THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS15
15:1
The edges of the construction tarp flapped from the wind outside.
Most of the pews were gone, replaced with lawn chairs, empty barrels, and bar stools. Crammed in back were a pair of roll-away bleachers, normally reserved for solstice festivals and peewee matches between the hometown Ghosts and the Garlock Gears. Kids sat criss-cross applesauce. The rest was standing room only, the air thick and suffocating as the whole town held its breath.
Reverend Jones stood in front of the missing wall, presiding over the rows of coffins hobbled together from plywood and loose wreckage. They sat on quickly melting slabs of ice, turning the already hot room humid. None of them in any shape for an open casket except the one in the middle, intended for the spirit of Walter Bohr, filled mostly with desert flowers and a few plastic bug figurines.
“I apologize for the state of things, folks,” Jones said, cutting through the silence. “As you can see, weren’t hardly enough room for…even before that wall went we couldn’t…” He paused and clasped his hands, no pulpit to stand behind. A few feet shuffled. Someone coughed. “How do you like that?” he said, shaking his head. “A preacher at a loss for words…”
The crowd responded with a few pity laughs, hollow and perfunctory. The bleachers creaked, the floorboards groaned. There was a loud sneeze and everyone got to hear Anice blow her nose, which was really quite something.
“Thanks for bearing with us while we made arrangements. Our Lady’s still got more than a stretch to go, but we’ve put her back together before and by hook or by crook we’ll do it again. Just wish I knew how to keep the old gal from getting knocked over in the first place…”
Madame Thuselah sat next to Darby’s relatives from out of town. Their noses had been turned up since they arrived via private shuttle. Thuselah worked her fingers around her bracelet charms and talismans like a rosary, wondering if Darby would mind her associating with his uptight kin. If he did, she figured he’d be alright with her swiping back what he owed from poker when she’d offered them all big, unwanted hugs.
“Won’t stand here supposing to have answers to the heap of questions we been left with. To even approach the size of it, to try and fathom what that man did, a fool’s errand if there ever was one…”
Dee Wolfram held a tissue to her nose. She wasn’t crying, just overwhelmed by the Old Craftsman’s cologne that Ignatius had apparently bathed in that morning. Grady held her tight, happy to make the mistake of thinking he was comforting her for once.
“Ain’t no scale to take its measure. It takes a lifetime to make us who we are, but one man can dust that all away in minutes, seconds, a moment of dreadful inspiration…”
Jeremy and Edna Dakota returned to Hazmat yesterday after receiving a call about their missing daughter. They’d been searching across the systems for Allie going on half a year only to find they should’ve never left. She’d been beneath their feet this whole time. If they had stayed put, they’d be down there with their baby right now, sleeping the rest eternal in the cool sands beneath the sunken Vaults.
“I heard tell once that Hope has two daughters. Anger and Courage. Anger at the current state of affairs, and courage to see that they don’t stay that way. Now, if you’re not angry right now, then you must be some kind of a saint or…or maybe you just haven’t been paying attention…”
Joules stood off to the side with her parents, trying not to notice Allie’s parents. She could feel the Dakota’s looking at her, wishing they could make a trade and swap their daughter’s life for hers, feeding the growing guilt inside her that she couldn’t grant their wish.
“And if you’re lacking courage, can’t rightly blame you. Violence is no stranger to humanity and there’s not a one of us can stand against the tide all alone, but if you think what we had here was an outlier, some sort of freak accident or misunderstanding, then, again, you just ain’t been paying attention…”
Mort was confined to a bulky wheelchair, his body drawn and quartered in plaster, medical tape, braces, and atmospheric tubes. His hand dangled over a small keyboard connected to the speakers of his voicebox.
