“Yes, Jess. We are here at Wade Bower’s ranch in Kenton, Oklahoma. Bower reported shots fired near the creek on his property that runs beside the property of self-help guru, Tom Wolsieffer.”
The name is like ice-water through an IV. I sit up straighter and lean into the broadcast.
“Revelation Ranch, as it’s come to be known, has been Wolsieffer’s home for over six months. The ranch has hosted self-help events in the past and Wolsieffer boasts thousands of followers for his controversial book, The Way. Many of those followers have made Revelation Ranch their new home.
“It seems that last night, shots were exchanged on the border between the two ranches. One man is dead. Wade Bower maintains that Tom Wolsieffer’s men shot first and there are reports that a woman, Birdie Hauer, Tom Wolsieffer’s main spokesperson, was shot in the crossfire. Miss Hauer is nine months pregnant. However, no one has been brought out of Revelation Ranch for medical treatment. Authorities have been unable to reach Tom Wolsieffer or those responsible for the shooting of the ranch hand. The FBI has been called in and this is being treated as a hostage situation with over five hundred people inhabiting Wolsieffer’s Revelation Ranch. Back to you, Jess.”
My jaw goes slack, my mouth gapes in an O. A wrecker with a wench couldn’t pull me out of the psychological ditch I’ve just plowed into. I had heard of the book, The Way. I’d seen the book in the airport on my way to Europe last year. The wave of disgust that had washed over me as I stood in that little bookstore comes back to me now. I’d put Tom behind me, I thought. But hearing his name now was enough to raise the dead.
And more, hearing Birdie’s name.
Nine months pregnant. Jesus Christ.
And she had been shot.
Birdie Hauer was another name that I didn’t let myself say aloud or think of too often. I had tucked the past neatly into a pocket of my subconscious where I was more than happy to allow it to rot and fester so long as I didn’t have to look at it.
Never mind that the stench of emotional putrefaction wafted out of my pores and infected every relationship I’d had since that time in my life.
I realize that I’m holding the remote in a vice-like death grip. I lay it down on the coffee table and run my hands over my face. It’s hot, and I need to cool off. I stand from the couch.
“You okay?” Philip asks.
“I know them,” I manage, gesturing to the television.
“That cult guy?” Philip laughs.
“Yeah,” I say.
“You’re high as fuck, aren’t you?”
I say nothing.
Philip shrugs and folds his arms over his chest, having finished off the joint. I notice the roach sitting on my glass and marble coffee table. Annoyed, I sweep it up with my hands and take it to the trash can.
In the kitchen, I realize the last of the wine is gone. I’ll have to go to the liquor store again. And something else dawns on me: Birdie is in a great deal of trouble.
I go back to the couch, unable to relax in spite of the THC in my bloodstream. The news has moved on to a story about an animal rescue organization, so I put on a documentary, not even really noticing what it’s about. I zone out, staring at the images on the screen but seeing nothing but the reels from my own past cycle on repeat.
IONE
7 YEARS AGO
I stood, shielding my eyes with my hand, and looked up at the Cherokee gothic building that loomed in front of me. The mid-August heat was like a blanket pulled out of the dryer prematurely: hot and muggy. Sweat congregated at the small of my back, and a light breeze picked up, cooling my spine for a moment. I had one class left in the first week of the penultimate semester of my senior year—Writing the American Novel with Dr. Tom Wolsieffer.
Dr. Wolsieffer had a reputation in the writing department. There were whispers about the parties that he threw. Affairs that involved both adjunct faculty that didn’t have the clout to refuse an invitation and undergraduate students who wouldn’t have wanted to turn down the opportunity to see their professors outside of their natural habitat. There had been rumors throughout my time at the university about the things that went on at the parties. I chalked most of the wilder whisperings up to urban legend. I had no doubt, however, that there were professors in the department that were less than scrupulous with their more intimate student interactions.
More than anything, I was curious and wanted to meet the man at the center of the rumors of a student-professor affair. The girl that he’d allegedly carried on with had left the University of Oklahoma the previous spring in the middle of the semester and transferred back home to Kansas State.
I pictured an older man, probably in his late fifties. A slight stoop would make his gait somewhat awkward and would make me wonder what any young female student would see in him. It had to be the power, I imagined.
Despite my overactive imagination, Dr. Wolsieffer’s reputation didn’t concern me. My mission for the year was to get in, get my degree, and get out. I planned on returning for graduate school the following year. It’s when we are most certain about our plans that they become most malleable to the forces of the universe.
I glanced at my watch and jogged up the stone steps into the building. Ivy snaked up the brick façade, hugging snugly to the sides of the building like a stick-tight child holding tight to his mother as she attempted to leave him somewhere he didn’t want to be. Inside, students scrambled to get from one class to another on time. Late in the afternoon, this Thursday evening class met from 4:45-7:30. A long stretch of time to
