Excerpt from "American Mystic"
It's worse than she expected. Dolorosa Street is jammed with cars and trucks and news vans. She's seen the pictures in the paper, heard the radio interviews--all the news stations have camera crews checking in every day with a report--but she's thought there can't be that many people, it can't be as bad as they make it look on television. But it is, and instead of being afraid and turning back, excitement jolts through her and she crosses the street. More than one hundred people cover the front lawn as well as the yard of the house next door. They sit on blankets, on lawn chairs, on folding chairs, desk chairs, towels or the grass. Some have sleeping bags, others blankets or comforters. They have coolers and card tables, Gameboys and portable TVs and CD players. They're eating and drinking, playing Scrabble and Trivial Pursuit, writing, reading, sewing. Many are on their knees, praying, either alone or in a circle, holding hands. Some have big radios and she can't distinguish one kind of music being played from another--it all tangles together--the crash and throb of one with the melodic flow and hum of another. A man in a long black coat moves through the crowd lighting candles people hold out to him. With a start Lucy realizes the robed man is a priest. After lighting the candle he makes the sign of the cross over each person and moves on. The squat little house everyone is camped in front of has a thick chunk of cement for a porch and is two different colors, having begun a brick red that someone had attempted to paint dark gray but, losing interest, they abandoned the project, leaving the house three quarters gray with a wide strip of the red enclosing a slash of a window in the front. Lucy grew up in a house just like it and knows exactly what's inside: cheap faux-wood paneling, beige shag carpet, hand-crank windows, and one of those little bars with the mirrored shelves in the finished basement. So different from her sister's house. Debra and Frank live in a brick colonial with perfectly square hedges out front and perfect, boring furniture inside: glass-topped tables, stiff boxy blue sofas, towering dark bookshelves and hardwood floors with red and blue maze-patterned oriental rugs. Heavy cream-colored curtains. The only good thing about Debra's house is that it's full of light. Floor to ceiling windows take up most of the front and back walls, and standing in the middle of the living room, she sometimes feels a little dizzy, like she needs to hold onto something in order to cross the room or her feet will fly right out from under her. This house looks small and dark and a like good place to hide. She feels as if she’s home somehow and hasn’t felt that way in a long time. In the center of the front yard someone, perhaps the same someone who attempted to paint, planted a small tree about two feet high. It wavers, fragile and thin, in the cold breeze, trying to keep its head up above the crowd, waiting for someone to put it out of its misery. On the porch a young dark-haired man in a white robe with some kind of fabric tied around his head is playing a guitar and singing. A few people, young women mostly, are gathered on the steps around him, singing along. They run the gamut--some bookish and demure with hair pinned severely back, glasses, heavy coats buttoned to the neck, others are hippie throwbacks with their long, kinky hair and thin peasant blouses, their coats open to show off necklaces of thick wooden beads and glimpses of braless breasts. A few can't decide. They look prim, but the way they're looking at the guitar player is a whole different story. She sees that one of them even has a tambourine. A lunch truck is parked in front of the house, with a line that stretches down the block and a placard set out proclaiming that the fish sandwich is the special of the day. Three policemen stand eating messy hotdogs nearby. But what makes Lucy smile are the portable toilets set up in a row near the end of the driveway. There's even a line, a short one, three people deep. A van drives by that belongs to a Christian radio station Frank always makes them listen to in the car. It bears the slogan "God is our #1 Listener" in blue script. She starts making her way through the crowd. Despite the circumstances, it's a decent day in late March; the darkening sky is clear and blue, the trees have a light dusting of green. There are exactly two daffodils, small and drooping, blooming below the mailbox. Drawing closer, she spots an odd pair: a woman wearing a white low cut sweater with a red bra underneath, very tight red pants and high heeled red shoes, and a girl—around her age she guesses--scary skinny with long, shiny, blonde hair, wearing acid-washed jeans and