Kate Fox & The Three Kings (4 page)

“
I need to tell ya somethin’, Kate.” Gideon muttered under his breath while he kicked loose dirt around idly.

“We can leave tonight! I have a bag packed, under my bed. I can run back right now, Joy’s not home. Gideon, I’m so glad you—“

“No,” Gideon interrupted.

“No?” I repeated, irritated. “Why did you want me to meet you here, then?”

His stare bore a hole directly through me, and my cheeks reddened under his gaze.

“I…I think I love ya, Katie.”

“Oh,” I murmured, not knowing what to say or how to respond.

Gideon loved me? Feelings of discomfort settled heavily on my chest, but not in the hot and bothered kind of way. This wasn’t right. I didn’t even think of Gideon as owning a penis. I’d never thought about his dangly bits. We’d never even shared a lingering hug—well, maybe like a one-armed shoulder hug, but definitely no extended eye contact. Perhaps Gideon meant he loved me like he loved his cat, Girdy. Girdy lived outdoors with the goats because she had a tendency to pee on the rug, so after they booted her out of the house, she urinated on the welcome mat instead. Mine and Gideon’s relationship was platonic. Yes, completely platonic.

Several moments passed in palpable silence, but I attempted to recover our conversation: “So, let me get this straight…You…you love me?” My voice cracked.

“Yeah, I mean, well, I’ve always loved ya, but—“ Without any warning, Gideon lurched forward and his mouth collided with mine in a sloppy gesture. My neck stiffened under his forceful grip on my face. I stifled a muffled gasp and tried to unhinge my lips from his, but it was a wasted effort. Gideon’s musty aftershave smell, mixed with sweat, filled my nostrils.
I don’t want this. I don’t want him.

I struggled once again, this time, not only to escape Gideon’s arms, but his wandering tongue.
This isn’t ok. Why won’t he stop? We’re just friends. Friends.
I squirmed, but his grip was unwavering. I needed to act. A volatile combination of panic and disgust swelled within me as I bit down on his tongue.

Pain proved to be the best communicator. “Get away from me,” I warned, backing away, the taste of blood on my lips.

Gideon stumbled forward, wiping dribbles of scarlet from the corners of his curled lips. “I love ya, Kate, but I’m not suppose to accordin’ to my pops.” I furrowed my brow in confusion, but his words had little effect on toying with my emotions. Gideon’s father was the pastor of W.H.O.R.E. Although the Smiths forced my compliance, I held no regard for the opinions of a cult leader who thrived off of fear and loathing. “You’re goin’ to Hell. Ya know that, right, honey? Straight to the fiery lake, ‘cause God hates you.”

Gideon’s pained expression was soon replaced by a cruel grin, and my heart tugged at his intentionally vicious statement. At a loss for words, I turned to leave. Since arriving in Brushy Fork, Joy told me nearly a million times that I was on the path to Hell, but I’d never been outright damned by someone I trusted, someone I considered a friend.

“Come on. Dontcha frown, babe. I’ve seen God’s plan for us. You and me. I know damn well how to save that soul of yours,” Gideon chuckled, but something was wrong with his smile. It twitched and tugged at the corners of his bloody mouth, showing his teeth like a rabid dog. I darted into the darkness without looking back.

With three minutes to spare, I stepped through the threshold of the Smith residence. The door groaned behind me in an audible confession, as I spotted Joy looming in the kitchen, lips pursed and staring at her watch: “You got lucky, little girl,” Joy smirked with a raised brow, but her tone was filled with bitterness. Without another word, her floor-length jean skirt silently brushed the ground as she stalked off.

By Sunday morning service, I’d nearly repressed my Gideon encounter. I silently selected a seat on the back wooden pew, next to girls who were students at my school. Essie’s parents forbid me to publically associate with their prodigal son and daughter, so Essie and Gideon ignored my presence as I strode past them. When I took my seat, the group of girls noticeably shifted away, whispering and eyeing me with unwarranted judgment. Regardless of living in Brushy Fork for six years, I might as well had “leper” branded on my forehead
. Oh well
, I shrugged, feeling pleased with the extra elbow room.

