(2008) Down Where My Love Lives (10 page)

Before I realized what he was doing, the usher had walked smack-dab down the middle of the center aisle, intending to lead me to the front of the church where, wonder of wonders, Amanda sat next to an empty spot. I tried to stop him. I coughed and even thought about whistling, but Amanda turned, saw me, and started scooting over to make more room. I followed while the whispers grew out from me like aftershocks resonating from an epicenter.

When the usher got to the front row, he turned, opened his arm so the palm of his hand showed, and nodded his head. Still smiling. Dang, that's a lot of teeth. With my shirt starting to stick to my back, I slithered into the seat.

Amanda smiled, whispered, "Hi, Professor, I thought you might come," and folded her hands in front of her tummy.

I looked down and said nothing. Studying the carpet, I noticed that Amanda had slipped off her shoes, and it wasn't hard to see why. Her feet were pretty swollen. I looked up, and Pastor John stopped midsentence, waved his hands, and placed his right index finger against his lips.

After the congregation quieted and people stopped talking about me behind my back, he said, "For those of you who don't know him, Dr. Dylan Styles has just joined us. As you all know, we've been praying for his wife, Maggie, for several weeks now, and we will continue to do so."

Someone behind me said, "That's right." Across the room, someone muttered, "Ummm-hummm" and farther over to the left came, "Amen."

Walking to the other side of the stage, he said, "Please, make sure that all of you greet Professor Styles when I finish." Pastor John smiled and looked at me, then back at the congregation. "But not until I finish."

Looking back at me, sweat pouring off his face like a spigot, he said, "Welcome, son." It looked as though he wanted to say something else, but he didn't. Without skipping a beat, he picked up where he had left off and continued thumping that Bible across the pulpit. Based on his speaking and the audience's reaction, I had interrupted his sermon at the crescendo. After another ten minutes, once he had worked everybody into a pretty good frenzy, he finished and sat down in a big, wide, ornate wooden chair next to the choir.

An organ started, and my armpits were soaked. The place was like my classroom: real hot. Several women were methodically waving pieces of paper in tempo with the ceiling fans, which only served to circulate the warmth. My forehead was dripping, and I kept rubbing it with my shirtsleeve. Shortly, the music stopped, the sanctuary fell silent save the rustling of the choir's robes, and next thing I knew, the ushers were leading the choir to the railing. That only meant one thing.

Communion.

The choir made their way to the rail and knelt in unison. Following Pastor John's prayer, the assistant pastor walked down the row of purple robes and placed white wafers in black hands. "The body of Christ. The bread of heaven."

After they had time to swallow, Pastor John followed with a great big silver cup. He moved methodically down the aisle. "Brother Michael, the blood of Christ. Sister Annie, the cup of salvation." When he had finished, the choir stood in unison and returned to their seats where, swaying in rhythm like the women's fans, they began to hum quietly. Like my cornfield, this place was constant movement.

Then out of nowhere, Mr. Smiles appeared next to me. He turned, extended his arm, showed his palm, and beckoned. I looked straight ahead and pretended not to notice him.

Amanda whispered, "It's okay, Professor. We ain't Catholic. You can go with us."

The row opposite me was filing out and up to the railing on the left. Mr. Smiles beckoned a second time, and my forehead wrinkled.

Pastor John broke in, waved at the organ, which went silent, and pointed his face toward the balcony. Looking at no one in particular but everyone in general, he said, "You all know how I feel about this." His hand swept across the railing. "Before you strut up here, remember what waits." His articulation was crisp and powerful, his wording careful and precise. He paused, moved the cup from one hand to another, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his forehead and cheeks.

"You all face a choice. You can rise from your seat, follow the person in front of you, stroll down this aisle, critique somebody else's Sunday best which they happened to wear on a Wednesday night, think about how hungry you are or where, when, and what you are going to eat when you leave here, and then kneel, nod, nip and sip, and return to your seat, having thought the bread stale and wine cheap." Pastor John wiped his brow again after unfolding and refolding the handkerchief.

