Dead Things (2 page)

Statten says they are at the threshold of Christ Almighty’s triumphant return. Soon those reborn in His light will go home. His arms are outstretched. He is bathed in the glow of the windowpane.

…
Angels, their great wings spread wide, eclipsing the sun…

Statten drifts back to the podium and recites from a massive Bible. He quotes Saint Paul, Thessalonians 4:13 through 17. “For the Lord Himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first. Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds…and so shall we be ever with the Lord.”

Simply taken, it is the story of the second coming of Christ. That is, should these wretches dare take the word of God
simply
. Like a horse to water, St. Paul is leading them to salvation. But they must drink and drink deep. Only those who drink shall survive the tribulation. Only those who drink shall meet those who
peacefully
sleep. They will meet them in the sky and be saved, leaving the walking dead to their damnation.

Here it comes
, Ian reflects.
Here comes the fear
.
Served to us like colorful plates of Chinese food
.

Armageddon is here, Statten declares, as if on cue. For those who have already felt Satan’s steely grip, it is too late. They will never pass through heaven’s gates.

Ian’s cheeks flush with growing anger.

It is too late for the people of New York. It is too late for the heathen of Chicago. Eternal damnation, a living death, awaits those who dare to allow Sodom and Gomorrah to be built in their backyards.

…
Angels armed with great, flaming swords…

Statten tells a story of a time before the New Order. Just eighteen years before, the heretics used labels to describe themselves, labels like civilization, nation, and society. All worthless. All meaningless.

Statten brings a single boney finger to his chin. He acts as though a new thought, planted by God Himself, is germinating in his skull.

Sometimes it takes everything Ian can muster not to jump from his seat. He wants to denounce them all as liars, scream down at those who purport to know.

Civilization? Statten spits the word as a query, an indictment, for no civilization can exist if the civil teachings of God are forbidden in public schools.

Nation? No nation can be great if it pays homage to God in word only. “In God We Trust?” Eighteen years past, just an empty promise, just an advertisement on the green face of shreds of paper once called currency.

Statten’s hand strikes heavily on the pedestal, more heavily than it should be able, his strident voice starting to crack.

Society? How can there be a society if the social tenants of the church are subjugated to the demands of a purely secular electorate?

Nothing but words devoid of all sense when the influence of the church is absent.

…
Angels, expressions serene and heads bathed by the glow of halos, battling the throngs below them…

Choices and evil intent set the plague upon the world, but the parishioners are survivors, and they have one last opportunity. They must pray. Pray to be kept safe to the glorious rapture. Pray to stay in the minority that will meet the Spirit in the sky.… Or else walk the Earth damned like hundreds of millions of souls lost before them.

…
Angels destroying a world of ghouls…

Ian’s head spins with thoughts of his father—not Bobby Joe, but his birth father. He grits his teeth. The homily is nearly over.

**

Yellow, Ian considers. The Fellowship Hall is bright yellow. The deacons painted its cinderblock walls with stock salvaged from a crumbling Home Depot.

Some once might have called the color maize, or goldenrod, or even sunflower. But those designations lost their usefulness in this world, a world without quarterly catalogs, global shipping, or a demand to supply. So, despite what the dead and buried buyers for J. Crew, Restoration Hardware, or Ralph Lauren may have once thought, the Hall is, simply, yellow.

Ian is sweating. But for the rainbows, stars, crescents, and other scrawled likenesses of second-rate Lucky Charms added by youth groups through the years, Ian swears he’s standing on the surface of the sun.

Churchgoers mill about, a disorganized colony of bees. Instead of curious antennae, they greet each other with firm handshakes, wide smiles. They bite into homemade donuts and muffins, not scones or paninis, and slurp coffee, plain coffee, not frappes or dopios, from bland ceramic mugs.

Ian and Josh observe the hive of activity before Ian puts a hand on Josh’s shoulder. He’s ready to face the gauntlet. “You first,” Josh challenges. Ian takes just two strides before Pastor Statten impedes his path, and Josh quickly disappears into the veil of parishioners.

