The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show - Ariel Gore [27]
For a split second Pia looks like the fat boy on the playground who’s just had his homemade valentine ripped to shreds and thrown in his face and I wish I could take it back, just that last fuck you, but I sit there, tight-jawed. I have to get out of here.
Paula follows me from the tiny room. “You need to calm down, Frankka,” she says to my back. “You need some time to digest all of this.”
I can hear my heart beating in its tiny chamber, the skull bird behind my eyes.
Then a child’s voice from the stairwell. “Miss Frances?” The little girl stands in ripped jeans and a stained yellow T-shirt. “Miss Frances, my father is very sick and—”
“How did you get in here?” A scolding hand pulls the girl from behind. “Where are your parents?”
“I have to speak to Miss Frances,” the girl insists.
A door opens and shuts.
Dim-lit hallway and church offices.
“I’m sorry about that.” A slender middle-aged woman with short brown hair appears from the stairwell. She wears a light cotton suit, no makeup—the type you’re not sure if she’s a lesbian or a nun. “We weren’t prepared for your security needs.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. “Quite honestly, we didn’t fully understand the content of your show when we agreed to let you use the church, but be that as it may. The police have just arrived.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Carol, the minister here. You must be Frances Catherine?”
I nod slowly, don’t shake her hand. It’s so strange to be called by my childhood name.
“We weren’t prepared, either,” Paula admits.
“Well,” Carol says, “between the Sacramento Police Department and our community volunteers, we should be able to handle it. Of course, the phone has been ringing off the hook all morning. Everything from media inquiries to bomb threats, but I think we’ve got the building secured. By tonight we’ll have a private security team.”
I stand silent. Surely she’s kidding if she thinks we’ll still be here by tonight.
“The show must go on,” Paula says dumbly.
Out of here is all I can think. I’m trapped in some Protestant nightmare. Run away. Carol is talking about something, blocking my escape. When she finally takes a half step to the left, I lunge for the door handle. The hell out of here. Push and run. The outside air is a kiln, but just a few dozen people mill around in the shade of an old oak. I take a deep breath. Which way? Then a siren shriek: “Frances Catherine!”
“She’s over here!”
“God is great!”
The milling bodies suddenly swarm together. They’re moving toward me, chanting something, but all I can hear is the fly-children from All Saints K–8 yelling, “Freaky Frances! Freaky Frances!” Hands grab me from behind and pull me back inside. “Frances,” Carol scolds me.
A banging at the door.
“We’ve got to get her out of here,” Paula says.
I am led down two flights of cement stairs to a musty basement full of pamphlets and canned food, giant white bags of rice. A metallic taste in my mouth.
“Don’t think we never had to smuggle a draft dodger out of here,” Carol says as she reaches into a cupboard and produces a green army flashlight. “Listen,” she says. “The tunnel will get you about a half mile away to the old minister’s basement. I’ve already called him. He’s expecting you.” She takes a business card from her suit pocket and hands it to me. “Call my cell when you’re ready to come back. We’ll have a better handle on the situation by then.” She opens a small wooden door.
I hesitate at the threshold.
“Do you need me to take you?”
“No. I’ll be okay.”
Just a few paces in, the musty-damp tunnel narrows. I’m only five-foot-four, but I have to walk with my head bowed, shoulders rounded. Imagine a lanky draft dodger down here, hunched over, making his way between these walls, brave-scared.