Reverend America: A Journey of Redemption (3 page)

“And this?” Casper asked, holding up the doll by an arm.

“My shrink recommended it. I was a single mom—it was a turkey baster job. I lost Brian, that was his name—and I pretty much just lost it. So, I got Tommy—to help me cope. Only Tommy doesn’t work so good either. And look at me.”

Casper felt the back of the plastic infant and removed the embedded panel. He took out the batteries, brushed the terminals and reinserted them. The doll began crying, the limbs moving. The woman’s eyes lit up.

“You’re a miracle worker!” she said, reaching out for the doll.

Casper held it back. “How long ago did Brian die?”

“Th-three years ago,” she answered. “I know—I should—but—”

A bus had pulled out of the terminal. It made a gearshift and was picking up speed. Casper pitched the doll under the wheels as it cried. It was crushed flat.

Suzanne made a jump and gasped—but Casper dropped his knapsack and caught her in his arms all in one motion. She broke into sobs on his lowered shoulder and made a move to hit him, but then collapsed deeper into him.

“Shhh,” he said. “It’s going to be all right. Sometimes you have to let go to go forward. Three years? With a doll that doesn’t work? A doll? That doll could never work—don’t you see that?”

She sobbed. “I—know.”

“Are you working?” he asked. Meaning did she have a job.

“Just picking up my unemployment check,” she sniffled.

“All right. This is what you do,” he said, taking out a $10 bill. You go home, and on the way you buy yourself some ice cream—I recommend rocky road. Then you run yourself a hot bath at home and watch an old movie with your ice cream. It won’t cure your sadness—but it will help. And tomorrow—tomorrow may be the new day that it should be. That it can be.”

Suzanne with a Plan pulled back and stared at him. “Are you some kind of therapist?”

“Maybe,” he answered. “Time to start thinking about that Plan anway.”

The woman gathered up her handbag and shuffled off with a numb expression on her face—as if she’d been struck by a bus, but were somehow better for the collision. When she rounded the nearest corner, Casper dashed out into the street and retrieved the pancaked doll. He took it to a trashcan and laid it to rest, not sure if it was a good thing or not that Suzanne had forgotten it so completely. But he’d never been one to judge. He’d been judged too many times his own self. He only hoped she’d follow the advice about the ice cream. “Rocky is the road to real salvation,” Berina had always said with a wink.

Poor Suzanne was going to have to find more than a Plan. She needed a new favorite show. But somehow Casper had hope for her. He’d picked up many skills in his time in the wilderness, but the one thing outside of singing that he knew he was good at was listening to strangers. They came like the wounded and the downtrodden had flocked to Jesus. They still came as of old, and their words always seemed to connect with something that was happening to him, as if they were messages from his Medicine Bag brought to life. He’d learned long ago that if you listen closely enough to strangers, you end up hearing your own story, however strange it may seem. Everything’s connected. That’s why Rinders know when to appear.

Casper’s real name was Mathias Gaspenny, although he had difficulty relating to it because of all that had happened to him—including the need on many occasions to deny it or to use other names.

He didn’t own a laptop, although he’d taught himself how to use a computer in libraries along his way—just like Cameron Blanchard.

He didn’t carry a cell phone—for financial reasons—and because he didn’t want to be reminded of all the people he didn’t have to call.

Once he’d found one in a trashcan on Virginia Street in Reno. It rang. A telemarketer. He lobbed it into the Truckee River.

ears back, when he’d been performing, he was known as Mathias True—Reverend America. The handle “Casper,” as in the Friendly Ghost, came in jail.

Gaspenny is a German name, like many that had gotten mangled into some Anglo-Saxon approximation in the rugged anthracite hollers of West Virginia where he’d been born. As far as he knew, he’d taken his first breath in Mink Shoals in the drab frost bound month of March 1952, a blink-once town in Kanawha County, on the Elk River—although his mother (believed to have been but 15 when she gave birth) turned him over to a Methodist-run way house on the outskirts of Charleston the very next day.

