Twenty-Sixth Beginning: Assembly of God 03

We lie down in our shame, and our confusion covereth us: for we have sinned against the LORD our God, we and our fathers, from our youth even unto this day, and have not obeyed the voice of the LORD our God. Jeremiah 3:25

Hazzard was a small town with a big cemetery and Paul Hazzard’s family had the biggest plot in it.  From the road it looked like there was a mausoleum on it, but that wasn’t the case.  The structure erected there was for decoration and to hold the chiseled name of Hazzard up high and large.  Sometimes one of the elder uncles would joke that it had once been the tallest building in town.  Some days Paul believed that it wasn’t a joke.

Paul had graduated at the beginning of summer and should have been in law school by now, but there was some ongoing discussion about which school he should go to.  His classmates might believe that he should be having some input into the discussion, but Paul knew when to stay out of family squabbles. . . even if it was leaving three law schools hanging, with no explanation, weeks after classes started.  The family was sure that the schools would understand.  Or they were planning to concoct some story to cover his lateness.  He had had no choice but to accept the offers of all three, even it that was expressly forbidden, just as he would have no choice but to parrot whatever story the family had concocted. 

Parrot.  There was rumored to be a flock of parrots living in the cemetery.  Once or twice, Paul had thought he’d heard them.  They were supposed to be medium-sized green things, descended from an escaped pair.  Paul searched the many trees for a sight of them until he tipped his head wrong and suddenly had to vomit behind one of the headstones.  He was careful and made sure that none of it got on his dress.

When things subsided, he checked the name.  It was another Paul Hazzard, this one 1818 to 1839.  Below the name and dates were chiseled:  “Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.”  It sounded like a wife’s last dig to Paul.  Or a mother’s.  Paul winced at the thought.  Well, he had never vomited behind this particular headstone before.  The sight of his name on a tombstone just before Halloween would have been spooky if Paul hadn’t seen it so often on so many other stones.  The family tended to hoard names, among other things.  Start with quality and then keep on until you’ve used it up.

Paul patted his lips with a handkerchief and then looked for awhile at the lipstick smudge.  That’s right.  There had been a party and he had dressed up.  Only he had done it a little too well.  There were sure to be repercussions.  Oh, well.  You could duck until your backbone was shaped like a pretzel, but some of what they threw was bound to hit.  Paul picked his way over to the baby section, swaying only slightly, maneuvering the high heels perfectly.

The baby section was where Paul felt history.  There were so many of them.  Children aged nothing to ten were laid to rest here.  Older than ten and you got a headstone.  You still couldn’t sit at the adult table on Christmas, Thanksgiving, Fourth of July, or Easter until you were 21 or on the football team.  But at ten you and your headstone could lie with the adults.

The babies got a flat stone in the middle of the grave, rather than an upright headstone.  On it was their first and middle names, their date of death, and their age in years, months, and days.  No one knew why the last name and the birth date were omitted.  It wasn’t the practice in the rest of the cemetery. But that was the way that the family did it.  In some sections, the stones almost tiled the area completely.  It was sad, some days.

Mostly, Paul felt sad that it wasn’t appreciated.  Here, family after family buried three, four, up to ten times as many children as they raised to adulthood.  That had to be a hard thing, possibly a horrible thing.  He didn’t know anyone that that happened to any more.  A thing like that would be a tragedy today and no one appreciated or even seemed to notice the improvement.  That seem wrong to Paul.  He would have mentioned it to his family, but they would have made some bitter, complaining joke out of it.  His friends would just have called it gay. 

Paul pressed his hands to his eyes to get the rising voices of complaining family out of his head.  None of them were ever happy with any of the rest of them, at least to hear them talk.  None of them ever moved away, except maybe for college or a first job.  The ones who left sent complaining letters home.  Regularly.  Paul sometimes wondered if he was really related.  His Grandma Aggie claimed that it was the sitters’ fault.  Momma always called them nannies, but the rest of the family considered that to be putting on airs.  No one would go so far as to admit the word nanny existed.

Paul hated arguments.  He also loved them.  The kind of argument where you built your facts into a structure of beautiful logic, that king of argument he loved.  The kind of arguing his family did was ugly and nasty and mean.  Paul pulled his hands away from his face and looked at the mascara and eye shadow on his fingers.  Well, he could deal with that.  He pulled two Kentucky Fried Chicken wet-wipes out of his evening bag and went to work on his face.  Pity the bag was too dainty to hold a fifth.  He needed to be much drunker.  If he were drunk enough, and lucky enough, he could forget the party.  Some things were better forgotten. 

The wet-wipes didn’t quite do the job, so Paul tip-tipped over to the birdbath on Great-Grandma Alice’s grave.  No one in the family liked the birdbath, but Alice wasn’t the sort of person that you crossed, even when she was dead.  Instead of a headstone, there was the birdbath, at the foot of her grave, and just a little plaque on the edge with her name and date – no epitaph.  Grandma Aggie claimed that it was her way of having the epitaph “Fuck You” on her grave without anyone outside of the family knowing.  Grandma Aggie had gotten a little salty toward the end.

