POWER IN THE BLOOD
The award-winning story about the vampire who doesn't play by the rules.
Chapter One
The Disappearances
Nobody noticed the disappearances at first. This might seem odd for a small town in the rural South, but for the intersection of two major rail lines, north-south and east-west, which brought transients, freight-hopping hobos, headed south in the winter and elsewhere in the summer. The rail yard, which enveloped this transcontinental interchange, parked and switched freight, human and cargo, as it arrived on the tracks.
Hobos camped in the woods. Trails from the rail yard, town, and highways led to the camp. Though it was permanent, its population was not; though its people changed, its character did not. It was a "dog eat dog" world of "might is right". Consumed by the misery of their lives, men used robbery, theft, and violence as means of survival. Addicts that sought money for another bottle—the next hit--preyed upon the weaker men that were losers at life. Hobos left or disappeared all the time. The others were too busy or obsessed with their problems to care.
The disappearances began among the hobos.
So nobody noticed the disappearances at first. Vacancies in panhandling shifts by the interstate freeway were filled by the next highest in the hierarchy established according to brains and brawn, mostly brawn. Abandoned property was scavenged but only the stupid left things of value when they left camp. They had no one to trust.
Occasionally a hobo would disappear as a score was settled; if so, the others knew not to ask questions when a private feud was settled privately at the end of a knife and a life. Conversations were limited. The smart and the experienced knew not to tell anything about their past history or present life. Survival was the urgent necessity. Any of them would turn in someone else for whom authorities posted a reward. Smart hobos left no clues.
The hobos talked only about where to cadge a free meal, where to find shelter, how to elude the police, and what songs to play on people's hearts to loosen their wallets. The hobos desired cash most of all, and they traded like baseball cards their techniques to get it. Last year's "need for feminine products", which required a female companion, mumbled with the right tone of feigned embarrassment, gave way to "heart medicine for high blood pressure that has run out.” They evaluated pastors for susceptibility to their stories and ability to recognize repeat beggars. They evaluated cops for the rapidity of confrontation, arrest, and rough handling.
Nothing else mattered. The disappearances--taboo. When a body was found, it was best to know nothing unless the hobo wished to join it in a grave. When a body was found, it was best to move on. Survival meant keep to oneself, and never get involved in another's business. And not let anyone else into one's own business. Blend into the scenery—avoid notice—best accomplished survival.
So nobody noticed--at first.
Chapter Two
Shatterlies Diner
At the corner of Chief and Main streets stood Shatterlies Diner. Ben Shatterlie, proprietor, descended from CSA Colonel B. Shatterlie, whose family-dominated unit fought to distinction for the 2nd Florida during the campaigns of Robert E. Lee. His name proved prophetic when Pickett made his charge at Gettysburg. Ben's great-grandfather lay shattered on the field, but survived the day to be picked up and carried to a prison hospital where he spent the rest of the war. When he came home, his wounds rendered him permanently disabled. Col. Shatterlie began the restaurant to provide honest meals to workingmen and honest income for himself. The colonel's descendants maintained his philosophy that marked his stamp upon the restaurant trade: pay the lights with breakfast, pay the help with dinner, pay yourself with supper.
The noon bell rang, and the diner filled with locals, workingmen, and highway crews. At the Amen Corner, locals congregated to discuss important issues of the day, such as the high school's football team.
"Sweet tea, hon?" asked the waitress as Tim Agogg, Pastor of the Church of Mark One-One, slid into the chair next to Wilma Bryant, real estate mogul whose assets included the laundromat, the movie rental store, and an ancient grocery stand that had long ceased to sell anything but drinks, fuel, newspapers, and gossip. The gossip was free.
Tim consulted his watch. The day dial showed Tuesday, which meant the green plate special was fried turkey, with 2 vegetables, iced tea and pie. He glanced at the wall, which held a calendar open to September, with two weeks marked off--apple pie. The menu never changed, and that suited the hometown folks since the prices rarely changed either.
"Green plate, " responded Tim.
"Good choice," said Bill Peacock.
"Order up," yelled the waitress.
Mr. Shadsworth laid his cane against the wall. "Think our boys will have a chance against Waverly?"
Gary Roche, Pastor of Beechwood Believers Church, said, "Buckley says they'll be competitive."
Wilma hooted. "Buckley always says they'll be competitive. Last week the team was beaten, 50 - 7, and Buckley tells the paper, 'We were able to compete.' Compete? Compete how?" She affected a deep drawl. "We got a bottle to every player during each water break. We found the field. The boys learned a lot of good offensive plays watching the other team score."
"You're too hard on the Coach,” said Mr. Shadsworth. “The schedule is not their fault—the big money schools corrupted the FHSAA. These schools use Beechwood as fodder to build up their records for the play-offs.”
"Waverly has a 1-2 record,” said Lester. “They're not a strong team. We have a good chance to win if Shaddy's grandson stays healthy."
Mr. Shadsworth laughed. "If my boy had two broken legs, a separated shoulder and a head injury, he would still play. As long as he can put the uniform on, he'll be in the game if he has to pull himself onto the field with his hands. Jason's tough--always has been. Remember when he got beaned by a baseball when he was three? Boy never cried. Remember when he cracked his ankle pulling in a rebound in middle school? He never told anyone it hurt--not until the ankle swelled to the size of a basketball two days later. He'll play and score--healthy or not."
"Heads up," Wilma said. "Doris Duplise arrived at the counter."
Tim growled. "You mean Doris Du-as-I-please, don't you? The High Pooh-Bah of the pervert crowd? You heard she's doing a queer wedding Saturday?"
Bill furrowed his eyebrows as he pursed his lips. "What's so strange about the ceremony?"
Tim contorted his facial muscles as he opened his mouth to burp stomach reflux. "The ceremony won't be strange. But who's the bride?"
"Isn't that the woman?"
"There isn't a woman."
Lester said, "But homosexual . . ."
"Gay . . ." said Wilma.
". . . marriage is not recognized by the state of Florida," said Lester.
Tim emitted a bitter laugh. "Like she cares."
Wilma said, "What do we care? As long as they bring their laundry to my store, and they use silver coins in the machines, I say let them play bride and groom, or groom and groom, or bride and bride, or whatever they want to do. Keep the bills green and the coins silver, that's my motto. Otherwise, stay out of other people's business."
Tim grew red in the face. "You should care. God said in his Holy Word that queers are condemned to hell and queer fornication is an abomination unto him. You let them get married, next they'll want children. Then they'll teach them to be queers. And then . . ."
Bill raised his hand as the corners of his mouth twisted into a smile. "But they don't have children--they can't."
"They do. They want to adopt. They say it's discrimination not to let them have a family like everyone else. They've got some group that lobbies Tallahassee every legislative session to change the law that forbids adoption by queer parents."
Mr. Shadsworth swallowed hard. "I never thought I'd see the day when two men publicly declare they love one another and kiss before an altar of the Lord. I wish there was some way to stop it."
Lester said, "That train left the station long ago. We should have stopped that church, if you can call it a church, when Doris Duplise and her crowd arrived in town twelve years ago. We should have known then--phony minister credentials—the appeal to the kooks--why O'Brien sold her his lot on the Old Trail I'll never figure. Let trash stay, and the town becomes a dump."
Tim said, "I had her investigated shortly after she arrived and made it known she would stay. The State recognizes her as a minister—the Attorney General himself told me that. Her--I won't call it a church--cult has IRS tax-exempt status. Her morals don't mean much because no state attorney has prosecuted a morals charge in four decades. They say they have more serious matters to pursue.
"That Yankee Mayor of New York had it right. Clamp down on the little crime and you won't have the big crime. If we prosecuted immoral people and put them in jail, then robbery and the like would fall to nothing, and we could leave our houses and cars unlocked again."
Gary listened, sipped his tea, and looked away from time to time. Same-sex marriage was not a subject that came up in his ministry. My church is conservative--no doubt about that. Would they accept such a thing? After all, how bad is it? Most gay men hold jobs, good jobs, and pay their bills. They're probably very regular in contributions--might make good church members. Besides, no one bothers with morals anymore, except a few grouches like Tim Agogg and his fundamentalist church. Everyone's kids have moved in with partners, and the concept of illegitimate children has evaporated. What's the big deal? Doesn't God love us as we are? Then why would he want us to change? The Bible's morality was for a certain time and place, but we evolved beyond that. Live and let live--didn't Jesus say that?
"Reverend Roche? Your green plate.” The waitress set Gary's plate in front of him. “Mr. Shadsworth, liver and onions; Reverend Agogg, green plate also. Miss Wilma, fried egg sandwich. Sweet Cakes Lester Grames, chef salad and pie."
Lester laughed and pinched the waitress' side. "I've got two exes and that's enough. But I'll save a dance at the Legion Saturday night."
Wilma frowned. The waitress scurried away.
From the counter, a loud voice carried across the restaurant. "You can't beat mustard greens. They clean up easy, and with a dash of peppered vinegar on them, they taste right as they slide down the pipe."
"Rutabaga beats mustard every time. The chopped up root soaks up all the juices that leach out during cooking. Now some say they like turnip greens for that same reason, but the turnip root doesn't absorb--it turns to rubber."
"Collards is what you want. A wonderful, wild flavor all their own. Firm texture--doesn't slime out like mustard, rutabaga or turnip. You can eat them mild, or lay on the Tabasco sauce. Anything you throw on them, they'll take and improve."
Laughter broke out around the counter. "Wonderful, wild flavor--like somebody peed in the pot! That's your wonderful, wild flavor that collards has got."
"Mustard is the best. All your fine establishments serve mustard as the top green. The flavor is sublime ..."