Charleston is of course much larger than Mink Shoals, and is the state capital (one of those that people get wrong, thinking that the answer is Wheeling—and the answer is never Wheeling). But that’s not to say it’s a city as such. It was then the kind of place where rumors circulated about the Mickleburtons, a family of melonheads who ate tomcats and sucked on the windshields of lovers’ cars. He spent the first five years of his life there in the custody of the church. He never met or heard from his birth mother and knew less than nothing about his blood father.

His first memories were of an austere shingled house . . . four or five other children at any given time—scoldings—a hot water bottle he used to hold when he cried. Sometimes there was marble cake—and once Dowdy, the fixit man brought in some venison that he’d killed and dressed. “You’re one of the Fortunates,” he was told.

Plops of sticky oat porridge in the morning (that “fought back” as Dowdy put it)—with cane syrup if you were lucky—gravy and tooth breaking biscuits at night—cabbage rolls—sauerkraut—horseradish sauce.

Squirrel was often served. The adults savored the brains. More often than not though, the meat was from tins of old war surplus—Spam and Rado, a heavy smelling sardine paste that came in a bright orange can. It tasted bright orange—with so much salt you needed dripping bread and a glass of water with every bite—along with an amber jelly at the bottom that he imagined had been squeezed from the belly of the Snaggletooth Fish that the mountain people mythologized.

All manner of fun modern food was out of the question, along with television, picture books, board games and bedtime stories. The only radio they were allowed to listen to was Reverend Quintus Jones’ Sunshine Gospel Hour, where they learned to sing “Jesus comes to us alone, Jesus comes as one Unknown.” The Bit-O-Honey Little Rascals life of other children doors away was as remote as the far side of the moon. There were no jawbreakers, Milk Duds or wax fangs on Halloween. On Thanksgiving there was never a golden bird packed with stuffing, with pumpkin pie and whipped cream afterward. They had a “Prayer Loaf” (the less said the better), canned pear crumble and cottage cheese. Christmas morning brought nothing bright like a robot or a silver cap gun. The Lord’s birthday meant new underwear and a Hope candle—and if there had been sufficient donations during the year, a slice of brown sugar glazed ham and flaccid carrots. If not, corn beef and Jell-O salad.

The children shared the same room, with metal frame cots that were always cold. Every day they got a bristle bath with no model boats or toy frogmen to distract them. Anuses and genitals were inspected. Lotion to repel head lice applied. Using the toilet was a matter of strict observation and control. Wetting the bed provoked “wrist basting” (implemented with what a street away was understood to be a spatula, perfect for flipping griddle cakes and piling them on plates of oily link sausages and huckleberries). Anything perceived to be an act of willful disobedience or “uproar” met with a bare bottom “blistering.”

In fact, the spankings weren’t that severe. As intended, the real punishment was the humiliation of bending over exposed before the others, gripping your ankles and trying not to topple forward. The one gray woman who really was mean was only there his last few months. The other ladies called her “The Duchess.” The Duchess insisted that you buckled your knees together when “adopting the position,” so that the brown eye was visible to all. She was a big one for seeing the brown eye.

Something “devilish” such as a tantrum or unexplained crying fit, required a cold ducking, and the heavy steel bucket that was used was hung in plain sight from a tow hook in the sleeping quarters as a continuous warning every bit as ominous as the bloody Christ nailed to his Cross that hung on the opposite wall.

For any infraction more grievous than this, you went to the Lonely Room—a chamber next door to the dorm area that could’ve been converted into a game room or rumpus room—but which had been left stark white with a low watt bulb, the only object inside, a dog bowl filled with water.

Day to day, life at the way house consisted of sleeping, bathing, eating, praying, and adjourning to the Lesson Room, a parlor fitted out with a blackboard, a liver spotted globe, and shelves of Christian periodicals and Bible stories for children, the only illustrated books they were allowed to see (along with Bibles and copies of The Book of Common Prayer).

The lambs and camels—men in gleaming robes and Roman soldiers shimmered into rich fantasies of travel and adventure. Casper seized on them the way other boys might’ve embraced Bat Masterson, the Flash or Y.A. Tittle. These color-saturated pages with their cribbed fables and watered down Biblical passages opened the world to him, making him hungry for the salvation of amazement.