Paul dipped his handkerchief into the birdbath and finished his transformation back into a male – at least in his mind.  He was drunk enough to forget about the dress and wig and high heels.  He was even holding the evening bag demurely.  Paul hadn’t dressed up like this since he was fifteen.  He had done it several times before that, at least according to relatives.  He could only remember once or twice.  It only happened when very stressful things were happening.  Somehow, it made it easier to be calm. 

Then at fifteen, he had discovered one of his cousin’s stashes of porn and from then on had had another way to relax.  It was still something that he had to hide, but he wasn’t worried about being beaten up for it or of being sent of to a sanitarium for readjustment.  He didn’t know what had possessed him to do this today.  It was a goodbye party at the office.  It has a Halloween theme.  Everyone would be dressing up.  He had seen other men dress in drag for parties, when they didn’t have time for a real costume or couldn’t afford one. 

Paul sighed.  Sure he was slim, but he was too tall for a woman and his legs were too muscled.  He ran track for godssake.  No one in town could beat him cross country.  He shouldn’t have had to smear the makeup onto his face like a clown to keep people from mistaking him for a cute visitor without a costume.  If only there hadn’t been liquor, he though, nothing hurtful would have been said.

Paul wasn’t drunk enough to forget, but he was drunk enough to weep.  He refused to dab at it with a hanky and blew his nose into it instead.  Loudly.  He was going to miss school.  The U had been far enough from town that no one visited, while being close enough that no one bothered to call or write.  All he had to do was come home most weekends, and he harvested the peace of his relative’s indifference.  Law school would be far enough away for special attention.  Dammit.

He noticed that he was standing on Grandma Aggie’s grave.  She had called dibs on the slot next to Great-Grandma Alice and had defended her dibs through decades of other funerals, violently sometimes. 

“You were a mean old bitch,” he said to the ground beneath his feet.  “I’d take comfort in the fact that Geegee Alice was a bigger bitch to you, but you just passed it forward and the people you passed it to are still passing it on.  You didn’t have to buy into it you know.  Or maybe you don’t know.  Maybe you’re arguing still.  Are you telling her that you peed in her birdbath?  That was a particularly nasty thing for a small boy to see, by the way.  I don’t care how irritating it was when I kept asking why you had a step stool and a funnel in your trunk.  You could have lied to me.  Lord knows you lied about enough else.”

Paul sat down on the grass, growing maudlin.  It was starting to get dark and a fog was coming up. 

“I know that Great-Uncle Wally got to sit at the table when he made the track team, too.  I’ve seen the pictures.  I remember it.  But no, you wouldn’t back me up.  You said it had to be football.  You hid the damn album so I couldn’t haul out the picture as proof.  You damn bitch.  And your eyes sparkled while you did it. 

What was the point?  That you could do it?  Did you get points for it somehow?  Were you, god help you, trying to dish out as much as the dead had dished to you?  You poor old bat.  You went crazy at the end, though, and lost track of what you could get away with.  You spent your last five years in restraints.  Do you remember that?”

Paul curled up.  He was just going to rest.  When the dew came, the cold would wake him.  He never saw the mushrooms. 

- -

I’m not sure about that one.  He’s sad.  Yes, I’m sure.  He was crying and he was calling someone bitch.  I think he was loud enough to be angry, too, but I’m not completely sure.  I’m sure about the sadness, though.  And I’m pretty sure that he was drunk.  We don’t want to bring the drunkenness along.  Hold him and let him sleep for awhile before bringing him through. 

That was a cemetery.  A lot of people think of it as a place to store dead people, but it’s a place of transformation.  It’s also a place of information, so if we want to introduce cemeteries here, we’ll have to be aware of that.  No, we don’t have to keep the information aspect, we just have to be aware that all of our people will assume an information aspect when they hear the word.  We’ll have to take care.  Perhaps the Book Man will split the information aspect completely off. 

Is the dead one keeping all right?  Yes, keep her asleep until we’re ready.  Keep this one asleep until dawn.  He may be hung over then, but he won’t be drunk.  I’ll visualize the chemical transformations for you before we finish him.  You said there was one more to go. 

Are you sure that you have enough capacity to hold them all?  That’s very good.  I knew we were ready to try this.  You’re doing very well.  I’m very happy.  Yes, this is as happy as I get.  You’re probably right.  Beth probably was happier, even with the rabbits.  You’ll probably get a lot more emotion from all of the others.  If you like that, it won’t make me sad, not as long as you still listen to me. 

Now it’s time to touch the last one.  Are you ready?

- -

Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth, but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers.  Ephesians 4:29    

ShaVon and Helen worked their way down the hallway.  ShaVon walked ahead and broomed dust and crumbs away from the baseboard and Helen came behind her with the vacuum.  They were sticking together this shift.  It was against clinic policy, but they knew that no one would so much as mention it tonight, let alone discipline them.

 The cleaning staffers at Verde Vista were generally expected to work within sight of each other, but not so close as to display a distrust of the patients.  There were some times, however, when everyone could feel the tension and any sign that someone was doing something to lessen the chances of an incident was appreciated, by both staff and patients.

