“Never heard of them,” Toller said. Fineman shook his head. “You say you have a flier from them?”
“At my house.”
“Perhaps we should go get it.”
“Why would they take him? What do they want with my son?”
“They probably didn’t take him, Mr. Williams. But we should check it out. Though I’m sure it’s some type of non-threatening entity. Bunch of disenfranchised Catholics. Probably find them in a basement eating donut holes and drinking instant coffee.” Toller laughed. Anthony wanted to see his eyes so badly that he almost asked Toller to remove them and then he stopped himself. He had done more than enough to appear crazy for one night.
“And if they don’t have him?”
“You have a picture of your son? We’ll Amber Alert it right now. Someone will spot him. Have him back to you in an hour, maybe sooner.”
Anthony fished out a school photo of Brendan from his wallet and handed it over. Toller appraised it for a moment, said nothing, handed it to Fineman. A few minutes later, Tyler was driving his father back home while Toller and Fineman followed in their cruiser.
“You didn’t see anything?” Anthony asked his son.
“No, Dad. I left with Paul. I didn’t see anything.”
“Where did you go?”
“Just driving around. Clearing my head.”
“That my beer on your breath?”
“Sorry.”
“Fuck it.”
When they arrived at the house, Stephanie stood on the porch, waving her cell phone. Anthony hadn’t even turned his on. Something had happened. Chloe overdosed. The ambulance was on the way.
Anthony jumped out of the car before the car came to a complete stop and Anthony fell to his knees. He wouldn’t notice the torn holes in the pants until later after his knees stopped bleeding. He almost tackled Stephanie on the porch.
“It’s Brendan,” she said, eyes heavy. “He’s back.”
“What? Where?”
Anthony pushed past her into the house and, sure enough, there was his youngest son standing in the doorway to the kitchen, glass of milk in hand. He raised it as if in a toast. “Hi, Dad.”
Rage, pure and red-hot, flared through him so immediately that he could have torn his son’s head clean off and kept beating the corpse until it was tenderized, but a wave of relief washed away the rage and he went to his son, took him his arms, and hugged him as if the boy had returned from the dead. In a way, he had. Milk spilled over Anthony’s back and splattered on the floor.
“Where were you?” he asked after he broke the hug.
“I’m okay.” Brendan stared at the half-empty glass as if the milk had disappeared magically.
“But where were you?”
His son stared him dead-on. “I was in the woods. I ran away. I’m sorry.” The boy’s eyes watered and Anthony couldn’t stop himself from hugging him again and even more fiercely. It was okay, he told him over and over. Brendan had gotten scared at his father’s freak out, simple explanation with no harm done. It was okay. Everything was going to be okay. Anthony felt a crazed laugh threatening in his throat: how many times had he heard or said that everything was going to be okay?
“Cancel the Amber Alert,” Toller said from the front door. “Kid wasn’t nabbed. Everything’s A-Okay.”
If Shakespeare was right and all that is past is prologue, then everything was not going to be okay, not even close.
* * *
Sometime later when the boys were in their rooms, maybe sleeping but probably not, and Stephanie had collapsed next to Chloe in his bedroom, Anthony found the flier from the Jesus freaks. It was on the kitchen table where it had been since Saturday.
Jesus Wants you to be Empowered.
Ha. The picture of Jesus on the cross did little to inspire empowerment. How could crucifixion bring empowerment? Had Jesus wondered the same thing when the thick nails went through his wrists and feet? Had he even felt the thorns piercing his scalp? Had he believed in empowerment at that moment? Hadn’t he rebelled against God at that last instant? He asked why God had forsaken him. That wasn’t empowerment; that was abandonment.
The First Church of Jesus Christ the Abandoned.
Were the well-dressed worshippers in the inside picture real parishioners or actors? Maybe they had been taken from other pictures online and assembled and the Bibles had been skillfully cut and pasted into their hands. It was easier to believe that than to accept this diversified congregation of people who believed that the crucified Jesus really had experienced empowerment and wanted to pass that feeling on to others.
No matter the pain from which you suffer, the difficulties against which you struggle, Jesus wants to help. At The First Church of Jesus Christ the Empowered, we seek the fulfillment of God’s will through an honest acceptance of our faults and a faithful inquiry into the magical workings of Jesus.
The wording was clever, persuasive. Had he been the editor charged with proofing this document he would have applauded the rhetoric. He ought to find out who had written it and offer him or her some work writing copy for college textbooks. With such persuasive skill at work, they might actually sell a few books. Anthony would have only objected to the pained Jesus-on-the-cross picture. Wouldn’t it be better to have a redeemed, empowered Jesus, perhaps floating over his worshippers with an angelic glow about him?
“Come to me, all you who are weary and carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” Listen to Jesus and let Him empower you.
Anthony knew something now of burdens. He could write his own biblical book—The Gospel of Misery. For then Anthony beheld the mighty power of Misery, an angel of pain, as it fell upon him and crushed his soul, whittled away his will to live. Then he knew the mighty power that was and is and ever shall be Misery and it punished him with impunity. Anthony knew he should have repented but it was too late. In the late hour of the day, Anthony beheld the dead, or the soon to die, and wept for he had doubted the power.
It probably wouldn’t catch on in churches, but he bet the people would understand it, accept it, even. They would know it because they lived it. No one lived as The Empowered; everyone, however, knew life as a victim of Misery. Jesus promised rest, but could He actually deliver?
Chloe had been resting for weeks, nearly a month, and now she would keep resting, maybe forever. Is that the rest Jesus offered? When Chloe slept, she was not free from the demons prying at her mind. Even when heavily drugged, her eyes still twitched and rolled beneath their lids. When she woke, she never spoke of what happened behind closed eyelids, and Anthony was glad for that. He didn’t need any more nastiness crowding his mind. He had enough to last a lifetime.
He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. He would find no rest. He went to the garage and stood in the dark for several minutes as his eyes adjusted before he flicked on the light. He had hoped to see something. When the eyes were adjusting to sudden darkness or vice versa, sometimes the unusual appeared. It was like catching a glimpse of another world, just for a second. He didn’t see anything and that seemed more cruel than it probably should have been. He only wanted reassurance. He wanted to know his daughter was okay; wherever she was, he needed to know she was safe.
Chloe’s red Subaru was in the second spot where it had been since that trip on Route 84 that tipped it over. He had driven it only a few times, sort of as an experiment, and found it too difficult to use. There was nothing wrong with it mechanically speaking. The tow truck driver had even marveled how the car suffered such little damage. The repair shop fixed a few dents and gave the car a tune-up and assured him it would run almost like new. And it had.