The congregation commenced each sermon by reciting W.H.O.R.E.’s favorite verse, straight from Leviticus 20:23: “And ye shall not walk in the manners of the nation, which I cast out before you; for they committed all these things, and therefore I abhorred them.” This week, Pastor Sprite’s message was immersed in the hatred of homosexuals. Admittedly, I entertained myself with an indulgent game prior to each sermon, which involved guessing the subject matter. If my guess was accurate, I rebelliously highlighted John 3:16 in a stranger’s Bible when no one was watching. The passage described God’s love, and I fantasized about Pastor Sprite’s eyeballs twitching as he thumbed through multiple Bibles with that particular verse highlighted. W.H.O.R.E. was consumed by their hatred of the gays, Jews, military, and whoever else was deemed trendy to abhor on any given week. Since I tinkered on the edge of a life in crime, I’d sometimes draw a rogue penis in Revelations.

“Sodomy! Unnatural faggotism!” Pastor Sprite roared, making jerky hand movements toward the audience.
Is ‘faggotism’ even a word? How does Webster define ‘faggotism’?

When my grandparents used to drag me to church, it was nothing like Blood of Christ. They were Catholic; we’d sing
Amazing Grace
and mumble the Lord’s Prayer during the lighthearted sermons. Like clockwork, about thirty minutes into the lesson, Grandpa would try to suppress a yawn, causing me to giggle as I smiled at his wrinkly face. He always smelled like peppermints. Grandpa played hangman with me on the back of the church program while Grams shot us dirty glances. Back then, church wasn’t so bad.

I remember taking my first communion at my grandparent’s church. I was very literal as a child, and when they stated that the bread portion of communion was the body of Christ, I believed it with every fiber of my being. Revolted, I witnessed Grandpa inch the bread closer to his mouth, and I couldn’t contain my disgust any longer. I shrieked, “NO! IT’S HIM. IT’S JESUS. YOU CAN’T EAT HIM.” The pews erupted with laughter.

No one laughed here. There was no room for fun or joking; not when serious matters like butt sex existed and needed to be thoroughly explored, discussed, criticized, and damned.

I was quickly jerked back to the present when Gideon approached the altar, where his father stood beside him, pride filling his features: “Y’all know my son, Gideon. He’s gonna lead prayer requests.” With a couple of pats on the shoulder, Pastor Sprite took a seat at the front pew, and Gideon stood in front of all of us. For a moment, Gideon appeared mortified as he scanned the chapel. Our eyes locked, and I redirected my gaze to my feet.
What unremarkable shoes I’m wearing today…
Unpolished black flats that belonged to Joy.

Gideon broke the silence by clearing his throat and pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper from his perfectly ironed slacks: “Misty Lawrence was caught lyin’ to her husband ‘bout listenin’ to The Beatles. They sing ‘bout sex and stuff. That music don’t have no place ‘round here. We hope you’re real sorry, Misty. And while we may forgive your deceit,” Gideon motioned to the crowd, then pointed upward, to the ceiling: “God probably won’t.”

Gideon rattled off nine more ridiculous prayer requests—ranging from gluttony to impure thoughts. As soon as I was convinced Gideon had finished, he cleared his throat once more, an unpleasant, guttural noise rising from his chest: “I wanna share a personal request with y’all. One that God’s been layin’ on my heart, y’know?” An ‘amen’ rattled off the rafters between Gideon’s pauses, “Kate Fox tried to seduce me the other day by offerin’ me her virginity, in exchange for runnin’ ‘way with her.”

What the heck?
All of W.H.O.R.E. spun around to cast a scornful glance my way, as I sat open-mouthed on the back pew, all my by myself. I stood up, fists balled at my sides, about to protest, but Gideon interrupted, slowly inching towards me: “I know your parent’s didn’t love ya enough to keep ya, Kate, but everyone here done their best to keep ya in line,” Gideon, once again, motioned to the rest of the room. “God hates whores, Kate. We’ll sure pray for you.”

I felt as though I’d been slapped. I opened my mouth, but before speaking, I realized the futility of my efforts. I managed my best
go bathe in molten lava
glare, aimed directly at Gideon, before skirting through the swinging, wood-paneled doors leading to fresh air. Once outside, I leaned against the trailer, trying to collect my thoughts and, rather unsuccessfully, attempting not to cry.

“I better not see tears,” Joy warned, waddling through the swinging doors moments later. She was never one for pity—or any conceivable emotion resembling empathy. Joy jerked me by the arm and dragged me back to the house. Her chin appeared even pudgier with her blonde, stringy hair tied up in a perfect knot. Through cloudy eyes, I caught a glimpse of Joy’s church ensemble, a baby-puke-green, floor-length skirt paired with a dreadfully boring white blouse. Not an inch of ankle showing. No, no. W.H.O.R.E. wasn’t much for revealing flesh, not even a risqué ankle. They saved the bare skin for Ruth and Rebecca erotica, those disgusting perverts.

