Children of Paradise: A Novel (22 page)

The preacher orders his assistants, personal guards, the doctor, and other senior figures to gather around. He says with the recent public beating and with the death of the old makeup woman, there is altogether too much misery around. He asks them for suggestions to cheer the place. They need something to put in front of the commune and grab its attention, something that might act as a counterweight to the old woman’s body and push aside the incident with the young guard. The head teacher posits a spelling competition with a prize for the best child and the best adult. The preacher says that would take too long to prepare. The head of security floats the idea of a shooting competition with the best shot winning a prize to be decided by the preacher. This makes the preacher smile, since he knows he is looking at the best shot in the community. Next. The nurse says a day of races with high jump, long jump, discus, and steeplechase, plus bag races and spoon-and-egg races and three-legged races and other fun things to promote community health and well-being. Not bad. The preacher rubs his chin and nods at the nurse as he gives her suggestion deep consideration. He thinks the games idea is too large-scale, requires too many people, and needs a lot of organization to make it work.

—Isn’t there something small and miraculous that we can do?

The doctor says they could have a birth. There is a pregnant woman on bed-rest in the infirmary. The preacher likes this very much.

—How soon can a birth happen?

The doctor strokes his chin and scratches his head.

—In my professional opinion, I’d say we need another week or so to be sure the baby’s lungs are fully developed before inducing birth.

The preacher looks dismayed.

—A week’s too long.

The doctor and the preacher debate the merits of trying to contract a biological calendar to suit the commune’s spiritual needs. The room empties as people edge away from them. They stand close together, and each time the preacher speaks, the doctor squirms and chooses his words very carefully. One is science, the other is art. One should balance the other. But in this case, only one can win.

A
s the preacher showers before the night’s service, he sings “Tooty Fruity.” He calls in one of his personal assistants, the one responsible for goods and services, to help with the zip of his jumpsuit. He says it is stuck. He says that he could use the expertise of his old makeup lady right now, God rest her soul. To powder the shine from his face, yes, and she was a talented seamstress. She took one look at the picture of the outfit in
Rolling Stone
magazine and made a copy of it for him, and it fits like a dream, but she was lousy with zips. He stands with both feet in the garment, which rests around his ankles. All he wears are his white briefs. He says his underwear is the only thing he would not let the old woman make for him. He grabs his crotch.

—I wouldn’t let the old coot take these measurements. Now, if you were my tailor . . .

He trails off. His assistant locks eyes with him, smiles, and kneels at his feet, ostensibly to fix that tricky zip.

The preacher arrives at the tent feeling much too ebullient for the occasion. He curses the fact that his sermon has to be as solemn an occasion as a funeral service. His challenge, he thinks, will be to convert his glee to solemnity. Every impulse toward joy, he will steer to despair. He has held sway over people since his teens. He was born for this. You tell people something, anything, with enough conviction, and they believe you.

The preacher steps into the tent and the congregation hushes. He stands in front of the coffin, falls to his knees, and sobs. His assistants rush to him and help him to his feet while he wipes his eyes. He tries to speak and cannot get a clear word out. He turns to the front row.

—Help me. Help me find the strength to do this, brothers and sisters.

Trina and her mother and a few others at the front of the room rush to the stage and form a circle around him, hugging him and praying. The congregation wails. Someone shouts, God is love. Another voice launches into 1 Corinthians 13:

—Love is patient, love is kind . . .

The congregation takes up the verse at various points, some a few words behind, others a few words ahead, and together they create this vibrant humming in the room.

The assistants peel the arms off the shoulders of the preacher and free him from the collective embrace. The volunteers trickle back to their seats. Joyce tries to pull Trina with her before she feels the preacher’s firm grip on her daughter’s arm. Joyce releases, and after Trina gives her a reassuring look, she labors back to her seat. The preacher straightens, wipes his face, and keeps his grip on Trina’s arm. He faces the congregation, and with each word, he shakes Trina so her wrist wobbles and her whole body shakes.

—Speak for me, my child, I am laid low with grief. My heart is heavy. My tongue is frozen with grief. Speak for me with your gift of tongues.

