Bessette

The World Tomorrow: An Autofiction from My Father's Point of View

By Jonathan Bessette

Joseph ran ahead of his struggling family—they were late again. Rushing up the outside stairs, past the greeters, down the long hallway lined by lockers, they turned toward the large auditorium doors, closed like a vise. The voice of the speaker echoed with exaggerated certainty. Joseph hesitated to pull the handle, knowing the judgment from every glance. Every member would weigh whether they were good or bad people as he often did when sitting in a service disrupted by other latecomers. Marguerite nodded for him to go ahead. Memories of his dad backhanding him at the kitchen table; belting him across his back; calling him stupid again and again.

The tiers and rows of cramped seating in the high school auditorium overflowed with men wearing stiff suits and women in plain dresses, no makeup. Quiet children huddled in their dress clothes, bored and anxious. Marguerite smiled at her friend Elizabeth, who sat at the front signing for the deaf members of the congregation that Sabbath morning. Climbing the steps through the gauntlet of unfriendly eyes, Joseph wondered if this is what heaven would be like. If all of Armstrong’s promises would turn out to be like his failed predictions of the end of the world.

Annoyed faces swivelled back to the speaker propounding the importance of their community being in the world, but not of the world. Joseph directed Jonah, Maria, and Beth into one section of seating across the aisle and carried little Elijah with him and Marguerite to the other side. He offered hushed apologies to those who adjusted their Bibles and notebooks as they scribbled down what they thought would make them more righteous. Where was he on Jacob’s ladder?

“Please be quiet during the service,” an older, bearded man said.

Joseph smiled while unbuttoning the lower part of his jacket and sliding into the hard edges of the unfolded auditorium chair. He never looked forward to how sore his butt would get by the end of the first service. Marguerite pulled out their leatherbound Bibles and yellow legal pads. Scanning, he couldn’t see which page others read. He focused on the context of the message, “Those who forsake the laws of God, and brought evil into the congregation, must be excommunicated for the sake of protecting sanctity.” He thought of the excommunicated Clement family from last year—John Clement had supposedly criticized a minister’s interpretation of Timothy 2:12 in front of a study group— Permit no woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she is to keep silent. Joseph hated that verse, but never spoke up in study groups. Beth had asked about it once. He tried to explain the importance of obedience, before giving up—was he obedient? How would he stand before God on that day of final reckoning? What would he say for himself?

By the time Marguerite stopped taking notes with her red pen and noticed her husband’s prolonged distraction, the sermon had ended and everyone opened up their purple hymnals to follow along as they sang Onward Christian Soldiers, marching as to War, with the Cross of Jesus, going on, before!

In the atrium beneath the rear stairs leading up to the second-floor concourse, Joseph stirred sugar into a Styrofoam cup. He inhaled the bitter aroma, feeling the weight of the whole building. Richard caught his eye and came over to talk. In the break between morning and afternoon services, men and women gathered around the two folding tables with several coffee urns, boxes of sugar cubes, and a box of plastic stir sticks next to the wobbling towers of cups. Jonah ran up with two friends to concoct a sugary coffee stew.

“Good morning, Richard—hey Jonah, don’t waste all the ingredients if you’re not going to drink it—how did you enjoy the morning sermon?”

“Minister Woodsmith’s note about the election of a nation of true followers being set aside, as owned by God, in a very material sense, reminds me to consider my own material conduct in this life. Take Jeany and me, we don’t just set aside our ten percent for tithing and the feasts, we have an additional fund to use for making sure our house is in order.”

“Are you ready for the Feast of Tabernacles?” Joseph asked, anxious about his savings account. Sometimes, the ten percent on the gross of their monthly income made it hard to pay for everyday items like laundry detergent.

“Oh sure,” Richard said, “But have you been paying attention to the news? Those Tokyo subway attacks, or the Rwandan massacres? I mean, I’ve never felt more like the final days are upon us with Israel planning to give Palestinians the West Bank. Or what about the Bosnian War?”

“Right,” Joseph said, disinterested, “And all those earthquakes.”

He toed the party line in conversations like this, no longer interested in the doomsday scenarios.

“You know these are signs of the times,” he reiterated. “I wonder if Tkach will finally step up and tell the people the truth; even if Armstrong wasn’t right all those years ago with his predictions, it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be ready.” He nodded and raised a fist. “Next year, Jerusalem!”