Statten says Ian’s name and extends a tiny hand. Ian clumsily takes it, offering compliments for a great sermon. Statten does not hear the lie in Ian’s hushed words. He says something about “onward Christian soldier.”

Yes, Ian ships to the northern front in less than a month. The pastor invites Ian to pray with him next Sunday. Ian respectfully declines. No, he has other plans.

Statten greets this revelation with silence. He glowers at Ian.

The seconds seem like an eon, the quiet deafening. Ian grows increasingly uncomfortable. He fills the void: Vacation. On Padre Island. Near Corpus Christi. In Texas. For two weeks. With Van Gerome.

It is the last bit that stuns Statten. “Roger Gerome’s son?” he asks.

Ian nods, cranes his neck, looking for Josh to toss him a lifeline.

Statten ponders this. His lips purse, and the sides of his mouth go white. Roger Gerome does not come to church. His work—“missionary work,” or so the elders call it—takes him outside the realm of the church’s influence and into the wilderness. It is work deemed as too important to require his attendance at one of Statten’s masses.

This reality tweaks Statten. Statten wants to curse Gerome. Unconsciously he starts to sneer, his face becoming the mask of a demon. Ian watches the transformation, his eyebrows twisting in surprise. Statten realizes this and catches himself. His face softens. A predatory smile crosses his lips as he offers Ian some advice.

“Wherever you go, God goes with you. He is everywhere, everything. Take him in your heart, and you need not avert your eyes from his gaze.” Statten says more; he will pray for Ian, pray for God to clothe him in His armor of Righteousness.

And then Statten offers something else: an invitation. “Tell Van to stop by the church before he leaves. I haven’t seen him since Easter…two years past.”

Chapter Two: Baggage, Emotional and Other

Van is incredulous. “Statten wants me to do
what
?” He pauses, draws from a joint, and sinks deeper into the leather recliner. Drugs are illegal, but Van worries little about reprisals sitting in his father’s study listening to Journey’s “Only the Young.” Roger Gerome apparently has a thing for Journey.

They are surrounded by a collection of artifacts, things found and rescued from oblivion by Roger Gerome during his explorations. Wall-to-wall displays of novels, compact discs, DVDs, albums, artwork, and other relics compete for Ian’s attention, pulling it to and fro.

The titles are odd, unfamiliar. Most have been purged from the libraries, titles like
Catch-22
,
Fahrenheit 451
,
The Catcher in the Rye
,
A Clockwork Orange
,
Of Mice and Men
,
East of Eden
,
The Grapes of Wrath
,
The Martian Chronicles
,
Slaughterhouse- Five
,
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
,
Where the Sidewalk Ends
,
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn
,
To Kill a Mockingbird
,
For Whom the Bell Tolls
,
Carrie
,
Cujo
,
Firestarter
,
The Shining
,
Frankenstein
,
American Psycho
,
Lord of the Flies
….there are hundreds. Ian itches to read them.

Ian assumes
Superfudge
is a cookbook,
1984
an almanac, and
Brave New World
an atlas. Except for the
Star Wars
trilogies and some “Star Trek” films, Van rarely invites Ian to watch these movies or read these books. Ian suspects they are something to keep Van occupied during his father’s expeditions. He doesn’t suspect Van has been instructed to keep them privileged.

But there is one item that Van can’t hide: an aging American flag, ragged and faded, hanging on the wall behind Roger Gerome’s immense desk. It screams for Ian’s attention, and his eyes can’t help but heed the call and settle on the tattered stars and stripes.

“Still,” Van wheezes, a little smoke escaping from his lungs. “I got to give old man Statten props. He’s keeping hope alive.”

Keeping hope alive? Ian doubts that. More likely, Statten’s just thinking of a new way to fuck with Van. Van has not been to church since…since a lock-in when they were just twelve or thirteen.