"Or"-he moved the cup to the other hand-"you can slide from your seat, limp to this rail . . ." The humming grew louder. "Reach down, grab these splintery timbers, fall, rest your baggage against it"-Pastor John's voice rose above the humming-"extend your hands, take tenderly, place the body on your tongue, taste the grit, swallow, and feel the hunger build in your stomach. Then you can grasp this cup." Pastor John held the cup above his head with two hands, his powerful arms rippling through his robe. "Tremble, sip violently, feel the burn, taste the acrid smell, feel the splinters pierce your elbows, lean more heavily, and then look upon this cross." Pastor John pointed behind him without looking.

"You can reach up and place your trembling hands on callused, blood-soaked feet, let the red, slippery liquid run down your fingers, underneath your watchband, and come to rest in the crack of your elbow. You can lean your forehead against His shin, notice the crude and rusted nail, the shake and strain in His arms and legs, stick your hand in the hole in His side, notice the dried blood on His face, the thorns poking through the skin, smell the vinegar, feel the raw skin on His back, and hear the gurgle drowning out His breathing." Pastor John took a long, deep breath.

"Lastly, you can raise your head and feel the breath of God. And in that instant, if you so choose, you can see your own reflection. With all your zits, warts, blemishes, and scars. And there, amongst the scar tissue, are your demons. But having chewed, sipped, and swallowed, you can chase." The choir was humming louder. Pastor John's voice was calm, controlled, soothing, and resonating.

"People." He paused, knelt, leaned his arms on the railing, held the cup between both hands, and faced the congregation. "This is where you chase the demons that feed your doubts, your anger, your bitterness, and your lack of faith." Then in almost a whisper, he said, "Every last one." He stood and wiped his forehead. Except for the choir, you could hear a pin drop.

"Brothers and sisters, a demon's job is to kill you. To beat you to death. To rob you of anything that is not painful. This railing is where you give more than you take. Where you steal back. Where you kill what's killing you. Then, having chased and slain, you return"-Pastor John pointed to the pews and folding chairs-"bloody but unharmed, different but the same, changed but unchanged, moved but unmoved. A living battleground.

"People, we got hurting brothers and sisters here. Every one of us has a closet, and in that closet, we keep and feed our demons. Some's more full than others, but they're all busting at the seams. You all know most of mine. I've told you. What I haven't told you is in my criminal record. That's public. You're welcome to read it."

I shot a glance at Amanda. Peace bounced off the glisten on her face as she watched her father.

"People," Pastor John continued, "that space between your pew and this altar, between the red velvet cushion and these splintery timbers. Whether it's twenty feet or a million miles, it's not a question of distance. It's one of position." He calmly turned, walked to the end of the railing, and waited.

The humming continued. Mr. Smiles put his hand on my shoulder. The people next to Amanda were standing, waiting.

I rose.

I took three steps and knelt. Or rather, fell. If the railing had been much farther, I'm not sure I'd have made it. Amanda knelt next to me. I looked straight forward and followed Amanda's lead, holding out my hands, one clasped beneath the other. The assistant pastor gently placed a small white wafer in my white hand. I took it. If he said anything, I didn't hear it. Amanda did likewise and immediately placed it on her tongue and closed her mouth. I held mine out and looked at it, then placed it on my tongue. It was gritty, but I swallowed. I think my stomach growled, because out of the corner of my eye, I saw Amanda smile.

Silently Pastor John appeared with the cup that he held to my lips. "Dylan, this is Christ's blood, which was shed for you. Take it in remembrance of Him who died on the cross." He placed the cold silver cup to my lips.

I sipped.

My tongue and throat burned as I forced the liquid into my belly.

Then he moved to Amanda. "Baby, this is Jesus." He placed his hand on her forehead and prayed quietly.

When I opened my eyes, the railing was empty but for me. I don't know how long I had been there, but when I turned, everyone else was seated and about eight hundred eyes were turned directly at me. I quickly rose and plopped into my seat with an embarrassing thud.