a bright pink T-shirt. Printed in glittering rainbow letters is the word Paradise, with an arrow pointing to her crotch. She's eating a large candy bar and energetically licking the chocolate from her fingers. The two women have set up a table on the lawn next door and are selling souvenirs. She reads the sign taped to the folding table: Holy Water Blessed By Our Very Own Mystic! $20 for four ounces. Two for $30 (these in blue-tinted plastic bottles shaped like the Virgin Mary) and Postcards of the Shed $2.50 and Spaces for Rent! Lawn: $25, Driveway: $50. Three Day Minimum. Lawn Chair Rental: $20 Each. The woman looks up, frowning with bright red lips. Lucy looks away, searching for a place to sit, stepping carefully over children shading in coloring books, a few dogs begging for scraps, a woman changing the diaper of a two or three month old baby. The woman looks up and meets her curious look--she's young, her skin clear and unlined, pretty, with short, layered, red hair and round blue eyes. The young woman stares back at Lucy with the same curiosity, but Lucy is used to it. She waits while the woman takes in her chunky boots, the black lipstick and eyeliner that are dark gashes against her pale skin, her black fingernails, and her pierced eyebrows, nose, and ears. The only color is a yellow bandana, almost absurd, tied in her short spiky, blue-black hair. The young woman finally smiles. "God Bless you!" she says sweetly as she sprinkles baby powder on the squirming infant's privates, and Lucy moves on. She's just turned nineteen and this makes her feel sort of powerful, sort of untouchable. She's free of high school, doesn't have to go to college, doesn’t have a job and doesn’t need one. It's her between time and she can do anything she wants with it. She doesn’t really want to be here, but she wants some answers about the dreams she started having a few weeks ago, and this seems like the place to go. At least she thinks they are dreams. Sometimes they happen during the day. The world goes all watery and white, and there she'll be--The Lady--all blue-eyed love and soft hands, with stars shooting from her silvery blue dress, whispering to Lucy without moving her mouth, and then--bam!--she's back in the world with her legs sort of tingly, like when her foot has fallen asleep because she was lying in a weird position in bed, that awful heavy rushing-back-into-the-body feeling. And her eyes are always closed so she thinks she's fallen asleep and dreamed it.
She's been watching this circus on television and something told her to come here, to Cheryl's house, and wait. That she would find out why she was chosen. What she wants really wants to know is how to be unchosen. It all seems so fake to her, the light and the wind in the Virgin Mary’s hair and even, sometimes, she thinks she hears high-pitched singing, very beautiful. She can't buy it. It's impossible that it's real, and if it is, that scares her. It makes her feel like she's a stranger in her own head. Sometimes, when the feeling comes, the tingling, cold fingers, the blurred vision, the shaking, she thinks that if she just starts screaming, someone will hold her down and the Lady will stay away. Then she'll be safe. Finally there's a small spot on the ground and she twists down into it, opens her backpack and takes out a notebook. A few minutes later there's a nudge at her back as someone steps over her and she looks up, now taking her turn to stare, as is everyone else, they can't help it. Andrew doesn’t notice. Like Lucy, he knows people are taking in his long-fingered hands and tall, tight body that gives off an aura of peace, as well as power. With his shoulder length brown hair that just brushes his shoulders, large, gentle brown eyes, and round, babyish face dusted with a light beard of fine hair, he's been told the resemblance to traditional pictures of Jesus is striking. Secretly, he likes the comparison. He looks down to apologize to the girl at his feet and stops, silent. In her lap is a spiral notebook, the page covered with a drawing in black pen. The lines are complicated and hard to follow, some places colored in so hard he can see the impressions in the paper. Eyes look out at him from shadowed places, hands reach for other hands, faceless forms with multiple arms and legs weave around and into one another. It's fascinating and disturbing at the same time. He feels himself falling into it and blinks. The girl looks up at him, irritated, nervous, unhappy. As if she’s been brought here against her will. He smiles gently, "Sorry." She lowers her eyes back down to her work, feeling unable to speak, and suddenly and strangely embarrassed about her appearance, which has never happened to her before. For a moment, while he