Conversion - Shaun Manning

He wondered if it was wrong; probably it was. Certainly, David felt that if he tried to explain why he was here, if someone asked and he were to be honest, his motivations were less than pure; and holding impure motivations for approaching God was a terrible offence. Or so David thought. But then again, at least I’m here.

David liked the feeling of Sarah’s hand at the prayer circle. He knew he probably shouldn’t be thinking about that, but he did. It was great. In the circle, and in the after-school worship group, David did believe in God. He could feel Him. A presence in the room, indescribable, light, pervasive. He listened to other students witness, giving thanks to the Lord, explaining how they found His love even after the horrible things they’ve done. David didn’t think most of the things sounded so horrible. The sins. Most of the sins. One girl had slept with her boyfriend, another boy had blasphemed. The guy who sat in front of David in Algebra confessed to lusting after other men, but thanked God for the willpower to resist temptation. Nothing so earth-shattering. But if it took this intense regret to find this blissful happiness, maybe he would give it a try. I’m not perfect, he thought, and concentrated on the cool skin turning warm of Sarah’s palm.

“We ask these things in the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Saviour, amen.”

It was like a code. There seemed to be some strict rules, or like a formula, that had to be just right for a prayer to work, or to be a prayer at all. Yet Sarah spoke so effortlessly, the most natural thing in the world. Sometimes there were slight variations in the words, depending who was leading, but the pattern was the same. David thought he’d never speak out in the circle, or in the group, in case he got it wrong. They would forgive him (all of them were terribly forgiving) but he could never be one of them after that. He’d be outside, a hanger-on. Like now, except they’d all know, and that would be worse.

David’s mother died on the same date as Kurt Cobain, and in the same way. The two events were unrelated, but David nevertheless experienced what the psychologists called “transference.” He would listen to Nirvana albums over and over. He sat, rocking, cross-legged, in his room singing through gnashed teeth, mimicking the tragic blonde-haired rock star he’d seen in videos. “Breed” was David’s favourite song when he was in a good mood; when he was not, “Dumb.” David longed for a new Nirvana album. It had been three years since Unplugged, and From the Muddy Banks of the Wishkah didn’t count. Three years.

“Great,” Sarah said, and David tried to think back over the last few minutes to see what she was reacting to, he’d completely zoned out. He was somewhere else. But now something was great. Sarah turned to him. “David, are you coming?”

“Ah, sure. Great. Yeah.”

“Do you know where it is? Or do you need a ride?”

“If you’ve got room,” he said, deciding this would solve a few problems, and grant him a few more minutes with Sarah, wherever they were going.

“Cool. You can ride with Matt and Jess. See you there!”

Great. Matt and Jess were the prayer group’s model couple, too perfect, straight off the showroom floor. No one really liked them, but for exactly the same reason nobody didn’t like them, either. They were complete unto themselves, set apart from the rest of the world by this aura, this glow they gave off. Each other was all they needed, each other and God. David would ride in the back seat. Sarah would see him “there,” which he hoped was not far away.

In the car, Jess turned around to face David as Matt pulled out of the lot. “Have you been to Coffee House before?” Her lips were glossy, and her eyes projected an otherworldly sparkle. For a moment, David forgot to speak.

“Er, no. No, I’m sort of new to the group.” He added, “haven’t really been out with everybody yet.”

“You’ll like it,” she said. “It’s a little less formal, you know, it’s like it is witnessing but it isn’t? We just get to know each other, and that’s its own thing.”

David decided this was probably where they were going. He’d seen Xeroxed posters up in the local cafe. They called meetings at coffee houses Coffee House, as a proper noun. Venue as event. David was getting a feel for their language, like “witnessing,” which meant talking about God rather than just seeing something. Coffee House happened every week. David hadn’t been invited before. What changed? Maybe nothing. Right place, right time. Maybe they were beginning to accept him, and David worried he might not be deserving. He hadn’t made any sort of virtuous sacrifice, didn’t even go to church, just attended the school group because it made him feel good, made him feel clean and full and like he might make it through the next few years in one piece. And because he could hold Sarah’s hand and feel this gentle ripple of life through it. David was surprised to hear Nirvana’s “About a Girl” on Matt’s radio.

