Rick Moody - Hotels of North America

Unfortunately, Peterson then said, Well, as it happens, we’re going to call on the Albert family this evening, perhaps you’d like to come along. In truth, I didn’t expect, and never quite expect, to be taken seriously as a pastoral counselor. But in the end we allowed Peterson to herd us into in his Escalade. He liked a friendly face, he said, and I certainly had a friendly face. I was remarking, on the way to the Alberts, that I had often read certain works of theology when I was back at the state school, and even in the dusky light, out in one of the subdivisions of Tyler, which consisted of mansion upon unimpressively constructed mansion, I could see naked terror on K.’s face (in the backseat of the Escalade), but God help me, I could not stop talking as Peterson concentrated on the driving, and Melanie, his assistant (seated next to K.), checked stuff off in a handy ring binder. I kept talking and said that if God had designed the orchestra, then the cello was His greatest accomplishment, and a good singalong was the fastest persuader, and no man converted on an empty stomach, along with a few other choice morsels, all the while thinking it possible that Peterson and Melanie adhered to some kind of murderous Texas cult that only masqueraded as _________, or perhaps they were going to apply snakes and their snakebites to us, and how the hell had we gotten talked out of our rental Buick LaCrosse, why were we riding in Peterson’s Escalade? But before I was able to complete this thought we pulled up at one of the neighborhood insta-mansions. And stepped out of the Escalade.

Soon the Alberts and K. and I were standing together by the colonnaded antebellum front of the insta-mansion, exchanging introductions. This is my wife, Swallow, I was saying, when Peterson got the call, the fateful call, on his belt-mounted cellular phone. How could I not have known it was a setup? Lord in heaven, no! he was saying. Are you certain? Where do you need me to be? Which hospital? I am so sorry, awfully sorry, to hear what you are telling me, Bobby Joe, I’ll be right down there, blink of an eye! Ringing off, Peterson gave Melanie a look of such complexity — at once compassionate, studied, malevolent, strategic, and irritable — that it was clear, at least to me, with Swallow now shivering against me, that we were about to be hung out to dry. In a moment, the speech came: Mr. Morse, I am so sorry to have to do this to you! One of the prized members of our spiritual family has just taken ill. That was his wife calling just now, and I’m going to have to hustle down to the local hospital. As you can see, the Alberts are the finest family out here in this particular subdivision, fine salt-of-the-earth people, and they are expecting you, and you all should really feel free to visit together a little, and I’m going to go on down to the hospital, and Melanie and I will be back in forty-five or so for some fellowship with you all, and I’m just really darned upset about what’s happened.

By the time I realized that Peterson and Melanie were already back in the Escalade, I couldn’t think what to do, frankly, except to make sure I had a phone on my person in case we needed to call for emergency services. In an instant, they were gone, and K. and I were standing in a driveway in a gated community in Tyler, Texas, in front of the insta-mansion getting ready to minister to the Alberts, who comprised the following:

The father, by the name of Tim, definitely potted upon arrival, carrying some travel mug that was filled, he said, with coffee, though his coffee seemed to have a pronounced sedative effect. He slurred, and used the hem of his bathrobe to wipe his lips repeatedly. It was hard to understand much of what was said. Hydrocodone tablets mixed in with the libation?

The mother, Allison, was a chatterbox paying little attention to the fact that her man looked like he might pass out at any moment. She was upbeat and natural in presentation, in a way that was almost certainly compensatory.

The son, Stan, who had not been shaving long. Apparently, there was nothing in this world that interested him, especially not the visitors to the house. He said he spent most of the services at ___________ texting the friends he’d met while playing massively multiplayer games. He admitted later that he had, as an apprentice hunter, just bagged his first kill.

The daughter, Allyssa, Stan’s younger sister, who was the darlingest, sweetest, most self-effacing kid, cheerful of affect and with bad skin. Somehow the Alberts had managed to protect her from the Albert legacy. Perhaps even Tim Albert had colluded in protecting her. According to legend, her first word, as an infant, was marzipan .

The interior of the Albert residence was furnished mostly with downmarket appurtenances of the kind you might get on layaway, and while this furniture did not have plastic covering, it was almost certainly the case that the Alberts had considered plastic covering. It was upon just such an unassuming sofa that we were invited to sit. Swallow slid in close. The Alberts gathered in around us, and I noticed with a certain interest how the boy, Stan, sat in his armchair with his legs crossed beneath him. All four looked at us warily, as if waiting for adversarial courtroom testimony. There was no one else who could start the conversation but myself. I alone was so deputized. Where are you today? I said to Tim. Tell us, where are the Alberts today?

Allyssa, the daughter, slipped out to the kitchen and returned carrying samples of the kind of cookie known as the Lorna Doone, a sleeve of which was presented entire on a florally adorned plastic plate. There the cookies sat, uneaten, each member of the Albert family gazing upon them even as Allyssa at last took up the plate and passed it.

I know what grief and loss are, I tried again, and I have traveled over these many weeks bearing my burdens, not knowing for sure if I could go on. This is the way of the faith, I said, and it’s our lot. We do not carry our burdens in silence, but we accept where we are, as we also accept that those around us can listen, can help us with our burdens. I know that I have often felt better when I have written about my particular sorrows, and I’m sure that Swallow would agree with this, as she has been with me every day that I have been out and about attempting to carry the message. K. said, Carry the message.

I did not feel total conviction, alas, and that is probably why I soon found myself preoccupied with the Lorna Doones. I gorged myself on a good half dozen in rapid succession when they reached me. Indeed, Allyssa and I seemed to be the only ones consuming them. The cookies went back and forth between Allyssa and me for a couple of minutes, and then I watched Swallow slip one into the pocket of her windbreaker.

Tim, by way of reply, began: I think your church is full of goddamned fornicators, and I’d love to be one of those fornicators, but I can’t be shit, not a fornicator or any other goddamned thing, because I’m stuck here in this goddamned house with this goddamned mortgage, I can’t even fucking move because of all the money I owe on this goddamned albatross of a house, and I’d like to be in your church full of fornicators maybe chasing around some teenage tail or whatnot —

To which his wife said, Please, Tim —

I know goddamned well what I’m talking about. He’s some goddamned Yankee who turns up in the house supposed to be converting me to whatever pack of lies and he’s probably a fornicator and a homosexual and a Democrat —

Daddy, please, said Allyssa, and then to me, Mister, he can’t help himself, he won’t even remember he said any of this stuff by morning, and especially he won’t remember anyhow that you were here. It’s nothing personal, honest.