"Sublime? Where'd you learn a word like that?"
"Sublime--understated to perfection."
"Lord help us. Clete's been reading the Reader's Digest again."
"Here comes Marshall Mays. Hey, Marshall! What are you doing out of school?"
"Hello, sir. I was still hungry after lunch, so I thought I'd get a hamburger and let it settle before practice."
"Tell those receivers of yours to stop dropping your passes, and we could get a win against Waverly."
"Yes, sir."
"You had a good game Friday night."
"Yes, sir."
"Maybe some college will give you a scholarship."
"Well, that's way off. I'm a junior, so I have another full year before then."
"Keep playing hard, and I'm sure you'll make it somewhere."
"Yes, sir."
A couple of other football players came in, and Marshall went with them to an empty table. The man who extolled mustard greens turned to the man next to him, "You place something on the game?"
"Bookie doesn't take high school action. Can't set the odds, especially with a game like Friday's. Both teams are evenly matched--competing for the honor of it since the district is mismatched so badly."
"Word is Buckley might pull out of FHSAA and go independent."
"Could he schedule games? Might be no one would play him."
"He says that a lot of schools are fed up. They might form their own league."
"Every year we hear the same thing. Hey, Monk, you work the night shift now?"
"Yeah, a little more pay, but as my old lady and I haven't got along since New Year's, we find it makes a more peaceful house. When I'm there, she's not. When she's there, I'm not. After eight years, we finally have the perfect marriage."
"What do you think will happen? I hear the tonnage is down, and the suits look to make cuts."
"Suits can't do a thing since the union locked them up in the contract. Tonnage down, tonnage up. Suits grab their bonus no matter what. We get ours--the government gets the bag. And why not? Taxes are too high, anyway."
"You worry in that rusty trailer of yours?"
"Manufactured housing, if you please."
Laughter broke out around the counter. One by one, as the men and women finished their dinner, they got up and paid for their meals. It was a beautiful north Florida late summer day, warm temperatures and bright sun. None of them could know that the disappearances were going on.
Chapter Three
Beechwood Believers Church
Believers Church was a major Christian denomination grouped with the mainlines such as Methodist, Presbyterian and Lutheran. Believers Church raced the Methodists across North America in the nineteenth century to finish second. Under the liberal theology that spread across the main bodies of American Protestantism in the twentieth century, Believers Church peaked in membership gains, numbers, and attendance in the mid-1960's when the Baby Boom generation was put through initiation rites for church membership. The Baby Boomers dropped out when they left home for work or college. Decline irreversible decline, marked the century's final decades. Some of younger generation returned later with their children, but most spent their weekends on the go or at home.
The older generations, the pillars of these churches, held on and, in Beechwood, like the rest of the South, the tradition of family remained strong enough that Believers Church kept some of the younger generation who felt a vague sense of duty to the family's matriarch to attend while she yet lived. But overall, the younger generations were missing, and gray heads dominated the sanctuary whenever church was in session.
The church people were not unaware of their peril, but they believed that the pastor, to whom they paid a full-time salary, was responsible to bring in new people. Therefore, a year or two after they hired a new pastor, a few voices would question the lack of new members. If the pastor was smart enough to realize that what the people of Believers Church really wanted was a chaplain to visit and tend to their needs, he would enjoy enough support from the majority of members to last five or six years. If not, the pulpit committee made him aware that the church would welcome his departure.
Beechwood Believers Church, BBC for short, fit this mold. It was started in the 1890's by Abenezer Beech, the man that gave his name to the town of Beechwood. Abenezer fought as an infantryman for the Confederacy in Tennessee and Georgia. After the war ended, Abenezer responded to Florida's inducements to immigrate. He liked what he saw in North Florida and prospered through agriculture. A prolific breeder, Abenezer gained a regional reputation for the quality of his cattle and the quantity of his children.
When the railroad decided to intersect its lines a few miles from Abenezer's farm, a new town sprang up and people moved in. Beeches on farms and the railroad dominated local society. The name Beech was forever affixed to the location. No one knows why the "wood" was attached to the Beech name, but it stuck and the new town became Beechwood.
Abenezer was a religious man. He credited God as the One who saved him from death and disfigurement during the vicious fighting of Chickamauga and other battles as Sherman pressed into Georgia. He started the church on a half-acre by the road that went by his farm. He built the building out of the heart-pine that grew all around. He was the church's first preacher.
As the town grew, so did the church. Abenezer hired a full-time preacher to look after the church. Groups broke off to form denominational churches as the population grew: Baptist, Episcopalian, and Methodist. After Abenezer died, the church relocated to town to be in a more auspicious and visible place. Most of them lived in town, anyway, and the little church had overflowed for decades. The church affiliated with Believers Church as part of the move.
The current occupant of BBC's pulpit had not preached there long. His title was "Senior Pastor" although he was the only pastor. He insisted that people call him Pastor. He abhorred the title Preacher as that brought up images of pulpit-pounders, who called down hellfire and brimstone against the sins of the world. Folks tickled his ego when they called him Reverend. He was not out to shake up the world. He only sought a living from an easy job.
Gary Roche was a maintenance pastor.
He was 50ish. Gray-headed like most of his people, he tipped his bathroom scale at 205, a bit much for his 5' 8" slight frame. A walk up three flights of stairs left him breathing hard. He spent his days in visits to widows and hospitals. He ate cake and drank sweet tea. He prayed for the desires of his people. He tuned into the pulpit committee to please their desires before all else.
His sermons were adequate for the people that listened. He dribbled out a lifeless theology of liberalism in which the Kingdom of God had arrived--proven by continuous improvements on Earth. He held to the doctrine of universal salvation. Since everyone would be saved in the end, he and the church people were relieved of the need to attend to anyone's salvation, including their own. He was a patriot when patriotism was called for, a pacifist when war seemed imminent and undesirable, a fundamentalist when it was politic, an evangelical when it was inconvenient to be otherwise, and a humanist of the hidden sort. He did not believe prayers should be said in schools, he believed in a strict separation of church and state, and he resisted those persons that would raise the issue of sin. He believed that was a matter between each person and his conscience.
Gary Roche practiced American Civil Religion. He mixed patriotism and worship on the Sundays before July 4, Memorial Day, Flag Day, Veterans Day, and Presidents Day. When the twin towers fell on September 11, Gary Roche replaced his opening prayer with the Pledge of Allegiance.
He loved weddings for many reasons, not the least of which was his wedding fee of $200. His funeral orations were strict eulogies to celebrate the dearly departed who have gone on to heaven. He was in demand by unchurched families who needed a supply from the funeral director. When everyone is a good person, who has entered heaven, as Gary Roche believed, it was easy to deliver biographies that glowed. Those who quibbled with him over questions like, "Then are Hitler and Stalin in heaven, too," he dismissed as argumentative trouble-makers, and he refused to answer.
He baptized babies upon demand. He admitted youth into the membership of the church without much preparation because he needed to keep the numbers up and, like most folks, he mistakenly equated the membership roll with the Bible's Book of Life. Once he enrolled the names in the church records, he relaxed even when the young people dropped out of the church and he never saw them again. "But their names are on the register. That means they are saved no matter how they live."
People that talked about a relationship with Jesus Christ confused Gary. He avoided such persons as much as he could. They made him nervous. Gary saw Jesus as a historical figure, who had lived 2000 years ago, whose parents were Joseph and Mary, who grew up in a town called Nazareth, who moved about Israel and taught about God. He came to a tragic end when the Romans executed him. Certain rumors started that His body was not in His grave, and He was alive again. Gary believed that dead bodies do not resuscitate, despite what church people may believe, although the authorities did not properly investigate at the time, so no one could be sure. Gary allowed each person to hold her own opinion, although publicly he stated that the significance of the resurrection of Jesus Christ was not in an unproven rumor about his body but that his memory lived on through the institution of the church. Privately, Gary wondered how people could claim a relationship with a memory.
Wednesday afternoon he worked at his desk. He had prayer meeting tonight, and he needed to work out the cross-country race theme he intended to use as an inspiring message, based on Hebrews 12.1,2 (. . . let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes upon Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith . . .) This message would please his prayer meeting regulars, because three grandchildren competed on the Beechwood High track team.
A knock at his private entrance interrupted his concentration. As Gary opened the door, a shabbily-dressed man asked for a few minutes of his time. Gary beckoned him in.
"Thank you, Pastor, thank you for seeing me. It's not been easy, but I try to follow His will. When I was younger, you would never find me away from the Good Lord and Good Book. But the devil got the better of me--he took my wife, then my kids. When he took my job and put me on the street, bad luck followed me ever since. Can you help me, Pastor? Can you?"
"Tell me what you need."
"A hot bath, new clothes, dry bed, and food. But I don't ask for these. The Good Lord will give them to me. But I have fix my life. There are bad things that I've done that I have to get right. If I do that, He'll bless me and I'll be okay."
"What can I do for you now?"
"Pastor, I have to fix things. It's important for a man to fix things. I have to see my family, Pastor. I have to see them now. Can you help me, Pastor? Can you?"
"Where are they?"
"Texas."
"Where in Texas?"
"Last I saw them, five years ago, they were in Dallas. Could you get me to Dallas? I don't need much. I tried to catch a ride with a trucker, but they don't like my kind--dirty, no job. But I could ride the bus, yes sir, I could, Pastor. If I could ride the bus, I could see my family and make things right."
Gary sighed. Another bus ticket! The third one this week, and other ministers report a sudden increase in transients that ask for transportation.
Gary handed a 3 x 5 card to the man. "Please list your name and last known address on this card."