Joseph smiled and agreed but didn’t want to. They were talking about Bill Gates being named the richest man in the world when Richard saw his wife needed him and excused himself. They would talk more during the potluck that evening. Alone with a second cup of coffee, Joseph watched kids play pogs under the atrium stairways. Bright light flooded through the cluster of windows caged with metal grates. The game seemed similar to marbles, which he’d played during lunchtime as a kid. But Marguerite recently learned from other mothers in the congregation about the demonic imagery regularly found on the collectables. They had to prevent the kids from sin. Children are evil from birth—another one of the teachings he couldn’t ever fully get behind. It was only last year when some popular card game called Magic the Gathering had been banned. Of course, some families let their kids explore, maybe too far outside the lines, but Joseph had been questioning what made a family good or bad—certainly, God’s majesty wasn’t threatened by such frivolous things. Even his children had asked, “Why is God scared of Satan?” After the ministers banned the game, they showed up unannounced at several homes—and a few families had been shunned for a month. Every time he avoided looking at them, unresponsive to their “good mornings,” he hated himself. When he had to explain to his youngest child why they had to shun those families, it broke apart the last justification that kept him strong: we punish out of love to become better people.

“Honey,” Marguerite said, putting her hand on Joseph’s back. He broke away from his thoughts. “Do you mind taking Elijah for an anointing, I’m just going with Elizabeth to set up the cafeteria for tonight’s potluck and I’ll need my hands free.”

She passed Elijah, who puckered on his blue soother. Father adjusted son to get comfortable. Joseph kissed Marguerite, whose eyes flattened. She wanted to say something more. Usually, they had time to pray and talk together before the kids stormed the castle and they left for Sabbath on Saturday mornings. Recent rumours spread throughout the congregation about various World Tomorrow Churches throughout North America, Europe, Australia, and Africa. Many people were leaving. Some explained it as the obvious frustration of true believers recognizing Tkach’s conspiracy to shift the original teachings toward a mainstream Christian message. Armstrong’s death only a few years ago left a gaping doubt. The scandals about Armstrong’s son creating a breakaway church didn’t help. Or the Tkach family rejecting Armstrong’s replacement theology. Conspiracies abounded.

Mops and buckets hung on the back wall. Joseph always thought it was weird the ministers used the janitor’s closet for anointings. Cleanliness is next to Godliness. Standing in the line, waiting to be anointed by God’s spirit through drawing an oil cross on Elijah’s forehead, he almost laughed at the absurdity. He hadn’t slept well and annoyance crept up erratically. Minister Greene spoke briefly to families who had sickness or physical ailments. But what if all of this was a joke? What if the last fifteen years of their life, their commitment, amounted to being fooled and manipulated? What kind of father would do that to their children? The minister cleared his throat and waved them to step forward.

“Elijah has had a runny nose all last week,” Joseph explained. “It’s gotten a little more serious so we thought we should bring him for an anointing.”

“The spirit of the Lord heals,” the minister dabbed his finger with the oil bottle and began murmuring the prayer he’d probably said thousands of times. Elijah’s eyes blinked as the finger of the minister tapped his forehead and drew the cross. They weren’t supposed to go to walk-in clinics or the hospital or they could face excommunication, but when Beth had a rising fever of 104, or when Jonah split his knee to the bone, their faith in God’s forgiveness outweighed their obedience to the church’s rules. Joseph thanked the minister and turned to go back to the auditorium and find an empty seat and maybe see one of his friends who wanted to talk about the non-church part of their lives.

It's during the second service that the head minister of their congregation unexpectedly takes the pulpit. The family’s all sitting together because a few members offer to switch seats. Marguerite looks at Joseph with the same eyes as earlier. Beth watches them spelling out a few words in sign language, gritting her teeth. Squeaking chairs bristle at the fringe of everyone’s anticipation. Michael Brent wants to quell any concerns about the rumours.

“Yes, there have been some people leaving various international congregations, but this has been due to a series of members who have led others astray. Our communities are actually growing.”

Joseph scans the room and notices more empty chairs than expected—usually, for potlucks, people stay around the whole Saturday. Minister Michael Brent continues, “With the upcoming Feast of Tabernacles, congregations across the world will rejoice as families travel to new communities to see the strength and determination in the hearts and spirits of those who keep the Church as the Church keeps them.”

