My New Short Story

September 12, 2007

Pardon the diversion from the Maxwell book. But I really wanted to share my new story with you first. I’ve included an excert below with a link to download the full story in PDF format.

Altar Ego, an excerpt
(Download the complete story)

“So you’re not going to tell her?” asked Bentley. Vernon was studying himself in the mirror. He pressed the top of his head from different angles, tilting his face from side to side.

“Bentley,” he began, “I’ve thought about it long and hard.” He looked away from the mirror and into the eyes of his co-conspirator. A thick index finger emphasized his point. “She’s stopped me before. But she won’t stop me this time.”

Bentley sighed. “What time does she leave?”

“First thing Friday morning,” said Vernon. “My appointment’s at ten, so I plan on getting her up early and out the door. The sooner she’s out of the way, the better.”

“How long will she be gone?”

“Till sometime on Tuesday, plenty of time.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want her to know?” Bentley pressed. “This is kind of a big step. Do you really think it’s necessary?”

Without answering, Reverend Vernon Vanderwalker returned his attention to the mirror. Not bad for 54. A little beefy around the edges. But that wasn’t what bothered him. His biggest problem, the proverbial “thorn in his side,” was the barren patch of wasteland where his hair used to live. Maybe it was because of age or stress. Maybe it was due to some tragic case of heredity. Either way, Vernon’s head was as slick as a baby’s butt. He thought of the Old Testament, when the sins of the fathers were visited upon the future generations. “What kind of mess did my Daddy get himself into?” he wondered.

The problem had begun innocently enough above his forehead with a mild receding hairline. But over the years, time revealed its dastardly plan as Vernon’s youth eventually eroded to the fuzz on his neck. The process left nothing behind but a badland of desolation that stretched from ear to shining ear, bordered only by a few ghostly threads that simply forgot to die.

“It’s necessary,” he declared.

For years, he had hidden the problem artificially. But he grew tired of the hair by day, gone by night routine. He longed to wash his hair, not dry clean it. He was convinced this was the answer. This was how it had to be. Maybe it was a big step. But it would be worth it, especially when his wife came home from her sister’s to find a fresh-headed hunk of burning love to meet her at the door.

“Sarah hates that wig,” Vernon admitted. “And I simply refuse to stand behind the pulpit while those lights make pretty little shapes on the ceiling from the reflections off my head.”

Bentley studied the brochure Vernon had given him. It was full of the clinic’s most recent “success” stories. Flipping it onto the couch, he pondered how best to address his concerns. Finally, he decided on a delicate, tactful approach.

“Vernon, all those guys look like Chia-Pets.”

“Chia what?” Vernon picked up the brochure searching for his answer.

“Chia-Pets. . . . you know those things you. . . well, you add the water and . . .” Bentley saw this was going nowhere. Perhaps it was best to just be supportive. “Oh, never mind. Tell you what. If this is important to you, it’s important to me. So, who’s lined up to preach for you on Sunday?”

Vernon peered over the top of his glasses. Bentley was at least 5 years his senior yet had enough hair to bust a ball cap. As a pastor, Vernon had learned to lean on the counsel of his Deacon Chairman. In the last ten years, the two had seen tremendous growth in the once-dying congregation. With membership at an all-time high, their small country church was now growing at an unprecedented rate. But more than that, Vernon knew Bentley was a straight shooter, a man he could trust.

“What do you mean ‘preach for me’?” Vernon questioned. “What can’t I preach for me?”

Bentley’s worst fears had just been confirmed. He loved his pastor but also felt the need to protect him. For all the wonderful gifts God had given the man, common sense was not among them. It stood to reason in Bentley’s mind that aerating and seeding one’s scalp might require a brief time of recuperation. This thought had clearly not occurred to the man who’s head was soon to become a moving sod farm.

“Now Brother Vernon, I know it’s been a long time since you’ve missed a Sunday at this church.”

“Going on five years now!” Vernon interrupted. “And that’s a streak I don’t intend to break! I don’t care what you say.” Vernon stomped to his desk and sank into the large leather chair. As Bentley stood from the couch, Vernon marveled at how the man could sit for any length of time and not get wrinkles in his pants.

“Preacher,” Bentley began. With the utterance of the word, Vernon felt sick. The last time Bentley Bunch began a sentence with “Preacher,” it was to announce that Burl Simpson’s Billie goat had eaten the blanket right off of a live baby Jesus in the middle of last year’s nativity. This was of course very frightening for Jesus’ mother, who was refilling a small butane heater near the stable. She screamed loud enough to wake half the church cemetery, which was unfortunate because the poor goat was nervous and instantly fell over dead. It was never clear, however, if this death was due to the shock of the scream or from choking on the blanket.

