Not totally fictive
In the well-developed town of Bienville, Louisiana, where
the plastered cinder block strips bespatter concrete flats beside the highway,
where car wrecks have increased in front of Walmart, where the locals could be
locals anywhere, where visitors can never find downtown, there is a brand new
Roman Catholic church, and in that church amongst the pews stand many people,
and amongst those many people sits John Emmanuel Lamarque.
John Emmanuel Lamarque is a young man with a strange name,
which would generally mean that he is from New Orleans. He is educated, as is
expected with such a name, and very polite. In fact, though newly arrived, he
has scattered his politeness all about: a polite smile to the lady at the
registration booth, a polite smile to the greeters, a polite smile to the
priest when, always well-dressed, he was asked to present the gifts, a polite
smile to the usher as he bequeathed, a polite smile to the music minister who
asked if he'd like to share his talents, a polite smile to the Knights of
Columbus grilling fat beef, a polite smile to each, every, and all.
John Emmanuel Lamarque, single and solitary, inspired many
questions: a likely priest? No, too late. A religious? The single life? Not
with such style and class. His wife is non-Catholic. He's here alone for work.
What a market we have for him. Welcome to the community, John.
The questions soon ceased as interest shifted, and had
rarely touched John himself. Lately rather aloof, he became at times a mildly
noticeable void in the opening chorus. His neighbors at mass would be sometimes
disturbed by a sigh, a sniff, a wild giggle or the twitch of a hand. He sat
when it was time to stand. He folded his hands at the Lord's Prayer that they
all dared to say.
Nevertheless, John Emmanuel Lamarque could be seen every
Sunday walking briskly from his new Volkswagen to church doors, hands pocketed,
tie somewhat crooked, eyes straight ahead – “Good morning, John” with a
hypersmile – and to his seat, now further and further to rear or side.
This continued for some weeks before a marked change
occurred. People wondered: his mother must be ill. His sister's in a coma.
Going through a divorce already. Work's tough for a young kid.
Shirt untucked, the white cotton displayed from beneath,
hair hardly combed, a few days scruff – John yet seemed uplifted, held his head
up, at least glanced at the greeters with some sort of smile, stood during the
Eucharistic prayer, and seemed very interested in the choir – peering and
swaying toward the left of the altar. He still giggled and sighed during the
offertory hymns – “We Are One Body”, “Amazing Love” – but as he seemed easeful,
his neighbors were, and heeded him less.
Hard to live alone so long. I wonder if he's seen his
family. Let's invite him to the soiree next weekend. I'm sure he can pick a
good wine.
Moving nearer and nearer each Sunday to the altar's left, he
was thought to enjoy mass more even than the older congregation. He murmured
and swayed more and more, but never joined the clapping. Happy, though, he
seemed, and seemed confident, secure. For those who noticed, those scattered
few, John passed whatever trial it was.
One wet Sabbath with a rose sun gleaming through smoggy
clouds, John Lamarque sat upon the step just near the dexter door into the
church. He sat there with eyes glazed like an iced fish. And the greeter,
busied with him, opened the door at breaks in his unfettered gaze. When sounds
of the choir beat upon the door, the greeter stooped to John and asked, “Are
you coming in, John? Mass is starting –”. Cut off by a brush of the young man's
shoulder knocking him firmly enough into the steel handle to redden his cheeks
and make him puff until he bethought himself, “I am God's minister”, clutched
his metal cross badge, and wiped his feet on the carpeted lobby.
John Lamarque, it is true, suffered through mass. At the
Gloria, he could be seen clutching his face, his jaw clenched and white. A
middle-aged man leaned over: “Are you alright, son?” No response. A woman
reached for his hand at the Lord's Prayer; he flicked it away and blew like a
bull.
He sat down and did not rise, his stare fixed on the choir,
an expression of pride and glory unseen since the days of Leonidas. His hands
tightened into balled fists, squeezed, left bloody spots on the palms. And then
calm. He sat still. He gazed forward as if through to the outside air. He rose
and walked toward the massive dais upon which the guitarists swayed to the beat
of the drum box. Red-haired empty-nesters crowed and sobbed unwilling
harmonies. The pianist rolled his head, and a youth minister in vested
broadcloth and jeans squinted closed eyes under prescription Ray-bans.
One by one, the singers noted him standing there arms akimbo.
They dropped off and looked to the blank-faced ushers tapping their feet by
each of six aisles. The leader, hearing her aides falter, with eyes closed
called out, “Sing with me! … and worship leads to com –” at which instigation
John Lamarque seized the lovely inlaid Martin, tore it from her shoulders,
upsetting the music stand which made dominoes of the others, and with a roar
like David shook the very air with its destruction upon the concrete floor.
The piano was next – as papers flew, somehow shredded, the
amplifier fizzed as the keyboard shot into the air and with a terrible crash
fired plastic keys into a row of extraordinary ministers, who tore their
skirt-suits diving for cover.
Silence ensued.
The air was cooled by a soft draft like the settling breeze
after a storm.
Tears from red eyes fell upon the ground. A haggard toneless
voice cried out, “Adoro te Devote …”
The choir leader, spectacles tortured, rose from her corner
screaming “How dare you?! How dare you in the presence –”
“Panis
vivus, vitam præstans –"
“How dare you?!?
“Dare ...”, John fell quiet and echoed. “We dare to say.”
She began to tug and pull at his deadweight, as if trying to
drag him away – all eyes glaring and embarrassed – but an old communion
servicer of the Sisters of Mercy bustling up the aisle met her grimly, placed a
hand on her shoulder: “Let us see what father has to say. Father?” Bill was a
fragile old Jesuit and stood aghast at the altar. “Father?!” Finally he
wagered, “Ladies, now ladies, let us remember that we are in the presence of
God.” “Father, I want –” – accusing his impuissance – “I want you to drive this
demon from this church and ban him from the community! Let him suffer outside
where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth so that his soul may be purified.”
But before Bill's flubbering lips could utter another sound,
there came a cataract of laughter – eerie, as it seemed to come from nowhere
and everywhere. And no one could at once discern its origin. Bill, by then frighted into unconsciousness, was slowly lowered to the sanctuary floor by a lady in impeccable black,
his tennis shoes twitching.
The laughing grew so sonorous and sweet and so wrong that
mothers covered the ears of the smiling children – until at last John lifted
his face and the laughing ceased.
He was silent when police ushered him to a waiting patrol
car. He strangely caressed the door, stooped, and entered.
It was a peculiar trial. John Emmanuel Lamarque was not
deemed insane.
He spent 3 years on charges of assault, battery, destruction
of property, and religion-based discrimination.
When released, he became a heroin addict for a time,
appearing infrequently on the streets with a great beard and eyes like the sea.
His arms became lank and wiry, and he was moderately notorious for his wild and
beautiful words amongst the homeless. He often stood beneath the interchanges,
gazing to the stars, unwittingly frightening passers-by in Lexus crossovers.
He was last seen in a Russian hostel at the foot of the
Urals.
Written by Ross McKnight
Edited by Jonathan Torres