ShaVon and Helen finished up in the empty day room and began to wash down table tops.  From down the hall they could hear the chanting that the vacuum had masked.  They didn’t think of it as chanting.  The cadence of the words made it obvious that the old lady was reciting bible verses and chanting was a word that the women associated with spells and black magic.  But they reacted as if it were chanting.  Everyone did.

“Why they let that crazy woman do that to him?  He going to be stupid hard to deal with all week.”

“She got the family money and she got the family balls in her pocket.  Doctors tell her not to pray over him, the family move him again, maybe somewhere that pray over him all the time.”

“Why they don’t tell her to pray something nice over him?  I don’t recognize half what she say.  None of it ever sound good.”

“Ward nurses say some of it from books a normal bible don’t use.  Say some of it from ‘The Apocalypse of Peter.’  Say one end of the world not good enough for her so she got her a bible with two.”

“Lordy, she want more Revelations shit?  That woman ain’t right.  I say she just like him only she grab a bible when she go odd.  Why can’t they lock her up for crazy and give the boy a rest.  I know he spooky when he talk about satan, but he only does it after she’s drove him crazy.”

“Grab a bible when you go odd, get out of crazy house free.  Come on.  We got to get that water fountain some time.  Wish they’d close the door.  I know they want to watch her, but it spooks everybody else.”

It didn’t take two people to clean the water fountain, but ShaVon and Helen did not split up.  Both held spray bottles.  Helen used hers and tended to the fountain while ShaVon held hers at ready, half facing toward the door, as if to spray anything corrupt that popped out of that room.

It was obvious after a few moments that the boy had been reduced to word salad.  The staffers slowed their work and stood for awhile, transfixed.

The woman declared:  “And it shall come to pass, that whosoever shall call on the name of the LORD shall be delivered: for in mount Zion and in Jerusalem shall be deliverance, as the LORD hath said, and in the remnant whom the LORD shall call home.”

The boy declared into her pause, in an eerily similar voice: “the LORD shall call home the servant of two Masters by Carlo Goldoni, adopted by the Ghost in the Shell: Innocence is named after the Latin word for to have and have Not To hold a Media event The media shall be escorted to the chuppah by his parents, and thy sisters Sarah and Emma Bolger in America Keisha Castle Hughes, verily the premier source of information on a variety of topics from the National Library of Medicine’s Medline database of more than million and a half dollars A YEAR to the day after Tomorrow, Reviewed by Bill Warren Rating: One- and a half Million people in the UK are now using the Internet, to Find a job, in the Gaming industry by the Wall Street Journal. The Wall Street journal and diary for the ACADEMIC Job search. In the NEWS, The News Media is a new invention: by a competitor or goods or services to the public in the St. Louis area Auto dealerships to be sold on memory Card, ROBBIE Williams plays for the stage- and the Visual Arts is a bottom- up Approach to Web Site As a WAR crime, or an act of war Direct Action Beta. Test sign- Up! Begins May . . . “

She began again and for awhile he spoke over the top of her, matching her tone at first, but diverging into an odd seller’s sing-song.  Then he seemed to loose track of his thoughts and, again, her voice was easy to hear.  ShaVon and Helen didn’t need to see her to know that she was holding her bible, and looking down toward it as if reading from it.  But she never turned a page while her verses jumped from one end of the book to the other with very little connection. 

“Ye cannot drink the cup of the LORD, and the cup of devils: ye cannot be partakers of the LORD 's table, and of the table of devils.”

. . .  “and of the tables of devils apparently thinking they can surf the web in PEACE without those annoying popup ads with Popup Ad Stopper! Popup Ad Stopper Software Download CNET Editors Choice Award considered that make you Go Hmm. I wonder if Heaven got A Ghetto Christmas tree Village Cookie Jar with a LID in ounces, see she if did did did did did”

Helen whispered to ShaVon, “Sometimes I think he started by answering back and that didn’t work, so he started talking nonsense to show that she was talking nonsense, and then he got stuck.”

“We lie down in our shame, and our confusion covereth us: for we have sinned against the LORD our God, we and our fathers, from our youth even unto this day, and have not obeyed the voice of the LORD our God.

“the LORD our God is one Lord. Jesus he did mushrooms before he could be traded by the Los Angeles County shall be the home of the Network computers  and the title of the document, and the digital Divide is a phenomenon that shall be pecked by birds. Yeah, be not thou a MILLIONAIRE the Fool s Errand, the practice might be enhanced by Beekeeping, African hours did not receive a reply from the Authors of The Bible by the Rev. Dr. MARTIN Luther King Jr. The Man and the Sea, By Jules VERNE is a city of Neighborhoods by offering education and training website for more details For the Norwegian Shelf is the size of the sun from the Earth, to the Moon by the end of the World shall the Mothers Report focuses on the Future of the Book of the Law of the Sea Otter is a member of the FBI whose duties to the seller’s Agent or subagent shall Help me buy a new car or truck is equipped with a Camera phone. The Samsung cellphone has good prices and free SHIPPING on all orders over at Amazon dot com for Dummies By John and thy Paperback was Published Our Price list Price list

ShaVon was slightly scandalized.  “Did he just say that Jesus did mushrooms?  He blaspheming, there.”

