Darcey Steinke - Jesus Saves

When she was younger, she'd dreamed of Christ's body, the holes in his palms and between the tendons of his feet, but not only the gross parts, the sexy parts too, his flat stomach, even his cock. Nobody ever talked about that, the slight sheen of sweat on his red ball sac, the fine wrinkled skin in the crack of his ass. When you die your soul slips into a pitcher of water or the moisture inside a cat's eye; the soul waits until the body's buried or burned, then wanders the world looking for a human or animal who wants to have a baby. Sometimes the soul flies off to heaven, through the hospital window and up like a plastic grocery bag caught in a gust of wind. Or the soul goes with you right into the ground, becomes one with nature, growing up in every blade of grass and falling with every raindrop. The souls of the earth mingle and that's why nature tingles with intelligence, why ice covering a pond seems like more than frozen water.

The phone rang upstairs. The jangly cadence made her think of Mulhoffer's face, and she pulled the flannel flap of the sleeping bag up against her neck and puzzled a second until she remembered the trustees’ meeting and how her father asked her to get there early, have coffee ready, and arrange some butter cookies on the silver platter. He figured waiting on the trustees graciously would soften their hearts and bring her back into favor. But she heard his car pull out of the driveway hours ago. A current of anxiety cut through her stomach. Once again, she totally fucked up.

Trucks whipped past, trailing ribbons of exhaust, splashing mud over the soft shoulder. She passed the mall; only a few dozen cars dotted the parking lot. The place had deterioated to several empty storefronts and third-rate chains. It might go bust. The mayor was already talking about turning it into a health club or a high school annex.

Rainwater puddled in the drainage ditch outside the church, and she had to straddle the muddy water to reach the latch on the big aluminum mailbox. Just a catalogue for Sunday school supplies and a flier advertising cheap group rates to Sweden. Tucking both under her arm, she ran up the wet asphalt. It was littered with wind-blown leaves and wet chrysanthemum petals, soggy gladiola, and shriveled carnations that had blown out of the Dumpster.

Her father's car was gone, as were the trustees’. The meeting must have been long over and she guessed her father was making up for yesterday and visiting the sick. There was a car parked near the door, one she didn't recognize, and this made her apprehensive about going into the church. A trustee might be waiting to ask if her dad's car had air conditioning, if he drank wine around the house or spent lots of money on new clothes. Once when she was little, playing communion with her dolls on the altar, a trustee came into the church and said she had no respect for Jesus. Inside, the butter-colored Ford was meticulously clean. A small plastic garbage bag hung from the radio dial and a shoe box of inspirational tapes by Depak Chopra and Mary Anne Williamson were arranged alphabetically. It was probably Mrs. Mulhoffer's car; she came by often to fiddle with the plastic altar covers, to settle everything in the sacristy to her touch.

Her father insisted on using as few lights as possible and never turned on the heat until late November, so the narthex and stairs to the basement were dark, still smelled of damp paint. He was into self-denial, and not just at Lent, when he gave up his chocolate bars and secret cigarettes, but all the time. He ate canned soups and wheat rolls and on weekends wore ten-year-old khakis with threadbare black clerical shirts.

As she swung open the door at the bottom step, she saw Ted's mother waiting outside her office, reading the announcements tacked up on the bulletin board; Lutheran missionary work in Africa and pleas for support for the youth group car wash. When Ginger first took up with Ted, his mother was thrilled. A minister's daughter, a girl who'd have a cheerfully restraining effect on her son, who'd dress in shin — length floral dresses and quote Bible verses in times of trial. But once she'd realized Ginger rarely changed out of her jeans and sweatshirts, her tennis shoes and heavy-metal T-shirts, she'd told Ted, There's something not right about that girl.

Ginger, unlocked the office door, turned on the lamp, and motioned for Ted's mother to sit on the beige folding chair in front of the desk. The smell of burnt peroxide from a recent perm mingled with his mother's sweet perfume. She wore a denim dress with a nautical pocket seal and navy blue tennis shoes, with little white anchors on the toes. Like lots of women in the church, she dressed like a little girl, in smocked floral dresses and teddy bear T-shirts. She wore a red snowman vest on Christmas and a cotton bunny sweater at Easter. She wouldn't sit down, just stood there blinking, explaining that the store manager was threatening to press full charges. He said her son was a very sick young man.

“I just can't take this anymore,” she said, taking a wadded tissue from her pocket. “First the drugs, then the police, and now that fellow Steve. All you have to do is look at him to know he's not right. All I ever wanted to do was help my boy, try and get him back on his feet. He's always making everything so hard for himself. There comes a point where people have to take responsibility for themselves. Ted doesn't seem to realize that.”

“There's nothing wrong with Ted,” Ginger said. “He's just miserable about his face.”

His mother shook her head. She never spoke about the accident, always changed the subject to something more positive, like the kid on her block who got a track scholarship to college or the rich lawyer who took his mother for a trip around the world. “I just want him to be happy and healthy.”

“Nobody's happy and healthy,” Ginger said. “Everybody has problems.”

“If you'd raised him you'd know his dark side. Things never work out for Ted. There's something off about him. It's not in my genes, but there were bad seeds in his father's family and I can't help thinking Ted has been blessed with some of that.”

There was no arguing with her. She'd decided he was poisoned and had been working out the details of this theory for years. There was something not quite right about Ted and nothing would convince her otherwise. Ginger stood and moved toward the door. His mother followed her out of the office and down the corridor, lined by Sunday school partitions, full of long empty tables where hopeful little children made crosses out of Popsicle sticks and learned the words to “Away in the Manger.”

“If you see him, tell him to call me, please!” Ted's mother said as they stood in the damp cement stairwell near the back door. Ginger nodded, but it was a lie.

She knew his mother had told Ted that his stepfather was his real father, and by the time he found out the truth, his real father was dead. His mother made him like he was, raised like a fallen prince, taught him to think he was better than everyone and so much worse. And she thought life owed her something too and was bitter because she'd been beautiful and cheerful but things never panned out. Ted wanted to save her but he couldn't, and she'd never forgive him for that. She was vain too, had lots of photographs of herself up on the walls, signed across the bottom like a movie star, and she was always talking about how she still wore the same size dress as when she graduated from high school. She played show tunes in the house, sang along outloud, and wouldn't talk to anybody during these recitals. If Ted tried to speak with her, she'd sing louder; her eyes turned the other way. Ted said that when he watched her now it seemed funny, but when he was little her singing scared him to death.