looked at her, the clothes, the makeup, all of it felt unnecessary, like a costume. The singing girls scoot over so Andrew can pass. He knocks on the front door and rings the bell. While waiting he figures out the song they're singing: Kumbaya. He rings the bell again. He's glad he's come. If he can't see Cheryl, maybe he can at least help her mother; he has a few days before he heads for California to work at a mission he read about in The Catholic Messenger. It’s the least he can do for Cheryl. She gave him a chance when most didn’t and helped him find his way. The four months they’d spent carpooling to The Feed Bin, praying or reading the Bible aloud, helped him decide what he wanted to do when he got out of prison. Her faith was a light when he needed it. He owes her for that. A voice from behind the door calls out, "I told you--you can be on the porch but the house is off limits!" "Mrs. Johnson? I'm a friend of your daughter's. I used to work with her at the chicken place on 40. My name is Andrew." He has to yell to be heard over the New Christy Minstrel wannabes. There's a long silence. "Mrs. Johnson?" Still silence. Just as he's about to turn and go, he hears the door being unbolted, then it opens, very slowly, and two gray eyes peek out. "Andrew? I've heard of you." "I'd like to help." He smiles and shifts his backpack on his shoulder. She stands back, opening the door wider. "Hurry." He squeezes inside and she slams the door. # "Since you have forsaken the world and are like a corpse in the eyes of other people, your whole physical, external life turned now toward our Lord, make sure, so to speak, that your heart is also dead to earthly fears and desires and turned wholly toward our lord Jesus Christ." Cheryl closes the book and rubs her eyes. She hasn’t had a full night's sleep since locking herself in. She startles to consciousness more than wakes, groping anxiously for who and where she is each time, always lying still for a few moments before getting up, trying to find her balance. That first morning, she awakened before the sun came up and climbed out of her sleeping bag that she'd laid on a blue tarp found in the corner the night before. She unpacked her backpack and cleaned up a little. The water was icy cold from the utility sink so she washed her face and hands quickly. She ate canned peaches for breakfast, and a slice of bread. It was enough; she wasn't hungry. She was more worried about what she should do first, how she should begin. What should her schedule be? Was it something she should plan out or should she let herself be guided? She knew holy meditations on the crucifix were important, usually they were done at midday, so she hung her rosary on a nail in the wall for later. What to do until then? She's not a nun; she shouldn't follow the schedule of a cloistered nun, should she? That didn't feel right. She thinks writing everything down is a good idea because she doesn't know what will be useful later, as time goes by and she begins to understand her vision more. It will probably help if she can see how things have changed inside of her while she does this, or how God changes things inside of her. Nervousness sours her stomach. She wishes she were back inside the house in her bed. She's so weak! Or maybe it's that she feels out of her league. After all, those medieval mystics were professionals. And there are so many sins, what the books call 'failings' that she will have to work through: pride, gloom, irritability, bitterness, laziness, irrational depression. There are even more virtues she's supposed to develop: humility, patience, fortitude, temperance, purity, sobriety, faith, rectitude, tranquillity. She's never had even two at the same time, let alone all of them at once! What keeps her from focusing on her prayers are flashes from the scene she had with her mother that first night. It was their last contact and she isn't proud of it. She was trying to pray then too, half-listening for Momma, waiting for her to come. It took all day. She'd just lit a candle and opened a can of green beans for dinner, when she heard Momma banging on the door of the shed. It rattled loudly, threatening to break open, and for a moment Cheryl was afraid it would. "Who is it? Who's in there?" Cheryl went over and stood next to the door with her hands tightly clasped. "It's me, Momma." Liz started in surprise and disappointment. For a moment she'd thought the last nine years had all been a bad dream and she'd find Eddie in there, going through his old tools, ready to start that set of bookshelves he'd been saying he was going to put up in their bedroom, or Tina, sulking her way through a bag of Dubble-Stuf Oreos. Whatever it was Cheryl was doing, she didn't have time for it. "Cheryl? It's