“I don’t think so,” whispered Helen.  “When he sane, he talk about growing mushrooms and it the eatin’ kind, not the trippin’ kind.  Maybe tomorrow won’t be so bad.  He like to remember his mushrooms.”

Through the door, the voices went on.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.  The same was in the beginning with God. . .”

“Oh, good,” said Helen.  “She winding down if she be starting on John.  She know that section whole.  I show you what we can do to maybe calm things down.  It be kinda nasty, though, so best not let anyone see.”

“What you mean, nasty?”

Helen took ShaVon down to the day room to pick up all their equipment, then to the nurses station for a cup of coffee.  They got big paper cups and drank slowly.  When they were about done, the puckered little woman marched out.  They were too far away from the window to see her, but her passage was unmistakable in the gaze and posture of the staff with a view of the hallway. 

The nurse at the window announced quietly, with no inflection at all:  “She has her dress on wrong side out.”

Helen motioned ShaVon to bring her cup and come on.  They went straight to the boy’s room.  ShaVon was sure that was a bad idea, but she went anyway.  Helen had been here for years and was usually right when she guessed what a patient would or wouldn’t do.

The boy was lying slumped on the bed.  At nineteen, he was tall enough that his feet dangled over the edge slightly when his head wasn’t smack up near the headboard, which it definitely wasn’t, now.  His hair was long and dark and wavy.  It was currently splayed in a rumpled half circle, which might have made someone else look tragic but just made him look a splayed sort of goofy.  He mumbled a faltering liturgy.

“. . . your holy things which the Lord hath made he calls the shots in the dark. Paint Glow IN the dark Paint Glow IN the dark Paint Glow IN the dark Paint. . . :

Helen took the cup from ShaVon, finished the last sip, nested the two cups together, and set them down on the bedside table with a definite click.  Then she motioned for the two of them to start cleaning.  The vacuum drowned out the boy’s continuing words.

“Nick,” thought ShaVon.  “His name is Nick, not boy.  Nick Jeffries.  He’s nineteen and he’s been in places like this for five years.”  She went into the adjoining bathroom with the spray bottle.  It was mostly clean.  Helen joined her soon.  The words behind them were slowing.

“Ye do well and do not enjoin the Book of the Month Club. Each month ye shall receive your order within days at the Canal Club in Richmond, Virginia. If ye are a Miracle to me so I may be able to get a good night’s Sleep by a Ph. D. author of The Love Zone and then click Custom Level. Under Cookies click the options you want to use a condom.  Condoms are the only method of birth control that is right in the eyes of the LORD.  Choosing, did you see the Lightning flash and the thunder and the Lightning I am not your Broom. I am not your Broom. I am not your Broom. I am not your Broom. I am . . .”

“He’s past eighteen.  Can’t they give him medication and straighten him out enough to get into a half-way house?”

“Family don’t believe in medication for devils.  If he had a lawyer, he maybe could get things changed, but that takes money.  Hell, if he could stop fighting the family and start asking for help, maybe a social worker could work things out.  Until he starts fighting for himself more than he’s fighting them, he’s going to be here, though.  The doctors can’t fight him and the family, too.  Listen.”

 It was quiet out in the room.  Helen picked up the vacuum and left the room.  Even thought the rooms weren’t fully cleaned, ShaVon followed.  Nick was staring quietly at the two paper coffee cups.  ShaVon wasn’t sure why they were there, so she left them.

Out in the hallway:  “What those coffee cups for?”

Helen waited until they were past the nurses’ station and had buzzed back into the main hallway.  “Those cups are for his mushrooms.  Remember I said he used to grow them?  Mushrooms calm him down.  You won’t hear mushrooms in his talk unless she about to slow down and leave.  And he won’t get all upset if he be working on his mushrooms.”

“How can he work on mushrooms with two paper cups?”

“I told you it would be nasty.”

“. . . “

“He going to poop in his toilet and fish it out and mush it down in one of those cups.  He going to use the other to make a funnel, so he can get it out the bars on his window.  He going to drip it down the wall so that there be a line of it going down the wall to the grass outside.  They going to be a little puddle of it on his window sill, too.  We going to have to clean that up.”

“And the bathroom!”  ShaVon was more than a little put out.

“The bathroom be fine.  He be really careful with his mushroom stuff.  And he be quiet while he doing it.  And he sleep tonight sitting right up with his back against the wall with that window.  And everyone else sleep better, too, and nobody going to start screaming or hittin’ on anyone.  Give me the choice and I’ll clean up shit over blood any day.”

“Blood!  It get that bad?”

“If he start screaming after the doctors let her do that to him in front of everybody?  Oh, yeah, it can get bad.  You watch.  I bet no one even call us in to clean it up.  They wait until we do it ourself.” 

“Damn, girl.  You bein’ the doctor tonight.”

“Someone need to be.  I don’t care how many bibles that woman hold.  She crazy.  I seen her eyes while she be talkin’ once.  She stone crazy.”

The next day, there was a good deal more excitement than Helen had guessed.  But there was no mention of coffee cups or shit, because there was no trace of either.  They were asked about the mushrooms, though, and whether they knew of any way that the boy could have gotten out.  They eventually told the police how the boy had been trying to grow the mushrooms, just to still their consciences.  But, no, there had never been actual mushrooms before, just messes and the boy talking about them. 

