Hairdresser on Fire. Daniel LeVesque

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СКАЧАТЬ they couldn’t attend the goings-on in their own nuclear family. I was free to do as I pleased, as long as I didn’t bother them during Community meetings or work, which was most of the time, so I could do Ruth Buzzi unsupervised in the wall mirror for hours.

      My father permitted us to live our lives as normally as possible when inside his walls. In exchange for robbing us of our childhoods he turned double agent. Holding the façade of a strict disciplinarian when in the presence of the misogynist Men of The Community, at home he stuck to the ideals of a working stiff, trying his best to give his family what they needed without interference from Wilton Bilder.

      In the presence of Community members, mentioning the allowance of toys and props I had accumulated in my father’s house was forbidden. No mention of the make-up and wigs cluttering my toy box, and sundresses and heels just one room over in my sister’s closet, where I played Normal City Girl, a serialized performance piece inspired by Marlo Thomas in the teevee show That Girl.

      Further mastering the mixed message, my parents forced us to give up our favorite rock group, KISS, for Lent. All the Christian organizations were focusing on the evils of KISS, claiming the name was an anagram for “Kids In Satan’s Service” and warning parents about the backward masking on the records. From a book titled “Backward Masking: Unmasked,” my mother learned that all rock groups, even The Captain and Tennille, were Satanists. So we gave up Satan for Lent.

      We did it, too, we gave up KISS. Driving in the car my oldest sister would change the station when “Rocket Ride” came on the radio. We would plead from the back seat to cheat and listen to the new KISS song, just the one song? But my sister was a rock. Now that she had her license it was her responsibility to protect my father’s car from accidents, spilled drinks and, during the Lenten season, Satan.

      She wouldn’t have listened even if she was alone. She was a Peter Criss fan, on the mellow, low end of the KISS fanaticism scale; I was rabid for KISS, especially Ace Frehley, with his toxic silver make-up and shoes I would’ve killed a nun for. My other sister claimed Gene Simmons as her favorite. Poseur. Though I loved Ace and his total look, I was in love with the hirsute Paul Stanley, something I was crystal clear with. All through Lent I was a kid without KISS, forcing me to find other costumes. No pointy make-up, no heels, nothing. No KISS. It was an eternity.

      When the Satan-free Lenten season ended on Easter Sunday, each of our baskets held not only candy but a copy of the record albums Hotter Than Hell, Rock and Roll Over, and the much awaited KISS: ALIVE II. My parents were good people. Brainwashed, but good. They wanted us to have fun and we did. There was always love, not the constant tension floating in the air down the street at The Bilder compound.

      My father saw the unhappiness the cult caused and even though the cult didn’t pay his mortgage, he tried to make light of it, always entertaining the kids. He went along with my mother’s religious whims often, attending giant Charismatic Christian conferences at the Providence Civic Center, as if being dragged to church on Sunday wasn’t bad enough. When theology crimps my free time, you can keep it.

      Twice a year we would drive to the big city and file into the venue under the cover of daylight. The conferences were always slotted for Saturday and Sunday afternoons, ruining any chance of weekend plans at the Pagans. Ten thousand Wilton Bilders from all over New England would take their seats, teeth shining white and unholy in the blast of the house lights, which would remain on throughout the length of the conference.

      My dad kept me close by, trying to make me laugh, trying to undo any psychological damage that was being done. Always aware of my terrific sensitivity, my father held my hand as the Christian band began to play and the energy in the room turned claustrophobic, people already sweating, fanning themselves with anti-abortion leaflets. My father was no less terrified than I. The tension in my hand was digging into his with a force he didn’t know I had.

      “Is it that bad?” he said.

      “Yes,” I said, grabbing his wrist with my free hand.

      The feeling inside the Civic Center would freeze me up. We’d go to the snack bar as much as possible, my dad buying me a Coke and him a beer each time. He wasn’t the only one drinking beer. There was a line of people secretly drinking beer out of soda cups, some of them at a conference for the very first time and in need of brain lubrication to ease the confusion, some of them at a conference for the very last time, scarred and burned with no eyelashes and no remaining hope for healing. Some were just plain alcoholics trying to level out the shakes, and I was glad every time my father raised his brow to say You wanna go back to the snack bar?

      Watching the Civic Center employees flitting around, refilling soda and beer kegs, sweeping up leaflets, we would drink slowly from our cups, my sneakers scraping against the red velvet carpet in the lobby, doing anything to avoid reentering the inner sanctum.

      Through the curtain were thousands of people speaking in tongues, arms raised high to the metal ceiling. Kathryn Kurden pranced around the stage like Vegas royalty, laying her pampered hands on cripples in wheelchairs or with canes, knocking them backward with the Holy Smack of Jesus. People would shriek, falling over in convulsions, being slain in the spirit and cleansed of their sins.

      All of this healing only made me think of horror and death. Why couldn’t I feel the spirit that these people seemed to be so overwhelmed by? Why was I not being healed? There must be something wrong with me. These people were not faking it. They were feeling something, something powerful and spastic. Whatever it was, it was turning their lives over on to their ends while my life stayed the same.

      The folks in the cheap seats were falling out, sweating, dancing. They were picking up on this energy that I couldn’t feel. All I knew was I wasn’t being healed. I couldn’t be. I didn’t feel anything. None of what made these people cry out in tongues or writhe on the ground ever got around to me.

      At Wilton’s prodding, while my father had run to the bathroom, I was dragged up onto the stage to face the healer, Kathryn Kurden. She floated like a ghost in her beaded turquoise gown and the bubble of light around her was thin and dark with gold flecks spinning everywhere. When I’d try to pin down a fleck it would jump to her ankles. She was mercury. Her hair was teased to the sky, poking out of her bubble. It must have taken hours. Only a corpse could sit through that much backcombing.

      In front of the thousands assembled, her shaking hand reached out to my head, my bubble resisting hers. The force had her hand bent back when she pushed on it, pushed on my head. Pushing, pushing, her eyes blackening. I should be falling over and shaking, she knew that. She kept pushing, her mouth twisted and spiraling at the corners.

      This healer woman had me convinced that I was dying, right there on the stage. What am I being healed of? Is it curable? Is it my brain? It is, isn’t it? No saving this one, she thought. This is the damned, she thought, and I heard it. She knew I heard it and took a half-step. She thought she had easy game with a young kid but I couldn’t feel her, I wouldn’t feel her, and she hated me for it. Push. It must be from birth, what I have. Push. Genetic. I knew what she was thinking. She couldn’t get me out of her head. PUSH.PUSH.PUSH. Did she know about me? How I was born allergic to my own blood?

      I was pushed out, early and aware. The lights were bright; I couldn’t see my mother. The tiny body of a tiny Christ dangled over my head by a tiny nail, and the plaster was cracking. I knew this crucifix could have fallen on my head at any moment, counting the seconds until it fell and impaled me, Feet-of-The-Savior-first, through the membrane covering the hole in my skull. Little baby Damocles, fighting against the prayers, one hour old. Fighting against the angels with their bright, smiling faces. Even now, smiling faces make me want to run and hide, to sink comfortably back into the cold concrete that created me.

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