Father of Lies by Brian Evenson Page A

as she passes into the trees, her white shirt aglow in the near dark. Parking the car a block from the path, I walk quickly to the guardrail and slip over it, splashing across the creek, shallow now for late summer, and cut across through Max Barton’s field. Pushing through the rows of corn, I ease over the barbed wire backing the field, slip into the woods beyond.
    The woods are denser than I expect, the sight of the field soon lost. The aspen have grown close together, the bark peeling into paper-thin curls, bushes and undergrowth between the trees. I push in, branches and leaves cracking like bones beneath my feet.
    I come through the bushes into a clearing to find the girl there, facing the other way, sitting on a large rock with ungodly phrases spray painted all over it. She is scratching at the dirt with a stick. She has been weeping, I see, her makeup streaked with tears, her eyes gone thick and black around the rims where the mascara is melted and smeary.
    â€œIs anything the matter?” I ask.
    She startles, springs up and looks around. I come slowly forward through the bushes so that she can see the whole of me, my face too.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” she asks.
    â€œDon’t you know who I am?”
    â€œOf course I know who you are,” she says. “I see you every Sunday.”
    â€œI am glad you know who I am,” I say. “I didn’t think you knew.”
    â€œI do,” she says.
    â€œWhy haven’t you ever introduced yourself? Why have you never made an appointment to see me?”
    She scratches in the dirt a little. “I thought you were busy,” she says. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
    â€œIt’s no bother,” I say. “I feel I should get to know all the young people in my congregation. They’re the future of the Church. The young people are the ones who need me most.”
    I step a little farther into the clearing, leaning my back against the bole of a tree while motioning for her to sit on the rock. She looks briefly over but remains standing.
    â€œHow did you know I was here?” she asks.
    â€œYou’ve been crying, haven’t you?”
    She looks down, twists her hands up. It is hardly an attractive pose.
    â€œDo you want to talk about it?”
    â€œNo,” she says.
    â€œThat’s what a provost is for. To talk things over. To let you talk your problems through. To give you relief.”
    She doesn’t say anything. But she hasn’t run yet. She is as good as mine.
    â€œDo you want to know why I came here? Shall I tell you what brought me?” I ask.
    â€œI don’t know,” she says.
    â€œIt was the Lord. I was prompted. He told me that I should come. I didn’t know why, so I tried to ignore the feeling, but the prompting kept coming. So I listened and came. You know why the Lord wanted me to come out here?”
    â€œWhy?” she says.
    â€œFor you,” I say.
    She ducks her head, cannot seem to look me in the eyes.
    â€œI mean it. God loves you. He wants to help you. He wants you to tell me why you’ve been crying.”
    â€œNo,” she says. “I can’t.”
    â€œI’ve heard every kind of sin. Nothing you say can surprise me. Nothing you say can shock me or make God love you less. You can tell me anything,” I say, smiling. “I know sin inside and out.”
    I make my way a little farther into the clearing.
    â€œI won’t tell your parents. It will be just between you and me and God.”
    I stand and walk slowly toward her, trying to appear relaxed, approaching her casually.
    â€œYou can trust me,” I say. “If you can’t trust the Lord’s anointed, who can you trust?”
    I am close enough that I am able to reach out, touch her arm. She recoils, begins to recoil anyway. Then relaxes. She lets me lead her by the hand to the rock and seat her there. I kneel before her, holding her hands and staring