Twenty-Sixth Beginning: Assembly of God 02

“. . .. when we look at our own lives and consider what God is doing there, we tend to forget that God is an artist.” from a pamphlet

Beth Hausman heard the grinding crunch as pain shot up her thigh and knew that her knee was going again.  The steroid shots weren’t working any more.  The next step was a knee replacement and there was no way that she could afford that.  Not with no real job and no insurance.  She wondered if selling the house would pay for it.  She had already sold the car.  She supposed she could get a loan against the house, but the neighborhood was going downhill.  Now might be the time to get out.

Oh, well.  There was no use fretting over it.  She could put up with things the way they were for at least another half a year.  Tutoring was bringing in enough to cover utilities and the garden was doing very well.  The business license let her sell at the weekly flea market.  And Bill had left her a little.  Her relatives might not believe it, but he had.  She wasn’t going to think about that either.

She would do one last weeding while it was still light.  She’d check the compost pile.  Most of the neighbors didn’t trust her, but they brought over their grass clippings and other trimmings.  It saved them having to bag it and leave it at the curb for weeks, while the city pickup came alternately earlier and much later than scheduled.  It saved her having to buy fertilizer.  Between their grass and her bunnies, she had the best compost she had ever seen, and that was saying something.  Beth had been composting before it was trendy. 

Beth came around the corner of her shed and stopped dead.  Usually the bunnies had their heads out, waiting for her.  They could be in their shelters.  The bunny hutches were a row of wood and chicken wire cages, built on stilts, so that she could tend them without stooping and so that the manure could drop down and make a little layer right in the compost bins.  It was possible that they were in the wooden parts of the hutches, but Beth was immediately afraid that they weren’t. 

Beth’s cane shook as she hobbled carefully along.  She turned the wooden latch on each hutch and opened the side door.  There were no rabbits.  None.  There was no sign of blood, which was both a relief and a worry.  But no rabbits.  Beth sighed.  It was sad.  She wondered who had taken them.  Was it a neighbor?  Someone visiting a neighbor?  She was getting to be more and more vulnerable.  She’d have to seriously think about moving.  It was just her, now, after all. 

Beth hobbled to a garden bench and sat down.  She was 48, which wasn’t terribly old, and she was almost 180 pounds, which wasn’t terribly fat.  It was a pity that the knees had gone.  She had only ever been able to loose weight with a regular jolt of exercise to curb her appetite.  But the knees had let her down.  It was a good thing that she couldn’t afford junk food.  She didn’t want to imagine what she’d look like then.

Beth pulled a bandana out of her overall pocket and dabbed at her eyes and nose.  She sat back and let herself be sad.  No one watching her would have noticed that she was sad.  Her face just wasn’t used to making that expression.  She looked tired, just tired, as she sat there in her sensible shoes and sensible short hair cut and no makeup. 

Out of habit, she looked toward the impending sunset.  When they had first moved there, she and Bill could sit and watch the sunset until the sun was behind the hills.  But as the neighborhood became more distrustful, the fences had gotten higher and thicker.  Now, she couldn’t see the hills from her back yard.  She could still see the clouds, though, and the ones overhead were pinking. 

Watching sunsets was the closest that Beth came to praying any more.  Bill had believed in God, but hadn’t believed in churches.  Not that he had ever asked her to stop going, he had supported her, in fact, fixing breakfasts for her either before or after, depending on which session she attended.  It was her relatives and friends that had driven her away.  They kept picking and prodding.  She had though that they would adjust, eventually, but as time went on they had gotten more and more fervid.

Beth had never really thought about God, before Bill had explained his faith and asked her about hers.  Bill was a good man, and a pious one in his own way.  Beth had begun to explore what she did believe about God.  She had even tried discussing it with her family.  She was shocked at their reaction.  Their complaints had begun to sound more and more foolish and more and more, well, mean. 

Finally, sitting in her car in the church parking lot one Sunday, Beth had had an epiphany.  Her family didn’t care about God directly, and they sure didn’t give a rat’s ass about truth.  Her family cared about the church.  They cared the way that a dog cared that the dogs around it smelled familiar.  If they’d had better noses, they wouldn’t have needed the stories and the singing.  They wouldn’t have needed to congregate to say the same things together and say amen at the expected pauses. 

That wasn’t the last that she had thought about the subject.  She knew that her epiphany had only been part of the truth.  But it was a truth that her relatives would never admit to nor listen to with civility.  So she had never spoken of it to them.  She had driven home and talked to Bill. 

Over the next year, her relatives had had fits.  Over the next year, she and Bill had developed a habit of sipping tea and reading to each other on Sunday mornings, thinking about the world and the way people fit into it.  At first, Beth was worried that the arguments with her family would go on forever.  But eventually, her mornings with Bill had produced enough serenity between them to confuse her relations.  They fretted for awhile and then they pulled out their big gun.  They asked Pastor Jameson to visit the wayward couple.