"I have ID. Should I put down my identification number?"
"Please do." Gary retrieved up the voucher book from the church office. He filled in the information from the 3 x 5 card, and the man's name into the log. He signed the bus voucher, handed it to the man, and gave him directions to the bus station.
"Good luck," Gary said.
"This bus ticket's all the luck I need,” said the man with a broad smile.
Gary watched him leave through his open door and wondered, Why are so many hobos leaving town?
Chapter Four
The Coroner
James Whitefeather Musselman was the coroner for Ponce County, but he answered to none of those names. Since early childhood, everyone called him "Sem". Whether Sem stood for his Seminole mother or his Semitic father, no one knew or cared, but one thing was sure--it was not an ethnic slur. Sem, proud of the heritage from both his bloodlines, loved his name.
Like his father before him, Sem studied medicine and graduated from medical school in the middle of his class. While his father practiced on a Seminole reservation, Sem had a taste for mystery and puzzles. He specialized in pathology and moved his career to what he considered his ideal spot: County Coroner.
Sem had not noticed the disappearances, either. A dead hobo or two came through his office every so often. Bad diet, exposure to heat, bad health, and bad living conspired to take these souls across the divide between life and death at an early age. Neither Sem nor his staff put forth much energy on these cases. No one would claim the body. Whatever the cause, the police would not investigate the death, unless the violence of a brutal murder demanded a token effort. There were never any leads, information, or witnesses. Dead transients were dead ends that became dead cases for detectives who became deadened to the humanity of life's throw-aways, because they were impossible to solve. A perfunctory review, and off the body would go to the county's potter's field for burial in an unmarked grave.
The weather held fair through this Friday, and Sem hoped to make an early break for the weekend. He had another hobo case, but he dispatched the paperwork and released the body. He checked his phone messages. With no urgent calls or new cases, he signed himself out and went home.
Sem was a man of fact--a scientist—he prided himself on it. Because his mother and father had different religious heritages, they opted to raise him with none so that when he was old enough, he could decide for himself. When Sem reached the age that children questioned everything, he had nothing to question. With no questions, he found no answers. He had no beliefs. Sem was not an atheist in that he believed that there was no God, nor was he an agnostic who thought that God could not be known. He had never asked the questions, and his fascination with the world of science precluded an interest in metaphysical questions.
Sem was one of a few people in Beechwood who had no religious affiliation, although he was one of a great many who had no religious habits. He believed that people should be good: obey the law, pay taxes, help others, and respect privacy. Thus he faced a dilemma about the circus that surrounded Saturday's gay “wedding” at Imagining God Way, or Igway as the locals called it. Sem believed that the relationship of the two men was their private affair. They had the right to join together if they wanted, but they should keep it private. But with the flamboyant posture of the Igway church, due mostly to the in-your-face style of its clergywoman, Doris Duplise, the ceremony between the two men was well publicized and very public. Sem felt this was wrong but he couldn't say why. Anyway, with two sons ages eight and ten, Sem wanted to avoid questions about the whole business and decided to camp with his family.
Chapter Five
Sunday Sermons
Gary Roche liked Sunday morning—by far, the best day of the week. He liked to arrive at the BBC early in the morning, go up the steps, open the doors wide, and survey the town. He would enter his realm, adjust the air conditioning, get a bulletin, go to the pulpit, pick up a highlighter; and mark the parts that he would do.
On this Sunday, Gary turned on the audio system and checked the microphones. He found his sermon pages neatly typed and placed upon the pulpit. He read each page and highlighted the key phrases. Then he checked the altar cloths for stains and the correct color. Afterward, he retired to his office, put on his vestments, and came out to greet people as they arrived for Sunday School.
Gary loved to wear his vestments. His best was a long, black academic gown--the type students wear when they graduate college. Custom-tailored to his measurements, with pleats and velvet panels, outlined with red piping, the robe transformed his bulk into a tour de force. He checked his appearance in the full-length mirror and smoothed out the folds of his robe. He thought, No scuffs on the shoes, hair in place, I'm ready to see Gabriel's face.
With a stiff gait, such as one might use to keep wet pants off one's skin, Gary stationed himself at the door. He shook hands, he hugged, he knew everyone's name--not easy with a membership that numbered in the nine hundreds and a regular attendance of 350.
At 9:30 a.m., Gary mounted the platform and sat in his high-backed chair. Once the Sunday School Superintendent entered the pulpit to speak, Gary let his thoughts drift away. Gary rehearsed his sermon in his mind, but no one could tell. Gary focused his eyes on the Superintendent.
Never one for controversy, on this Sunday that followed the gay wedding, Gary shied away from topics even remotely related to marriage, homosexuality, family, love, sin, and morality. Instead, he chose the text of Ephesians 1.7, "In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of His grace." Gary liked this verse. It mentioned redemption and forgiveness without a mentioning of sin. The verse said trespasses, something soft like a shortcut across someone's property. No harm done; not a problem.
"We folly to not forgive faults . . . Christ shed his blood not conditionally, but objectively. So too, thus and ergo, redemption's objective, not conditional, accomplished fact . . . the redemption stands for everyone, regardless of religion or creed. We can all be saved. We will all be saved.
"Some try to make the redemption subjective--dependent upon variable factors. But that would mean that the blood that was shed is a matter of opinion . . . It was Christ's decision, not yours. It is Christ's decision to redeem us, not yours. Therefore Q.E.D., tell no one they are not saved. It is not for you to say.
"God's house is a Big Tent. There is room underneath it for all of us. Like the circus, some of us have come to see the bears. Others enjoy the clowns. Some like the high-wire and trapeze. Others want to see the start-of-show parade. This is okay. There is enough time for all the acts to perform as there is room for all the world to fit in.
"We must not judge others. Who can say, 'The clowns are good, but the animals are too scary. Take them out of the show,' for another will say, 'The animals are good, but the clowns aren't funny.' On what standard will you compare the clowns with the tigers?
"If redemption is objective, then forgiveness is objective, not a matter of opinion. Who shall judge his brother or his sister? If forgiveness is fact, then we ought not to obsess over occasional outbursts of minor trespasses. We ought not to demagogue, like some I won't mention, because his grace granted forgiveness. Since the blood was shed before the act, the redemption came before the act, the forgiveness given before the act, with the requirement already satisfied, how can we quibble at the act?
"The rivers run red, my friends. The blood flows--Jesus Christ is the same today and yesterday and forever. So if it once flowed, it has always flowed and it will always flow. So too then the redemption: if it ever was, then it will always be because the flow of blood will not change. Remember the running Red River. Remember the red, running river of redemption. Remember Redemption River running red that replaces repeated reprehensibilities with righteousness. Remember Redemption River that runs red and repairs the righteousness of repentant reposers that repel reprehensibilities. The red, red river."
Doris Duplise never wore vestments. She considered them overbearing, the stuffiness of a male-dominated hierarchy that wished to stifle the dissent of strident feminism with a priority of men over women that crushed women's spirits that yearned to be free.
Silk blouses, well-tailored suits, pearls or gold necklaces, three rings, Italian pumps, and pierced earrings adorned Doris on Sunday. She liked to be a cut above her crowd to maintain an aura of attainable perfection.
Her people went casual. They looked beach-bound. Boys and young men lounged in muscle-T's and swim trunks, older men in shorts and Hawaiian shirts, and girls in halters and tight shorts, along with blue jeans and slogan-shouting t-shirts. Hair styles varied from the long to the short. Some shaved their heads. On occasion, someone might show up better dressed, but everyone answered to their own deity, whoever She may be, so they tended to dress in their regular attire.
When the 11:00 hour rang on church bells throughout town, Doris convened her assembly.
"What a day we had yesterday!"
Cheers and claps burst from the people.
"Tolerance scored a touchdown! Us, one--bigots, nothing!"
More cheers poured forth that overpowered her voice.
"Igway always! Igway yesterday, Igway today, and Igway forever!"
A highlights video blazed forth on the screen behind Doris so her assembly could relive the yesterday's ceremony. They watched two men, dressed in black tie and tails, the red ribbon loop of AIDS awareness in place of boutonnières, march up the aisle. Rock music blared in the background. The men exchanged rings and promised to share themselves completely with each other. Doris pronounced the union cemented as the men kissed. The audience applauded. The video faded out. Some cried.
After a ten minute recess for personal time, Doris stepped forward to deliver her address. "I, the Communicator of Imagining God Way, have a message of love, peace, and harmony. I, the Communicator of Imagining God Way, proclaim that the law of the land is tolerance and the highest ideal for those that seek the good of humanity. What transpired yesterday, what we saw on the screen . . . one small step for Dan and Rick, one giant leap for the oppressed minority. For too long, society has forced gays and lesbians to adhere to homophobic standards. Society forced them to deny what they are--what their Creator made them. But we fired a shot which, if not heard around the world, echoes over Beechwood today.
"Listen! Can you hear the narrow-minded bigots spout off in their narrow-minded way? 'It's a sin for two men to be linked together.' Who says it's a sin? Some man who, by all reckoning, is 3000 years and half a world away? What has Jerusalem to do with Athens? What have we to do with an old book of out-dated ideas, questionable history and outright fiction?
“What is a sin? An offense against God? Whose God do they talk about? The God we know, our own God, we find within ourselves. My God says hate is wrong. My God says bigotry is wrong. My God says that repression of our desires is wrong. Repression of our most potent life forces is unhealthy. What does your God tell you?
"Why should we listen to Christian bigots? Their time is over. A new world arises--a new world to explore who we are, to find and then be who we are. Peace is at hand. We can have peace once we allow everyone to live as they please, and not face social sanction.
