For Years to Come

1

Matthew shuffled across the front porch in oversized leather sandals and the Middle Eastern headdress he was forced to wear. The shoulder-length fabric was held in place by a braided black cord and released a spicy scent of the Cairo Bazaar where it was purchased a few days before. With a slide projector in one hand and a retractable screen in the other, the teenager navigated down the parsonage stairs, unaware his quiet life would soon ignite into chaos.

A little early for Halloween, teased Walter Pratt as he watched Matthew pass on the nearby sidewalk. Not getting a response, the elderly janitor continued to swing open the wobbly glass door of the church message board for the second time that morning. Walter returned the cigarette to his mouth and used a crooked finger to poke at the plastic letters at the bottom of a cardboard box. Crazy minister... switching his words again. On Sunday morning no less. Walter changed the last phrase and read the entire message out loud to check the spelling. Sunday June 8, 1969 - Youth Group Returns from The Holy Land - Come see the slides and share in the JOY! He shook his head in disbelief and muttered, Joy my ass.

As Matthew arrived at the century-old Methodist Church and climbed up each worn slab of granite to the front door, he was winded and overheated. He wanted to pull off the souvenir outfit and drop it like a spent parachute onto the bushes below. His shoulders ached from carrying the heavy equipment and he wondered why adolescence had only made him scrawnier looking in spite of the heavy snow he had shoveled all winter. He glanced down at his father’s sandals and noticed that even his toes seemed unreasonably long, as though some miniature medieval rack had been used in his sleep to stretch out every knuckle. Between his spindly arms, slender neck, and the pair of white stilts for legs, Matthew appeared every bit the insecure fourteen-year-old he was.

He was about to set the projector down on the stoop to rest when the acceleration of a car up the street forced him inside so he wouldn’t be seen. WHACK! Matthew cringed. The unwieldy built-in tripod of the screen he held collided with the side of the doorframe and gouged out a chunk of wood. He felt bad about the damage and knew that Hal Dobson wasn’t going to be pleased with the loud interruption of the morning’s rehearsal.

What in the Sam Hill is going on? The choir director worked his way out from behind the organ’s tiered keyboard. He adjusted the belt on his favorite pair of pastel slacks. The wide belt matched his white loafers. Hal eventually recognized the odd silhouette against the sunlight that streamed through the church’s front entrance. My goodness Matthew, you look like a Bedouin door-to-door salesman! Hal returned to the organ and played the theme song from the movie, Lawrence of Arabia. Members of the choir let out a chuckle as Matthew removed the uncomfortable headdress that had made his brown hair a sweaty mess. He tossed it over a nearby pew. Though he never cared much for the balding choir director, Matthew respected his elders and returned a polite wave.

The music stopped when Reverend Thomley entered the sanctuary with a clinched jaw and the well-defined exclamation mark of his cleft chin. The Pastor’s new tan made the clerical collar appear whiter than usual.

Would someone please explain why I can’t prepare for my sermon in peace and quiet?

Dad, do you want the screen in the center or off to the side? asked Matthew.

The heavy footsteps of John’s wing-tip shoes echoed loudly off the hardwood floor as he crossed between the pews toward the youngest of his three children. Matthew and his grandfather once secretly joked that John looked like a combination of Sinatra, for his baby blues, Elvis, for his perfect black pompadour, and Clark Gable, for his larger than normal ears. They agreed to add a dash of gargoyle for his ugly temper.

John hissed, Why isn’t this set up? He pointed at the equipment.

Ah... well, it won’t take-

Where’s your brother? I told you to get his help.

Matthew knew his juvenile delinquent brother couldn’t afford another confrontation with their dad so he was more than willing to take the blame if needed. I guess... I forgot to ask.

Matthew’s mother stepped forward from the choir in a burgundy robe. It added elegance to her graceful movements. With high cheekbones, long sultry dark hair, and flawless skin, Barbara looked to be in her mid-twenties rather than her true age of thirty-four. John, there’s still plenty of time to-

I guess we’ll find out, won’t we? He locked a threatening eye on their son. And where is your headdress? Put it on this instant. Matthew did what he was told and returned the garment to his head while John continued with his commands. Place the screen to the right of the main aisle. Set it high so folks can see it. And make sure the projector is level. Got it?

Matthew nodded. He knew his father always felt anxious before delivering a sermon but today seemed worse than usual. Hal Dobson flipped through sheets of music to remind everyone the rehearsal needed to continue. The Pastor checked the large antique clock above the balcony and marched toward the organ with a heightened concern for the morning’s schedule. Hal, how much longer will you need my wife? A few snickers escaped over the choir’s music binders. You know, with choir practice.

