we are all just trying to be holy

Paula sits in the back, as far away from the crowd of disturbed citizens as she can manage. Attempting to ignore the subtle glances and pairs of heads leaned together in whispered conference, the woman instead focuses on a little girl sitting beside her mother a few rows up. She has straight, blonde hair, much unlike her own daughter’s curly, dark locks, but they are about the same age, and Paula can’t help but watch. Her legs swing from the chair, a look of boredom on her face as her eyes roam the room, uninterested. Her mother is distracted, talking to the woman in the chair beside her and Paula feels a rush of anger. She should pay more attention, give the girl her every second, every breath because in an instant it could all be gone, snatched away like a kite in the wind, floating up up up until its impossible to reach. 

For a moment, the woman is tempted to leave. She can read about the going ons in the paper, in the seclusion of her own home, away from the townspeople who stare and converse with pity in their eyes, and distrust in others. But before she can stand, a woman is approaching, asking for the empty chair beside her, and somehow Paula is settled by the way the question is poised without an ulterior motive. “Uh, no,” Paula answers, wetting her lips, “Go ahead.” 

“Thank you.” It sounds with a good deal of sincerity as she settles in the seat without looking until she stills. Gratefully, she’s able to look impassive even though it’s Paula Klein. She lends her a smile in spite of the fact that Paula Klein makes her uncomfortable in the way that tragic figures are wont to. 

Marion imagines that this would be what it felt like to sit next to Mary after the deposition of Christ. She sips her burned coffee and tries not to think things that will show on her face. 

She does not think about the way that Paula’s downturned mouth, wide and doleful eyes, even the jut of her chin seem made for mourning. And definitely does not think about what the psychic who’d read her palm in Indianapolis had told her about how all our fates our sealed in the womb; the lines on our palm cementing from the first moment we close our newly grown little hands. What is she supposed to say? “I was going to tell you that I liked your blouse but it feels wrong to talk about anything but this, doesn’t it?” It’s out before she can stop it. 

annihilation— irene & marion

WHERE: Wheeler High School WHEN: June 17, 2:00 pm WHO: @marionteague·

You’ll be moving to room 112 next year!

As if that was supposed to be good news.

It has two windows!

Well, holy hell! What a bargain!

Irene had kept a tight smile and had nodded along with the orders she was given at the end of the school year. A new room meant losing two square feet of space, but she had been assured that it was a good move. After all, who would want to pass up on the beautiful vistas Wheeler High’s parking lot? AND she was close to the fire escape, which meant she could duck out earlier than the rest of the faculty. Never mind the fact that she stayed late for the Arts & Literature Club – - paltry though it was - – or the fact that she tutored after school. Irene Wilder should have been happy to leave her post at the closing bell.

She wasn’’t.

Instead, she stood in her room and dismantled decorations with little to no precision. Delicate artifacts were tossed into a box while she pondered whether it was worth salvaging streamers or buying more from the local bargain store. A considerable amount of time was devoted toward decision-making before she even noticed a shadow in her doorway. As soon as she did, however, Irene turned to face a most welcome intruder in the form of Marion Teague.

“What a week.” The sentiment is dry when it passes her lips, but it lingers nevertheless. “Are they making you move as well, or do you just come here to get away from the smoke and corpses?”

For as long as she’s been able to write, Marion’s kept diaries. In the back of her closet she’s got notebook upon notebook full of thoughts she’d rather not remember but can’t bear to part with. 

If she were to crack any of them open she knows she’d find long, detailed fantasies about all the ways she’d like to have destroyed Wheeler High School with at least half her classmates inside. She’d been so full of anger then; bent on some kind of revenge. 

She thinks about that as she clicks down the hall; trying to decide if she’d hated the building more then or now. As she approaches Irene’s classroom she determines that she doesn’t hate it now. There’s a different word for what she feels. She’ll just have to spend some time thinking of what it is. 

Sidling in silently, she leans her shoulder on the doorjamb. Waiting for permission to enter. “I just wanted to make sure that you’d made it through the week,” If Irene ever feels guilty for making light of the town’s tragedy it doesn’t show. Marion feels guilty for all her spite, all her anger, all her flippant jokes. Even still, she finds herself unable to keep from smiling and saying, “Long as I know it wasn’t you or Dad, I don’t have much to worry about.” 