"True love is beautiful--wherever we find it. We should not deny it. How many times in a lifetime will we discover true love? Rarely. Maybe thrice in a lifetime will we experience true love. If our true love is a person of our gender, why is that wrong? Many of history's great love affairs were between men or between women.
"Never deny love. Never deny the urge to consummate love. Our lives pass too quickly to deny ourselves. Now we must take up the cause, and push to normalize alternate lifestyles. If we join together, we can carry the day, and when that day is done, what happened yesterday will take place all over Florida, not only in advanced societies such as ours, but in every church. We will force those who oppose us to close their doors!
"Men and women, who desire their own sex, were created by their Maker to desire their own sex. Born this way, they cannot offend their God when they fulfill the destiny chosen for them. It can't be sin. It can't be a choice as the bigots would have us believe. Our sexuality is part of who we are. It's inherent in our genes. We don't choose it like a cut of meat in the grocery store.
"Let us now praise famous men and women. Many famous figures were well-known for their alternate sexuality. Because of repressive social structures and the bigotry of historians, their sexuality was denied or covered up. Let me name names--you will gasp with surprise when you hear them . . ."
At the First Baptist Church, Clint Murdoch made the traditional appeal for people to accept Jesus Christ as their Savior. ". . . With your heads bowed, all eyes closed . . . Father, I pray now for those mixed-up people who need Your salvation. The men married yesterday--they are lost and headed for hell. They don't know that You hate their sin but love their souls. They don't know how You yearn to see them accept Your Son. They don't know how Your heart aches for them to repent of their sin and receive Your forgiveness. They don't know how You long to reconcile with them. I pray for the people that attended that mockery of a wedding. They don't know how angry You are that they broke Your law, that they sinned against You, that they violated Your ban on men coupling with men . . .
"We are not guilty of that sin. But we are sinners, and guilty of the sins commit, whatever they may be. We want to repent, Father, we want to tell You how sorry we are . . . But we don't know how. Let Jesus come, let Jesus come and be our Savior, who brings you our sorrow and our tears. Let Him come and give us forgiveness so we may have fellowship with You and Him . . .
"If anyone today does not know Jesus as his Savior, I pray that they accept Him now. Father, if anyone here accepted Jesus as his Savior, with all heads bowed and eyes closed, let him lift a hand . . . I see one, thank you. And another, O bless you, sister. Two more in the back, one over there. I praise You, Jesus, for these new disciples. I praise You, Father, because You loved them more than any human could. Praise the Lord--there's another.
"Oh, how they will weep and gnash teeth on the Day of Judgment if they do not know Jesus. I thank you, Father, that today six more persons escaped Your judgment and found salvation. Amen.
"If you just accepted Jesus as your Savior, I invite you to come up front after the service ends. We have some books to start you in your new life and to explain what Christians believe. If you have not been baptized in a Southern Baptist Church, you have not yet received authentic baptism. Please talk to me about it so that you may receive the Holy Ghost as Jesus promised."
BBC's chimes sang the noon hour. As people moved toward the exits, a group of teenagers gathered in the front. "Can you believe it?" said one girl.
"The Running Red River of Redemption!" said a boy, who rolled each R in an exaggerated manner.
"How many alliterations this time?" said another boy, who giggled.
"Eleven," groaned a girl. The group laughed.
"One shy of his record," said the first boy. "Too bad."
"Did anyone understand what he said about the circus?" asked a third girl.
"In the Big Tent, the animals are good, but the clowns aren't funny?" The second boy guffawed.
The first girl mimicked Roche. "'On what standard would you compare the clowns with the tigers?' Get real. On what standard would you compare this clown with real preachers?"
Gales of laughter--tears streamed down their faces.
At the Church of Mark One-One, Tim Agogg launched into his hourr-long oration. The Church of Mark One-One did not start until 11:30 a.m. for three reasons. Late persons to the other churches, who will not go in because everyone will stare at them, might come to their church instead. They could have a more leisurely breakfast, though none of them would admit it. They arrived for Sunday dinner at the restaurants when others had finished, and they did not have to wait for tables, which they would admit.
“. . . it's unnatural. It says here in Genesis 5 that God created Man in His own image, male and female he created them. It doesn't say male and male he created. It doesn't say female and female he created. It says MALE AND FEMALE. AND IF GOD INTENDED IT ANY OTHER WAY, HE WOULD HAVE SAID SO."
The people stirred in the pews. This was going to be good. Pastor Tim had never begun to shout so early in his sermons.
"I CAN SHOW YOU EXACTLY HOW UNNATURAL IT IS. TAKE A GOOD LOOK AT THIS LAMP. AT THE END OF THE CORD IS WHAT? A PLUG. Yes, that's right, sister, you've seen that correctly. THE PRONGS STICK OUT--LIKE A MALE. HERE'S ANOTHER LAMP WITH ANOTHER CORD. AT ITS END IS WHAT? ANOTHER PLUG. THE PRONGS STICK OUT. NOW HOW ARE YOU GOING TO CONNECT THESE TWO PLUGS? IT CAN'T BE DONE. LOOK HERE--THE PRONGS CANNOT UNITE. THE LAMPS CANNOT BE JOINED, UNION CEREMONY OR NO UNION CEREMONY. IT CAN'T BE DONE.
"ANOTHER EXAMPLE: LOOK AT THIS HOSE. HERE'S THE END YOU SCREW ONTO THE SPIGOT. NOW WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF YOU TRIED TO SCREW ON A NOZZLE TO THIS END? IT WON'T WORK! WHY? BECAUSE BOTH ENDS WAIT TO RECEIVE SOMETHING. WHAT WAITS TO RECEIVE CANNOT ENTER--IT MUST BE ENTERED. CAN I GET SOME HELP HERE?"
“Preach it!”
“Amen!”
"THAT WOMAN, DO-AS-I-PLEASE, HAS COME STRAIGHT FROM HELL. SHE WANTS TO GO BACK, AND TAKE US AND OUR CHILDREN WITH HER!"
“You got that right!”
"SHOULD WE LET HER RUIN OUR TOWN AND OUR CHILDREN?"
"No, no!"
"Tell us what to do."
"Preach on, preach on!"
"I'VE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING SO DISGUSTING AND PERVERTED IN ALL MY LIFE. GROWN MEN STOOD IN THE PARK WITH THEIR HANDS ON EACH OTHER'S BEHINDS AND HAD PICTURES TAKEN RIGHT IN FRONT OF INNOCENT CHILDREN AND RESPECTABLE LADIES!"
People gasped. Several said, “Ugh.”
"WHAT DOES GOD'S WORD SAY ABOUT SUCH THINGS? LET ME TELL YOU WHAT IT SAYS. IT SAYS THOU SHALT NOT LIE WITH MANKIND AS WITH WOMANKIND. IT IS ABOMINATION. LEVITICUS 18.22."
"You read it right, Brother Tim."
"IT SAYS THEY WORSHIPPED AND SERVED THE CREATURE MORE THAN THE CREATOR, FOR THIS CAUSE GOD GAVE THEM UP UNTO VILE AFFECTIONS--THE MEN, LEAVING THE NATURAL USE OF THE WOMAN, BURNED IN THEIR LUST TOWARD ANOTHER, MEN WITH MEN WORKING THAT WHICH IS UNSEEMLY, AND RECEIVING IN THEMSELVES THAT RECOMPENSE OF THEIR ERROR WHICH WAS MEET. ROMANS 1.25-27."
Tim Agogg paused for breath and a drink of water. A ripple of pleasure from his sermon went around the room.
"Keep going, preacher!"
"WHAT HAPPENED SATURDAY WAS UNSEEMLY, INDECENT AND PERVERTED. THEIR LUST IS NOT THE ONLY THING THAT BURNS. THEIR ENTIRE SELVES WILL BURN IN HELL! THEY WILL RECEIVE IN THEIR PERSONS THAT RECOMPENSE OF THEIR ERROR WHICH IS MEET AND RIGHT.
"Now friends, brothers and sisters, we know what the penalty will be. God's word says that they are worthy of death, not only the two in that farce of a ceremony, but also those who approve of such things. That whole cult run by Do-As-I-Please . . ."
The congregation laughed and hooted.
". . . I say, that whole cult and Do-As-I-Please will one day die for their sanction and conduct of that perversion, that lie, that blasphemy, that abomination before the Lord. YE REAP WHAT YE SOW. GALATIANS 6.7. GOD IS NOT MOCKED. DITTO. IT'S NO COINCIDENCE THAT AIDS TOOK ROOT ON OUR SHORES IN THE HOMOSEXUAL POPULATION. THAT, MY FRIENDS, IS GOD'S JUDGMENT UPON THEM."
"Tell it like it is, preacher"
"The truth, he speaks the truth."
"GREECE BUILT A GREAT CIVILIZATION. WHEN THEY TURNED INTO FAIRIES, THE ROMANS TOOK OVER. ROME WAS STRONG UNTIL SHE BECAME AS GREECE--THEN ROME WAS OVERTHROWN. SODOM AND GOMORRAH WERE SO BAD THAT SODOM BECAME OUR WORD SODOMIZE FOR WHAT THEY DO WITH ONE ANOTHER. GOD DESTROYED THEM WITH FIRE. GOD DOES NOT PERMIT WHOLE NATIONS TO BE PERVERSE WHERE HE HAS TO LOOK UPON THEM. HE THRUSTS THEM AWAY. GREAT CIVILIZATIONS HAVE PERISHED BECAUSE THE QUEERS BECAME NORMAL AND THE NORMAL, QUEER.