He had come one Sunday.  The three of them had had a nice long talk.  He had been interested in the little library that they were slowly collecting.  He had borrowed a book on comets.  He had shaken their hands when they left and told them that he would re-assure her relatives that they were a good, Christian couple, adding only that the presence of other good people could sometimes be a comfort, and that they were welcome to visit the church at any time, with no recriminations.

Her relatives had never spoken to her again.  They had switched churches as well.

Beth watched the portion of the sunset that she could see overhead.  Slowly, the light shifted to gold, as if the air itself had thickened with it.  It was a miracle that happened almost every day and most people went through their lives without ever catching and noticing that moment.  The trick is to look away from the sunset at the right time. 

God must be an artist, Beth believed.  Or, maybe, doing art was the closest we could come to understanding God.  She and Bill had had their portraits done in pastels once.  They had watched a line of artists working on other portraits before choosing one.  The beginning of a sketch was a mess.  The artist put this color here and that color there and smudged it around.  It didn’t look like there was more than a vague plan and it certainly didn’t look like they were being careful to put the right color in the right place. 

It was only near the end that everything suddenly began to look right.  For layer after layer, you just had to trust that the artist knew what they were doing, because it looked like a muddle.  Beth believed that lives were like that.  Neighborhoods were probably like that as well.  You had to know when to stop, too.  Working a piece past the point at which it was finished could ruin it, no matter how carefully the chalk was placed. 

Beth had had a good life.  She had a good life, still.  It was a pity about the rabbits.  The sunset deepened, the gold left the air as the clouds exploded in reds and pinks and oranges and purples.  It was a pity she hadn’t weeded the garden, but it would be all right.  It had been more important to sit and regain her equilibrium.  She’d have to do her homework, before she decided whether to stay or relocate.  For a wonder, her knees weren’t hurting.  Beth had learned to notice and savor the moments when that happened.  It usually didn’t last long.

The thing with osteoarthritis was that it was a mistake to hold still for too long, even if your knees were feeling fine.  If you gave in to the temptation to hold still, the joint would swell and lock and hurt a lot when you finally had to move it.  The trick was to shift them regularly, even if it hurt a little.  Little hurts would settle down. 

Beth though briefly about the cox2 inhibitor that she had tried.  Her dentist had given her the pill samples.  It had worked really well, but cost $86 for a two weeks supply.  That was a pity.  The moon began to show as the clouds darkened.  It was a good sunset.  Beth tried to shift her feet and couldn’t.

Oh, well.  Sometimes the joints locked up.  A mist was coming up, that probably wasn’t helping.  She reached for her cane, to give her leverage, but paused to look back up.  The moon wasn’t completely full and it was high enough that it wasn’t golden, either.  But Beth liked silver moons, even partial ones.  The belly of the moon was on the right, which meant that it was waxing, getting fuller.  It would be even prettier tomorrow night. 

Beth couldn’t feel her feet.  That didn’t happen very often.  It would be an added difficulty.  She’d have to move her legs by hand until they woke back up.  At least it wasn’t cold.  The radio had led her to believe that it would be cold by now.  But she was sitting in the mist and feeling fine.

It was nearly dark when she looked down and noticed the mushrooms.  They canted up and opened around her feet, dozens at a time.  It was mesmerizing.  The mist and the dark kept her from immediately noticing that she was covered with a thickening mat of white threads.  It wasn’t until she tried to move her arm and couldn’t pull her elbows away from her body that she really looked.  By then, the threads were moving fast.

She was shocked and frightened, but it was hard to be really afraid of something so inexplicable.  It just didn’t seem real.  And it didn’t hurt.  In fact, she felt better than she normally did.  As her face was covered and she felt herself begin to slide into the ground, she thought, “Poor rabbits.  If this was what got them, they must have been very frightened.  I’m glad I watched the sunset instead of weeding the garden.”

--

Rabbits are small animals.  I told you about animals.  They’re living things that don’t talk, like the seagulls.  Only rabbits are rounder and furry and have teeth instead of beaks. 

No, they don’t fly and they don’t run like most four-footed animals do.  They’re made to rear up, so they’re hind feet are longer, to support it.  They hop instead of running. 

No, it’s smoother than that.  I’ll show you the next time I sleep.

No, I don’t know why she was thinking about the rabbits at the end.  Except that she feels responsible for them, because she was tending them.  I understand feeling responsible.  I’m responsible for you. 

Yes, it’s because you’re wonderful.  And because you’re useful.  And because you’re going to get more wonderful as we go along.  I like you much more than I like the others. 

Yes, she’d be a good second.  I think she’s a helpful person.  Some people just are.  Some people are hard to deal with, but helpful people always try to figure a way to make dealing with them easier for you.  I think she likes to puzzle things out, too.  That will make things easier, maybe. 

How many of the listed items matched, for her?  You’re not sure about the chemistry?  Oh, no college, but you felt books.  I’m not sure how much chemistry she could have picked up on her own.  It isn’t that sort of a subject.  Maybe she knows enough to talk to, though.  Are you sure you saw her reading plans?

That’s a very good match.  You did very well.  And I couldn’t explain about personalities, but I think you found one with a good personality for us.  I think I might like her.

Yes, you did very well.  Are you rested enough?  This one should go quicker. 

