Calamity

relatives, whoever, and wait through the night. Kid probably got spooked by his dead sis and ran somewhere to hide. He’ll come back. But nowadays, we do things differently.”

“What do you mean?”

“Amber Alert, you heard of it?”

“You think he was kidnapped?” Anthony’s reflection was distorted in the man’s shades. Why was he wearing sunglasses inside? Hell, why was he wearing them outside in the dark?

“Do you think he was?”

“I don’t know, I just need to find him.”

“What was the last thing you said to him?”

Anthony had been punching that Jesus freak and screaming, What did you do to my daughter? What the fuck did you do to my Delaney? “I freaked out.”

Toller raised his eyebrows and Chubby Cop turned toward Anthony. His name was, if tags were to be trusted, Craig Fineman. If Anthony suddenly jumped up, Fineman would probably put two in his chest before he realized what he had done. That might not be a bad way to go, if he could get Tyler to leave first.

“I overreacted.”

“You hit him?” Toller asked.

“No, God no.”

“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for your swollen knuckles. Punching walls? Frustration, perhaps?” Toller had a crewcut of short white hair; perhaps he had kids, even grandkids.

Yet, Anthony’s dead daughter lay only a few feet away and Toller was being a prick. “No, I hit someone, this guy …”

… walked in with his arm around my son and I freaked out. He’s a dangerous guy, trust me. He came to my house Saturday and he told me my daughter was pretty and now she’s dead and his eyes were wrong, uneven or something, don’t you see what I’m saying—that Jesus worshipper STOLE MY SON!

“This guy what?” Toller was waiting.

“I know where he is.”

Fineman backed up a step, expecting a trap, perhaps. Toller leaned in, unafraid. “Oh?”

He told them as calmly as he could about the two nameless Jesus Empowerment guys who had come to his door on Saturday, how bizarre they had been. He explained how the one guy had insisted that Anthony would need the pamphlet, almost as though he knew something was going to happen. He explained the way the other one, the short stocky one, had looked, how something seemed off about him, the loose hairs, the wrinkled suit. He didn’t tell them about the eyes, maybe because he couldn’t see Toller’s eyes and Fineman’s were squinty like those of a hog, but mostly because, though he hated to admit it, he was starting to sound hysterical.

“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