Cold Ennaline

“W
E
’
RE
HERE
to perform a miracle.”

The woman at the door is thin and has a sharp face like a rodent. I guess she’s about twenty, but looks closer to thirty. Wrinkles crease her forehead and pucker the skin above her upper lip. There’s a small child tucked under her arm, the way another woman might clutch her purse.

“You what?” she asks.

“We’re here to perform a miracle,” Father Nerve repeats himself.

Another child starts howling somewhere inside the house. “Moooommm.” The woman doesn’t react.

“You’re from the faith,” she says. “My husband said you would come. I thought it… I thought it would take longer.”

“We go where we feel the greatest need is,” says Father Nerve. “And you do need us now, don’t you, Mrs. Evans.”

The woman—Mrs. Evans—avoids his gaze and looks at the top of her child’s head. She touches the swirl of fair hair at its crown. “Yes,” she says, in a smaller, quieter voice. “Yes, we need you.”

Father Nerve nods in a way that’s partly agreement and partly a bow, a faithful gesture of reverence. “I am Father Nerve, and these are my companions, Ro and Ray Piedmont, and Ennaline Whitehall. May we come in, Mrs. Evans?”

Mrs. Evans raises her head and frowns. I can tell she’s looking past me to the twins, who are standing very still and straight, like perfectly matched bookends. The twins are beautiful, with fair skin, near-black eyes, and thick, dark hair. Even wearing the dull, brown and beige-colored clothes of the faith (we try to avoid wearing anything that might make us feel vain), they look like they don’t fit in.

“Who are—” Mrs. Evans begins, but the twins are one step ahead of her.

“We’re Ro and Ray,” says Ro, bowing. “We’re the sons of Father Piedmont, from Gazing.”

“We’re in training,” Ray says, also bowing. “One day we hope to preach, like our father.”

Their drawling Texan accents, so at odds with their exotic looks, seem to reassure Mrs. Evans. She smiles for the first time. For a second her gaze flickers over me, but not for long. In my simple beige smock, I’m completely unremarkable.

“You should come in,” she says.

T
HE
HOUSE
is smaller on the inside than it looks, and the ceiling is low and bare. There’s a strong smell of urine and dogs. The hall and the living room are sparsely furnished, and all the furniture is wooden. In the kitchen is a small wood-fueled stove, which seems to be the only source of heating. I imagine it gets very cold in the house during the winter months.

There are no books in the house, not even a magazine or a newspaper. And of course there’s no TV or radio. This is a good indicator that we’ve made the right decision to come to the Evans’s home, rather than any of the other people who’ve asked for a miracle. The Evanses seem to be faith full people.

Father Nerve walks into the kitchen and immediately settles himself at the table. The twins swish around to flank him. I’m always impressed by the way Father Nerve can seem to
own
a place seconds after entering it. Father Nerve is a tall, narrow man in his sixties, and with his chalk white hair and patrician nose, he’s an intimidating figure.

“Tell me what has happened here,” says Father Nerve.

“I….” The woman holds her child tighter. The second child has appeared and is hiding behind her skirts. “I’m not sure how to start, Father.”

“What was the first thing that made you think there had been evil at work here?”

She thinks, her head to one side, still twirling the child’s lock. “It was the calf,” she says. “It was born
wrong
.”

“Wrong?”

“It was black, and it smelled like something burning. When my husband cut it open, all its insides were cracked and peeling and covered in ash.”

I’ve taught myself to show no sign of revulsion at the stories we hear, but I do feel a twinge of fear.

“And after the calf?”

“After the calf, our crops began to wilt. We thought it was the soil at first, and then we found out that a truck carrying oil had crashed near our land. The oil got into our water somehow, this black, floating oil…. I don’t know.” She pauses. “My husband could explain this better, I’m sure.”

“And after the crops?”

“My husband got a cough. He’s a very healthy man. He’s always been a healthy man. But now he coughs and sometimes he coughs so hard that when he stops there’s black stuff in his hands.”

“Why do you think this is happening to you, Mrs. Evans?”

This is where things often get tricky. A lot of people deny they’ve done anything wrong—they’re too ashamed. That means we can’t work our miracle because you need to know the source of the evil before you can be healed. But Mrs. Evans is a faith full woman. She sighs.

“My husband’s mother was ill. We didn’t go to help her. We were told by our Father to visit her, it was our duty, but we were… we were busy. We did not make the time for her. We were selfish.”

“Do you think your husband’s mother placed a curse on you?”

“No. She’s a good woman. She wouldn’t do that.” She sounds so certain I can only assume that this avenue of inquiry has already been explored.

“I see.” Father Nerve presses his hands together, and the twins and I take the cue and clasp our hands too. We murmur the First Prayer of the god as Father Nerve continues. “You need a miracle. We will work here to cleanse your house. Your children will need to go. You must send them to your neighbors.”

Mrs. Evans nods but makes no motion to leave….

Father Nerve’s tone grows testy. “Go, now.”

Mrs. Evans appears to suddenly grasp that an
action
is now expected of her. With apologies, and her head low, she gathers her children and leaves the house.

T
HIS—THE
time when we’re finally alone in someone’s house—is our busy time. Immediately the twins spring into action, scouting out the lay of the structure. As they go they set up our “accessories.” A tiny speaker tucked under a chair, a thread tied to a door handle, a small package of dye slipped between the bed sheets. When we perform our miracle, we will use these for dramatic effect.

When I first became Father Nerve’s companion, I wasn’t sure about the accessories. It felt like the mind games and petty tricks of a magician, or worse, a con man. But Father Nerve explained that the real reason for the accessories is to strengthen people’s belief in the god.

