Father of Lies by Brian Evenson Page B

feel a hand tight upon my arm, the bloody-headed man tugging me toward the stand.
    â€œYou see?” he says. “You could never make it through the service without me.”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œSit up there and keep your mouth shut,” he says.
    I let him drag me up the steps and to my seat. I sit, heavy and awkward.
    â€œWhere is the program?” he asks.
    I hand him the mimeographed half-sheet of paper, a picture of Jesus and the open tomb on one side, the program notes on the other. He squints at it and approaches the microphone, taps on it.
    â€œIs this thing on?” he asks.
    After this, I don’t know what happens. I know that he is speaking, can hear him utter phrases, can hear the individual words and tones, but the words do not seem to string together properly. He is babbling and I am in dread of how I will be able to repair the damage.
    But, as I wait, I realize that the audience seems to be swallowing his words well enough. They regard him intently and do not turn away. They do not seem displeased, and many are moved to tears by his words. They seem to hang on his every phrase.
    I turn to one side, touch the girl’s father sitting next to me.
    â€œWhat is he saying?” I ask. “Can you make any sense of it?”
    The father does not seem to notice my touch. He stays still, his eyes welling with tears, watching the man with the blood-streaked head.
    I look around. People throughout the chapel are similarly transfixed.
    I watch it go on, the bloody-headed man speaking himself hoarse, the crowd fixing him in their attention with the utmost relentlessness. I look to the wall clock, watching the second hand spin slowly. I look out the side window, through marbled glass. A small dark shape is there, on the outside, where I know a bird is making a nest. I make a mental note to have the janitor remove it.
    I nudge the girl’s father.
    â€œHow long is he going to speak?” I ask.
    The father does not seem to notice me.
    â€œDoes he know he isn’t making any sense?” I shout in the father’s ear.
    When there is no response, I turn again to Bloody-Head, listen carefully to his words. There are the words “awful blood,” among others. Or it might be “lawful blood.” And “redemption” and “love,” but nothing that comes together of a piece in and of itself.
    I shake my head to clear it. It does not come clear.
    I look past him and see the gleaming lid of the coffin, a long narrow blur on it that I believe to be the remains of my face. As I examine it, it seems to me my face and my body too, and myself and the girl in the woods.
    The doors at the back of the chapel swing to either side and two men enter wearing dark suits and tinted glasses. The bloody-headed man at the pulpit stops abruptly, looks back to me, turns back to watch them come.
    They approach slowly, unnoticed by the crowd, one of them speaking into a cellular telephone. Bloody-Head starts speaking faster, pounding his fist on the pulpit. The two come onto the stage, approaching him from either side.
    â€œI suppose this is your doing?” says one of the men, pointing his finger at me.
    â€œMe?” I say.
    â€œDon’t think you are getting away with anything,” he says.
    The other man has holstered his telephone so as to strike the bloody-headed man in the face. The bloody-headed man grips the podium tightly, keeps speaking as the other man hits him again, his colleague does so as well. With their fists they hammer his fingers until he can no longer hold to the podium. The audience seems not to notice. They knock him down. He keeps speaking.
    They take the bloody-headed man under the arms, drag him from the stand as he struggles, continuing with the speech well down the aisle.
    â€œIs this how you allow your guests to be treated?” he calls toward me.
    I stand to see him better. He breaks away an instant, darts for the podium but is