"AMERICA HANGS ON THE THRESHOLD OF ROMAN. OUR ENEMIES WILL OVERRUN US IF WE CONTINUE TO ALLOW QUEERS TO FLAUNT THEIR PERVERSITY IN GOD'S FACE. WAKE UP, CHRISTIANS!
"In the old days, we could have tarred and feathered the whole bunch and run them out of town. We don't do that anymore . . . because no one sleeps on a feathered pillow. They're foam." Tim waited for the laughter to subside.
"How can you tar and foam someone?” Again he waited.
"BUT WE CAN MAKE IT CLEAR THAT THEY AND THEIR PRECIOUS HOMO FRIENDS ARE NOT WELCOME. DON'T GREET THEM. TREAT THEM AS IF THEY DON'T EXIST BECAUSE THEY WON'T EXIST AFTER GOD JUDGES THEM AND THROWS THEM INTO THE LAKE OF LIQUID FIRE. DON'T BUY FROM THEIR STORES. DON'T SELL TO THEM. MAKE THEM DRIVE TO THE NEXT COUNTY FOR FOOD. NO GAS. LET THEM WALK IF THEY RUN OUT. HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THEM. WE HAD A NICE TOWN BEFORE THEY ARRIVED. BROTHERS AND SISTERS, IT'S TIME TO TAKE IT BACK!"
Loud "Amens!" reverberated from many pews. People looked at one another and said, "He's right."
At the Pentecostal Glory Church and the Faith Speaks in Tongues Church, called Peg and Fast by the locals, the ministers preached about the Spirit's fire that remakes a sinner as it burns up sin's slag. In God's crucible, the pure metal may be fashioned as God wills. The rest of their messages was lost as they switched to speak in tongues and no one interpreted because no one wanted to admit they couldn't understand.
True Baptist Church condemned the union ceremony, but said what can you expect from persons not of the true faith--our version of Southern Baptist. Spanish Trail Baptist Church took a more lenient view, but said that these problems arise because of faulty and inadequate baptisms. The preacher directed his broadsides more at the Methodists and Presbyterians than at Igway.
Pastor Jake, with his group of 50 at the Southern Independent Bible Fellowship, stressed the common nature of all persons, including himself and the Fellowship, as sinners who need the grace of God. Long after he had finished and the people departed, they continued to talk over what Jake had said in their family rooms, the restaurants, and their cars as they went about their Sunday afternoon. As evening drew on, the group reassembled at their small church outside Beechwood. They asked Pastor Jake if he would go over what he said that morning.
"My text was Romans, chapter three. The apostle Paul compared the Jews and the Greeks, and concluded that both were sinners. The Jews, because they did not obey the law that they received through Moses from God, and the Greeks, because they did not honor God but worshiped pagan images that corrupted their humanity into a degraded form whereby they indulged their sensual appetites in ways that God considered evil.
"The key point is that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, as Romans 3.23 states. We are the 'Jews', we who are born again, we who have the anointing and the baptism of the Holy Spirit. We are better off than the Jews, who did not have this gift, yet we remain sinners and we stand in the need of the grace of God. We must always bear this in mind when we consider the conduct of others.
"We cannot judge others who fail to do what we ourselves cannot do. Because we have not reached perfection in our characters and become Christ-like in our minds, we cannot judge others. But we seek to persuade them that they, too, are sinners as we are sinners, and that they, too, stand in the need of the grace of God.
"Homosexuality is like a cracked diamond. The flaw goes deep into the soul and the essence of the person. People are not born homosexuals, but neither do they make a choice to feel a sexual attraction to a person of the same sex. It is something that takes place during childhood that upon adolescence makes itself known. There are too many factors to make definitive statements about the cause of homosexuality.
"Listen to scripture and recognize that the sin of homosexuality is not in the identity as such, nor in the brokenness that feels attracted to the same sex. Sin occurs only if a man or woman acts upon their urges to have sexual contact with their own sex. We must be clear on this point.
"We are broken people. We welcome broken people into our midst. While they still struggle with sin and God's offer of salvation through Jesus Christ, his Son and our Savior, we struggle alongside them to help them realize that salvation comes when they end their struggle and accept what God wants to give them. Salvation may heal the flaw in the diamond, or it may be something that a person will have to contend with for a lifetime. If that is the case, they can be victorious over sin through Jesus Christ.
"So we announce God's love and God's burden for these people. We announce his judgment upon sin, and in a vulnerable, risky way, we tell these people about our sins which the Savior had to carry to Calvary and for which He had to suffer. We say that as He already knew what we carried, so he already knows their burdens. It is easy to confess what someone already knows.
"We offer them freely what Christ freely gave us--forgiveness of sins by His blood of the cross. There is power in the blood as the old hymn says. Power in the blood to cancel our sins and redeem our souls. Power in the blood to reconcile us to God. Power in the blood to live in victory over sin. Power in the blood to banish evil from our lives. There is power in the blood of Jesus.
"We speak to people like the Igway minister and the people of that church, homosexual and heterosexual, not because we are superior, not because we think that we're the only ones who know the truth--beware those that claim a monopoly on the truth--but because we know, at heart, that we are like them. Therefore, as Christ freed us from the eternal consequences of our sinful actions, so he can free them too."
"That's enough to chew on for one night. Who has something good to tell that the Lord has done for them this week?"
Chapter 6
Moonlit Night
Marshall Mays cruised slowly along the country lane as he talked with his girlfriend, Angie Collins. “What a great weekend! We won 35 to 26. The guys followed my lead, and did what I told them in the huddle. Coach mixed up the plays well. We made them guess all night. Our season turned around. We can win four of our last six games and finish 6 & 4. Maybe we'll go to the playoffs.”
Angie loved Marshall for a long time before he asked her out. What Marshall loved best about Angie was that she understood his feelings and himself, and he didn't have to try to explain things that he couldn't put into words like the fight during the first game. A guy can only take so much dirty play, and if the refs don't call the fouls, then a guy has to stand up for himself and his teammates. He didn't have to justify himself to her the way the other guys had to explain to their girlfriends.
Angie understood how a guy needed love, and she supplied Marshall with what he needed. This wasn't sex. He and Angie decided they weren't ready yet. But she had a way to hug and kiss him that gave him the affirmation his masculinity needed.
Angie loved Marshall for his shy ways, his easygoing attitude, and his wit. He made her laugh. Angie loved to laugh. She considered him good-looking, even hot. She loved to unbutton his shirt and run her hands over his chest and stomach. Marshall was attentive. Marshall didn't make fun of her, ever. Marshall never talked about the times when they were alone. The loose talk of boys had affected the reputations of her friends, but Marshall wasn't like that. He not only loved her, he respected her. They were friends.
". . . So weird--like we were in the Twilight Zone. Do do do do--do do do do,” Marshall sang. “Did you see those two guys when they kissed? Yuck. I thought they told the groundkeeper no pansies this year."
Angie laughed. "Maybe he thought they were magnolias."
"I thought my Daddy would come unglued when he first heard about it. He's never ripped the stitches out of his bedsheets. He pressures me to join him on his weekend retreats, but I want to stay away from that stuff."
Angie didn't need Marshall to say that his Daddy's activities frightened him. Marshall wasn't afraid of violence, but he didn't want to seek it out. Marshall believed that his football play proved his toughness, and found no reason to join overweight men with lousy jobs that blamed others for their faults. They talked big, but that's all they did except drink beer and whiskey, and shoot guns. Marshall liked to shoot guns, but he'd rather do it with his buddies, and he had a definite aversion to men that had loaded guns while they drank beer and whiskey.
"Daddy hinted that he and his boys would stop it, but they didn't have the guts to show. They were probably so drunk they couldn't find their keys to start their trucks. I can't understand why Daddy wants to hang out with losers like that."
Marshall alternated between love and anger for his Dad. Neither understood the other. Alienated, Marshall yet hoped that he could make his Daddy proud of him. He waited for the day when he would hear those words come from his Daddy's mouth.
"There were big doings over at Mark One-One this morning. Jimbo said Pastor Agogg ripped into Doris Duplise, and said she ought to be run out of town. That would be fun if the law wouldn't catch us."
Marshall saw an open gate into a pasture. He pulled off the lane, drove through the gate across the cattle guard, drove up to the top of a small swell in the field, and turned the motor off. He slouched down in the seat, put his arm around Angie's shoulders, and pulled her to him. She laid her head on his side.
"The Right Reverend Roche really rolled his R's today," Angie said.
"How many times?"
"Thirty-two, eleven in one sentence."
"Wow. That must be a record."
"Maybe for the R's. But you should hear him get rolling on the Cs."
"Ha ha ha. Can you call Colefield's collections computer calculating cats coming to captivate . . ."
Angie gave Marshall a playful hit. "Oh, stop."
"Make me."
Angie pulled his head down towards her mouth and kissed him. "How's that?"
Marshall smiled and went to kiss her again. His eyes popped open. "What was that?!"
"What was what?"
"That thing that flashed over our heads. It looked like a huge bat."
"A huge bat? You're imagining things."
"Like sunshine."
"Sorry. It's just in your head."
"No, really, there was a rush of wind, and I saw this thing--this creature--for a moment. It had wings and flew over us like Earnhardt at NASCAR."
"Kiss me again and I'll make you forget."
"Back in town. That thing gave me the creeps." Marshall turned the engine over. "It's midnight. The cop's off duty. Snuggle up. I won't go fast."
Angie leaned back against his body, and thought about what Marshall had said. It made no sense, but Marshall didn't experience silly frights or see things that weren't there. Probably an owl that hunted for prey.
Angie turned on the radio. Music poured out, and they sang along. No one had noticed the disappearances, not yet, but that was about to change.