freezing. Come out of there." "I can't." She bit her lip, waiting for the fireworks to start. Liz grabbed the handle of the door and shook it hard. The door gave a little but the deadbolt held. The handle was icy; her hands slipped and she fell backwards in the snow. This was weird, she thought, even for Cheryl. Fear scratched under her skin. "I want you to come in. Now. I don't want you playing around in this shed. It's full of your father's old tools and the lawn mower's in there. You might hurt yourself," Liz said firmly, as she stood. She tapped the door with her boot for emphasis. Cheryl chewed on her lower lip. "I can't, Momma. I'm really sorry." Liz drew a long, shaky breath. "Why not?" "God has finally told me what he wants me to do and I have to do it." Cheryl felt better finally saying it to someone else, even though she knew Momma wouldn't understand. She couldn't explain how she just knew that if she proved herself to God, he would bring Daddy back and they'd all be all right again. Or all right for the first time. And it wouldn't be just them. It would fix it for everybody. She would prove that God did answer. So many needed to know that, whatever they needed, whatever was missing, it would be found and fixed. Liz wrapped her arms around herself. She didn't know how to handle any of Cheryl's religious fantasies. Cheryl had taken a huge leap into another world Liz didn't want to enter or understand. She needed her daughter sane and supportive and on this side of the shed's door. Cheryl blinked back tears, wondering why this had to be so hard. She'd promised God she'd do as he'd asked, but it hurt. She flattened a hand against the door. "Momma. Momma, listen to me! I promise everything will be okay. It's just going to take time. And faith. It has a lot to do with me being in here, right now. I have to do this." "Do what! I don't know what you're doing; it doesn't make any sense!" Liz began pounding on the door again. Cheryl pushed back against her mother's attack, worried that she really would break the door down. "It does! I swear it does! I wouldn't do this if I didn't think it would make a difference." Liz stopped banging and slid to the ground, not caring that she was getting wet from melted snow. Tears slipped down her cheeks. "Cheryl, please, don't do this. We're already okay aren't we? We've gone on with out Daddy and it hasn't been too bad, has it? We're still a family and we need to stay together." Cheryl stood firm. "That's just it. We're not really together. We're all alone and we don't have to be." She pressed her lips to the thin crack between frame and door. "I love you, Momma," she said. "I can't talk about this anymore." She climbed onto the stool, picked up the can of beans and fork that she'd left on the worktable, then put them down again. There was no way she could eat. It was quiet outside the door, but she knew her mother was still there.
Chapter Two
Lucy takes a compact out of her pocket and examines her face, turning her head from side to side, pursing her black-penciled lips and shaking her head so her heavy earrings tap her jaw. Yes, she's pleased. She's always wanted to try the goth look and it's the perfect disguise. Should her sister, pissy Frank, or anyone from their church show up, they'll never recognize her. It feels so good to dress in a way that would horrify her sister. But then, Debra is, and always has been, out of touch with anything current. Debra is fourteen years older, and living with her since their parents' death in a car accident has been a real drag. Her parents had been too old to be interesting or have any energy for her, having had her so late, but at least they let her just be who she wanted. Her mother never said a word about her short skirts, the boots (she'd always loved clunky boots) or anything she did to her hair. But, being thirteen, she needed a guardian, and there was nowhere else to go after the accident except Debra's. Frank has never wanted her there and doesn't try to pretend otherwise. The only time he ever speaks to her is to lecture her on how she needs to be saved so God can show her how her life matters, what her purpose is in serving him, how she should be respectful, ladylike, smarter, blah, blah, blah. Forget that. Frank can go to hell. What Debra sees in him she doesn't know. So much for Christian charity, Lucy thinks. Besides, no one else in the family is practicing what he preaches. Her four-year-old niece, Darcy, is kind of a brat, and when Debra isn't crabby she's depressed because she hates her life. Lucy figured that out right away. A few weeks after she moved in she started noticing packages being delivered at least three times a week, but never saw anything new around the house and Debra wasn't