Trina looks at Father. He hands the microphone to her. She looks at her mother, Rose, the rest of the congregation ringed by guards, and last, the coffin next to her. She thinks of Ryan but cannot speak. The words will not come. If only she had her flute. She would play it for Ryan, the old woman, and for Adam.

—Speak for me, Trina, think of your happiest moment and speak from your heart for all of us.

Trina closes her eyes. She walks hand in hand with her mother along a tree-lined street in a small town on the west coast of another continent. What is her paradise. Sycamore seeds swirl down from the tall trees, and she tries to catch them with her one free hand. The seeds bounce off her and her mother, gentle prods by the very tips of very small fingers lowered by the trees. The seeds swirl down in whispers. Branches wave in the trees. The last slice of the day’s sun climbs the trunks to nest for the night in the treetops.

—Father, yesterday I was a child. I did things without thinking what I was doing. Today I’m a young woman. I must think about everything that I do from now on. Tomorrow I’ll be old and responsible for taking care of others. The day after that I’ll be dead, just like Miss Taylor, lying here. And in all that time I’ll do nothing to spoil my chance to get to heaven. I’ll live like the example of Miss Taylor. I can do nothing to ruin my chance to enter paradise, not with you, Father, to guide me.

She hands the microphone back to the preacher, but he asks her to repeat what she has just said, every syllable of it, exactly the way she said it. She closes her eyes and closes her hand in the air around the microphone, and in her grasp she feels a sycamore seed newly plucked from the air. In her mind’s eye she offers it to her mother. Her mother opens her hand and she, too, grasps a seed. They trade.

Trina repeats the words she said and remembers them all in the exact order. She opens her eyes and the congregation still has their eyes closed with their ears turned toward her as they wait for more. The preacher picks up Trina. Kisses her. Holds her high for the audience to see and appreciate her. Kisses her again. Takes the microphone from her, releases her, and steps away from her, pointing.

—Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Our very own Trina!

The applause deafens. Trina waves at her mother, who blows her kisses upon kisses with both hands. She draws an open hand toward Father, who bows. She points at the sky. The head teacher nods in approval. The band and choir begin.

—Yes, Jesus Loves Me.

The congregation changes the applause to handclapping and bursts into song. The preacher guides Trina to her seat and heads back onto the stage as Trina’s mother hugs and kisses her. People reach over and pat Trina and congratulate Joyce. Trina asks the woman next to her to trade seats with Rose, who sits three rows back, and the woman obliges happily and Rose moves next to Trina. The preacher raises his arms and the singing quiets. He points with both hands down the center aisle to the back exit, and the doctor walks in with two nurses. The doctor holds a minute bundle in his arms. The audience stops singing altogether. The band ceases. A slight mewling sound emanates from the bundle, a distant alarm. The congregation cannot believe its ears. The doctor climbs onto the stage, and the preacher takes the bundle into the crook of his right arm, and with his left he brings the microphone very close to the baby’s face and the alarm grows and fills the room and the audience holds its breath to listen and they hear, amplified over the loudspeakers, the small voice, hardly recognizably human, barely a breath, that can only truly be the cry of a newborn child. Pandemonium breaks out. People faint, fall into fits, howl, scream with joy, pull out their hair, and jump repeatedly on the spot, as if skipping to two ropes at once. The preacher holds the brittle bundle high in the air to cheers and applause, and a commune photographer snaps several shots with his flash. Adam runs to the bars of his cage and rattles them and hoots and cartwheels.

The preacher slowly relays the bundle to the doctor, who cuddles the premature baby and, flanked by two nurses, troops out of the tent. People stretch to touch the doctor, any part of his white gown. The nurses fend them off. They thank him for delivering a miracle to the commune. They keep shaking their heads to clear them but seem unable to manage even that small act of contrivance. Rose pats Trina and tells her she is great. Trina is not so sure. She buries her face in her mother’s chest, and her mother hugs her.

—You’re a beautiful and very smart young woman. You make your mother proud.