Chapter Seven
Monday's Menu
The noon bell rang. Workers occupied the counter seats in Shatterlies. Most of them ordered the Monday special, meatloaf and mashed potatoes, butter peas, and corn with banana pudding and sweet tea, $6.50. In the Amen Corner, the special was consternation, smothered with outrage, disgust, and indignation for sides--no charge.
Tim, red in the face, eyebrows contracted, spoke in a hoarse whisper with words that choked in his throat. "If they had kept it in their building, it would have been bad enough, but we could have ignored it. But no, they had to flaunt it. They had to fling it in our faces. They took it outside so everyone could see them hold hands, hug and do stuff that's unnatural. It isn't natural for two men to kiss and grope each other. And not a simple peck--full lips, open mouth--for several minutes . . ."
'You don't know that," Wilma said. "You weren't there."
"I have my sources. A camcorder recorded the entire scene, a photographer too. But he wasted his film. The paper won't print the photos. I'd be surprised if Berry mentions anything in Tuesday's edition. He refused to run the announcement, even after they offered to pay double for it."
Mr. Shadsworth said, "You exaggerate about the PDA. My daughter lives across from the park and I watched the whole thing through the window. It was very brief. Still, if this gets out, Beechwood will become another Key West or San Francisco.
"My boy Garth had to go to San Francisco on insurance business a few times. Most of them dress in tight spandex or leather clothes. They pierce themselves with rings, studs, and whatnot all over their bodies. They hold hands as they go about the city, or with their arms around each other's waist. Regular people can't stand it. It'll drive them out. It will be the end of Beechwood. Can't say that I would stay if they take over."
"There you go," Tim said. "Decent folks will have to leave. What I want to know is what we do about it? We have to stop it now."
Lester Grames said, "Other towns have faced this problem. Maybe we can find out what they did . . ."
On the counter, Clete rendered a play-by-play rundown of the ceremony and outdoor festivities. He hadn't seen any of it, but that did not stop his attempts to lampoon what he thought had taken place. "Do you promise to have and to hold . . ." Clete interrupted himself and lisped, "Oh, yes, especially to HOLD!"
People laughed. Clete grinned. ". . . Oh, I do, I do, I do. Put the ring on my finger, girlfriend."
Andrew shook his head. "That's not right, Clete. That's not right at all."
"What's the matter, Andy? Want to get homo-married yourself?"
"It's nothing to laugh about. Unchecked sin will ruin our town. Beechwood will become a word people use for perverted sex. If more of them move into town, it would be bad enough, but it's not only the homosexuals but the other perverts that come with them. It won't be safe for our kids to play outside for all the molesters that will turn up like slime in the sewer. We shouldn't laugh."
Clete snickered. "Don't Beechwood with me, Andy." He noticed that people no longer laughed. "Aw, Andy, you've got to laugh or you've got to cry. I meant nothing by it."
"There are better targets for your comedy. These jokes create barriers for sinners who need God's grace--we should give them our pity, not our sarcasm."
"Dang if you're not the preacher-man. You want to lay a sermon on us?"
"No, but remember, you have an open invitation to come to church."
"I also have an open invitation to go to church with the bass. Someday I'll hook Uncle Billy, and when I do, glory, hallelujah, that monster bass will make the reel sing praise. Hey, I got a question for you. Should I preach to the fish?"
Andrew laughed. "Clete, did you know that fisherman was the number one occupation that Jesus picked his preachers from? Be careful. When He nets you, and you go to church, you might find yourself in the pulpit."
"I could preach a fine sermon to people. Love your neighbor . . ." Clete's words faded away as he stared out the window. "What's that dog got in his mouth?" He pointed out the window.
People gasped. One woman screamed. Several persons gagged. People moved to the window to get a better look. All over the restaurant, forks dropped to the tables.
A stray dog crouched in front of the restaurant. He had one paw on a human arm. His teeth clenched a mouthful of muscle as he ripped it off the bone. Andrew, Clete, and counter men ran outside.
"Get off that. Go. Scram." The men yelled as some clapped their hands and the others threw stones, soda cans, whatever they could find to chase the dog away from the arm.
Ben Shatterlie called the police. Within two minutes, a squad car pulled up to the restaurant. Beechwood Police, Ponce County deputies, and two state troopers arrived and blocked off the street. They agreed that the Beechwood Police would coordinate the investigation, as the arm was discovered inside the town limits, and that the state crime lab would handle the scene as they had the most resources to perform the forensic work that would identify whose arm it was.
People queued at the cash register to pay their tickets. Waitresses collected the plates of half-eaten meals. The kitchen closed down. Ben canceled unserved orders. As the police organized, a team came into the restaurant to interview the diners.
No one knew anything. They had looked out the window and seen a stray dog trot down the street with an arm in its mouth. As the diners and waitresses stared out the window, the dog dropped the arm in the street and began to eat it. No one recognized the dog. Descriptions of size, color and breed varied. Was it a hound or a setter? Was it a terrier, bulldog or retriever? Was it toy, miniature or standard? Black, brown or red, or was it white with a tan saddle on its back?
The police called the dog catcher to the scene. He searched many blocks around Shatterlies for stray dogs. He found none.
Sem Musselman arrived in the coroner's van. He had heard the call over the scanner he kept in his office. He readied a container for the arm.
Inside, Tim Agogg said, "It's the arm of God that points to our imminent destruction if we do not repent of our wickedness. It's no coincidence that the arm turned up right after Saturday's affair. As God spelled out for Belshazzar in the book of Daniel, 'Mene, mene, tekel, parsin,' he has revealed his judgment against our town for the conduct of that blasphemous church. He has seen the wickedness of men who lust for other men, and he tells us that he will destroy our town if we do not repent and rid ourselves of the perverts and sinners who refuse to follow the natural instincts that God their Creator gave them. Mene, mene, tekel, Beechwood; mene, mene, tekel."
People in the restaurant listened to what Tim said. Others turned away in amusement or disgust. Most were lost in their thoughts. Clete departed chastened for his earlier humor. He felt like he had been a jerk in his barbs with Andrew. Andrew lingered. He burned with curiosity to know where this arm came from, and how dog had it to drop in front of a full restaurant during the noon hour.
Mr. Shadsworth said, "This is a bad business--a bad business, indeed. First the gay marriage, now body parts turn up. It humiliates our town and drives business away. The media will play this up like a soap opera. Bad for business."
Ben Shatterlie stood at the door, watched the police, and hoped they would be done before the supper crowd arrived.
Wilma and Lester left. The Amen Corner was deserted; their Igway problem forgotten. Tim tried to enter the crime scene. Beechwood Police took him off the site and told him to leave. The story spread through town.
No one yet knew about the disappearances, but they were now aware that somewhere in or near Beechwood, a dead body lay.
Chapter Eight
A Grisly Find
From the box outside Shatterlies, the Tuesday edition of the Beechwood Bulletin proclaimed, “ARM RETRIEVED BY MAN'S BEST FRIEND.” The subheadline screamed, "Stray Hound Find Means Search for Police." The article detailed police efforts to find the dog, identify the owner of the arm, and find the site where the dog grabbed the flesh. A box analysis reviewed missing persons cases in Ponce County for possible identity of the arm.
Film crews set up their cameras outside Shatterlies. Reporters first went to police for news.
“Can you detail your efforts to find the source of the arm?”
“There's nothing to tell. Call the Public Affairs Office for the most recent report.”
“What's it like in the woods?”
“Slow. We must be deliberate in our search. Every step could yield or destroy clues. We scan the ground and vegetation. The murderer . . .”
The reporters started. Each one leaned in and shoved his microphone closer to the officer.
“. . . if it is murder, which we have not established, . . .” The officer wiped his face with his hand. “. . . could have hidden the body anywhere. We have to think . . .”
“Like a murderer,” the CBS affiliate interrupted in a monotone.
“Like a dog,” the officer responded. “We have to poke our nose into every hole and hollow tree and sniff. It's slow enough without snakes to worry about. Rattlers don't always rattle.” He smiled and turned away.
“Thanks for the obvious,” said the CBS man.
“We like to be on TV, too.”
“With me is the dogcatcher, who spent several fruitless days in a search for the stray that started the frenzy,” said the FOX reporter. “Could you tell us why the dog eluded your hunt?”
“Once strays have been in an area for a few days, they learn where to hide. They can lie unseen and watch me look for them. It can be tough to find them.”
“Don't you know where they hide?”
“They can hide anywhere. Besides, no one agreed on a description. It might be any dog in town. I could look at it and not know it.”
“Go away, lady, we're not interested,” said the NBC affiliate.
Doris Duplise glared at the reporter. “This is news? 'We can't find a dog.' I have a better story.”
“Been there, done that,” said the ABC reporter. “There's little sizzle in a backwater town for gay rights. It's the mystery that gets ratings.” The FOX crew laughed.
The police continued to search. Two days later, on Thursday afternoon, they reached the wooded area close to the rail yard where the hobos had their camp. They learned little from the transients and fanned out across the woods. They picked their way through the underbrush, pine straw, and fallen logs. With long staffs, they poked brush and hidden holes for rattlesnakes before they looked in those spaces. They progressed towards a dip in the landscape. Often the location of fights or illicit activity, Beechwood lawmen knew the spot well. People avoided it unless they had a specific reason to go there. Remote, inaccessible, screened by pine and underbrush, kudzu and other vines, others could not witness what took place there.
The stench of rotten flesh greeted the searchers' nostrils first. One grunted, "This is it." The searchers covered their noses with handkerchiefs or shirt fronts. A couple dropped to their knees. They edged forward until they saw bodies.