It’s a little exciting, isn’t it? She thinks of saying but isn’t sure who else is lurking out in the hall and so she refrains. “They’re forcing me to 186.” Comes out as a whine as she finally comes all the way in the room to lean on one of the desks; butt on the edge, hands behind her. “I think he’s punishing me for ignoring his banned book list. Next year they’ll move me into the basement. You’re 112 now? You’ll have two windows.” 

margaux regards the woman next to her, analyzes the way her doe eyes seems to wake up from whatever daze she was in. the woman is so close, margaux can smell her perfume, and feel the softness of her clothes. the reporter softens a little, she knows this. mind out of her head, wandering life with lidded eyes. margaux herself feels like this so often, and until recently, that had been the definition of her own existence. but now, here, standing in wheeler with the promise of a future, of success, so close… everything seems so much easier.

the woman has a nice smile, doesn’t seem to hide any bad intentions. her cheeks are rosy, hair brushed and well placed. margaux offers her own small smile, a little shy.

“ah, no, sorry. i should not have been so rude.” maybe the reporter ought to be less defensive around people, but she can’t say she had the best of welcome in the past few weeks. it seemed that the town did not want to talk about cassie klein as much as margaux wanted to.a shame, truly, since margaux is not finished pointing her nose in the klein’s business. “let’s say that, people who usually crowds journalists are not the most … chill.”

the woman is buying some whiskey, too, and margaux scans the label quickly, a finger pointing the bottle, clinking a nail on it. “good choice, by the way. love the taste of this one. you know your whiskey.” perhaps the most interesting of them are the understudied, and though the other woman’s face is unknown to margaux, it’s not uninteresting. “i’m margaux.”

Disgraceful. Marion remembers the way that Mrs. Adams lip had curled distastefully to reveal a row of yellowing dentures, kissed pink at the tips from the lipstick that bled from crepey lips and onto her chin. She ought to be ashamed of herself. The vulture. 

Marion’s known everyone at The Wheeler Chronicle since she was 16 years old. It’s a boy’s club full of older men (and sure, a couple women) intent on maintaining Wheeler’s facade of a quaint and homey small town instead of the miserable and restrainedly hostile wasteland that Wheelerites know it to be in their hearts. 

So she can only assume that this is “the vulture” in question. All those whispers, all that spite. Marion had pictured her as someone less than lovely though Margaux. Someone taller and more strapping; though there’s more than a little steel in the other’s eye and the square of her jaw.

“Water under the bridge,” It’s been a long time since she’s talked to someone without any preconceived notions of her; a complete stranger. She’s stopped driving into Indianapolis. She’d almost forgotten how nice it felt to be a stranger. Manages, for a moment, to replace that vacant feeling. 

“Ah, you’re the journalist,” Her tone is teasing in spite of its distance, “Understood. Wheeler’s welcome wagon’s full of snakes so you’re right to be rude. Sorry on their account.” A glance down at the rye. “My grandma always said ‘I’ll drink anything as long as it burns going down.’ My philosophy isn’t far off.” It feels nice not to think of impending doom. “Margaux. I’m Marion. Pleasure.” 

Mack had sent Fallon to the gathering at Town Hall to drop off bags of ice for the mourning congregates’ fruit punch. “It’s our obligation as part of the community,” he told her as he shoveled scoops of ice into plastic bags. She had protested when he asked, but when he promised her extra stage time that evening she couldn’t refuse. Motivated by the promise of money, Fallon begrudgingly drove her way to Town Hall with several bags of ice in the trunk of her 1998 Toyota Camry. 

The bags were burdensome, the cold seared into the flesh of her forearms as she trudged up the front steps of the building. Sweating and breathless, Fallon unloaded the bags into the waiting arms of church volunteers. They made no effort to greet her or tell her thank you. Not a single word was muttered in her direction. They were offended by her presence. She gaped at them disbelief as they scurried away, afraid of breathing the air around her. “Oh, no you’re welcome!” She shouted after them, voice echoing against the marble floors of the corridor. They hardly glanced back at her. 

She headed to leave, but the low murmur of the sorrow of the church members drew her back. Maybe it was out of spite or maybe she was just craving to witness the show of sniveling churchies as they tried to one-up one another with christian hospitality. Fallon slipped into the room and took a seat in the back. She had the best view and she felt nearly invisible. She couldn’t control the smirk curling at the corners ofher lips as she watched prayer circles and the fake hugs and the low theatrical cries. 