wearing new clothes. Then one night, on her way to the bathroom, Lucy passed her sister's bedroom and heard the Home Shopping Network on low, and Debra ordering six pairs of suede shoes in pastel colors. Then she ordered three jackets and some earrings. Curious, Lucy waited until Debra was at the gym then did a quick search of the house. She got lucky on the second place she looked, discovering all the boxes in the sewing room, piled in the closet and on and under the bed, everything still sealed. Frank never went into the sewing room and Debra paid the bills so he didn't know about the ten sets of warming dishes, the face creams and perfumes, the denim jackets, the three mixers, the cases of multi-vitamins, and those creepy, giant dolls with the silk Victorian dresses and real curly hair. But Lucy did. Whenever she couldn't stand how perfect everything was or how much she missed her dull, quiet parents, she went into the sewing room and opened boxes while Debra got her hair colored or her weekly pedicure with the same coral nail polish color every time. It made Lucy feel better to see how screwed up her sister was. Somehow she felt closer to Debra then. When Darcy was born there were fewer packages, but they didn't stop. They never talked about their parents' death and the not talking about absorbed the possibility of talking about other things, and Frank was still irritated with her no matter how quiet she was or how much she tried to help, so eventually Lucy got the feeling it would be easier if she left. It just seemed right to come straight here, to the house where the girl was having visions too. She fit in better here than at Debra's, and the answer was here. Good or bad, she's finally going to figure out these dreams. She isn’t sure what she’s done in leaving; she's just sort of drifting in a blank place, knowing that if she thinks about how alone she is she’ll be too scared to do anything. But now that she's here, with all these people, she's starting to worry that maybe she’s in for more than she can handle. She didn’t ask for the dreams and isn’t sure what she’s supposed to do. That cold feeling that comes just before, and the pain in her head after and the fatigue--as if she’s run thirty miles--she doesn’t like any of it. It feels like someone else has taken over her body. She doesn't want to get used to or accept it. The first dreams started with her walking on a green hillside through tall grass on a hot day, and suddenly The Lady came out of the sun, no--the Lady was the sun, her robes the sky. Flowers Lucy had never seen before fell from her hands and rooted in the earth, spreading and rippling down the hill in an unfurling carpet of reds and yellows. But last night, her first night here, the dream changed. Almost the moment she closed her eyes, she was standing at the bottom of some stone steps that led up to a temple, blinding white in the sun. The sky was clear and a deep bright blue. A small, brown-skinned child with dark, braided hair wearing a white robe and a knotted sash danced on the third step of the stairs. She was spinning, and waving her arms, and laughing. The handful of people watching were smiling and clapping. Two older people stood off to the side and Lucy knew these were the girl's parents, though they were much older, with gray hair and lined faces. Everyone was in robes with veils draped over their hair against the sun. No one saw her. The girl stopped dancing and walked down the steps towards Lucy holding out her tiny hands. Light glowed all around her; her skin was made of light. Panic jolted through Lucy. She had to get away from this child. She couldn't let the little girl touch her. Turning to run, she stumbled and started to fall, and there were hundreds and hundreds of steps dropping away, cracking, crumbling…There was the long weightless feeling and panic of a falling dream, and she woke up with the usual headache and shaky legs. Discreetly she removes the nose ring--it's just a clip-on anyway and it's pinching. She rubs the tip of her nose. She can do without that. The rest--the spiked black hair, heavy eye makeup, the black leather pants and mesh top, the thick, glossy boots and the trench coat--she feels like herself: masked, dark. It's good to be free of the white blouses and ballet flats Debra was always pushing her to wear. It's getting colder. Opening her backpack she takes out some sweatpants and pulls them on over her leather ones. She unlaces her boots and puts on some thick socks and fleece-lined slippers she stole from Debra's sewing room stash, then stuffs the boots in the pack. She drinks some bottled water and eats a candy bar. Once everyone is asleep she'll risk a trip to the port-a-potties. She doesn't want to lose her spot.
