Father of Lies by Brian Evenson

clergy.

CHAPTER 1
    Blessing
    Near evening the girl passes the house again, this time looking distraught. I watch her walk before the front window, slowly, swaying her slight hips. The salad tongs are motionless and caught in my hands.
    She disappears beyond the hedge.
    At the other end of the table, my youngest daughter is refusing to eat. My wife attempts to interest her in bits of chicken, eventually resorting to pushing them between the girl’s teeth. My daughter keeps her lips closed. My wife begins to threaten, my daughter to cry.
    I quickly finish my plate, then pull my youngest from her high chair. I take her to the sink, splashing water on her face and hands. Removing her bib, I dry her face with the reverse of it, then lower her to the floor. She takes a few awkward steps along the side of the cabinet, then lets go, staggers out of the room.
    â€œShe’ll never learn to eat if you keep doing that,” my wife says. “You spoil her.”
    â€œBe gentle with her,” I say. “Give her time.”
    The girl outside is still transfixed in my head, the ghost of her still passing the window. She was distraught, I tell myself, or so sheappeared. Perhaps she is in need of a little spiritual counsel. It is my duty to care for my flock, to look after the sheep, to give my life fully over to them and to the Lord. I should, the Holy Spirit tells me, seek her out to offer her comfort. But I can hardly just leave, can I? What would my wife think?
    And then the Lord shows me the way.
    I go into my study and close the door behind me. I dial the number for my congregation’s volunteer secretary.
    â€œAllen,” I say. “Provost here.”
    â€œThe provost?” he says. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œProvost here,” I say. “Why would anything be wrong? Just a little question for you.”
    â€œShoot,” he says.
    I bang the telephone against the tabletop.
    â€œAllen?” I say at some distance from the receiver. “Allen? Are you there?”
    â€œWhat?” he says. I can hear his voice perfectly. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
    â€œCan you hear me, Allen?” I ask. “Are you still there?”
    â€œI’m here,” he says. “Can’t you hear me?”
    â€œSomething must be wrong with the line. I’ve been having trouble with this telephone all day. I am going to hang up. If you are hearing this, call me back. Call me back immediately.”
    I hang up the telephone. Waiting, I stare at my reflection in the handpiece’s white plastic until the telephone begins to ring. I let it ring twice, to be sure my wife hears it, but snatch it up before my wife can think to pick up the extension.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œIt’s Allen,” he says. “Can you hear me now?”
    â€œYes,” I say. “I can hear you perfectly.”
    â€œWhat was wrong?”
    â€œJust one of those things,” I say.
    â€œYou should have the line looked at,” he says. “Well, what can I do for you?”
    I invent something on the spur of the moment, pretending I have lost the schedule of Sunday’s church interviews. He rummages out a copy from his file and reads the list to me. I pretend to write the names and times of the appointments down, then, thanking him, hang up the telephone.
    â€œWho just called?” my wife asks when I step out of the den.
    â€œAllen,” I say. “Something has come up. I’ll have to go over to the church building for a few hours.”
    â€œTonight?” she asks. “Can’t it wait?”
    â€œTonight. Emergency. Can’t be helped.”
    â€œTake the baby out of the bath before you go,” she says.
    â€œI wish I could,” I say. “But this one is urgent.” I come close to her and embrace her, kiss her damp forehead. “I’m late as it is. I’ll make it up to you, honey,” I say. “Promise.”
    I see her again just