The strangest inhabitant of the Lesson Room was the globe, because the only time he remembered it being used, there were but three places on it: the Holy Land, America and West Virginia. The word “Earth” had to be managed with caution (as in Heaven and Earth) and any discussion of the planets was off limits because that might lead to talk of alien invasions. The important thing was that God had made everything. Anything hinting at “the marvels of science” was forbidden. Concerning matters like electricity, the usual answer had something to do with the government via the grace of God. The Lesson Room was just another Lonely Room in spite of its furnishings.

Even the slightest reference by one of the older kids to swordfights or Space Patrol meant excommunication for a full day to the white silence. There was no jungle gym or monkey bars—no bats or balls. The children were let outside in a fenced-in area behind the house to scuffle and sing “Skip to My Lou,” the one non-religious tune they were free to enjoy. 
Flies in the buttermilk, shoo fly, shoo.

After lunch and before the afternoon nap, they were marched around the block in single file. It was a big block of somber houses, many imposing and decaying nearby, others more working class around the corner. Twice a day there was a prayer meeting and every afternoon a singing lesson, when they’d struggle through “A Door Was Opened in Heaven.” Casper much preferred the hymns of the Black Sojourners, the Only Men, as they were called—early traveling preachers who’d often once been slaves—“Time of My Time” and “When I Faced the Devil Down”—those seemed real and heroic songs to him. The lyrics were simple and yet the music was more rousing. He’d later come to realize that what he responded to was more interesting chord progressions and always a time signature change in the chorus. He took to the singing, savoring every moment.

The lessons took place in the foreboding brick church next door and required crossing past the brick and stone home of the pastor—what the Baptists down the street called the Pastorium, but the Methodists referred to as the Manse—although the term Rectory would’ve been more apt.

The sanctuary was stone, brought to life only by the rose colored light that streamed through the stained-glass windows. They attended every church service and the prayer sessions, sitting with lips sealed in a pew at the back.

Coober Titch, who wore flood pants and had a perspiration problem, was the organist—after Loralia Meegus had “given up the ghost.” He played the hymns an octave too high for even the choir to sing. 
Great is thy faithfulness . . . great is thy faithfulness.

There were many funerals in the church, sometimes open casket affairs, which stirred nightmares amongst the children (especially when Dowdy told them that coffins were like Mexican jumping beans, with the bodies always trying to get out). Often there were mining accidents—not big ones that made the national news, just quiet tragedies—and the women bathed the soot from the bodies of the dead miners out in the back of the kitchen.

Once one of their own died. An older boy named Everett, who had no hair and walked on metal crutches. A spastic girl named Amelia was sent grunting somewhere else—perhaps to the State Orphanage, which they were shown photographs of to make them feel blessed. But Casper made friends with a blind girl named Carina and taught her how to clap in time, singing, “I took Jesus as my savior, you take him too.” Music came easily to him.

It was in the church where they were all baptized in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, 
for lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.

From the beginning he was raised on the Bible, cod liver oil, the broom and the bucket. But he learned to sit up straight, to spell and to write, some basic arithmetic, to wipe himself, and to accept Jesus as his savior. As it turned out, his saviors proved to be an older couple with a dubious past and even more questionable motives. But he found a way out of the way house at least. As his adoptive father often told him later, “Any way is often the only way.”

It was from his friend Hogerty in an institution called Glendell, that he’d learned about people’s favorite shows. The other patients called Hogerty the Art Director. The first time they exchanged words was in line for their meds.

“Do you remember the commercial with the elephant being massaged with Spanish Extra Virgin olive oil?” Hogerty asked him.

“No,” Casper said. He could imagine a commercial like that, but he didn’t recall seeing one. “I’ve never watched much TV.”

“What about Chunky’s Loaded Pizza—‘fuel-injected with double cheese’?”

“Sorry,” Casper shrugged. “Are you—were you—are you in advertising?”

That’s one of the delicate issues in an institution. You’re never sure whether to refer to people’s lives outside as still going on.

Hogerty leaned in closer. “They blackballed me. That’s why I’m here. 
I found out the truth
.”

People in institutions are always finding out the Truth—but this was somehow different.