In her haste to save her child, the woman broke the butane pipe’s connection, allowing gas to spill into the air. Of course in all the commotion, no one managed to notice the growing stench of gas, nor did they worry what might happen if that gas came in contact with an errant ember from the nearby bond fire. When the smoke finally cleared, the stable was a pile of ash. Two of the wise men were missing eyebrows, and Burl Simpson was out ten bales of hay, three chickens, and one nervous goat. Whatever Bentley had to say now would no doubt ruin Vernon’s day.

“Preacher, did the doctor explain to you exactly what you might expect from this procedure?”

“Yes,” Vernon shot back. “More hair.”

“No, I mean in terms of recovery.”

Vernon considered this. He seemed to recall the mention of “some general discomfort” and perhaps the need to “take it easy for a few days.” But that was it. At least, this was all he could remember. Bentley retrieved his glasses from the thick brown pouch wedged in his shirt pocket. He put them on and held the brochure at arm’s length before reading aloud:

“Some patients will experience moderate to severe discomfort in the days immediately following this procedure. Scalp will be extremely tender, as well as red and swollen. Patients should plan on limited to no activity for no less than four days.”

Vernon did the math. Not good. In earlier years, he would have run his fingers through his hair in frustration.
“What am I going to do?” he wondered aloud. “If I can’t preach Sunday, my cover is blown.” Then after a short pause, “No pun intended.” Bentley smiled, but more out of courtesy than amusement. Vernon began to absently flip the onion-skinned corner of a King James with his thumb. Bentley walked to the window and watched a squirrel find a nut.

“Vernon, I just think you’re going to have to fess up on this one. It ain’t like we’ve got two of you.” Suddenly, the flipping fell silent.

“What did you say?” Vernon demanded.

Thinking that hair might not be the only thing his pastor had lost, Bentley repeated louder, “I said you’re gonna have to fess up.”

“No, no. Not that. The other thing.”

“I said we ain’t got two of you.” Bentley turned to face Vernon, who leaped to his feet and began rummaging through his top desk drawer.

“That’s it! Man alive, Bentley Bunch. You beat all! You know that? There are two of me!” Bentley had the sudden urge to pray for the mental health of his pastor. He watched in disbelief as Vernon ripped through books and folders searching for something that was apparently as valuable as the holy grail itself – and just as elusive. “Got it!” Vernon finally thrust a slip of paper above his head in triumph.

“Got what?” Bentley wasn’t even sure he wanted to know.

“Bentley, sit back down. There’s something I need to tell you.” After ten minutes of revelation, Bentley Bunch sat stunned.

“Wait just a minute. You’re telling me that you have a twin brother?”

Vernon nodded yes.

“And he lives not three hours from this church?”

Again, yes.

“And you two look just alike?”

“Well, hang on there.” Vernon felt compelled to clarify. “I wouldn’t say that. Virgil doesn’t exactly carry my . . . ” He worked to find the appropriate word. “Presence.”

“But he looks like you?”

“You could say that. Yes.”

“And he sounds like you?”

“When he tries, he can sound more like me than I can.”

“And he’s a preacher too?”

“Unless he’s been excommunicated.”

Bentley took a moment to digest this information. It was all so much so fast. Questions began to spill out of his mouth. “But how come we’ve never seen him? How come we didn’t even know he existed? You’ve been here ten years, and you’ve never mentioned a twin brother?”

Vernon knew this wouldn’t be easy to explain. There was no great reason why he never mentioned his brother. It just never came up.

“Virgil is . . . ” Again, Vernon thought carefully about how best to describe his twin. “Virgil is just different. He and I have never been what you might call close.”

Bentley asked the next obvious question. “So what makes you think he’ll even come, then?” At this, Vernon seemed to drift back to some distant memory.

“See, when God handed out self confidence, I’m afraid I got the lion’s share. Poor Virgil was always kind of like a stow-away on the USS Vernon. It’s been like that ever since we were kids. When I played ball, Virgil played ball. When I went to work at Lutrell Hardware, Virgil went to work at Lutrell Hardware. When I became a minister . . .”
Bentley finished the statement. “Virgil became a minister.”

“Exactly.” Vernon snapped his fingers.

“OK. So let’s say he’ll do it. Do you honestly believe he could pretend to be you on Sunday morning and just go back home without anyone knowing?”

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Think about it, Bentley. Sarah’s gone to her sister’s. The only time I have to be anywhere between Friday and Tuesday is at that pulpit Sunday morning, a good 20 feet from the first pew. If Virgil can still do ‘me’ like he used to, most folks will never suspect a thing.”

“I don’t know, Vernon. This all just sounds like a bad idea to me.” In reality, it was undoubtedly the dumbest idea Bentley had ever heard.

“Oh, hogwash, Bentley! It’ll work. I’ll write the sermon. Virgil will preach it. It’s fool proof.”

The phrase “famous last words” came to Bentley’s mind. But in the end, he agreed to be a part of the “fool proof” plan, if for no other reason than out of morbid curiosity.

For more, download the complete story . . .

Posted in Religion, Short Stories, Stories, fiction, writing