Joyce closes her eyes. The prayer hall bubbles with spirited chatter. The preacher stands and looks all around the hall and soaks in the success. Everything went as planned, but just in case Trina’s part turned out wrong, the preacher had his Plan B and it involved the baby. The reverend takes a seat in his high chair and drinks a tall glass of ice water and motions for the coffin to be carried back to the infirmary for burial in the morning. The congregation hushes as four guards position themselves two on either side of the coffin, dip their shoulders under it, straighten up on the count of three, and walk in lockstep out of a side exit with people reaching in front or behind them to touch the coffin. Everyone applauds as the assistants leave with the preacher, followed by Joyce and Trina. They head for the preacher’s house and one of his famous late-night parties.

—Don’t worry, Trina, we won’t stay long, you may be a young woman, but you are still my child, and you have to get your beauty sleep.

As they traipse toward the preacher’s house, Trina tries to match her step with her mother’s. The preacher invites the two to come closer to him and his assistants, Nora, Dee, and Pat. He rubs Trina’s head and asks her to give him a moment with Joyce. The head teacher takes Trina’s hand and slows her pace to allow the preacher, Joyce, and the three assistants to float ahead.

—You know I’ve decided to give you another chance, Joyce.

—Thank you, Father.

—Don’t let me down this time.

—What do I have to do?

—Make a trip to the capital for me.

—Without Trina?

—Yes, without Trina. What kind of fool do you take me for?

—I don’t want to leave her, Father.

—It’s only for a few days.

—Couldn’t I—

—I’m giving you another chance, woman. You want it or not?

—Yes, Father.

The doctor calls out in the dark, and the large group of assistants, guards, and heads of security, education, supplies, accounting, farming, community relations, trade, with Trina and Joyce and a few other special guests, all stop.

—Father, I need you at the infirmary.

The preacher waves the group on to his house with an order to have fun and adds in a mock-severe tone that they had better remember to save him a bite to eat and a drop to drink if they know what’s good for them. He leaves with the doctor in the opposite direction. Whatever the doctor whispers to him makes him run his hands in rapid succession through his hair, and the two men increase their walking pace almost to a trot. Some of the group heading to the preacher’s house notice the urgency, and they look at each other but think it better to say nothing in front of people who are present as guests and are not part of the inner workings of the commune.

This is typical of the two modes of talk in public. One kind is meant for the community as a whole and includes generalities about social and biblical conduct. The other talk is for all those privy to the intricacies of daily decision-making about the community. A speaker always takes stock of who is present before saying anything. If there were a third mode of talk, it might be the delicacy with which people in charge of the various operations critical for the smooth running of the commune never say anything to the preacher that they think may be judged by him as a bad career move on their part.

Music, food, and drinks break out at the house, soft drinks to begin with and church music. Trina and her mother eat fried chicken and coleslaw, imported apple pie and cream, and drink as much reconstituted Kool-Aid as they can. Trina burps helplessly and covers her mouth with glee and hides a few treats in her pockets for her friends back at the dormitory. Joyce yawns, and Trina, triggered by her mother, yawns, too. An assistant notices and says they can leave and thanks them for their contribution to a successful funeral service. Several of the guests file out with Joyce and Trina. The music starts even before the front door closes. A few steps from the house, Joyce makes out the strains of Elvis intoning “Pork Salad Annie” and the clash of glasses.

A generator at the bakery outstrips the cicadas, the occasional bark of a dog, or hoot from the forest. Trina looks at Adam’s cage and distinguishes his bulky outline standing at the bars, staring at them. Adam is fused to the night, the faintest seam of darkness thickening into flesh—the bold evening surrounding the bolder outline of the gorilla. She wonders how good his eyes are in this thick dark, if a creature like Adam might be able to look in a forest with Ryan lost somewhere and be able to find him. She waves at Adam just in case he can see her. Adam waves back and hoots to let her know, in case she cannot see him. His call makes her stop her mother and beg for three seconds and rush to the cage and say something to Adam that causes him to stare into the forest. She runs back to her mother.