“It was a very unusual advertising agency,” Hogerty continued. “The Wink Group. I discovered that the ads we were making weren’t what they appeared to be. They weren’t ads intended to create awareness or interest in products at all—they were—are—designed to destabilize thought patterns. Each pixel in each frame is in fact a complex mandala of images which disrupts neural firing and triggers momentary retrograde amnesia.”

Casper remembered whistling 
pheeewee
 out loud, not really understanding, but still impressed.

“The Wink Group isn’t run by . . . people,” Hogerty whispered. “They’re another species.”

“Another species?” Casper asked.

“Yes. They’ve been in hiding.”

“Where?”

“
All
 around us,” Hogerty replied under his breath. “They perceive mass communications on a higher level. What appear to us to be individual commercials are really pixels in a giant 4-dimensional commercial. I found out that the achievement of their goal—the Big Commercial—will be the inception of the Media Creature. This new life form—a sentient Artificial Intellect—will become a Planetary Entity.”

Casper stepped back. He didn’t understand what the man was saying one bit, but it was beautiful. To him, it seemed beautiful.

“Ask yourself—whatever happened to famous brands like Tquish, 
‘The tangy treat that’s always on the tip of your tongue.’
 Or Sox detergent, 
‘Gets clothes so clean you’ll never know you’ve worn them.’
”

“I’ve—never heard of those products,” Casper said.

“You see?” Hogerty nodded. “That’s the ingenuity of what they’re doing. That’s what’s so insidious.”

Hogerty brought everything suddenly into focus for Casper. As his newfriend said, “Hard to get a new perspective in a small room. The trick is making the room bigger.”

All you had to do was find out what someone’s favorite show was to understand them. Once he’d cottoned on to that everything became clearer. He stopped getting into so many fights. People nodded. He realized everyone had a favorite show—not just the residents, but the staff and doctors too.

For years he’d look in telephone books, and then online when he learned how to use a computer, for any reference to the Wink Group. He never found a trace—but as Hogerty would say, that only showed how good they were. He had faith, and Casper understood that. The Wink Group had their business, faith had once been his.

The pork chops and cobbler that the cab driver Cameron Blanchard had served him had soothed his head and stabilized his nerves. Thank God the eccentric Rinder had happened by when he did. Things could’ve gotten ugly. Well—uglier than they already were.

But he hadn’t lived so long or come so far to be shot by a throw-down in the back seat of a late model car. He’d just gotten confused for a moment. All he could keep in frame was the John Wayne ad, which may have been the work of the Wink Group.

He concluded that the worst thing was not being able to remember the faces of those . . . he’d . . .

KILLED

Had he ever really killed anyone before?

He crossed another street and came upon an unemployment line.

There were people of all colors and variations—their faces fixed into masks. They were waiting in line, as a line, yet still striving to be individuals. Hoping—hoping—hoping—one after the other, just as they did in the jubilee lines of the revivals—quaking in surrender, awaiting the touch of Heavenly flame from the White Angel. Only these people looked as though they’d lost complete faith in everything. They all had that 
brother can you spare a dime
 look.

Casper wondered what would happen if he started preaching again, just a little there and then. Could he move this intractable throng? Could be part the sea of their resignation? Did he still have the power?

Everywhere he went there was fear and trembling amongst the money changers and the seller of doves—angry rabble rousing about recession, secession, government gridlock—people begging—soup kitchens overworked, boarded up homes . . . FOR SALE signs blooming wild right out of the pavement.

He cast back in his mind to what he knew of the Great Depression—images that had come down mostly from his library readings. He’d spent many of his happiest hours in libraries, ever since Berina Pinecoffin first took him to one. He could pour through old 
Aperture
 magazines and gaze at the photographs that Walker Evans took for the Farm Security Administration. Those bleak black and white portraits came back to him now. Then it occurred to him. What if the Great Depression had never really ended? People just thought it did. Father Coughlin had become Fox News. Babyface Nelson a Muslim terrorist. Billy Sunday had mutated into a Dr. Phil franchise. Hogerty would’ve been pleased. If Casper had said it aloud it would’ve been what his adoptive parents called “good patter.” And it’s the patter that matters.