And so they had gone on that way for months, memories of his father receding in one direction, his mother headed another way, transforming into someone else entirely. She bought a Bible, and prayed, kneeling beside her bed each night. She spoke of miracles, of Halloween and rap music as portals to Satan, of the importance of modest dress for women. Most of all, she was relentlessly compliant in the face of the reverend, as if, in his presence, her personality evacuated to make room for his. Each week Eliot returned to the church out of concern for his mother, for another glimpse of the girl, all the while holding his tongue on the things he was coming to learn from the Bible: that deafness was sickness, a punishment for sins, and he was a child of indiscretion, an Eliot among the Johns and Peters and Noahs. Jesus had cured a deaf man in front of a crowd, with two wet willies and a dab of saliva on the man’s tongue. The night he’d learned that, Eliot dreamt of what another man’s spit might taste like.
Then one Sunday after services, Pastor Sherman cornered Eliot’s mother at the far end of the chapel. Eliot had tried to get close enough to see what they were saying, but he could only see his mother nodding along saying, Absolutely, absolutely. When Eliot tore her away, it was only to find that she wanted to return to church that night for a special service—a “revival,” she’d called it. They’d spent the rest of the afternoon running around doing Reverend Sherman’s errands, searching for items that sounded like the components to some mythological shopping list. They retrieved an assortment of essential oils from the pharmacy; they bought things from the food store that did not sound edible: rose hips and tukmaria and frankincense. It all filled up two bags, and Eliot lugged them out to the trunk.
By the time they’d returned to the church, the second service had already started, REVIVAL! written in bright purple 3-D WordArt on the screen. He and his mother slid into what had become their customary pew, but after just a few minutes, Eliot saw the girl getting up from hers. She locked eyes with him as she passed.
He waited until she left the sanctuary to follow her. In the mouth of the atrium, there was no trace of her, but then he felt a hand—her hand—on his arm. She pulled him into a storage room.
The girl tugged at a string overhead and a naked bulb illuminated the closet. The room was crammed with metal shelves, which were in turn stuffed with big Tupperware canisters of communion wafers. He’d almost laughed when he saw them lined up like that, imagined Reverend Sherman going to Costco to buy a case of Jesus crackers. But the girl had come close, put her finger to her lips in a gesture of secrecy.
Eliot, she’d said, I’m happy you came.
He was so nervous right before he kissed her that he actually felt nauseous, but once they started his body relaxed into it, moving like it had always known what to do. She was soft and smelled like baby powder, and he ran his fingers along her neck and down the curve of her waist, then back up her stomach beneath her shirt. The girl exhaled sharply but didn’t pull away.
When he freed up the top button on her jeans, though, she quickly shoved him backward. Eliot smacked his elbow on one of the wafer shelves and bit his lip to keep from making noise. He reached for her hand to show her he was sorry, but her eyes had changed, were wide with something beyond the unbuttoning of pants.
They’re calling you, she said.
Eliot raised a whatareyoutalkingabout eyebrow.
You’ll do great, he could have sworn she said, though that didn’t make sense, at least not yet. She pushed him from the closet through the lobby and back into the sanctuary, where everyone was on their feet, hands raised, guitar guys amped up and power-chording, three sets of the reverend’s giant projected lips saying,
Come and you will be healed!
Onstage they were smashing their hands on an old man’s head, and Eliot stood mid-aisle wondering for a second before it all clicked, how anyone could’ve possibly known he’d hurt his funny bone. The people onstage returned the old man to his feet.
Healed! said Sherman. Healed and saved! And then the Lord said, “Be strong, do not fear; your God will come to save you! Then will the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped!”
The bile began gnawing the walls of Eliot’s stomach as soon as Sherman said that word, and he started to move away, but quickly there were hands on his back and all around him, and it wasn’t like with the girl, they were much stronger. He tried to find his mother in the crowd, but up onstage, the lights were blazing, blazing like the light his father’d seen. So bright he couldn’t see anything at all.
They laid him on the floor. Reverend Sherman loomed over him yelling who knows what, his knee pinning Eliot’s shoulder, and when they turned his head to the side he tried to fight back, but there were so many of them now, people pressing on his arms and legs and chest. They poured something in his ear and it was scalding, slick, and razed through him. Eliot thought he saw the outline of his mother, or maybe it was the girl, but either way he’d busted one hand free and said:
Help! Make them stop! until the people got control of his arms again.
Beneath the white-hot glow of the spotlights, the oil searing its way down his ear canal and deep into his head, Eliot felt himself scream.
at some point, Eliot’s story is so harrowing Charlie can no longer multitask, and finds herself struck frozen in the middle of the quad. Austin takes her gently by the elbow and guides her back into the shadows, where they continue to learn the details of his betrayal. When he is finished, she wants to hug him, but he doesn’t look like he wants to be hugged. He looks like he is ready to fight.
I’m so sorry, she can’t help but say.
Austin runs his hands over his face, as if to clear away the visual of his roommate’s melting flesh. Eliot doesn’t say anything, leads them across the unlit parking lot.
They climb into Eliot’s truck, Charlie pressed between the two boys in the cab, all three of them pitched a bit forward, too close and too tense to lean back in their seats. Austin turns on the map light and Eliot flinches, but nods to show that he should leave it. Charlie gives him directions to Slash’s place, and tells them her plan.
Wait here, she says.
She runs up the steps, bangs on the plywood. No answer. If this is going to work, they need to avoid being seen. She returns to the curb and says through the window:
One other place. But leave the truck.
Eliot parks in the alley and she takes them to the Gas Can—no streetlamps, no signs of life along the way.
The Robespierres have just finished a set. Charlie can tell from how sweaty they are, and the way Slash shrugs and gives Greg back his dime bag. She holds a hand up to catch Slash’s eye. He is about to do a shot, does a double take instead.
C! he says. Didn’t know you were coming tonight.
Change of plans, she says.
Charlie takes the shot glass from his hand, downs whatever brown liquor it contains. Slash smiles.
Hey man, he says to Austin.
Austin nods.
Charlie points to Eliot: E-l-i-o-t.
S-l-a-s-h, he says back.
He and Eliot fist-bump.
You wanna party? says Greg. What are we celebrating?
But Charlie just ignores him, and the boys don’t understand what he’s said.
Look, I figured it out, she says. But we need your help.
Slash looks at her blankly.
It! she says.
What are you talking about?
The guillotine thing. The thing we’d be better off without.
when they get to the bar, Eliot wonders whether he’s made a mistake. Charlie’s plan is dangerous enough as is without dragging more people into it. Then again, they don’t have the equipment to pull it off themselves. He tracks Charlie’s sight line to a group holed up in a booth in the far corner. He can’t remember the last time he’s even been to this side of Colson. The place is filthy, and he wonders how sophomores came to hang out in a dive like this. He knows Charlie went to Jeff, but these guys don’t look like they’ve seen the inside of a classroom in a while.
Charlie introduces them. One of them knows how to fingerspell, but booze has always been better than small talk as far as Eliot’s concerned. With each shot, he feels more assured that they can pull this off.
They return to the house and Slash checks to make sure they don’t have their phones—another good sign, it means they’re careful, too—then peels back the plywood to let them in. They follow him to the basement.
Well fuck, Eliot says when they descend the stairs.