Her posture straightened when she heard the voice behind her. She whipped around to face Marion, eyeing her suspiciously. “No, I think you’re the only one brave enough to try,” she snorted lightly gesturing to the chair next to her. “Go ahead and sit, but I don’t feel like listening to any of the born-again come to Jesus bullshit today so please spare me.” 

It’s reflexive, the way she scans the other’s face for familiarity. Wheeler’s small and it’s rare to find that someone looks wholly implacable. At the very least, Marion’s typically able to glance and think: oh, she looks just enough like Heather Bradley to say that she’s a cousin. 

In this case Marion only recognizes her from The Ice House. She’s only ever seen the blonde a couple of times; behind the bar in low light. 

Marion doesn’t make a habit of going to The Ice House. Has only ever been with people she can’t stand, on nights she’s since tried to forget, but the girl is the sort of pretty that’s easy to remember in a town like Wheeler. 

Under the faintly buzzing fluorescent lights she looks different. A little tired, a little defeated -- but she riles fast enough to elicit a sincere sort of chuckle from Marion while she settles in metal folding chair; uncomfortably cool against her seat. 

Marion keeps her eyes trained to her lap while she smiles. “I’ve only been born the once. Don’t worry.” She’s been to church every Sunday since before she can remember (except in instances of illness or emergency) but only for appearances’ sake.

“Oh, you are.” Blythe shifts on the couch, and even though the smirk falters a tad quicker than usual, it is without effort that her voice melts into a purr. “But I may not be allowed to answer yet.”

Not that there’s plenty to say. It wasn’t like the movies. There were no flashbacks, no dramatic music in the background. (Unless you count the Amazing Grace flash mob, but she would prefer not to.) Just that: a building in flames. So Blythe tossed her jacket on the ground, yelled instructions at the useless men around her, and saved what could be saved of the day.

Nothing she hasn’t done before. Besides, bigger, better ones have been devoured even faster.

The screams came later, on the way to the station, and Jody’s sounded too much like Blythe’s name. As she retched by the patrol car, in the middle of the eerily desolate road, begging her empty stomach to let her vomit, her phone didn’t stop vibrating. There must be a hundred missed calls from her wife by now. Maybe a couple of messages too, though they both despise texting. She still hasn’t checked. In a minute. Or thirty.

Of course, she would need a much stronger drink to even consider discussing any of this with Marion Teague. The little talking they do, they limit to the weather. Nail polish preferences, if she’s feeling particularly kind.

Blythe reaches for her glass again. The maroon pencil skirt goes up her thigh, but she doesn’t bother fixing it. Eyes locked with the other’s, she takes a sip to… distract herself? Forget? Celebrate?

D. all of the above.

“Cute that you thought of me, though,” she quips. The wine and Marion’s perfume are both forty dollars too cheap, yet exactly what she’s craving tonight. “Something you do often, or is there just no Belanger without a pyre?”

Frankly, she prefers the nights where they get right down to it. Those nights where the sound of the deadbolt on the front door substitutes the shot fired from a starting pistol and they race to the end of each other with hands and mouths. 

If she has regular sex with someone she can’t stand to talk to does that make her a bad feminist or a very good one? The thought occurs to her as she feels resentment settling as tension in  her jaw and shoulders. 

She smiles tight-lipped, thinking about how pious she is. Maybe that’s a projection. In truth Marion knows feels she knows John F. Kennedy Junior better than she knows Blythe Belanger. 

Projection or not, it doesn’t matter. She lets her self think it; let’s herself seethe  over it. 

Her smile is wry, humorless when she shrugs and let’s her gaze fall down to the freshly exposed expanse of thigh. Let’s herself remember what sliding her hand up and over the hard curve of her bony hip feels like. 

“Well, I was thinking more along the lines of: where there’s suspected arson, there’s the Sheriff’s Department but --” She meets Blythe’s eyes again and offers a shrug. “Sure, that too.”

Another sip of her wine. She doesn’t like wine. She prefers liquor but this is what Blythe drinks and now she wishes that she’d not made that concession. 

Do you think the town would still love her if they know she’d run straight here after the fire? She thinks of asking but she won’t because no matter how angry she might get this is better than driving to Indianapolis once a week. 

