A Good and Happy Child (25 page)

He shook his head sadly. “Couple of months ago, I saw a young girl—

white girl, a diplomat’s daughter—take the shape of one of their gods,” g
aaa
ds, “with her arms waving, teeth bared.” He shook his a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d

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head again. “She claimed she was the goddess Kali,” he said. “The goddess of death.”

We slowed, then bumped over a bridge. We crossed the stony creek and turned onto a one-lane road that hugged the creek, its turnings tighter.

“I think before Christianity, those ancient religions set root out there,” he continued, “and among the good stuff . . . and there
was
some good stuff . . . the demons snuck in, set themselves up in the place of gods. But are they
tenacious,
” he exclaimed. “Part of the religion, too, the meditation? It’s about saying yes? That’s how this particular girl got lost. Opening the mind. Now I’m all for being open-minded,” he chuckled. “But not to the enemy. Some people can’t tell the difference.” He frowned at the road. “ ’Course, easy for us to say sitting here, eh, Tom?”

“Nothing easy about it,” said Tom Harris.

“Nope,” said Reval, “I think you’re right.”

I watched with interest how Tom Harris, a professor at a respected college, treated this itinerant, evangelical minister with perfect respect. An unspoken fellowship seemed to pass between them. I imagined my father—and possibly, one day, myself—being a part of this fellowship: a network of quiet practitioners that superseded country, education, accent, age.

“This is it,” pronounced Reval, squinting at the number on the mailbox.

We slowed to a stop. To our left, in the floodplain, a few houses were set at roughly thirty-yard intervals. The one in question—number 179, of what road I never learned—was a common kind of house in Stoneland County: painted white wood with dark-green trim, but dirty, with mud spattered along the walls and a dejected look; a torn screen door; the front porch scattered with toys—a Big Wheel, a wagon, many dolls.

“Gosh, the kids aren’t home, are they?” said Reval with sudden concern.

“Away with the grandmother,” said Tom.

“Okay then,” said Reval, taking a deep breath. “Ready?”

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•

•

•

Reval led the way. Our footsteps—and Tom Harris’s crutches—made a tumult on the wooden porch. We rang the doorbell, then Reval called out, waited, shrugged, and opened the door. Tom Harris seemed too tall for the front door and stooped down on his way in. Despite the fierce cold, the house felt close and damp, like it had not been opened in some time. A staircase filled the cramped hall. To the left lay the living room—a matching sofa and chair with checkered dust ruffles, and a big TV. On our right, voices. We followed them, Reval first. I watched him enter the room, absorb the scene quickly, then begin speaking: an unhesitating continuation of his good-natured patter. For a moment I felt oddly jealous, hearing his friendly banter focused on someone else.
Hi there. We let ourselves in. Hope that’s okay. I’m Reval Dumas. Your pas-
tor called me. This is Tom . . . and George . . .
I bumped up against Tom Harris and his sweeping overcoat, and together we walked into a long, cramped, train-car-shaped bedroom adorned with some homey, womanly touches—a dresser top with a lacy shawl thrown over it, flower-embroidered potpourri cushions. On the dresser: a red and white heart-encrusted frame featuring a dated snapshot of two teenagers in prom gear—corsaged girl grinning, overexcited; guy stiff in a rented tuxedo. Next to it, another frame, the snapshot equivalent of a movie jump cut: a family of four, with the prom couple older, more tired, and with them two smiling children, a brunette girl in barrettes and a black-haired boy with a well-reconstructed harelip. On the floor, next to the dresser, lay a thick curtain rod—more of a pole, really—with gauzy white curtains on either end. It had been ripped from the wall and flung to the floor. The screws were still in the fixtures. The pole was bent, twisted in the middle.

Disturbed, I drew my attention to the people in the room. A man—heavyset, round jaw, balding in front, exhausted circles under his eyes—was introduced as Bobby, the husband, whom I could almost recognize as the teenager in the tux; and a woman in a purple and somewhat battered ESPRIT sweatshirt, with the edgy manner and a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d

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skewy, poufed-up hair of someone who had not been to bed. This was Denise, the sister. A woman lay asleep on the bed. The hair-sprayed teenager at the prom, with baby fat and a tan, had transmogrified to a pale, slender woman whose long, refined nose gave her a kind of drained yet dignified beauty even lying in pajamas on a tousled bed. This room felt even closer than the front of the house, locker-room pungent, as if Denise and Bobby had been doing calisthenics in here all night and were now taking a much-needed, if joyless, break.