Ah... I... we, we should, the warm-ups... stammered Hal. He was aware of the absurd rumors surrounding his late-night music rehearsals with the minister’s talented wife.

Barbara spoke up. Dear. We’re almost done with warm-ups. Then we’ll run through the lovely selection of hymns you picked. She knew from her many years in a volatile marriage the fastest way to John’s heart was through his ego.

John grunted and stormed back to his office while Matthew gave his mother a cheery nod of encouragement. Matthew had reached a decision. He would do whatever it took to keep his troubled family together.

A few blocks from the church, Matthew’s older brother, Bud, and his two friends, entered the alleyway behind Harmon’s General Store. It had become their favorite spot to hang out and smoke cigarettes or an occasional joint. Bud was obese, with bushy sideburns and long oily black hair, which gave everyone the correct impression that he didn’t care what people thought. His round face of stubby beard growth from two unshaven days resulted in an unusually mature appearance for someone still in high school. The Mexican poncho he wore everywhere was often used to conceal items he shoplifted.

Bud knew the earlier situation with his brother wasn’t handled well. He had absolutely no interest in helping Matty set up a slide projector that might make their father’s sermon any more of a success. That is not to say that Bud didn’t feel some sympathy for his little brother, what with having to wear that ridiculous costume. In hindsight, given how angry his father was with him of late, Bud wished he hadn’t joined up with his new friends and had gone to the church with Matty instead.

You’re in trouble now, fatso! The high pitch declaration came from Donny. He was short, rail-thin, and rarely stopped talking. What’s your old man gonna say this time?

Who gives a shit, Bud stated flatly and took a long draw on his smoke. The Reverend’s son wasn’t allowed to smoke cigarettes, drink alcohol, or use curse words... ever. Smoking grass was certainly out of the question and something his parents had no inkling occurred.

Bud’s troubles with restrictions started at age five while playing alone under the sprinkler on the side lawn of the parsonage. Without Barbara’s knowledge, her oldest son stripped off his swimming trunks and giggled all the way down the sidewalk to Roland’s Drugstore. The phone call came from the store’s amiable pharmacist. He informed Barbara her little Buddy was out front, naked. Once Buddy felt the cool breeze between his legs, his mother had a difficult time forcing him to stay dressed. Much of her attention was needed to focus on the church duties of a minister’s young wife and for taking care of the younger three-year-old Matthew. Barbara convinced her father to construct a good-sized cage on his farm where Buddy spent countless afternoons. Snacking on his grandmother’s sugary snacks and sleeping naked under the warm summer sun filled him with joy. His mother made it clear to the entire family, and all prying neighbors, the cage was not meant as punishment but was built to allow her son’s uniquely free spirit to safely express itself. Bud’s preoccupation with nudity disappeared by the start of elementary school, and the cage was dismantled. Unfortunately, his strong desire for candy, ice cream sandwiches, and donuts continued. School brought its own challenges and the Thomleys were advised to hold their husky son back to repeat third grade, which they did. Later when he flunked the eighth grade, the image of a fat, lazy, and troublesome teen was well cemented in everyone’s minds. His weight only increased while his self-esteem sunk to an even lower depth.

Donny ended the silence in the alley by shattering an empty Moxie soda bottle with his new Wrist Rocket slingshot.

Will you knock it off! Bud hollered. You’re such an idiot.

The P.K. is scared little brother, inserted Ryan in a quiet deep voice. I can tell.

Preacher’s kid, preacher’s kid, you’re nothing but a preacher’s kid! Donny teased.

Donny and Ryan had just moved into East Fields from a rough neighborhood in Chelsea, Massachusetts. It had been six-months since their father in the Marines was reported missing in action. The boy’s distraught mother told them it would be best if they moved back to the small town where she had been raised. She knew in her heart their dad wouldn’t be coming home alive. The hope was for her folks to help raise the two difficult boys. She also assumed that her willful teenagers would benefit from spending any free time with the Methodist minister’s eldest son. That assumption proved to be a poor one.

Fuck you! snapped Bud. I’m so sick and tired of everybody calling me the preacher’s kid and saying my dad is... some kind of... ah forget it.

Ryan, with his slicked-back strawberry blond hair, lit another cigarette and leaned against the rough brick wall of the store. He returned the pack of Marlboros to the sleeve of his tee-shirt and flipped it over twice. It was a cool trick his father had taught him years ago and it had the bonus effect of exposing one of his large freckled biceps. Naw, you’ll always be a P.K. He took a deep inhale, With no balls.