Ian remembers that night. Van got caught feeling up Maxine Brooks. Maxine was penanced. Ian never saw her again—they shared a defensive tactics class—but he hears there are scars on her back to prove it. Van, however, escaped punishment. Anyone can be an escape artist, anyone can be Houdini, when they have a father like Van’s.

Nevertheless, Statten and Van have an implied agreement. Essentially this: if Van doesn’t come back, then the Church won’t have to ask him to leave...or worse.

Statten’s invitation is provocative. It is a dare.

The Church hasn’t held a lock-in since. “I’d love to take credit for that,” Van snickers, “but the teen pregnancy rate spoke for itself.” He’s right. Allowing virgins to get nailed in the Fellowship Hall is definitely not good governance. Plus, you can only go to the till with the whole Immaculate Conception pretext once every couple millennia or so.

Van offers the remains of his bud to Ian, but Ian waives him off. He doesn’t do that shit. “You sure?” Van asks. “You’re not going to get another chance for, like, another four years.” But Van doesn’t wait for a response. He is already taking another drag from the roach, finishing it.

“You know,” Ian says, “you shouldn’t do that shit either.” After all, Van’s shipping out in a few weeks, too. He’ll get busted.

But Van has a plan. “Yes,” he replies with zeal. “I’m counting on getting busted.” He flicks the joint away with a quick snap of his fingers, discarding it as easily as he discards Ian’s criticism.

This begs a question from Ian: how is getting caught a good thing?

“Don’t you see? Drug addiction, man.”

Ian doesn’t get it, but he’s seen Van like this a thousand times. Van’s road is meandering, but at some point, he’ll arrive at his destination…even if he’s forgotten why he left for it in the first place.

Van scolds, as always. “Try to follow me here, man. This isn’t adult swim.” Van reasons: “Drug use equals inability to serve. Inability to serve equals automatic discharge. Discharge equals, well, anywhere but the front line.” He leans back, awaiting accolades. They never come.

Instead, Ian guffaws. It is, by far, the most stupid thing he has ever heard. And that says something, because Van says a lot of stupid shit. Van says only stupid shit. And Van talks a lot. Did Van ever happen to consider while he was hatching this brilliant scheme, when he had this epiphany, no doubt fueled by the very cannabis in question, that any resulting discharge would be
dis
honorable?

“So?” is all Van can muster.

So? Ian will gladly explain. Dishonorable discharge is distinctly different. Honorable discharge equates to citizenship. Dishonorable discharge amounts to a hard life. A very hard life.

Like living and working in squatter rows lining the crumbling country roads of Corbin and Middlesboro in the shadow of poisonous dust clouds spewed forth by iron and coal mining operations.

But Van disagrees with Ian’s assessment. “No, man, it’s an addiction, a disease. They can’t dishonorably discharge you for a disease.”

There are just two problems with Van’s line of thought, and Ian is eager to point them out: first, Van’s argument that pot is not addictive, used so many times on Ian and other innocents, goes out the window. Second, the Church would keep Van hospitalized or in a stockade until he’s clean. Then it’s right back to the front.

“Shit.” Van looks momentarily dejected. He rubs his tightly cropped hair, then he brightens. “I better switch to beer here on out. Want one?”

Ian shakes his head and excuses himself. He’s got to pack for the flight. He tells Van to drink some cranberry juice, start cleaning those toxins from his system.

Van laughs. “Yeah, fuck you, too, straight edge.”

**

“Are you packed, Honey?” Stella Mayberry asks from the shadows of the hall. She stands just outside her daughter’s bedroom door.

“Yes,” Anne replies flatly. She is stoic. She shows none of the zest a teenager should, especially one traveling alone to Padre Island to allegedly spend time with a grandmother she has never met.

Mayberry steps toward the door. She places a scarred and mangled hand against the frame and leans in slightly so that she can see Anne with her good eye. She reads Anne’s face easily, like reading an astrological birth chart. “You’re worried, aren’t you?”