“Fourteen kids were shot up last week at the rec center. Boy who did it been planning it for ages. Friends and family knew. Didn’t think he’d actually do it. Day after that, a former running back for the Atlas Atoms caved in his ex-girlfriend’s skull. He didn’t count on her babies being there, though. They figure that’s why he went to the top floor and jumped after killing them too. That guy had a record of hitting women. Lady even called the cops more than once because he’d been stalking her. Again, everyone knew, but no one thought he’d be that stupid. Neuman’s Duster factory got blown up timed to Friday’s five o’clock whistle. Fella responsible said he did it on payday because he wanted them to lose what they paid out to the damn migrants what took his job. Officials took a look at his personal writings on the Nexus and, what do you know, he’d been stewing on that a long time. Again, everyone knew, but no one knew enough…”
Molly held the wheelchair tight even though the brakes were locked and Mort certainly wasn’t going anywhere soon. Still, she didn’t trust it. Didn’t trust much of anything anymore.
“I suppose I’m getting too old to act surprised that blood ends up spreading more blood. And we’ve had our fair share of blood, but it’s fair betting there are plenty among you out there looking for more. To even the odds, to settle the score, stave off the next disaster, or maybe just fill that pit in your belly where the sorrow grows. But that’s the path that led us here in the first place. It’s the kind of path that only leads to more of itself…”
General Wolfe stood at attention in front of the bleachers. Wolfe kept her composure as she counted the coffins, counted the cost. She’d finally been able to put Blaine behind her, finally let her friend rest in peace, but she couldn’t stop herself from dwelling on the bloody math of it all. All those bodies, all those lives and memories wasted, amassed against the counterweight on one awful soul. She added their names right up there with Blaine’s and everyone else she’d lost. She couldn’t save them, but she could still keep them alive in the furnace of her heart.
“And it always starts off with the best of intentions. You’re looking for peace, looking to stop the bad and protect the good. You’re looking to stop the hurting and fix hard on those who need fixing, but that’s the sleight of hand that turns good folk cruel. It’s the thinking that you, of all the multitudes, of all our histories, that you, little ole you, figured out how to stop the bleeding. And what do you know? It involves just a little more blood. The right blood, the bad blood, and if the world would just let you drain it…”
Austen kept touching the patch over her eye. It was healing, but the dull pain throbbed like ripening fruit. Kale stood beside her, turning often to check on Austen. Kale did her best not to show affection to fellow soldiers, she’d been burned before and swore never again, though she didn’t mind checking on Austen, especially when her good eye was on the other side.
“That’s the slow poison, folks. Ain’t nobody ever got anything worth a damn done all on their lonesome. Anyone claiming otherwise is a liar, a fool, or both. We should beware the lone man. Anyone who comes offering universal salves, claiming only they can mend the wounds of time. For those who think so highly of themselves must think very little of others, so little, in fact, that they’d be willing to accept the cost of blood that’s not their own, but that cost is always higher than you can pay. That’s the kind of blood that stains, folks, stains us all…”
Jas was wound tight like a drum. Her eyes darted around the room, her ears tuned to the door behind them. Her rational mind told her it was safe, that they’d covered all their bases, that special security detail was watching over the funeral, that there were more scopes trained on that chapel than the population of Hazmat, but her gut told her that didn’t matter. She was ready to turn the safety off at the drop of a hat or a bomb.
“No matter the cause it’s spilled for, blood stains, and all of us can be fooled by our own stubborn belief. Take for instance the bastard, ‘scuse the language, that broke our town and tore so many lives asunder. The god he worshipped was an all-consuming fire that burned him to a cinder while he fancied himself watering the garden. So, what I’m asking for now is for you to stay angry. Don’t forget the sickness of this act, the unjustness of it. Don’t let this be another footnote in the soaking red ledger of history. You take that anger and have the courage to use it for something good, something useful. I want you to have the courage to be bold in the face of such horrors. And we all know what the right thing is, deep down we know. Been told it over and over and over again, so I give you an old, tired, broken record of a commandment: love one another as I have loved you. For none of us lives for ourselves alone and none of us dies for ourselves alone…”
Ignatius huffed and crossed his arms. He made no bones about his disdain for the Reverend’s interpretation of scripture. Always with the love and compassion, glossing over the truth, but that was Ignatius for you; some people only believe in miracles when there’s Rapture on the table. He kept his mouth shut, though. He’d be damned if he didn’t respect the holy chain of command.