“We found the site.” A lieutenant radioed in the news. “Half a dozen bodies, maybe more. The place reeks. Tell the coroner to bring lots of help and plenty of wrap. Maggots, thousands of maggots.”
“You there.” The lieutenant beckoned to a sergeant. “Take a dozen guys and secure the site. No media, no snoops, no spectators.”
Television crews arrived to set up. Crime technicians packed equipment into the woods. Uniformed officers patrolled the perimeter of the woods. The Beechwood Police rounded up the hobos and took them to the Beechwood jail for 'their own safety'. Newspaper reporters, including Berry Samuels, worked everyone they could reach for information. Spectators showed up. One said, "We like to be on TV, too."
Tim Agogg talked to the reporter from the CBS affiliate because they had the highest ratings--he had checked. Doris Duplise corralled reporters, who listened to kill time as they waited for the coroner or police spokesman to give them information. The media paid attention to her as they wondered if there was a connection to the murders. Tim shouted that it was the wrath of God upon immoral and perverted acts. The media wondered if Tim was connected to the murders.
Newspaper reporters swirled around the staging area that the police had set up for recovery of the bodies. They shouted at one another as they fought to get a good view. They besieged Sem Musselman, who arrived with his van. He struggled to push the reporters back so he could open his door and get out.
“Any comment, sir?”
“None,” said Sem. “I've only been here for twenty seconds.” He walked away to report to the detective in charge.
“No matter,” said a veteran reporter. As he spoke, spit flew from his mouth. His eyes shone and he quivered. “We'll catch him on his way out. What a day! A story like this only comes once every seven or eight years!”
“Can this be my ticket to the network?” A woman, dressed in a dark blue suit, asked her colleague.
“Here's something for a little toot at the end of the day.” A young cameraman, face damaged by excessive acne and nose red from excessive drink, offered three crime technicians a hundred dollar bill apiece. “All I need is some video.”
“Get out!” The sergeant growled at him. “The next time I see you, I'll arrest you.”
Two hours passed. Bored reporters pressed the police on the perimeter for comment. Half a dozen sat in the shade and played poker. One had a cooler full of beer and sold cans for three dollars apiece.
Sem came out of the woods and opened the back door to his van. The cards fell to the ground. Reporters mobbed him, rushed to the perimeter, and craned their necks. Two crime scene technicians appeared among the pines as they carried a body bag to the van.
“How many bodies?” A reporter yelled.
“No comment.”
“Was it murder?”
“No comment.”
“Serial killer?”
“No comment.”
“It's five o'clock. Set up here,” the FOX reporter ordered her crew. She rushed to take the spot next to the path into the woods. CBS came up beside her.
“Move. This is mine,” the FOX reporter said.
“Plenty of room for all of us.”
“Nonsense. I don't want your voice-over on my remote.”
“Bring better equipment.”
“That's why I never moved to TV,” said the veteran reporter. “I filed my story two hours ago.”
“Without a statement from the police?” A young man, who had milled around the police barrier, raised his eyebrows. “How do you know what the story is?”
“Rookie.” The veteran chuckled. “I write the story and file it. Anything gaps or missing information, I guess or make it up. I've made the deadline with time to spare. Then, as official statements are made or new information becomes available, I update my article. I can add more paragraphs, or revise what I wrote.”
“What happens if you get it wrong?”
“News is news for a day. No one remembers the next day when the news turns to olds. If it's really bad, we put a correction on a back page.”
At twilight, the police set up floodlights. Extra wagons from surrounding counties arrived to transport the bodies to Musselman's morgue. Technicians brought another body bag to the van.
“That's two,” said the young reporter.
"Three," crowed several voices as the next body came out.
"Four," shouted a dozen as they crowded around the vehicles.
"Five!" chorused the media.
Sem Musselman loaded a body into the wagon, and glared at them. "Quiet!"
"Six!" The group tittered.
"Seven!” The reporters gagged on the words. The stench of the bodies overpowered their throats.
“Eight!" The technicians loaded the last body into a wagon. Sem flung his tools, camera, clipboard, hand-held voice recorder, and other gear into his van. An exhalation whistled past his teeth.
“Sir, a comment?” The FOX reporter held her microphone out.
"When you can behave," Sem muttered. He got in his van and drove off.
Friday's Beechwood Bulletin used twice the normal point size for its headline. "PIECES OF EIGHT!" Underneath it said, "Beechwood Murders Baffle Police". Then, "Unidentified Bodies Found By Hobo Camp". The article described what the police had found, recapped the investigation to date, and mentioned the eight bodies taken to the morgue. A side box speculated on the possibility of a serial killer on the loose, and who the victims might be.
Television news milked the story for all it was worth. Thursday night at 11 p.m., Friday's morning shows at 6 a.m., then the noon broadcasts, and across their evening telecasts, the news anchors added one or two pieces of new information at each time.
People had discovered the disappearances. Had anyone noticed the pair of red eyes that watched the police and the media from the boughs of a pine tree fifty feet off the ground?
Chapter Nine
Breakfast at Shatterlies
Saturday morning meant a rush during the hours for breakfast. Fishers cleaned their morning catch and stopped at Shatterlies for bacon and eggs, pancakes, grits, and coffee. This pattern held until hunting season, when fishers took their rifles and disappeared into the woods until afternoon or night.
Today most of the sportsmen stayed home with their families. They weren't afraid, but things felt weird because they did not know what, if any, type of evil had invaded their town. The people of Beechwood had that uneasy feeling in which nothing seemed to be wrong, other than a problem at the hobo camp, but they wanted to be with their families.
A few pastors gathered at the Shatterlies counter and talked about what locals had dubbed 'the body dump.' Gary Roche said that a lot of hobos had left town. “Normally, I see one or two a week. They ask for food, medicine or a place to stay. A stranded trucker might ask for a bus ticket. But a rash of transients have asked for bus tickets for the last several weeks. Last week, there were four . . . in only one week. Now we know why."
Clint Murdoch, First Baptist Church, said, “No hobo will ask for a bus tickets anymore, not a meal or a shirt or a bath. No hobo will swing through Beechwood. They'll go out of their way to avoid it."
Hesty Moore, Spanish Trail Baptist Church, said, "Who'll do the funerals? I don't suppose anyone will offer a fee."
Gary Roche shot Hesty a funny glance. "Sem Musselman needs several days to process the bodies. If he identifies them, he has to locate the families. What family wants the body of a relative they cared so little for that they didn't take care of them? When Sem gives the OK, the county will bury the remains in a potter's field. If one of us doesn't volunteer, they won't receive so much as a prayer said over their bodies."
Hesty said, "Even sinners deserve a decent burial. The county should have a fund set up for burial services like the one for public defenders."
Clint smiled. "Your wife buy an expensive dress, Hesty?" Hesty blushed.
"Would a funeral save their souls now that they've departed for the next life?” Clint said. “None of us believes that. Who would we do it for? No one will come to services for hobos. Do we preach to the birds like St. Francis? The corpse is only a shell, and a perishable one at that . . ."
"I should say so!" said Kyle Dorian, Pentecostal Glory Church. "Were any of you out there when they brought those bodies out? Whew! the stench! I'd rather clean out a backed up septic tank than handle rotten flesh."
"Its significance is nil after the soul departs,” said Clint. “Who cares what happens to the body? Burn it, pickle it, feed it to the hogs. We get new bodies at the Resurrection. Funeral ceremonies are for the bereaved--an agreed upon means for a community to console and support the family that mourns the death."
Gary set his empty coffee cup down and signaled for a refill. "But shouldn't we mourn these unlamented deaths? However peripheral these men were to our town, were they not a part of our community? If so, shouldn't we have some type of ceremony to mark their passing, an expression of grief at their demise within our midst, even though, granted, they lived on our margin?"
"Hear, Hear!" said Hesty. "Let's draw numbers and conduct the funerals in turn. We could pay ourselves out of our Relief Fund ..."
"No!" Clint said. His eyebrows contracted into a scowl. "We will not pay ourselves out of the fund we administer to help needy persons in our community. That lacks integrity. If people found out, not only would we look for new pulpits, but they would cease contributions and then who gets hurt? The ones that need the help the most. We will not go down that road. Hesty, you try my soul when you scrounge for fees."
"Just kidding, Clint, just kidding," said Hesty. "Lighten up."
Clint looked unconvinced.
Gary said, "Let's discuss a joint community service at the next BEMA meeting." BEMA, the Beechwood Ministerial Association, met bi-weekly at participating churches on a rotating basis. Like most ministerial associations, BEMA conducted a few combined worship services, such as Thanksgiving, Easter Sunrise, and Good Friday. It collected an offering at these services and used the money to provide food and utilities to community residents that find themselves short of funds.
"Look around,” Gary said. “Shatterlies is empty today. Normally, the place jumps. This tragedy has affected our people. We could lament the deaths and, at the same time, provide reassurance of God's love and care to our fellow citizens."
Kyle said, "Good idea, Gary. Bring it up."
Hesty leaned forward and asked, "Anyone know who did it?"
Kyle raised his eyebrows. "What makes you think one of us would know?"
Hesty said, "The murderer could have confided in a clergyman . . ."
". . . in which case that clergyman would not divulge that fact, much less what was said." Clint's scowl deepened into outrage. His lips curled outward and his nostrils dilated. He pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket, threw it on the table, and picked up his hat. "I've got to go--things to do." He walked to the cash register and paid his bill.
Gary chuckled. "Do you like getting the better of him or is all your talk innocent chatter, Hesty?"
Hesty smiled. "A clergyman would not divulge that fact, much less what was said."