More wine. She’ll need to be warmer than this to forget the fire long enough to enjoy herself. When her strap falls this time she doesn’t right it, she just sets farther back into the arm of the couch and brings up a leg so that she can rest her drinking hand on her knee. 

gus was the last person to attend a town hall like this voluntarily, but her mother had thrown a fit when her daughter had even implied that she wanted to skip the event.

the church was destroyed. where is your sense of remorse? where is your sense of compassion?

it was easier to acquiesce to georgia carson’s demands than try to explain to her mother that she had no remorse, that she had no compassion, that searching for any sort of empathy within her was a lost cause. besides, she could smell the grief and fear of the town on the air like the acrid smoke that had filled the skies and it called to her like a siren song.

here she was, laughing while rome burned.

she had no desire to chaperone her mother. if something happened to georgia, she’d be the first one anyone came to for help, being the town doctor and the woman’s daughter, so she let her mother disappear into the crowd, instead opting for taking a seat in the back.

it felt almost like fate that marion stumbled upon her, and gus felt something in her chest unclench. here was someone she knew, someone she could be herself around, rather than letting the pretend suffocate her.

“my imaginary friend’s off taking a shit,” she quipped lightly. “but when he gets back, he’s going to want his seat. so take it at your own risk.”

then, smiling wide, eyes glowing, repeating words she’d said countless times to marion when they’d been in high school: “i’ve got a flask and a joint. wanna ditch?”

“Well,” all the air in her lungs goes out with the effort it takes to say it and smile at the same time. She doesn’t want to smile at Gus. Doesn’t even want to look at Gus head on but she’s still got just enough pride left not to turn tail and run even if she’d like to. “He’s back in Wheeler now so he’ll have to remember to mind his manners. Or else be thrown to the wolves.” A nod indicates the wolves in question; gossiping blue-haired biddies. Gus' mother included.

Her hand settles on the back of the chair. She holds on a little too tightly. Like she’s depending on it to keep her upright and maybe she is. She can’t look at Gus for too long before she has to look away. Jesus Christ it’s Gus. 

There is still something predatory about her prettiness. Some girls don’t know what to do with it. Their beauty wears them -- but Gus figured out early on how to wield it like a weapon; deadly as a knife. Marion had done that once too but she’s long since lost the knack. 

She doesn’t sit. Just squares her shoulders and tips back her head against the pain between her eyes and the way she seems to be able to see Gus in doubles. There is the Gus here with her now and then the one sidling up to her in the cafeteria to ask her just the same thing, with just the same gleam in her eye. 

Her father’s still praying. He’s got his arms on the backs of two other parishioners. Grinding her teeth, she offers a tight-lipped smile and a single shouldered shrug that aims for casual but reads almost faintly hostile. “Why not?” 

She knows why not. Because there’s a cruelty she’s worked hard to shed over the years since they’d last seen each other; an angry girl she buried in the yard with any hope she’d had of leaving Wheeler. 

A veritable wallflower, Marion stands as far away from the congregants as she can without making a spectacle of herself. In her hand she cradles a small Styrofoam cup full of tepid coffee she’s yet to sip but appreciates the weight of. 

The buzz that she’d rode in on has worn off and given way to a dull headache. In truth, she’s grateful for it. It keeps her from laughing or tap-dancing or looking otherwise as hysterical as she’s beginning to feel. 

It’s the sheer absurdity; a sort of crazy-making disbelief. Someone burned down the church. The First Assembly Baptist Church is gone. Somehow, the horror of it hadn’t quite occurred to her. At first, it had only been relief. Selfish.

Even that morning. Even as the kids in her classes had started to whisper, even when she’d had to feign solemnity for and with them. 

Someone burned down the church a year to the day after Cassie Klein “went missing” (she thinks it with some disdain. She doesn’t know why they pretend. The girl is dead). 

It makes her want to laugh; not because it’s funny but because there is nothing else to do. 

Across the room, she watches as her father bows his bald and uncapped head to pray. The light reflects off the top like it’s made of nice, well-polished linoleum. 