“And that right there takes an awful lot of courage, make no mistake. An open heart is the first to be pierced, just ask the tortoise who met the scorpion, but the alternative…the alternative, folks, ends in wreckage, it ends right here: a room filled with grief and the dead. When you can’t see past yourself and down into another’s soul, little by little and day by day you welcome the Devil in…”
Anice glared across the room at Eugene. She knew well the demon the Reverend spoke of, had seen him welcomed into town with open arms just the other day. And then it all went to fire and ash. No one else could see the Great Deceiver, that was her gift, her curse. The Lord of Lies trades in smiles, feigning innocence, but Anice would not let herself be fooled. She would not forget, nor would she forgive. And with that, she sneezed and blew once more into her rotten handkerchief.
“Won’t likely notice either. Won’t feel the load getting heavier, but sooner or later, I promise you, your heart will harden, seal itself up slow-like till you’re a walking tomb. And folks who are different? Folks who aren’t your kin, your friends, your kind? Well, they start to look an awful lot like intruders, don’t they? You start catching enemies at the gates, spies in your stairwells. You know what they say: if that ain’t the Devil knocking at your door, your neighbor will do just fine…”
Abner looked at his great-grandmother. He loved her, but he didn’t understand why she hated Eugene so much. The way she looked at the kid, it felt like she’d look at him the same if she really knew how he felt. Maybe that’s what the Reverend was talking about. She didn’t know how any of the madness from the other day had come to pass, but she was completely sure that this one kid was to blame. How comforting certainty can be, regardless of the truth concealed by it.
“And that brings us here,” Jones said. He stepped down among the coffins and placed his hand on the open casket. “I know there ain’t no body in this box, but that don’t mean it’s not full. And I’m not just talking about the flowers, though that was awful kind of you Madeline…”
Madeline Comstock blushed. Thomas Gordian caught her eyes from across the room and they both immediately turned away. Thomas hung his head low and closed his eyes. Madeline turned a shade of red and rested her head on her husband’s shoulder. Gary, who was oblivious to the years-long affair between his wife and Tom, smiled softly and put his arm around her.
“No, this coffin’s filled with the weight of the world. All we’ve suffered, all we’ve endured, and all we’ve yet to endure. And I know it’s easy to get yourself twisted up inside, to let the vileness of people tear at your heart, to let our inhumanity to each other drain all your hope. But we’ve got to keep searching for the better path, the higher road that leads us to lesser pain and greater kindness. Because blood only spreads more blood. Nothing like it can wash it. Only thing that can do that is love…”
Lylah and Eliza Vanvulcanburg bawled over each other for their lost sister. It had always been just the three of them. Eliza was positive that Lylah was Delilah’s favorite. Lylah thought she’d always favored Eliza. It didn’t matter now. All that mattered, as they collapsed into each other, was that they were barely able to hold each other up.
“And look, death is part of the deal, folks. Beginnings imply their ends, alphas tend toward their omegas, but does that mean we should just give up, say to hell with it? Do you accept the fear of Abel or embrace Cain’s sin? Do we stay good in spite of the bad or give into the dark because ain’t that just the way it goes anyhow?”
Ennis itched in his starched church clothes. What the Reverend was saying went in one ear and out the other. All he kept in mind was a fantasy loop about all the ways he could’ve stopped his brother from getting killed and the parties they’d have thrown for him if he did.
“Ain’t got no answers for you. All I know is there’s only two ways to stop the bleeding: you either treat the wound or stop the heart pumping. And it’s hard to tell which way the wind’s blowing, but long as one of us is standing, that’s a hell of a win. And, by God, would you look at all of us still standing…”
Eugene sat on the bleachers in between his mom and grandpa. Astra sat on Victor’s lap and Debbie squeezed the life out of her son’s hand. Eugene tapped his foot without noticing, rocking the bleachers a little as he did.