Amanda sat with her eyes closed. Quiet. I hadn't seen Amos until now. Out of the corner of my left eye, I noticed that he was sitting at the end of the row opposite me with his attention focused on Pastor John. His uniform stood out, and his badge glistened in the lights. His belt, and Kimber, were noticeably absent.

At 10:47 PM Pastor John said a closing prayer, and as the choir sang, people filed out of their seats. A few headed for the door, but most headed for me. I was the center of several hundred people's attention and hands. After eight or ten minutes, Amos rescued me. He put his arm around me and led me toward the side door.

"Professuh," he said in his cornfield tone, "how 'bout a burger?"

"No." I paused. "I'm not hungry."

"Doc, that's horsepucky."

"What?" I said, looking at Amos.

"A few minutes ago, back over there, your stomach told me you were starving and needed a fat, juicy, greasy cheeseburger with bacon, extra pickles, and a little of Amos's secret sauce on the side."

"No ... " I fumbled for my keys. "Thanks." I left Amos standing with three hundred people who had just heard him describe the cheeseburger. I started my truck, noticed a new exhaust leak, bumped the stick into drive, and drove home.

Pulling into the drive, I circled around back, parked on the grass, walked up the back porch, and pulled on the screen door, where the smell of Maggie's house tugged at my loneliness. Unable to face an empty house, I grabbed the blanket off the front porch, walked out into the cornfield, lay down with Blue, and named my demons.

WHEN I WOKE UP, THE SUN WAS JUST BREAKING the tree line. It was cold, I was shivering, and Pinky was rooting at my feet. Pinky appeared on our doorstep about two years ago. I looked at her and saw three months' worth of breakfast, but Maggs gave me the pointed finger and said, "Dylan Styles, if you shoot that pig, you're on the couch for a month."

So Pinky ended up in the barn with her own stall and two permanent slots in our daily calendar. Maggs even painted Pinky in bright-red letters above the gate. I feed her bulk dog food or kernel corn, sometimes a combination, but she'll eat anything that's not nailed down-and even some stuff that is. When she first appeared, she weighed maybe eighty pounds and needed a bath and a vet. Now she weighs a little over three hundred and expects to be hosed down weekly.

I'll never understand how someone so beautiful and so tender could love something so ugly. But make no mistake, that pig loves her back. Dang thing hates me, craps on my foot every chance she gets, but she just adores my wife. You've never heard such grunting and squealing as when Maggie rubs Pinky's ears and stomach. Pinky rolls and wallows and then rubs up against Maggie's overalls. Maggie doesn't care.

Maggie would squat down in the middle of the stall, and Pinky, holding her curlicue tail high in the air, would nose all the piglets out of the corner and up to Maggie, where she'd rub each one until it squealed with delight. Every now and then, Pinky would stick her nose under Maggs's hand, get a scratch between the ears, and then shove a piglet under Maggie's leg. Thirty minutes later, Maggie would walk out of the barn and smell like a pig all day. One morning last summer it was so bad, I had to hose her down. Maggie didn't care. She just laughed. Squealed just like Pinky.

Maggie loved the farm. Everything about it, from the creaking floors to the noisy screen door. The chipped paint, the front porch, Papa's swing, the smell of hay in the barn, the way the cotton bloomed in summer, the short walk through the oaks down to the river, the oak tree spreading across the barn that was bigger around than the hood of my truck, the artesian well and its sulfur water, the corn that waved in rows to the wind that sifted through it.

Maggie probably loved the corn best. Every night when the breeze picked up off the river, she'd disappear to the front porch with hot herbal tea and stand there, watching the waves rise and fall atop the stalks. And on moonlit summer nights when she couldn't sleep or Blue woke her up barking at a deer, she'd grab a blanket, tiptoe to the porch, and sit on the steps as the moonlight streamed through the rows like a prism and lit the sandy soil beneath.