Later, Sylvie sat on a park bench with Squid and Julie, soaking up the sun and munching lunch, purchased with the proceeds from her first panhandling experience. “It’s not panhandling, it’s busking,” Julie had corrected her when she’d called it that. “Dude, this is performance art.”

“Whatever,” Sylvie had shrugged. It looked like panhandling to her. She, Julie and Squid had been stationed at intervals up and down the block, each with a different story. Hers (assigned to her by Julie, who, she had discovered, tended to take over) was centered around the basic line: “Please, can you spare me some money to take a cab home?” Precious little performance involved in that, she thought. She called it lying. But if Julie needed to justify it by calling it performance, she wouldn’t argue.

“Hey, so, um… what’s the deal with the religious thing?” she asked, now, between bites of burrito. This had been preying on her mind since morning. She had been waiting an opportunity to ask either of these two, who seemed most approachable of Father James’ devotees, or disciples, or whatever they were. “I mean, you two don’t look like Jesus freaks…”

At this, Squid exploded into a fit of laughter. He fell off the park bench and rolled onto the ground, clutching his belly and hooting. Sylvie gaped at him and glanced around to see whether they were attracting attention. Nobody seemed to notice. “Jesus freaks… Jesus freaks…” he groaned happily, when he could finally catch a breath. “I can’t…oh fuck! Julie, tell the bitch! I’m dyin’!”

Julie smiled comfortably. “It’s not what it looks like, Sylvie. To start with, Father James isn’t a Christian. And neither are we.” She looked at Sylvie.

Sylvie was doubtful. “He sure sounds like one to me,” she said. “All that talk about God and giving thanks and stuff.”

“Really? Have you ever heard him mention Jesus? Even once?”

“Well, noo… I guess not… but…”

“He’s into the divinity and beauty of everything and everybody,” Julie said. “How can you argue with that? And he’s the sweetest old guy, you can’t not love him. And when you love him, you can’t not listen to what he says. What he says makes sense. Doesn’t it?” She looked at Sylvie.

“I guess.” Sylvie was silent. “It just felt weird, this morning, that’s all, everybody being so serious and him praying like that. Like being at church or something.”

Julie raised her eyebrows at her. “Oh, really! Have you ever been to church?”

“No,” she admitted. “My family are atheists. But I know they talk about God and all that stuff there.”

“Trust me,” Julie asserted. “I have a lot of experience with church. My so-called dad is a pastor. He would hate Father James and everything he stands for. Father James doesn’t even believe in sin, you know? And church is all about sin. It’s practically all they do believe in.”

“Has your dad ever met Father James?”

“Are you kidding? The old fart has no idea where I am, not even what country, and that’s how I like it.” Julie chewed complacently on her bean burrito. “I hope he chokes on one of his own sermons, turns purple and croaks with his tongue sticking out, in front of the whole fucking congregation.”

Sylvie was appalled. It had been years since they had been close, and the memory of the slap still filled her with enraged humiliation, but the thought of her own father’s death made her feel horrible, sick and bereft. He was her father for heaven’s sake.

She continued this train of thought aloud. “Julie, he’s your father! Don’t you love him even a bit?”

“Oh, girl,” Julie quirked her eyebrows Groucho-style at Sylvie and laughed. “Puh-leaze! He’s a slimy, ugly, gormless freak who stuck it to my mom then acted like he owned me for the next twelve years. Thought he could do whatever he wanted, like I was his little sex toy.” She rolled her eyes. “And then he’d go off and preach like he was the purest bottle of water on the shelf. Frickin hypocrite, eh?”

Sylvie was taken aback by this horrifying revelation, told so nonchalantly. “Yep,” Julie matter-of-factly continued, “I’d celebrate by getting shitfaced, then I’d puke on his grave.” She took another bite of her burrito and chewed dreamily, relishing the vision. “Mm-hmmm… hey, I’d invite you guys, too. Make a party out of it!” She winked at Sylvie. “We can all puke on his grave!” Sylvie shuddered.

Squid had recovered from his bout of hilarity and lay spent on the ground, lying on his back, his arms behind his head. He relaxed, gazing up at the clouds. “I kinda miss my old man, tell the truth,” he mused. “’Course, he is dead. I might feel different, he was still kicking.”

Beyond Hope 8 

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