“Matt, could you turn that off?” Jess had retreated into her seat, facing forward.

“What? I like this song,” Matt said. David did not like the song, not really, the acoustic version of a forgotten single overplayed for months following the death, now whenever it cropped up it was like hearing a bad joke for the seventh time. But he hoped Matt would not turn the channel.

“It’s...” Jess’s light dimmed, just slightly. “You know how I feel about this kind of music.” Matt gave her a look David knew well, but had never expected to see on Matt’s face. Matt clicked off the radio.

When David was in sixth grade, his family drove up to Minnesota to visit an aunt and uncle, and their new baby. On the way, they stopped off at the Cracker Barrel for dinner, a rare treat that, because of its remote location, was only enjoyed on the path up north. David always liked eating there because of the peg games on the tables and the smelly blocks of cheese. His mother, though, was now saying that she’d read something in the paper, that she didn’t want to eat there anymore. She didn’t want to support whatever they were doing, or weren’t doing, or whatever. David didn’t really follow. He just wanted to skip wooden pegs as he waited for a hot plate of pancakes and bacon. David’s father lowered his eyes, tilted his head in a particular way. He started the engine again, and they ate at Ram’s Horn instead.

The silence in Matt and Jess’s car continued until they reached the cafe, which was not far but just far enough. David stretched out of the car, looking around to see who else had arrived. A skinny boy with black hair was walking toward the door, and there was a guy that played football for the school just getting out of his own car. Other than that David did not recognize anybody. There were a few cars and trucks in the lot, but David would not have any reason to know who owned them. David hoped that he and Matt and Jess, and the two other guys whose names he did not know, would not be the first from their group inside.

“Hi guys,” Sarah greeted them just inside the door. David smiled instinctively. “We’re just over here, in the big booth.”

David, Matt, and Jess sidled in to the large circular booth, inching to the middle to allow others best access and tossed their jackets ledge behind their heads. The two other boys David had seen enter were at the bar chatting to the baristas. David scanned the menu, occasionally looking up to Sarah. He wished she’d sit down, with him, but being the hostess she just leaned against a nearby bust of Kierkegard and waited for the rest of the group to arrive.

“What’s good?” David asked. He’d intended the question for Sarah but Jess was the first to respond.

“I like the Mad Cup. It’s three shots of espresso, coffee, and hot chocolate, with whipped cream and chocolate sauce on top. It’s gritty and sweet and horrible and wonderful all at once.”

“It’s diabetes in a mug, is what it is,” Matt joked. He was grinning. Jess was too. This was a bit, something they pull out to be clever. Not a real argument. Not like in the car. David returned their warm glances.

“I’ll give that a try.”

Sarah was wandering toward the door to welcome an overweight freshman whose name might have been Nick or Nathan, and a girl dressed in pink. Meanwhile, the quarterback and scrawny kid had finished flirting with the university students working the bars, and presently deposited themselves themselves next to Matt in the booth. Their huge mugs of coffee sloshed out when plopped on the table.

“S’up Matt, Jess,” the footballer said with an upward nod. He leaned forward to get a look at David’s face, then extended his arm across both his friends to shake David’s hand. “Hey, I’m Josh.” David introduced himself, and learned the skinny boy was called Squirrel. Nick-or-Nathan revealed himself to be just Nick, and the pink girl was Lori. Despite having half a bench clear, each person sitting down squeezed in beside the last, gradually pushing David out toward the aisle. Finally satisfied that no-one else was on the way, Sarah slid in next to him.

“I saw the most amazing show on TV last night...” Sarah’s hands moved precisely, rhythmically as she spoke. David couldn’t listen to her words, only her hands. The show sounded incredible. Sarah leaned forward to grab a packet of sugar, and David noticed the shiny pink of her underwear peeking out from the lip of her pants. He wondered if he should ask forgiveness, and if so, whether he should ask it of God or Sarah.