Feeling a little heady, she ambles to the nearest unoccupied metal folding chair. As far away from her father as she can get still. “Is this seat taken?” She asks without looking quite at them.

where: mann’s liquor time : 3:33pm date : june 15th status : open

this fine afternoon is heavy with something other than the heat, and margaux would very much like to be left to her designs, here, in mann’s liquor shop, her eyes going over the variety of bottles. it would be the first she’d buy here in wheeler, and there’s a small part of her that’s very proud. very proud she’d been able to push away this addicted monster for so long. it’s been weeks now. that little voice, who annoyingly sounds a lot like her mother, tells her that she shouldn’t scrap all this hard work. she should stay away.

her mother would have love wheeler, with its god-fearing obsession. god, how margaux doesn’t care about sins and divine smite. she really just wants to celebrate tonight’s scandalous, burning-church headline, with a good whiskey.

mann’s has such a beautiful selection, as well. maybe there’s something to do with this town. long fingers delicately take hold of a bottle, amber liquid sloshing inside, when she’s suddenly crowded. she doesn’t look up, but she feels the stranger’s eyes on her. margaux sighs, and turns, offering a small smile.

“unless you’re here to offer me a drink, or point me to the closest bar, i wouldn’t mind staying alone with my whiskey choosing session.”

The Sundays spent in that church were miserable; wasted. In childhood she’d spent them sweating through her good clothes, resisting the urge to cry while the fear of eternal damnation  ate away at her insides. Grandpa liked to talk about Hellfire when they’d go out for lunch after and she wouldn’t be able to touch her food for how sick she’d make herself thinking about the Devil eating her eyeballs, while lizards crawled from empty orifices, the soles of her feet pressed against hot coals. Her mother had always said she’d had an ‘overactive imagination.’

Memories she’s made in adulthood were no less rotten. Sandwiched between her parents. Sometimes, if he’d taken his Oxy too early in the day Louis would nod out during the sermon. If she wasn’t paying close enough attention, it warranted an elbow in the ribs from her mother. No one was going to employ her if her daughter looked in church to be an inattentive heathen.

She’s glad it’s gone and the thought bubbles up and she knows she’ll never tell anyone: I only wish I’d been the one to start the fire. Her mind’s wandering, as it’s wont to do when she knows she’s going to see her father. A certain distance is required when interacting with Louis and he’s already called and asked to be taken to town hall. He’s a good, God fearing man in spite of the synthetic heroin addiction.

In her reverie she’s almost forgotten where she is; so wholly detached from her body. She’s all but pressed up against the other woman. She blinks away the glaze over her eyes and manages to focus and offer a mild smile. “Pardon me. I was --” Wishing someone would burn the whole town to the ground? “Thinking. Got a little lost. Didn’t mean to crowd you.” A bottle of red wine tucked under her arm that she’ll later share with Blythe, she’d needed a little bottle of something to take the edge off before she went to see Daddy. “I can be single minded in my pursuit.” She reaches for a smaller bottle of Rye and gives it a merry shake. “If you’re looking for a bar though, there’s one within walking.” Marion cants her head and smiles.

When he heard the rumbling of Blythe’s car over the gravel driveway, Bird had slipped out the open kitchen window and back out into the yard. He’s always a little scarce around guests but he dislikes Blythe in particular. 

A handful of times he’d come around into the front yard and hid in the bushes to hiss at her as she approached the front door. It’s the sort of thing that Marion’s mother would have read into. Sometimes, Marion can hear her saying, Animals know what’s in a person’s heart. 

Well, Marion doesn’t give a shit what’s in Blythe’s heart – and Lady doesn’t seem to mind her. The wine uncorks with a pop. Then there is the musical tinkling of wine glasses, a few good glugs. The quiet is not unusual. There’s a lot of silence between them when they aren’t in bed. Not many words exchanged that could be repeated in a church. Well, except, oh God.

It feels especially sinful to be meeting like this tonight, of all nights. The church is nothing but a smoldering pile of ashes. The anniversary of that little girl’s disappearance. Marion feels a little dirtier than usual. She takes a sip of her wine and settles on the couch. She adjusts the black strap of her dress when it falls off her shoulder. 

Maybe she doesn’t know much about the other but everyone in town knows how much she wanted to find Cassie Klein – and more than that everyone knows just how her sister died. So she feels uneasy; inept. She thinks she ought to ask something sweet like, how are you? Or do you want to talk about it? But they don’t ask each other things like that and so she says instead:

“I thought of you today. When I saw all that smoke. Heard what it was. Am I allowed to ask about it yet?” She takes another sip of wine.