The three men laughed.
The door slammed. Lester Grames and Wilma Bryant came into the dining room and sat down at a table against the back wall. A waitress brought a pot of coffee to their table. "Hey, Mabel," said Wilma. "Heard anything about the bodies?"
"No," said Mabel. "Although this place has been like a morgue this morning."
"Hasn't anyone talked?" Lester asked.
"Not a word, Sweetcakes."
"You know what I say,” said Lester. “If you haven't heard a new rumor by ten in the morning, start one."
"Mind if I sit?" asked Mabel.
"Not at all," said Wilma. "All we want is coffee."
"If you ask me," said Mabel, "it's those idiots my husband runs around with--the bedsheet crowd."
"There was a time when Southern women needed the bedsheet crowd,” said Lester, “for protection. The law didn't watch out for you."
"That was over a hundred years ago. This is the new South. And if your husband came home mean drunk at the end of every weekend, you would not take pride in that heritage."
"But he never beat you?" asked Wilma.
"Thank the good Lord and my big son, no. Since Marshall got big, he doesn't even pick at me. But he's sullen. He goes into the bedroom and slams the door. The air gets mighty stuffy because I walk on eggshells and feel I can't breathe without setting off a huge tantrum. And let me tell you, with those hobos being dead, not that I feel sorry for them, they brought it on themselves by their laziness and vice--Murphy is mighty happy about the whole deal. 'Serves them right,' he says. 'Get rid of the whole bunch,' he says. 'The person that did it deserves a medal,' he says. 'Don't know why the law would never touch those bums,' he says. You ask me, Murphy and his gang of ghosts are responsible."
You don't want Murphy to hear you talk like that. It could be trouble," said Lester.
"Who cares? Murphy's a jerk and a coward. Marshall learns how to be a man, but not from Murphy. One day that bum will get thrown in jail, and I'll say hip-hip-hooray. Let the state support him for awhile." Mabel left the table to check on a customer.
"You pushed her buttons," said Wilma.
"Who'd have thought she'd be so jumpy?"
“Everybody's jumpy until we learn more about the bodies."
"Some town we got here. Hobos and homos--that's what we're known for. The New South and Beechwood. Home for hobos and homos."
"What's your theory?"
"Space aliens."
"What?"
"Space aliens. You got a better one?"
"A serial killer hobo rides the rails, stalks other hobos, and kills for the pleasure of it. Afterwards, he brings the bodies back to Beechwood by boxcar, and dumps them in a place he figures nobody will look. If not for the stray dog, we wouldn't know anything about it."
"I like space aliens better. It fits. People are dumb enough to believe it--they believe anything about space aliens--and when the killings stop, we can say that the space aliens flew home and forget the whole thing."
"Why would aliens kill people and dump their bodies?"
"They need blood to make an anti-viral serum to save their planet from a deadly epidemic. They take so much the people die."
"Sweetcakes, you're wacko. 100% loony tunes. Space aliens capture humans and suck them dry of blood. How do they do it? Spin webs out of their butts like spiders, and wait for their human prey to get stuck?"
"I knew you'd see how great a theory this is. Giant spider space aliens."
"A problem with your theory, Sherlock."
"What's that?"
"Where are the webs?"
Lester thought for a minute. "Just as our earth spiders do, the alien spiders recycle their webbing through re-absorption into their butts."
Wilma burst into laughter. "Hey, Spiderman, reach into your butt and spin out some cash to pay the ticket. I've got quarters to collect from my laundromat."
Those theories make as much sense as anything I've found, thought Sem Musselman as he sat by himself, ate a Trucker's Big Breakfast, and eavesdropped on the conversations. Sem was tired. He had been up since Thursday when the bodies were found. He wanted to determine the cause of death quickly to prevent panic in the community. Even now, mid-morning, he had come to Shatterlies only to eat before he went back to the morgue.
The trouble is I don't have much to work with. I can do forensic work on only two of the bodies. The rest are too decomposed. Nothing more to do than to identify them from dental records. It may not even be murder. It could be an unscrupulous undertaker that dumped the bodies and pocketed the burial fees. It's happened before.
Sem signaled for more coffee. The more I think about it, the more likely the undertaker theory makes sense. But I perform the autopsies and come to conclusions about what caused the deaths, not propose theories about the cases. Yet I can't mark minimal facts in these cases. Forget time of death. I can't fix a date of death. All I can do is approximate.
Pastor Jake, Southern Independent Bible Fellowship, entered Shatterlies with Michael and Ezra Beech, and their sons, Daniel-17, Israel-13, Jared-9, and Elijah and Isaiah-twins of 16, Phillip-12. The nine men and boys headed for the big booth in the corner.
"The works!" cried Ezra. Mabel Mays picked up her pad and wrote scrambled eggs, pancakes, sausages, home fries, waffles, ham, pork chops, fried apples, fresh fruit, biscuits, and a large bowl of grits served family-style.
The men and boys took their seats, joined hands, and bowed their heads to pray. "Father, we thank you for another day to enjoy life on earth and to do your work. We thank you for the food we are about to eat, the hands that prepared it, and the hands that will bring it to us. We thank you for this fine restaurant, and the town we live in. Please bless our time together. Let us glorify your Name. Amen."
What will the holy boys of Beechwood say about the bodies? wondered Sem. What theories do they espouse? He set his fork down to listen.
"How's our football initiative shaping up?" asked Pastor Jake.
Daniel, a rugged, handsome senior, the starting middle linebacker for Beechwood High, said, "Coach Buckley is reluctant, but he's coming around. Today's the 28th of September. We've played five games, including the preseason. We still have five more weekends to invite the team to a retreat that begins right after a game. Some of the guys like the idea, some hesitate because their church doesn't approve of us, some might come if most of the others do--that is, if they won't be hassled about it, and some refuse to come because sex, drinking, and drugs is all they care about."
"But that might change if enough of the others come so it's the whole team, and the coach endorses it?"
"Yes sir. But the coach is afraid of the church-state issue. I think the party boys will boycott the first round, but if enough good things happen, one or two might crack and join us for another time."
"The party boys are beyond our reach,” said Elijah, who played wide receiver, the same position as his twin. “But we are neutralizing their effect on the ones that waver. Danny boycotts the football parties, but Isaiah and I feel it's necessary to go to keep an open line with these guys. Most of the players go. We could count on fifteen players plus Danny, Isaiah and me."
Daniel grinned. "You free spirits fit in with those who spend life in the fast lane, don't you? Now me, I have more serious pursuits. But those free spirits enable you to streak down the field on a pass pattern."
Elijah laughed. "Danny boy, you hit too hard. These guys can't take you yet. But Isaiah and I will soften them up for you."
Jake said, "How about the first weekend of November as a target date?"
The boys nodded.
Jake turned to Michael. "How is our program?"
"I've lined up guest speakers for all three Saturday sessions, "Becoming a Man", "The Truth about Vice", and "The Spirit in You." Saturday afternoon tubing on the Ichetucknee is set--all we have to do is notify them of the date. The Saturday night bonfire is a go--we've organized the men in the church into teams to challenge the boys in feats of daring and strength as a rite of passage into manhood.
"Sunday morning, that's your part, Jake. Sunday afternoon, we recognize the achievement and completion of the weekend with an award. The women have organized Sunday supper when the boys' families will join us."
"And the rest?"
"Set-up and logistics is covered," said Ezra.
"Great! Let's pray for it. Father in heaven, we planned this program for these athletes in response to an impetus from you. We submit our plans for your approval. Find the weaknesses and mend them. Put things into motion so that this program will take place. Protect the players from the snares of the evil one. He will do all he can to keep these players away. Prepare the boys so that when they come, it will be a meaningful, moving time for them. Above all, we give ourselves to you for the purpose of telling these young men about your Son, Jesus Christ, and inviting them to share in His salvation. We ask for your blessing upon our work. Amen."
At his table, Sem disagreed silently. They're sincere--I have to give them that. But I deal in facts. I deal with dead bodies. Dead bodies do not rise again. The physical deterioration after death makes it impossible for a resurrection to happen. That's a fact. Three days in a tomb, the body of Jesus would have been a bloated, stinking mess. These are good men, but they're deluded. They refuse to admit to what science can demonstrate. How many cultures have fallen because their religion misguided them? Fortunately, America shed her religious obsessions so she'll remain strong, free, and free of the idea that she must convert the world to her way of life.
Multi-culturalism is best . . . an openness to new cultures as people contend with life in the 21st century. The wedding last week--that's a positive thing. Two gay men promise fidelity to each other. That way, they can consummate their love without a need for prophylactic barriers because there will be no risk of disease. Isn't that the point of marriage? To protect from the consequences if we fulfilled our sexual urges like animals? If we answered Darwin's push to put as many genes as possible into the next generation? We evolved into marriage because its protections against disease and sterility, and its practical arrangements for rearing children to adulthood, were the best way for the fittest of our species to survive. Those predisposed to marriage had children with the same predisposition, and natural selection did the rest. Ergo, marriage.
The gay community follows the same path of evolution, only centuries later. Even they can propagate young, if they choose, through a surrogate mother to carry the child. Humans no longer need the idea of God to understand the world. The fact is that there are no facts that show a God exists. No evidence that a God created the world. Only the say-so of those who call themselves witnesses.
"Look at what God did for me," they say. But he never does anything for me. It's coincidence. Humans focus on what supports their existing belief and ignore whatever contradicts that belief. Give me the facts, and keep your invisible world. Live a good life because when you die, you're dead.
"Sem," Sem said aloud, “that was really profound or really stupid. When you die, you're dead. Go home and get some sleep. The case will wait."
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