“We need some relief,” Denise announced with an air of resentment, as if we were somehow responsible.

“You the minister?” Bobby asked Reval, then began telling the story, working backward from recent details.

Been getting really bad at night, like she’s trying to wear us out. Had to
take the last two days off work. Called in sick, ’cause, well . . . what can you
tell ’em?
Where do you work? Reval asked.
I’m the sales manager at
Preston Rent-Alls on Route 17,
he said, the words flowing automatically, confidently, conjuring an atmosphere of commerce and normalcy at odds with our steamy surroundings, and the heavy breaths of the sleeping woman.
We had her looked at, but she was fine at the hospital, like
someone flipped a light switch. Just told ’em she’d been feeling tired.
Bobby pronounced it
taaard. They did some tests, and sent us home. Then . . .
same night
. . . he shook his head.
Back where we started.
A pause; Bobby’s eyes welled up.
I don’t know what gets into her.

“Has it been talking to you, Bobby?” Reval said. Bobby looked up at Reval, alarmed, as if he had guessed at something secret, and intensely private. “You know what I mean,” Reval persisted. He asked what “it” had been saying, a distinction Bobby caught and flinched at, himself sticking with the “she.”

When she gets going she never stops,
Bobby answered.
Half of it non-
sense, and half of it
. . . he shook his head again. Denise screwed up her face in disgust and joined in.
It’s nasty,
she offered heatedly.
I can’t stand
it no more. Never used to talk that way, I can tell you that.

“Oh, it’s not her,” declared Reval. This set Denise back a bit; her face twisted, as if it were trying to digest this bizarre idea.
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Tom Harris drew Bobby aside, began asking him about the Pentecostal service, about their attendance at that church, and when the

“change” began, but my eyes were drawn to Reval. He approached the sleeping woman. Laid a hand on her forehead, felt her pulse. Interrupted Bobby and Tom Harris to ask about her general health. Then laid on a chair a gallon-size plastic Ziploc bag that he had been carrying, which I had not noticed until now. From it he removed a white stole—

made of felt, with crosses, chalices, and other emblems sewn on it with brightly colored felt pieces—a small Bible, additional prayer mimeographs, and a tiny crucifix. He draped the stole around his neck. Reval moved quickly from this point, making sure Tom Harris and I held prayer printouts. Then he sent Bobby and Denise away to rest.

“We’ll call you when we need you,” he said. “And don’t worry—

we’ll need you.”

After they obeyed gratefully, Reval turned to us. “Her name is Grace,” he said, a sad twinge of his mouth showing he was not unaware of the irony. “We’ll start with the prayers, see what kind of response we get. When we hit a sore spot, we’ll know.” I had noticed that Bobby and Denise—even Tom Harris and I—whispered when in the woman’s presence. Reval spoke in a normal, confident tone. “That’s the cue to keep at it. Okay?”

I moved to stand near the door.

“Save your servant,” began Reval.

Tom Harris leaned lightly on his crutches and read along in a strong voice. I struggled to keep up at first, but finally found the lines for the responses: “Who trusts in you, my God.”

“Let her find in you, Lord, a fortified tower.”

“In the face of the enemy,” I mumbled from the purple mimeographed type between my fingers.

“Let us pray,” intoned Reval, and pray he did, in an easy, colloquial manner—more a nice dad saying grace around a Thanksgiving turkey than a Holy Roller.
God, who consigned that fallen and apostate
tyrant to the flames of hell,
Reval began mildly,
who sent your only-
begotten Son into the world to crush that roaring lion; hasten to our call,
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and snatch from the clutches of the noonday devil, this human being made
in your image . . .

“Amen,” we said, and so it went. I watched Grace as she lay, her hands folded near her face, her breathing slow, her face pale and slack, like someone laid up with a rotten flu. Every few minutes, Tom Harris shifted his crutch-borne weight to a different armpit, but otherwise the drama, or lack of it, rolled on. I glanced out the window. A winter scene: a fence and grass glazed in frost. A tan pickup in the neighbor’s drive. I followed with the responses.
Amen
s and
who put their trust in you
s. The novelty wore off, and after an hour, I began to drift. Tom Harris sensed this and leaned over to whisper, “You can take a break if you want.”