It was not long, possibly less than a week, after his mother died that David saw a girl’s underpants for the first time, at least the first time that could be considered interesting. Nobody at school knew about his mother, or they seemed not to, and David was determined to keep it to himself. At least for now. Until he knew what to do, how exactly he was meant to react. But the secret made him bolder.

“...then I went down to the mall, got a cute t-shirt and some panties with bows on them.” Her name was Amanda, and David didn’t have any business talking to her. But he did. And she was talking back.

“Ugh. Panties is such an awful word,” he said, surprised as the word burst from his lips.

“Say it again.”

“Panties.” David blushed, then almost recovered. Then, remembering they were in the middle of a group assignment in Geography class, blushed again. “And what’s with the bows? Who, exactly are you trying to impress?”

Amanda said nothing, but pulled down the side of her jeans quickly to show David the bunched twirl decorating her hip. David would never forget her strange smile as the denim snapped back to form.

David wished he could be so confident with Sarah. Not to talk about lingerie, probably that would be a mistake, but just to string two sentences together. Just to listen to what she had to say rather than losing himself in her movements.

They were talking across him, and David followed the conversation with his eyes to give the appearance of participation. If he laughed at the right times, sipped his syrupy-sweet coffee at the right moments, he would be in the game.

“I just don’t get the fascination with ‘ER,’ Sarah was saying, “it feels like it goes on and on, with a bunch of really awful stuff happening that never seems to go anywhere, then they’re on to a new thing next week. It’s like watching your parents at work, if your parents had the most depressing job in the world.”

“My parents do have the most depressing job in the world, if that’s what being a doctor is,” Matt said, not altogether kindly. “But anyway, it’s not anything like on ‘ER.’”

Jess touched Matt’s shoulder, and leaned in as if to speak from his mouth. “Well, we don’t live in Chicago, either. Nothing that bad ever happens here.” She paused to drink coffee through a straw. “And your dad doesn’t look like George Clooney.”

“That’s the other thing I don’t get,” Sarah continued. “George Clooney is super-old. Well, not super- old, but old. Grey hair old. And his head is square. Why’s everyone think he’s so hot?”

“Because he is?” Pink Girl (Lauren? Lori?) offered. “Sean Connery’s old, and he’s still hot.” Sarah and Jess let out simultaneous “eewws.” The boys puffed air out their mouths, an emphatic statement that they had no opinion in the matter and were disgusted to have to think about it.

“I think it’s meant to be about the characters.” Everyone turned to David as he jumped in to the conversation, timid but effective. “‘ER,’ it’s about how the doctors relate to each other, their little stories, rather than whatever crisis is in that episode.”

“Sort of like ‘Buffy,’” Squirrel chipped in, “except ‘Buffy’ is more realistic.”

Everyone laughed. “We are not having a conversation about ‘Buffy the Vampire Slayer’ again,” Matt concluded, slapping the table with his open hand. Again with the smile. He could turn it on and off. David wondered if anybody else noticed.

He’d learned to watch people, look for signs of secret life, but David still could not be sure of his conclusions. It could mean anything. Matt’s hidden cynicism might betray still darker tendencies, or David might be misreading the situation entirely. Another part of Matt’s humour, just one of the million things that make a person unique. David had been wrong before. Three weeks before his mother’s death, David had thought she was getting better. The doctors had let her out of hospital after a six months’ stay, given her some medicine and said she should be fine so long as David and his father kept an eye on her. Those three weeks after her release, it was nearly right. Nearly how David had remembered his mother. Her eyes focused. She recognized her family, showed them love, cooked a few meals. Of course she could not go back to work yet, but she would. She had stopped, or mostly stopped, talking to people who weren’t there. She only twice screamed at David’s father in violent, uncomprehending words, blaming him for everything she had been through. Only one of those times resulted in shattered plates and glasses, thrown from the kitchen against far walls. Oh well, whatever,

Nevermind.