Twenty-Sixth Beginning: Assembly of God

In the beginning was the Word.      John 1:1

Shit!  Did I tell you to find someone who knew god?  Or did I give you a specific list that did not include anything about knowing god?  He’s not going to like you.

Alright, she’s not going to like you.  She’s going to interfere.  She could hurt you badly.  You’re young and I’m new here.  We’re still feeling our way. 

Yes, I know I said I needed help.  But some kinds of help are no help at all. 

Yes, he did say that contention was a necessary part of the world.  I just think that we’ll get enough of that coming at us from outside.  We don’t need to invite it in.

Well, if she’s dead already, you might as well bring her through.  It’s going to be difficult.  We can’t lie to these people.

Yes, but sometimes lying is all that keeps one person from hating another.  I don’t think she’s going to like me.  Did you follow the list with the others?

Well, that’s good.  How many?  Well, that’s two more than we strictly need, so maybe that will be all right.  I’m not that good with people, though.  If the others like her better and she kicks up a fuss, they may not help at all.

Yes, you are lovely.  I’m sure once they know you, they’ll love you.  As much as you need.  It’s just that knowing you will require the slow building of a bridge of information.  You’re not like anything they know.

A bridge?  Let me think how to explain that, for a minute.  Yes, bring her through while I think.

Yes.  All the way.  Just like we planned.  Make sure she wakes up last, though.

Yes, I love you.  How could I not?  You’re going to be exactly what I want.

--

Boast not thyself of tomorrow; for thou knowest not what a day may bring forth.     Proverbs 27:1

If you had asked Edwin Carlisle yesterday what his future would be like, he would have said that everything was rosy.  Of course he would have mentally translated ‘future’ into career.  Maybe not in so many words, but his work life would have been what he was thinking about while he was thinking ‘future’. 

Today was completely different.  Today it all felt hollow.  He still remembered all the projects, all the triumphs, all the buildings, streets, and bridges that were there because of him, because he could make things happen were others got bogged down in other people’s objections.  He remembered them and he remembered being proud of them, enjoying them, exulting in them.  He could even remember the rest of the cycle:  the urge to take weeks off and relax, the basking in the glow of success, the catching up with other parts of his life outside the project, followed by the little restlessnesses, the growing dissatisfaction with family and friends that meant it was time to find another project.

The best projects were the ones that everyone said were doomed. 

Now Ed just wanted to let doomed things lie.  And, feeling like a doomed thing himself, he was lying out in his orchard.  His home was just far enough into the city for a private orchard to be an indulgence.  It was a hobby.  It helped him work off steam while his mind chewed through problems.  It provided home-grown, organic fruit and nuts for gifts.  He had loved it.  He had gone there hoping that it would cheer him.  But, the trees may as well have been rotting stumps.

Missy was dead.  It was stupid to be reacting this way.  He had known it was coming.  There were people that he could call, but he was in mid-project.  It always took awhile to talk people back into liking him again after he entered full-on, blow-them-off project mode.  It just seemed too much trouble to go through.  Everything seemed to be too much trouble.

It was a pity he couldn’t starve himself to death in a single night.  He couldn’t imagine ever eating again, could barely imagine having the energy to stand up.  Poor Missy.  He would always wonder if she had known it was coming.

He began to think about sharp tools and feeding the trees with his blood.  Missy had liked the trees.  She had eaten the fruit with gusto.  He couldn’t think of any tools close to hand that were smooth enough.  A pruning saw just wouldn’t do. 

It wasn’t quite winter, yet, and it wasn’t quite dark, either.  The moist warmth of the well-composted ground was sending up mist into the evening air.  There would be a tule fog tonight.  Probably not enough of one to reach up to the highway, but the local roads would be hazardous to drive.

Ed thought about driving into something in the fog.  He couldn’t think of anywhere where that would be definitely fatal, without involving another car.  He couldn’t do that.  That would be cowardly and selfish.

He thought about his toes.  His arms and legs were spread out like a paper doll.  That’s how he felt.  Dry and lifeless, strung hand to hand with a line of other people exactly like him.  He was endlessly replaceable.  What clothes was he wearing?  Would he care later that they were wrinkled and muddy?  Would he ever care about anything again?

He remembered lying out in a field like this when he was young.  He had lain out at night and imagined that he was looking down, instead of up, that he could fall into the dark and the stars and fly.  Now it was all misty and cold and it felt like gravity had been turned up to two or three times its normal intensity.  He could feel the meat hanging from his bones.  It was a good thing the ground was there, to hold it up, or it would droop until it fell off. 

This was no way to be.  There were guns.  He knew people who had them.  He’d remember who they were soon.  Eventually, he’d have the energy to stand up and get a gun.  Going on like this forever just couldn’t be borne.  It was okay to be miserable, now that he knew that it would stop.  Maybe not tonight.  Tonight he was too cold and tired.  He’d had a shock.  But shocks wore off.  He’d have enough energy soon.