“Best remind you this: mors certa; hora incerta. Death is certain, it’s hour uncertain. Let us endeavor to live not for ourselves, but for each other. At the end of the day, our paths are our own, yes, but we are made for one another…”
Eugene tried to hear the Reverend out, but there was too much noise in his head. Too much he couldn’t say or do anything about. He couldn’t remember the last words his father spoke to him. Everything before he came to Terra was blank jumble. All he had was the email dad sent him before his flight. All he had was disappointment, potential he wasn’t living up to.
Stop making excuses…
He took those final words and turned them over like a worrystone, a mantra, punching himself in the gut over and over.
“So, when you start to feel that little voice in your head telling you that you’ve got it all figured out…”
Debbie placed a hand on her son’s knee. He turned to her, startled. She nodded to his bouncing knee and gestured for him to cut it out.
“When you get to thinking you’re the only one privy to the gospel truth…”
Eugene settled his leg down, but his finger started tapping the same rhythm on his knee.
“When the song in your heart calls on you to stop another from beating, you best set it to pumping for something more than yourself…”
It was probably just nerves. The familiar anxiety of being in a sacred place, a place of quiet contemplation, and wanting nothing more than to scream, but his finger seemed separated from the rest of his body, following orders from somewhere else, tapping out a strange pattern only it knew.
“Else it’s gonna take a lot more than prayer to save your soul…”
He tried to forget about it. He stared forward and squeezed his mom’s hand a little tighter.
“Amen,” Jones said.
Amen, the crowd echoed, passing through Eugene like a chill.
“Now, we’ve got a long day ahead of us,” Jones said. “So, before we bring this to a close, does anyone else care to say a few words?”
No one answered. The only sounds were sighs and sniffles.
“Come now,” Jones said. “We all came here for the same reason. Whether you’re feeling pain or lost or alone in this suffering, we want to…” He stopped and gazed over at the coffins. “No, we need to come together, to be healed together. To give to others than which we cannot give ourselves…”
Once again, the Reverend was greeted with silence. Eugene took a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
“Fair enough,” Jones said. He dropped his head. “Silent prayer it is. Don’t get more personal with the Lord than that…” He raised his arms slowly, shaking, palms bare as if laying healing hands on them all. “As we commit the fallen to the great big everything…in the unspoken name of love, laughter, life, and all the hell in between…” A lone tear escaped his eye and rolled down his wrinkled cheek. “Let us pray.”
Everyone bowed their heads and Eugene raised his.
He looked around at the crowd and saw the lines of years under their eyes, wrapped around their faces like the rings of a tree, every stretch of skin a victory, a testament to surviving another day in the ongoing holy moment.
Maybe they aren’t all good…
There was a knot where his stomach should be. The townspeople had been quick to judge him, but he’d more than paid them back in kind, eager to sort them into neat, little categories to be shrugged off or forgotten. Looking at them now, he saw that they weren’t all that different from him. What they believed, what he believed, biases cemented over the years and apocrypha turned universal truth; all of it seemed carved in stone, but it’s only so much dust, the wind taking us where it will.
But they’re definitely not all bad…
Eugene didn’t understand him. He didn’t even like them, and wasn’t sure if he ever would, but he was sure glad as hell that they were there with him, alive and breathing with the hope of more breaths to come.
You’re a lucky kid…
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, it’s only through our tears that we can wash one another clean.
And we’ve been really, really lucky, but, newsflash: luck runs out…
He looked down and saw his finger still tapping away, the same atypical pattern.
Privilege is power…
He focused on it and tried to figure out where it was coming from.
Power doesn’t always corrupt; it just reveals…
Then it hit him.
Look, you’re a good kid…
He remembered sitting in the backyard of their first house, playing with a flashlight, turning it on and off in the code his dad had taught him. His dad responded from the kitchen, telling him it was time for dinner. That always made him feel clever.
It’s not enough to be smart, Genie. You’ve got to be kind too…
He couldn’t remember when they stopped playing like that.