Did David enjoy Coffee House? He told himself he did, not entirely convinced. He did not have much in common with the group, except for their shared religion, and David’s neophyte sense of Christianity left him on shaky ground even on that front. It was good to get a feeling for Matt, Jess, and the others outside the context of their informal church, but David felt they could never be friends. Not even friends like the ones he already had, the ones for which he no longer felt he had any connection, those friends he’d had for years just because he’d had them for years. Sarah, though, David liked to think they could be friends. Sarah was as she was. Just Sarah. The same joy David had seen in prayer circle, the same inquisitiveness he’d seen in class, her voice buzzing as David would stare intently at the back of her head, Sarah’s chestnut hair in a sloppy ponytail or falling to a bob. She could talk about God, or math, or television, and she was great. “Great.” “Awesome.” That was another one of her words. “Awesome,” “Great,” “Amazing.” Maybe not just friends. But no. David wasn’t the kind of guy that girls liked that way, he was no hero.

“‘I weep for Adonais—he is dead!’” David remembered the day’s English class. Mr. Burkett’s voice was a voice that commanded attention. “Now, why do you think Shelley refers to his friend by this name, a name out of mythology?”

Mr. Burkett’s honours English class was the only bit of school that really held David’s interest. He could fill in equations in math or science, drudge up famous battles in history, and conjugate assorted verbs in Spanish, not quite at the top of his class, but well enough. Literature, though, especially literature he almost but did not quite understand, that was what got him through the long day. That, and the nearness of Sarah.

“It seems like he wants Keats to be remembered as a hero.” The back of her head is magic. David’s tongue moves involuntarily across the inside of his lips as he stares at Sarah’s neck.

“Very good, Sarah. And how else does he do this? David?” Mr. Burkett smiles as David jolts to attention.

“He’s, ah, Shelley writes the poem as Adonais’s story, rather than Keat’s, to say... to say they’re the same.” See, he was listening. Staring, but listening as well. Mr. Burkett noticed him staring. David hopes his teacher was the only one. I’m not the only one, ah-ah-ah-ah, I’m na’thee only one...

“Good. And John, what here suggests...”

David still heard Mr. Burkett’s words as he fluttered into somewhere else, somewhere near sleep, a dream at the mercy of the outside world. The teacher read, “The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe / Soothe her pale rage,” and David saw a fat grey beast, naked, slumbering, its almost-human face dribbling a thick black liquid from its horrible mouth. Two fairies danced around it, and Aquaman swam up to its breast, testing his spear against the thing’s hide. David is not sure which one of these is him, the animal or the fairies or Aquaman, and he is slightly annoyed that Aquaman should turn up at all, since he can't imagine where this bit of dream-stuff would come from. He hasn’t watched Super-friends since he was a kid, in the Brown House. Everything in the house where he grew up was brown, or felt like it was brown, brown and yellow in that early 1980s height of suburban fashion, dull beige walls bringing out the brown in wood highlights, the brown dining room table, the piss-coloured felt couch. That house before they moved to Wolverston. (Now they’re all in the brown house, Aquaman, the fairies, the beast.) David watches Super-friends and listens, not listening, to his parents arguing quietly in the kitchen. In the dream they call each other Adonais and Urania, and David hears his mother say, “They ne’er will gather strength, or find a home again.”

That was hours ago, and the dream-poem lingered like a cloud of gnats inside his head. Now, On the way out of the cafe, as rides were divvied up for those without cars, it was determined that David lived nearest Josh the Football Hero, and would thus be his passenger, along with Lori. Lori didn’t live near either of them, she just wanted to ride with Josh and Josh was happy to accommodate. This was going to be worse than hitching with Matt and Jess.

“You can come with me, David,” Sarah stepped in. “It’s not too far from my house.”

Once inside the car, they searched a bit for things to talk about. “It’s really awesome you could come along tonight,” Sarah said. Awesome. “How are you finding our group?”

“It’s, ah, thanks for having me.” David tried to think of something that wouldn’t sound cheesy. “I think it’s great you have a group like this.”

“‘We,’” Sarah said. “It’s your group now, too.” She paused for a second. “By the way, I don’t think you ever said, what church do you go to?”

