She paid the driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk. She yanked the handle up out of the top of her suitcase. Oh, but it was good to be here again, at this holy place of worship. She’d go inside and ask about accommodation. When she got settled, she’d call the kids. It wasn’t wrong of her to have come, so what if she was nervous. It was probably a healthy sign, a good kind of nervousness, even if it was making it hard for her to breathe. Her breathing was getting shallow. She swung her purse off her shoulder and started digging around in it. Lord, just let me get inside first. Her throat was constricting. Her chest too. Where was her inhaler? Is it possible she’d forgotten to bring it? She had the urge to cough. She unzipped her jacket, hooked her hands around the collar of her sweater and dragged the neck down. Please, Lord, don’t let this happen to me. Not right now. She had begun to
wheeze. Two people standing nearby turned to look. Asthma, Rose whispered. She was buried in sand with only a straw to breathe through and starting to panic. The more panicked she felt, the harder it was to get air. Silver spots flared and fizzled in front of her like flakes of magnesium. Dizziness. Oh God, Rose said, and then she passed out on the sidewalk in front of The Global Kingdom of Salvation Center. She went down sideways and didn’t get her hands up in time. She sliced her head on the base of a metal garbage can and lay unconscious on the ground, bleeding from her hair. A small crowd quickly gathered. Someone call an ambulance! a woman shouted and ran into the building.