There are worse punishments than spending a summer with your old man…
Much like everything else in life it just kind of stopped.
Okay, I should get back to work…
Now he paid attention to the beats, the pauses, and turned them into the letters they were meant to be.
Baggage claim tomorrow…
Something wasn’t right.
Bright and early…
It shouldn’t be happening. He must be delirious or hallucinating.
Love you…
It was impossible.
I-M-P-O-S-S-I-B-L-E-
Whatever was communicating with him agreed.
Y-E-T…H-E-R-E…W-E…A-R-E-
He tried to stop the tapping, but his finger flicked up and down of its own accord.
W-E-L-L…
He closed his eyes and rubbed away the tears.
W-H-A-T…A-R-E…Y-O-U-
He felt the pattern, let is find its way inside him.
W-A-I-T-I-N-G…F-O-R…K-I-D-D-O…
Eugene didn’t know how, but he knew that these were his father’s last words to him.
A…M-I-R-A-C-L-E-?
So, as the congregation closed their eyes, Eugene opened his and set his sight on his father’s casket.
The Vanvulcanburgs cried while Madame Thuselah muttered incantations of peace. Ignatius went over his favorite passages, wondering why the Lord had spared his favorite son and why that didn’t make him feel any better. Ennis sat next to him fidgeting. The Reverend hummed to himself an ancient song and Joules hummed along with him from across the room.
Molly Nova and Deborah Bohr, both buckling under hidden pressure, shared quiet tears from across the aisle. Molly gripped Mort’s hand and trembled at his frailty, blessing and cursing the delicate nature of life. Debbie thought about her late husband. A gift to mankind, they always said. And he was a gift, alright, flaws and all, but now he was gone. She thought about how everyone is a gift, how every day is Christmas Morning when you see the pile of presents all around ready to be unwrapped, unraveled, understood. She held onto her family, trusting their gravitational pull to keep her in orbit, to stop her from drifting away into the dark empty.
Eugene stared at his father’s casket and focused. He thought hard and at the center of his thoughts was a singular concept. One word. A word we’ve always known. A word taken and given many times over.
Hope.
Which is just a real fancy way of saying he prayed.
The casket lifted a few inches off the floor. The door wobbled and fell shut, snapping the congregation out of it. Their eyes peeped open like newborns, watching in awe as the coffin rose and floated down the aisle. It hovered in place and again Eugene looked at their faces. Each pair of eyes testified in pure rapture to the miracle at hand.
The tarp tore off the siding and flew away. Wind rushed in and the flowers burst open through the coffin door.
“Daddy!” Astra cried, hopping off her grandpa’s lap. She ran down the aisle and jumped and grabbed at the flowers, giggling away her tears. The plastic bugs she’d left for Walter danced around her.
The petals swirled over the pews and went out over the cliffs. Some doubled back and rained down on the graves covering the hill. Dandelions sprouted up among the headstones and exploded their seeds. Other petals gently rose higher, higher toward heaven. And others carried themselves further still into the deep wastes where they found Old Man Jenkins trotting along. The sun-baked coot shook with excitement, let out a raspy hoot, and cast his collection of roots and weeds into the air.
Hallelujah!
Praise the Singularity!
A blessing from above! A miracle!
Maybe it wasn’t really a miracle. After all, it could be explained away. And some might go as far to say that is was just another goddamned lie, but the look on their faces…
The townspeople sighed in reverence, hugged each other in holy embrace. The Bohrs and the Novas sat crushed somewhere between heartache and hope. General Wolfe trained her eyes on Eugene, doubting whether the kid could really be trusted to keep a lid on it. And the Reverend, with a weary smile, chuckled to himself and whispered, “Even so…”
Yes, it was a sight to behold, the look on their faces, but especially the look on his. Despite bloodshot eyes, tears streaming down his face, snot still wet on his nose, there was no mistaking Eugene’s expression.
A pure, unabashed, stupid-ass grin.
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The God Complexes 