All I could focus on was Joy’s uncharacteristically strong grip on my arm. I felt the pulsing of my forearm trying to regain circulation from her sausage finger hold. “Sit!” she hissed through her teeth and motioned towards her un-homey kitchen, in which I toasted my frosting-less Pop Tarts every morning, and she shoved a wooden chair in my direction. I did as she ordered, hoping I could explain my situation.

“Gideon forced himself on me, Joy, not the other way—” Blunt force centered on my right cheek before I choked out the rest of my explanation. Joy slapped me across the face. As soon as I recovered from shock, she connected with my other cheek, hurtling me off the chair and onto the cold linoleum. The room appeared blurry as I tried to focus on returning to the chair. The entire situation was a misunderstanding. Certainly, if I could just tell my side of the story, I could make Joy understand. Shakily, I climbed to my original seated position and clutched my throbbing face, unable to find words. Instead of arguing, I stared at the floor, where Joy’s skirt met the linoleum.

“Do y’know how much you embarrass us? Huh? DO YA?” Each word that poured out of her thin lips was tinged with a curse. “I get why your parents didn’t wantcha, and I consider your grandparents lucky for not havin’ta raise such a stupid, little wretch. Then again, I guess it don’t matter. They’re all in Hell, anyway.”

“Simmer down, Joy. That’s enough,” Pastor Sprite smiled with sticky sweetness, emerging through the kitchen door with Joy’s husband and Gideon in tow.

Why are
they
here? Perhaps to apologize. Maybe Gideon didn’t realize what a stir such a silly lie could cause. Maybe he’d come to take back what he said.

Eerie silence blanketed the room while Pastor Sprite considered me, sitting in my chair, nervously swaying back and forth with reddened cheeks. I thought for a moment if I had ever carried on a conversation with the Pastor or even studied him up-close. Surely not, otherwise I would’ve remembered his stark white hair, an unexpected shade straying from the usual salt-and-pepper at his age. Now that I thought about it, I couldn’t recall ever seeing him with the shiny, ornate cane he carried through the threshold, which he was currently tapping on the ground beside his black leather boots. The silver grip of the cane appeared to be a bull’s head, and not the kind of bull you’d catch on a steakhouse wall.

Through silver-lined spectacles, the pastor peered at me with icy blue eyes, which would’ve been a lovely shade of blue on anyone else except the man before me. I raised my gaze to meet his, hoping to convey an inaudible, tiny plea of mercy. Unfortunately, the message was deflected, or ignored at the very least. Panic set in, and I was convinced the pastor was going to slap me, too. Instead, he cut the silence with a single question: “Do you want to go to Hell, Katie?”

Rhetorical or not, I remained silent, wanting to roll my eyes but not challenging the moment out of fear. Who would actually stand up, hand extended in the air, and shout: “Yes! I volunteer! I would love to tour the great depths of Hell. Please steer me across the lake and let me loose! Hold on one second, let me take my shoes off first, before I dip my toes in the water.” No one would say that. No one.

In one, swift movement, the pastor chucked his cane down and grabbed both sides of my face, inducing more distress than I had ever previously experienced in my young adult life. “I asked, DO YOU WANT TO GO TO HELL? Where your cursed family rots, suffocating in the consequences of their transgressions, drowning in God’s loathing? Or would you prefer to enter the gates of Heaven?” Pastor Sprite’s close proximity and general enthusiasm left traces of his spit across my pained expression. I closed my eyes during his yelling to escape the oppressive smell of sour milk and boiled eggs exuding from his flesh.

Feeling brave enough to peek at Gideon, he was standing wide-eyed next to the dated microwave. He averted his gaze, so he wouldn’t have to look at me, but I wanted him to look. I wanted him to hear me. Taking a deep breath of foul-smelling air, I met Pastor Sprite’s icy stare: “I’d rather spend an eternity in Hell than another moment with ANY of you—in Heaven or on earth.”

The room returned to silence for what seemed like forever, but then the pastor exploded in horrible laughter: “That’s what we thought you’d say, Miss Fox.” He spun around on one heel and started up a flame on the gas stove, then bent down to extract his cane off of the linoleum.  No one else moved, and I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, scanning the room for a quick escape as an uneasy feeling filled the air. I heard my heartbeat thumping in my ear, like hastened footsteps down an empty stairwell.  I was convinced everyone else could hear it, too.

“Wh—what are y—you doing?” I stuttered.