Then, he explains that due to some financial issues, the Vancouver congregation will be moving out of Killarney High School and taking up their continued weekly Sabbaths at a newer building out by Burnaby Lake. Joseph only has a second to think about how weird that sounds, considering everything which had just been shared. But minister Brent quickly opens his purple hymnal and asks everyone to rise as the piano fills the air with bright chords and they all sing They are blest who are forgiven, to whom God imputes no sin; Who go to the Eternal, and confess to Him their sins.

Joseph and Marguerite stand next to the station wagon gathering their casual jeans and t-shirts so they can be more comfortable. The children already look exhausted, yanking at the hems and buttons of their shirts and dresses. Jonah zips and unzips his leather tie with increasing rapidity. In hushes, Marguerite is finally able to explain that the Hudsons and Cobbs left the community. His shocked mumbling attempt to ask questions causes the children to start asking what and why.

“They couldn’t make it today,” Joseph says, trying to stretch the truth. He knows the kids could melt down at any point. Beth stares at him, seeing through this thin veil. Should they have a conversation? He hopes they don’t clue in.

“Take your clothes, Beth,” he says to distract her inquiring eyes. But he’s suddenly scared. The Hudsons and Cobbs are their closest friends, the families they saw most outside of church. These people became their family in the absence of spending time with brothers and sisters, or parents—outsiders are risky relations. Too much corrupting influence on them or their children. Fifteen years, and now they might be alone. If a total collapse rattled through the global community, who would they turn to, how would they find support, or would they stay? Their enthusiastic beliefs used to buoy them up over any challenge. Those beliefs were strangled by each new discomforting revelation since Armstrong’s death. Joseph wonders if he even trusts the ministers anymore. Do I trust myself?

“Hey,” Marguerite says, “Are you okay?”

She hands folded corduroys to Jonah and jeans to Maria and tells them to run back to the washrooms. Jonah takes his shirt off in the parking lot.

“Jonah, put your shirt back on,” Joseph snaps, “and change in the washroom.”

“Sorry, Dad.”

Joseph puts his hand on his son’s tiny head, scruffy with unkempt hair from pulling at it during the two separate services. They’d stopped spanking the kids after a few years of feeling the pressure of sparing the rod and spoiling the child. Jonah still quivered sometimes when he knew he’d done something wrong, looking at Joseph with fear, expecting to be laid over his knees and spanked. Somehow, he’d created a sanitized version of the abuse he’d suffered growing up and passed it down onto his children.

Other families walk back from the parking log with bags full of clothes, whispers scurrying between them like field mice. Near the double doors where the greeters no longer guard the entrance, the bright orange light from the hallway creates a glowing lantern as the clouds cover the moon and stars. Marguerite pulls Joseph’s elbow. They smile at white-haired Mr. and Mrs. Parsons hobbling in. She rocks Elijah. He knows what she’s feeling because they’ve had several Saturday mornings now when they gather the children at the front door while getting jackets on, each inquisitive soul overflowing with questions, “Why don’t we celebrate Christmas like the kids at school?” or “How come other children celebrate birthdays?” or “Mrs. Ronald told us that in heaven we’ll all be Gods of our own planets.” Neither parent knows how to answer their children’s queries anymore. They don’t ask any of the ministers' opinions or support because of the expected backlash.

A long cafeteria table is jam-packed with homemade salads and casseroles, Kentucky Fried Chicken, store-bought dessert bars, and a dozen other dishes. It’s the equivalent of a 5-star buffet. The elderly of the community fill their plates first, while parents mind children spinning and zooming through the open room, a mix of excited hunger and exhaustion. There are a couple of hundred people, a large drop in numbers from the last potluck—though, Joseph reminds himself, it’s not like everyone from the 1000-person congregation always comes. What were they doing? What did they believe? Filling up a plate for himself, talking in the line with George West about his goal to move down to Pasadena to attend Ambassador College and become a minister, Joseph watches Marguerite standing with Elizabeth and other wives he doesn’t know, eating while standing. Beth holds onto her mother’s hand, listening to the conversation. He interprets the nodding and shaking heads, crossed arms, as discomfort. Two kids whiz by and almost topple Joseph’s plate.