I help Ro and Ray replace the lightbulb in the living room with a special bulb Father Nerve created, which shines like a regular lightbulb for an hour before starting to flicker and flash. We finish setting up just in time. Then Mrs. Evans is back again, without her children but with her husband.

The husband is a thin, narrow-faced man with heavily veined forearms and broken capillaries across his face. He’s too shy to speak to Father Nerve and only manages to mumble out a welcome.

“We will begin,” says Father Nerve. “Come to the kitchen table.”

We all sit around the table—Father Nerve between the couple and me between the twins. We all link hands, entwining our fingers. The twins’ hands are warm and dry; I always hope mine aren’t clammy. I bow my head, but not before I see Ro wink at me out of the corner of my eye.

Father Nerve says, “The hole is here. We will close it.”

We begin to pray. Our first prayer is to the earth and the second is to the sky and the third is a prayer for the hole itself. During the third prayer, we hear a scratching noise, like something clawing inside the walls or floor of the house. Mr. and Mrs. Evans exchange fearful looks. I know the sound is made by the twins. Their shoe soles are embedded with small metal hooks, and they’re using them to scrape the floorboards.

“The god is listening,” says Father Nerve, and at that very moment the light in the living room starts to flicker.

Mrs. Evans gasps, and her husband makes a rumbling, scared noise in the back of his throat….

We all stand up and go into the living room. A door bangs loudly. A shrill, animal noise whistles out from the next room, followed by the sound of something burning. The Evanses grab each other. Father Nerve holds out his arms and prays to the god. Flecks of dust, and then corn and seeds, fall from his fingertips. This, I know, is another invention of the twins—two cylinders filled with grain that begin to spill when Father Nerve’s arms are fully extended—but it looks very dramatic.

The sounds of the fire get louder and louder. We all move through the house, praying. In the master bedroom, Father Nerve gets down on his knees and presses his hands onto the middle of the bedspread.

“There is a poison here,” he says, and a black oil begins to ooze up from the sheets.

Mrs. Evans screams and presses her head against her husband’s chest. “We’re sorry,” she moans. “We’re so sorry.”

We all return to the kitchen, which is now in disarray—plates are smashed, dishcloths are torn, and the table is upended. The twins have really outdone themselves. Mrs. Evans looks faint, and her husband isn’t in a much better state.

Father Nerve raises his hand to the sky and shouts the words of the fourth prayer, the prayer calling for the end of all things. When he finishes, the house becomes silent.

“We are done here,” says Father Nerve.

“Th-thank you,” mumbles Mr. Evans, looking at his ruined kitchen.

“You and your wife need to leave the house now. We must bless each room to ensure the evil does not return. Go to your children and reassure them that everything will be fine. Tell them that the god is merciful and that the hole is closed. Your crops will be healthy this year.”

The Evanses stumble out. I wonder how it feels to be them right now, to have the might of the god exposed to them, to really
see
(as far as they know) evidence of the evil that has plagued them. They are so fortunate.

I hope they know that.

W
ITH
THE
Evanses gone, Father Nerve performs his blessings while the twins and I run around the house, removing all trace of the accessories. We’re finished in twenty minutes, so we go out to the car to wait for Father Nerve. As usual, I have to sit in the middle of the backseat while the twins sit on either side of me—a tight squeeze. We aren’t allowed to sit in the front passenger seat because, until we turn eighteen, we’re still considered children in the eyes of the faith.

“That was a good one,” says Ro.

Ray nods. “Very lucky with the timing on the light. I wonder if we could rig up an effect like that with a remote. Click a button and the light starts flashing.”

“Nice job with the kitchen, Enna,” Ro adds, poking me in the leg. “Even
I
was surprised. We didn’t see you leave.”

“I didn’t do anything to the kitchen,” I say.

“Ha-ha,” says Ray. “You know how Father Nerve feels about liars, don’t you?”

I’m not lying. I can’t tell if they’re messing with me or not. I put my hands together in my lap and bite my lip. Looking out the car window, I can see Father Nerve leaving the house.

“Come on, Enna, before the old man gets back,” says Ro. “Which one of us do you want to marry?”

Ray grins. “We know you’ve been thinking about it.”

It’s true. There have been some discussions about who I will marry when I come of age, but that’s four years away—well, three and a half. The twins are the same age as me, and we are companions of the same Father, so I suppose it’s inevitable that I will marry one of them. I’m not sure if I want to, though. Not because I don’t love the twins but because I don’t believe I’ll make a good wife.

“I don’t know,” I say. “It’s up to Father Nerve and Father
Piedmont.”

“But if you had to choose,” Ray presses.

“I’m never going to choose,” I say, “so why even think about it?”

“Come onnnnn, Enna. I’m the cutest, aren’t I?”

“No, I’m the cutest. And I’m taller. And smarter.”

“Okay, fine,” I say. “I want to marry Ro.”

I’ve timed my response so that Father Nerve opens the door the second after I speak. The twins both have their mouths open,
desperate
to ask me why, but of course they can’t talk about it now in front of Father Nerve. They wriggle and squirm in an agony of questions while I smile to myself.

“You look very happy with yourself, Ennaline,” says Father Nerve, sitting down.

“I feel today went very well,” I say pleasantly. “I am happy I got to serve the god with you.”

The twins are going red in the face.

“I’m not sure it
did
go well,” says Father Nerve, as we pull away from the Evans’s house. The tires sink and crunch on the mud-and-gravel driveway. “I couldn’t close the hole completely. Something may come through again.”

“Why couldn’t you close the hole?”

“The bishop has told me that the god is awakening,” says Father Nerve. “He is pleased with us and the prayers we have spoken in his name. The holes we have been seeing lately are holes he has made as he rises to meet us.”