David ran his fingers through his hair, and laughed weakly. Sarah gave a smile that could be comforting. “It’s alright,” she said, “everyone comes to the Lord in their own way.” David thought probably everyone else’s way was better.

“Where do you go?” he asked.

“St. Dan’s. You should come by sometime.”

“I’m not Catholic.”

“How do you know?” This was a warmer smile, she was joking with him now, enjoying it. Sarah was enjoying his company. But then, David thought, this was a joke she could have with anybody. It wasn’t him, not anything particular to him turned her sweet. It’s just how she was.

“I have been to a Catholic church, once,” he said. “It was for a wedding, some guy my dad knew. I think some guy my dad did business with. There was a lot of hand-shaking, at the, you know, the reception. A lot of, ‘Hi, congratulations, my name is Kevin Johnson, here’s my card...’”

Sarah laughed again.

“Anyway,” David continued, “the ceremony was alright. A little complicated, with the crossing yourself and standing and kneeling.”

“Yeah, Catholic church is a workout,” Sarah agreed. “But at least they give you a snack when you’re done.”

David looked at her, twice, and turned away with a grin. Then, noticing where they were, he told Sarah to take a left at the next light.

“You live out here? Nobody lives out here,” she said, completing the turn.

“And we’re not even all the way ‘out here’ yet. So,” David said, “where do you live around? You said it wasn’t far...”

“It’s not that close, either. A few miles back the way we came.”

“Man, I’m sorry,” David said, feeling a sudden loss of the comfort he’d built up. “Didn’t mean to make you come all this way.”

“What was I going to do, leave you with Josh and Lori? Get real. They’re, you know, great people, I’m sure they’ll make a super couple, but I wouldn’t want to be around as they’re becoming a super couple. You know? And I wouldn’t put you in that spot, either.”

“You barely know me.” David instantly regrets it.

“Well, we’re doing something about that now, right?”

David thought back to his mother’s funeral, and the speech his father gave. He recounted the story of how they’d met, when David’s mother was protesting outside the advertising agency where he was serving as an intern. David’s mother screamed louder than anyone, was most inventive with her curses, had the best placard. David’s father watched her all day from the small office’s window, in between making copies and typing addresses into a database. At the end of his shift, he snuck out the back way and conspired to meet her as the picketers dispersed. He says he doesn’t remember what she was protesting, which David doubts. David doubts the whole story, it’s a side of his mother he never knew. But his father has no reason to lie, and by the end of the eulogy he’s softly crying into the sleeve of his suit jacket. David felt strange to think that there was so much about his mother he didn’t know, that even now there was something people weren’t telling him. Possibly it, whatever it was, didn’t really matter; but it mattered to him.

The click of the cassette tape turning over snaps David back to the car, and he wonders how long he’s been silent. It can’t have been long, Sarah would have had to ask him for directions at the fork leading to two unnamed dirt roads. When the tape starts up again, David is surprised to hear “Heart Shaped Box.”

“You like Nirvana?”

“I’m just full of surprises, right?” She rolls her eyes, like maybe she’s heard this before. David cannot tell whether she expects him to disapprove. “I don’t have any of their albums,” she continued, “my parents would flip. You know, what with the... and the music itself. But Stephen made me this tape a while back, and I kind of like it. Anyways, it’s got Newsboys too, to keep up my Christian street cred.”

Stephen? David swallowed hard, let in too big of a pause. “Oh, and who’s Stephen?” he said, trying to sound sassy and disinterested.

“My brother. Why, were you jealous?” Sarah did sassy better. David didn’t bother answering, it was obvious anyway. Instead, he sang quietly to the tape, in his tinny, toneless voice.

“Not like that,” Sarah said, and David felt himself blush. “You’ve got to get more into it.” At Hey! Wait! I’ve got a new complaint, Sarah pulled a surprising face, whipped her head like a rock star, and held a suitably ironic smile for your priceless advice, all the while singing in a raspy, agonised voice remarkably in line with Kurt Cobain’s.