Maybe if he slept, he’d wake up and remember who had a gun.  Someone who worked all day, so he could break a window and get it and not have to talk to anyone or let anyone see him.  Letting anyone see him would be a bad idea.  He had to look like hell.  His eyes felt heavy and sunken.  Maybe they had pushed back in his head too far to be seen.  That would set anyone looking at him off.  They’d ask him where his eyes were and while he was explaining, he’d make a mistake and talk about the gun.  Then they’d lock him up and he’d be miserable forever.

Ed turned his head to look at his hand.  It looked like a normal hand, in the fading light.  Through the mist he saw mushrooms pushing up through the dirt just beyond his fingers.  Were they moving that fast, or was he just thinking that slowly?  They were unfolding in droves.  No, not droves, there were only a dozen or so.

Ed turned his head further.  They were in an arc.  With as much plan-reading as he did, the geometry was obvious.  The mushrooms were rising in a ring around him.  What was the story about fairy rings?  All Ed could think of were stories about fairies that opened cracks in the earth under barrows, places of the dead.  What did those fairies do?  Ed couldn’t remember.  Something about aging, or living a hundred years underground in a week.  He didn’t want to live that long.  There was no way he could bear a week.

The mushrooms crowded in around him and he felt himself sinking into the ground.  No.  He needed to be able to get up later and get the gun.  Ed started to weep, more tears that he believed could come out of him.  They were warm until they got into his ears, where they cooled enough to be sticky.  Maybe the salt in them would kill the mushrooms.  Maybe he just needed to cry harder and he’d be free.

Ed started to sob.  He pulled again and again and finally pulled one arm free.  The back of it was covered with pithy white hairs.  Where the hairs entered, he could feel nothing. 

Okay.  Numb was good.  Maybe the mushrooms would eat him and he’d never have to stand up again.  After that, someone had better come and till the mushrooms into the soil, to let the soil dry out.  Soil that wet and fungus-ridden had to be bad for the trees.  It was nice to feel concerned about the trees again.  Ed let his arm fall back.  It wasn’t just the mushrooms coming up, he was definitely sinking down into the dirt. 

That would be convenient.  That would outdo Uncle Buster.  Dad had always been proud of Uncle Buster.  Uncle Buster had been retired when he died and Dad always wanted to go out just like him.  Buster had had a garden, rather than an orchard, and he had pottered in it every day.  He took his wheelbarrow out, pottered in his garden, then tipped the wheelbarrow up and sat back in the shade of it to nap before pottering a little more and pushing the wheelbarrow back up to the house.

One day a neighbor noticed that Buster had been napping for most of the day and went over to check.  Sure enough, Buster had died, right there in the garden.  When the ambulance came, the overgrown driveway had been too wet for a gurney to push through, so they had just tipped Buster’s wheelbarrow up and used it to haul him down to the street.  Neat and efficient.  Dad had approved.

Dad had only managed to die in his sleep between the time that his wife had gotten up and the time that the coffee was ready.  Now Ed was out-doing Buster.  He would disappear completely, not only ready-laid-out, but ready-buried.  He didn’t believe that he was going where Missy was.  He could have been happy believing that, but he didn’t.  This wasn’t going to be joy, only relief, and just a little hint of triumph at finally beating Dad at something. 

Odd that he’d be thinking that.  Dad had never accomplished much of anything.  Odd that he’d feel like this was the first time . . . well, maybe he’d think about that some other time.  Or maybe there was no time.  The mist was thick.  Ed wasn’t sure if he was seeing fog or mycelium covering his eyes.  Mycelium:  that was the name of the roots of mushrooms.  Not roots, exactly - those underground tendrils were the main part of the mushroom.  The parts above ground were the fruiting bodies. 

Ed chuckled as his sight dimmed and he felt a whisper of moving dryness in his nose.  He was going to be a fruiting body in an orchard.  He was ready to let go.  He hoped all his parts would be useful.  Missy couldn’t find him and worry.  She wouldn’t be alone.  She was gone.

He hoped someone would take good care of the trees. 

--

That one looks good.  I wasn’t expecting him to want to die.  No, that’s all right.  Do him first.  The first one will be riskiest, and if he wants to die, that’s like permission to take the risk. 

Yes, he might still want to die.  We may have to let him.  Yes, that makes two unsuitable ones.  They might all be unsuitable one way or another.  We just have to deal with what we have, now.

I think you did really well, all things considered.  Should I tell you now that the Book Man didn’t think you’d be able to do this at all?  Would that make you nervous? 

No, I don’t think you should be nervous.  I think you’re wonderful and can do more than the Book Man suspects.  Of course you need to remember to listen to me.  I’m also more wonderful than the Book Man suspects.

Yes, I’ve surprised him before.  I intend to surprise him again.  I intend for both of us to surprise him, over and over.

That would be nice, yes, if the others could surprise him, too.  I don’t think we should show them to him too soon, though. 

Do you need to rest?  No?  All right.  Pull him almost all the way through.  Then let him rest.  It looks like he needs to rest.  I remember the anatomy.  You need to keep the function intact.  Yes I know it’s complicated, but you’re wonderful.  And I remember it all.  At least, I hope I remember enough. 

Pull through as much moisture and structure as you need.  They’ve given us more than enough.  Now pay attention.  I know it’s hard.  Don’t stop at the wrong time or he’ll die.  There’s my good girl.