Bud’s anger got him to his feet. He didn’t hesitate to use his two-hundred-and-seventy-nine pounds to plow over the empty cardboard boxes that separated the two young men. The physical showdown had been building for days and they collided hard. Bud forgot Ryan had been a star on the varsity wrestling team back home and with two quick moves, Bud’s right cheek lay on the store’s grungy loading dock.

Big mistake lard-ass! Donny cheered with glee. You don’t screw with us, man!

Okay! Fine! Just let go... come on Ryan, you’re hurting my arm!

My dad says guys who just talk never deliver! Ryan nudged Bud’s arm upward a little more. It’s time to put up or shut up. He released Bud with a final shove.

The embarrassed preacher’s kid rose onto one knee. He gasped for breath while dirty beads of perspiration rolled down his forehead and stung his eyes. Bud had been in a lot of fights over the years and had always been able to use his weight as an advantage. He certainly wasn’t accustomed to losing so quickly. He was tired. He was tired of being the target for everyone’s insults. Tired of getting mistreated by so-called friends who enjoyed poking fun at his size. Punks... who never bothered to look beyond the weight and were always ready to deliver another stinging fat joke. Bud had hoped the extra pounds would protect him, like a thick impenetrable barrier between him and the cruel world. The fact was it only made things worse.

Bud felt his familiar rage coming back and he tried to control it. It seeped down to simmer with his many fears, like a toxic stew. Finally, he spoke. Oh, I’ll put up! He stood with effort and took off his poncho to cool down. He headed up the alley a short distance with hunched shoulders that did nothing to support his words. His extreme weight required him to swing out each leg to move forward. The odd gait also helped to keep the chaffing of his inner thighs to a minimum. Suddenly, Bud stopped. He placed his poncho over one shoulder and turned sideways, sucked in his gut a few inches, and met the scrappy brothers’ glares with a smile. Well, you boys coming? Bud stretched out his arms like a used car salesman with nothing to hide. Cause I got a wicked cool plan. The three amigos exchanged nasty grins and departed the alley with their better judgment left behind.

2

The long cool shadow of the church’s steeple enveloped most of the crowded parking lot below. Giddy teenagers piled out of their families’ cars, adorned in flowing Middle Eastern attire. The girls wore colorful gowns with matching sheer veils that kept their smiles hidden. Only their excited eyes, thick with Cleopatra-like eyeliner, could be seen above their veils. Many of the boys laughed while they struggled to keep their long headdresses from taking flight in the morning breeze.

Inside the modest church, Hal played a soft prelude on the organ and ushers assisted the older parishioners to their seats. The seniors were led down the main aisle that divided the wooden pews into two sections. Most of the older members insisted on sitting in the same pews they had claimed as their own for decades. Like their occupants, much of the pews’ varnish had faded over time. Parents with small children preferred to enter on their own along the outside aisles. Sitting on the far end of a pew allowed for a quick exit if their child became unruly during a sermon, something everyone knew was a pet-peeve of Reverend Thomley. The dusty and seldom-used balcony extended above the first six rows of pews and contributed to the church’s small dark interior. The congregation was comprised mainly of conservative farmers and small business owners who could trace their roots in the church over many generations. Like so many other places of worship in New England, the church helped maintain a strong social tie that held the community of East Fields, New Hampshire, together.

Standing near the card-table in the main aisle, Matthew tried his best to resemble a stoic, Sultan guard, arms folded, and feet spread shoulder-width apart. Matthew did not feel like talking. In fact, he hated even being there. But as promised, the brand-new Kodak Carousel slide projector was exactly level and pointed squarely at the center of the screen. The church’s old and heavy portable record player sat next to the projector with its lid open. The specially bought record was all set to play. Thin brown extension cords were connected end-to-end and laid precisely under each pew. Matthew secured the extension cords to the wood floor with numerous pieces of narrow masking-tape. He knew that taking simple precautions to ensure safety should be everyone’s responsibility. Matthew did not believe in guardian angels, or in any angel, for that matter.

Just inside the building’s front entrance stood the Thomley’s eldest, Sarah. She felt uncomfortably on display in a pale-green veil, certain that her burgundy penny-loafers looked dreadfully inconsistent with the ornamental garment she wore. Despite her father’s wishes, Sarah refused to purchase the authentic pointed-toe slippers, meant to go with the gown, for what she thought was today’s short-lived event. She wanted to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible and retreat to her room in the parsonage next door. At just five-foot-two, the somewhat plump high school senior handed out printed bulletins to every soul whether they wanted one or not. Like most Sundays, Sarah had already spent most of the early morning mimeographing the weekly bulletins in the church’s storage room in the basement. Her dad’s frequent last-minute changes required her to be fast and flexible. Sarah considered her cobalt blue fingertips visual proof of the important role she played in her father’s ministry.