“Slow down you two,” George sternly raises his voice. “Joseph, have you ever seen the amphitheatre or the rose quartz walls? The gilded ceiling is remarkable, and— ”

A woman screams. Everyone turns. Some people stand up from their tables, one or two run over to where a crowd forms and someone bends down. Someone gasps. A rush of voices. Joseph runs over and sees a young woman on her side moaning, her infant unwrapped from a loose blanket on the orange linoleum. Adults gather and the uncontrollable alarm rises; someone leaves to go find a phone to call an ambulance. Everyone’s asking, what happened, what happened, what happened? By the back wall near the fire extinguisher and exit doors, a parent cranes over a boy and a girl, shouting at them, swinging a finger like an axe.

“I told you to stop running!”

Someone explains how the baby fell, the mother tripped, dropped the baby, she fell, they collapsed. Joseph looks around for his children. They aren’t in the room. Where’s Marguerite? He puts his plate on a cafeteria table as he takes hurried steps into the dim hallways where the long rows of lockers glint in the half-light of evening. Jonah leans against the bathroom door talking to his friend Jacob.

“Where’s your mother?”

His uninterested shrug almost elicits anger.

“Get your stuff, we’re going.”

“What? No. Come on, I haven’t had dessert yet.”

“No. Now.” Joseph swings his hand, meaning it to seem like a direction, but Jonah pulls back momentarily, and he hates himself so much right then. Is this what he’s built with 15 years of dedicated belief and practicing the laws and rules?

Marguerite walks around the dark corner holding Elijah. Beth and Maria follow. They all meet in the center of the hallway under a blinking fluorescent light. They can see into the cafeteria. The young mother is standing again and the baby lies on a cleared cafeteria table. Someone’s examining it as if the baby’s dead. Without speaking, Joseph and Marguerite turn together and jog toward the parking lot. Alfred Rosinsky, one of the greeters, stands near the doors and asks with broad shoulders, “Where are you running to?” Joseph half explains but doesn’t finish the sentence, listening to Maria and Jonah repeat the question, “Where are we going?” And he can hear a voice inside him answer, again and again, we’re going to hell, we’re going to hell, we’re going to hell. The kids complain they’re hungry as Joseph starts the car. Marguerite explains how they’ll stop for burgers and he knows all the money they’ve been forced to save up by the church to explicitly spend during the Feast will ease some of their rising financial concerns—he knows, as he looks into the calm of Marguerite’s eyes, this is it, they are not coming back.

A month later, they’re all laughing over the dinner table as Jonah makes funny faces with carrots stuck up his nose. The phone rattles in the office and Joseph excuses himself to go downstairs. Michael Brent’s voice is unfamiliar in this proximity—he’s never talked to Joseph since most ministers kept to an upper crust. Joseph expects this call but is unprepared.

“You haven’t been attending the last few weeks,” he says. “Have you lost your way?”

He wants to say yes, to apologize, to explain they’ll be back next Sabbath. He murmurs and doesn’t respond to the mounting questions. Brent digs at his family’s place in heaven, their salvation. Ten minutes they talk, but Joseph mostly says, yes or no. He remembers the day he and Marguerite sat with a minister fifteen years ago in a diner on Main Street. Confirming how they would eat Kosher, observe dress-codes, circumcise their children, tithe on their gross monthly income. When they attended their first Sabbath, the welcoming congregation felt like coming home. Since leaving, they’d been trying to repair family relations, but everyone had been so hurt by the judgment, the dismissiveness.

The laughter of Joseph’s children overflows from the kitchen. He hangs up. Marguerite asks who called, but Joseph shakes his head and doesn’t say anything, scared for the first time they’d made the wrong decision. Why did they leave? Maybe they’d just walked away from being chosen people, from being right. Maybe they would burn in everlasting hellfire. Maybe they aren’t special.

“What is it, Joseph?”

He can’t look her in the eyes.

“Everything’s going to be okay.”

Jonathan Bessette has many hobbies which inform his writing, including astrology, gaming, gardening, and anarchism, and he lives in the unceded and traditional territories of the xʷməθkʷəy̓əm (Musqueam), səl̓ilwətaɁɬ (Tsleil-Waututh), and Sḵwx̱wú7mesh (Squamish) Nations, so-called Vancouver. He’s a founding member of Held Magazine and has published poetry in The Capilano Review and CV2, nonfiction in Adbusters and Quill and Quire, and fiction in The Antigonish Review and Carte Blanche.