“Wow, that’s really good,” David said. “But I don’t have the hair for it.” He tried it with her, to show he was a good sport. He’d go along with pretty much anything, to not let her down.

The song finished, and David pointed to the right to indicate Sarah’s next turn. David was exhausted, but also tingling, aware of each atom in his body. He hadn’t thrown his entire physical being into music in the company of another person since he was maybe twelve years old, and not ever in this way. Not ever to Nirvana.

“So...” David began, unsure of what he was saying and very sure he shouldn’t be saying it, “so... your religion. Pretty much all Christian religions, they say suicides go to hell, right?”

“That’s what the Bible says. Despair is the one unforgivable sin.”

“What do you think?”

“I think there are some good reasons that’s in the Bible. Doesn’t mean it’s true across the board.”

“I thought it was the word of God. God can’t be wrong. Right?”

“It’s the revealed word of God. Any time you’ve got somebody in the middle who decides what gets revealed, there’s a bit of fudge room.” She stopped. “I could go into some pretty lengthy and not-very- interesting philosophies, but that’s not really what you asked, is it?”

“No, I don’t suppose so. No.” He thought for a minute. “Just wondering, is all. To know what people think. If you’re allowed to, I guess, disagree.”

“Of course you’re allowed to disagree,” Sarah said. “This isn’t the dark ages.”

“Sure about that?” The words felt sincere, but David was not sure what he meant by them. He also suspected he was starting to sound creepy, as he led this poor girl out into sparsely-populated country estates. But maybe he sounded dark and mysterious. He couldn’t do dark and mysterious on purpose, but if that’s how he came off so much the better.

There was a pause that felt like ages as the car rolled up to a stop sign. Sarah bit her lip. She pointed left and right down Holingbrook Road, David’s street. “Which way?”

“Left,” he said. “Listen, I’m sorry for the heavy talk.”

“Oh, it’s no problem. I don’t know how I came to be the authority on God-talk, but here I am, and I’m happy to help however I can.” The car was rolling very slow, so that David was noticing little bits of his neighbourhood he’d never seen before. A rickety dog house beneath an old tree, shuddering in the wind; the black lake showing darker against the black night. Little bits he’d always speed by, the car or bike quaking in the road’s pot-holes.

“Thanks for saying so. But you shouldn’t have to be ‘on-call’ all the time.” The painted rock, now chipped and worn, emblazoned with celebratory graffiti from last year’s graduating class. “Especially... I don’t know. I feel stupid. For me, to spill all this crap on you, of all people.”

“‘Me of all people?’ And why’s that?” The tyre tracks in the grass near the road, where visitors pull off to park.

“Mm. Ha.”

“Which one is it?”

“What?”

“Which house?”

“Oh. Just up here, on the right.”

Sarah stopped the car beside an impossibly steep driveway. “Well,” she said. “Here we are.” Sarah squeezed his arm gently and wished him good night.

“Good night,” David said, coming out of the car, stepping out of his head. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem,” she said. Sarah suddenly looked very tired, or possibly something else. “See you tomorrow.”

It was no longer light, but not yet dark, as David walked slowly up to his house. Sarah honked the horn as she drifted back onto the street, and David waved as the car rolled into the purple-grey evening. When it had pulled out of sight, David repeated the Hey! Wait! dance in miniature, to himself, and twisted his arms out to feel all he was capable of feeling.

Originally published by Roanoke Review 2009

Shaun Manning is the writer and co-creator of the graphic novels Macbeth: The Red King, Interesting Drug, and Hell, Nebraska, and has written for Star Wars Adventures, Thought Bubble, Edgar Allan Poe's Snifter of Blood, and other comics anthology series. He was a staff writer for Comic Book Resources during its multiple Eisner Award-winning era and has contributed to SYFY Wire, Publishers Weekly, and other publications.Shaun worked in sales and marketing for University of Michigan Press for ten years and has written a number of features for U-M's Arts and Culture News. Shaun and his wife own Booksweet, a community-focused bookstore in Ann Arbor, Michigan.