Of late, Sarah had given more thought to college and to firming up her declared major but could not decide between teaching English literature or pursuing a career in journalism. She was not sure if she could develop the aggressive personality to become a successful hard-hitting reporter, and felt far more at ease with the less demanding requirements of teaching high school or college literature. Sarah was certain of one thing. She wanted more from her life than what her mother had achieved. A bored housewife of a Methodist minister with three kids and no chance at a career. With her own high school graduation ceremony just one week away, Sarah absolutely sensed the mounting pressure to decide soon. As always, she wanted her ducks in a row; preferably each webbed foot shackled to the one behind.

Sarah, oh my, don’t you look... different, announced seventy-nine-year-old Edith Sloan, as she took one bulletin for her and her frail husband to share. Edith was on the town council and leader of the church’s quilting club, where Sarah’s outspoken father was often the topic of discussion. How was the Holy Land, Dear?

"Well, Mrs. Sloan, it was... different. Sarah pushed her eyeglasses back up the bridge of her sunburned nose. She forced a second bulletin onto Mr. Sloan. And guess what, so is today’s sermon. In fact, my father is showing slides of the trip." Sarah knew Mrs. Sloan wanted, like most everyone in East Fields, for church services to remain consistent and to provide a sense of security. Church was really the only place that had not changed much during the radical upheaval of the prior two years, and anymore surprises were simply not welcomed. Between the cold-blooded assassinations of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King, along with the ceaseless antiwar demonstrations and violent race riots on television every night, most folks in East Fields felt as though the entire country was on the brink of disaster. Nearly everyone simply wished their quaint town would just return to its tranquil existence of the previous decade.

Well, I’m sure the pictures will be lovely dear, stated the crotchety parishioner through pursed lips. She turned away with the bulletin squeezed tight in her grasp and hooked her hand around her husband’s skinny forearm. Mrs. Sloan whispered, "She knows how I hate it when her father changes the Order of Worship. We must remain methodical to reach salvation. She pressed her thin wrinkled lips together again, then spoke more fervently. We’re not called Methodists for nothing!"

Yes dear, I know. Now please hush and sit down, instructed her husband gently. The gray-haired couple settled into their favorite pew, and Edith adjusted her frayed blue-fox stole. It clung around her gaunt shoulders like some prehistoric trophy she herself had clubbed to death. She thought about the brazen young minister and how, from day one, she had never liked him.

Malorie Wells entered the first row of pews from the far end and sat down directly in front of the towering pulpit. She was eighteen, blonde, and knowingly attractive. The aroma of the new perfume she had purchased overseas generously filled the nearest three rows like a powerful force-field that seemed to both mysteriously attract and repel at the same time. Malorie crossed her legs. Just visible above the pale pink veil, her excited green eyes showed the keen anticipation she felt for the recognition she would soon receive from Pastor John. But like two faceted emeralds, her eyes also showed the flawed jagged shadows of a painful childhood.

An hour earlier, Malorie had begged her grandparents to attend the Sunday service. She wanted them to see for themselves just how critical her role was in generating the required funds for the Youth Group’s trip overseas. Not surprisingly to her, both declined. They were simply too exhausted and lacked any desire to get dressed in their finery for church. They said they really preferred to sit comfortably in their screened-in Florida room, and watch the wild birds on the feeders in the backyard. The fact of the matter, was they both wanted a cigarette, more black coffee, and a much-needed break from their enthusiastic granddaughter. Her constant, inane ramblings about the trip to the Holy Land had gotten tiresome. Rather than argue the issue, she forgave them and took the high road to the morning’s service alone. As Malorie sat in the pew and listened to the organ play, she dragged a long fingernail across the red cushion and made numerous heart-shaped designs on its plush fabric.

In his office behind the altar area, Reverend Thomley opened a vintage armoire near the new paisley foldout sleeper-sofa he occasionally used when things weren’t going well at home. He reached in and carefully removed his long, satiny black minister’s robe, then solemnly put it on. Next, he gently lifted over his head the purple silk 3-inch-wide sash. With a quick adjustment, coming from years of dutiful practice, both ends matched perfectly at the bottom. John felt pleased with himself. He smiled at the thought of Hal playing the theme song from Lawrence of Arabia earlier that morning. John softly whistled the tune as he removed his own expensive headdress from the armoire and delicately placed the flowing material on the top of his head. He recalled the enjoyment of successfully haggling the merchant down to nearly