I retreated to the living room. Bobby had gone upstairs to the kids’

room for a nap. I found Denise sitting on the sofa. She held a magazine in her fingers and faced the television—which was off—but looked at neither one. Her hands moved continually. Folding the magazine. Placing it on her lap.

“She all right now?” Denise asked aggressively.

“I don’t know,” I said, unhelpfully.

“I ain’t never seen her like this,” she said. Then, as if finally taking notice of who I was, asked: “You the preacher’s son?”

“No,” I replied.

I felt her eyes bore into me questioningly.

“The preacher,” I said, “was friends with my dad.” Denise kept staring. “My dad died,” I added.

She nodded, not really hearing.

“My dad did this,” I ventured, tossing my head toward the bedroom, watching Denise for a reaction. “Special blessings.”

“Kind of in the blood, huh?”

“Kind of,” I said, pleased by this association with my father.

“Hope this don’t go on too long,” said Denise, after a time. “I got dogs to feed.” She licked her lips distractedly. “Don’t know what Bobby needs me for. It’s his wife. I don’t see why they can’t treat her at the hospital. That’s what they have nurses for, idn’t it? They should take her back there. Can’t send people home that kinda condition.” She picked
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up the magazine. Opened it. Shut it. Her manner gave evidence of a mind overloaded with unhappiness, but with only one mode of coping: irritability. “Don’t know how she got herself into this anyhow. She calls me the slut queen of all Stoneland County for partying eight days a week. HUH. Look at her.”

A few awkward moments passed. I didn’t want Denise to feel I was unsympathetic.

“Yeah,” I said. I picked up another magazine, opened it—but also found it impossible to read. The prayers in the next room continued. Evening came early, and true to Bobby’s observations, Grace seemed to stir at sundown. Outside, the weak yellow sun sent a parting volley of beams through the willows, then disappeared. Soon I heard Reval’s and Tom Harris’s voices rising, and Tom Harris leaned his shaggy head out of the bedroom, calling Bobby and Denise in. “You stay there,” he said to me coolly. Denise rousted Bobby, who came downstairs blearily, and the two of them went into the bedroom. Soon Reval had them chanting neatly as a choirmaster.

Lord, hear my prayer.

And let my cry be heard with you,
came the three voices in response, booming through the wall. It was too loud to think of, or do, anything else but listen. I stared at the blank television. Reval’s voice continued, the words inaudible, but the tone more urgent than before.
And also with you,
came the chorus.

Then came a loud bump against the wall. I heard shuffling, and orders given, and in my mind I saw Tom Harris, flung to the floor, cast cracking, pain across his face . . . I ran to the door. Grace had awakened. Her body gyrated spasmodically. Bobby, behind her on the bed, locked both arms in a grip to keep her from flailing freely. She had apparently just pushed Bobby backward into the headboard, making the noise.

Denise ran to help steer them. Grace moaned and her hands flapped.

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“I command you,” came Reval’s voice, louder now, “unclean spirit, whoever you are, that you tell me by some sign, your name, and the day and hour of your departure!”

My eyes widened. Something was happening now in the room. Tom Harris felt it, too, and waved me back through the door. But I stood mesmerized. Grace was trembling, her brow furrowed, troubled; her body sagging briefly, then tensing ominously—not going rigid, but more coming to consciousness, as if she were moving her limbs intentionally now, after mere sleep-thrashing. Denise, feeling it, too, took a step back. Suddenly I felt a blast of cold. I checked behind me, in the living room, to see whether the front door had blown open. But it had not. The cold came from within the bedroom. Chaos descended. With controlled movements, Grace crawled out of Bobby’s arms. Bobby tried to grasp her back, calling,
Honey c’mere . . . c’mere.
Reval repeated his phrase, now shouting,
I command you, unclean spirit!
Denise blew on her fingers, feeling the freezing temperature, and assuming, as I had, that the front door had opened onto the arctic chill. She yelled at me angrily,
Shut the door!