Awakening 76

Reverend Curtis Hartman felt perturbed. Divine inspiration hadn't been this overwhelming since he and his wife first consummated their marriage. He'd been estranged from her over the past few years, ever since she imposed a vow of celibacy upon him. Sitting alone in the church's bell-tower on a blistery Saturday night, Reverend Hartman could feel the static energy permeating down through the clouds. The pulsation at his temple and his perspiring hands told the Presbyterian minister a large storm was coming. He could feel the pressure as it approached, but the intensity was nothing compared to the distraction his carnal desire wreaked upon him.

Kate Swift represented everything his wife and lot in life diminished: a sense of romantic vigor usually only allotted to the adolescent passions of young lovers. The reverend felt as if he'd been cheated by fate out of his proper existence as a man. Or was it God who had wronged him so harshly? The reverend had come to associate all of the godly delights which he had relished in his time at the seminary — the ministerial sermon, the Holy Book, philosophizing the human condition — with the mundane drudgery of clerical life. His life was nothing but a series of weekly Sunday sermons — two of them each Sunday — and with each passing week ever since Kate Swift had become the fixation of his gleaming eyes, his sermons had morphed from their previously dull, dry, Biblical focus to a more primal and impassioned approach to spiritual living. "Seize the day!" he said to his congregation, with the upmost zeal. He hardly ever talked about Jesus any more, and when he did he used him as a metaphor. On the other hand, his the frequency with which he discussed the Virgin Mary had drastically increased.

Impure thoughts were no longer an issue, so long as Kate Swift didn't draw the curtains of her bedroom window. The church's bell tower provided the perfect view for the reverend's spiritual inspiration. The jutting, erect tower, tall and slender, was adjacent to the house of the schoolteacher Kate Swift, who lived with her mother Elizabeth Swift. On evenings, when the reverend was meditating over the demise of the personal philosophy he had held to so dearly all of his life — a belief that competence in his job and fulfillment of the marital duty to his wife would beget satisfaction —, he would peer into Kate's window, where she, more often than not, lay reading one tome or another, enriching her mind and establishing herself as one of the truly educated occupants of Winesburg, which is fairly isolated from the centers of global intellectualism.

This particular night, a night of the worst writer's block for the reverend, who always penned his sermons fresh from the fountain of his immediate Christian musings, Kate has yet to illuminate her room with her dashing figure. The reverend's pen is leaking ink; he tries to stop the leak with his fingers, to no avail. In a sputtering release of fury the reverend throws the pen against the wall and punches the window closest to him. All of the sudden, Kate Swift's room is illuminated. She walks in and sits upon her bed. She turns and looks out of the window, almost raising her stare to the level of the bell-tower, but stopping short. The integrity of the reverend's clandestine sightseeing operation is preserved. Suddenly, as if guided by divine influence, Kate Swift begins to unclothe herself, starting with her shoes and stockings, moving up to the straps of her green dress, then, with a sudden jerking motion, her white undergarments were revealed to the reverend's observant eyes. Peeling from her fine, milky skin the only garb remaining on her upper torso, Kate peers over her shoulder toward where the reverend is stationed. Finally, Kate flips around and sits upright, facing her dresser, and removes the final article of clothing gracing her radiant bodice.

Kate Swift proceeds, after stripping her body of all material objects, to shift onto her knees and bring her hands together, bowing her head. 'My God, she's praying,' the reverend told himself, ecstatic with religious fervor. His left leg began to shake, the foot tapping against the floor with an arhythmic melody. He needed to go outside. The fresh air leaking in from the broken window was not enough to procure his salvation, sustain his lucidity. I must venture outside, he convinces himself.

"A break from writing my still yet-to-be-started sermon should be enough to clear my head," the reverend says aloud. He breaks free from the confinement of the church and spilled out onto the street. Thunder shakes the ground as he stumbles towards the Swift residence. Rain begins to pour, illuminated by flashes of lightening. The reverend was soaking wet by the time he reached the Swifts' doorstep. He wrapped on the door twice and Kate answered, after a brief delay, wearing a linen nightgown.

"Oh, reverend, come inside. It's raining like mad out there. What leads you here so late?" Kate says.

"Thank you, my child. I've come to discuss with you matters of the greatest importance. I've been up all night working on my sermon, and thought you could, perhaps, aid me in its construction," the reverend says.

"Yes, of course. I was just getting ready for bed, though I cannot say I'm particularly drowsy yet," she says.

"May we retire to a more intimate setting?" the reverend says.

"Oh, well, sure," the schoolteacher says, blushing, and with a slight downward glance. She leads him into her bedroom and sits upon the bed.

"Father, I have a confession to make," she says.

"Come confess, my child, and I will try to heal your soul," he says, wrapping his arm around her, in what he tries to communicate as a paternal gesture. She puts a hand on his damp thigh.

"Now, what did you want to talk about?" he says.

She stares into his eyes and he stares back. Kate bends forward to kiss her spiritual guide; he reciprocates the moist exchange of endearment.

"Are you sure you want to do this — I mean, what about your wife?" she says.

"It's God's will," the reverend says definitively.

The reservoir of temptation breaks open, freeing with it the weight of the reverend's conscience. The heavens open. In the throes of divine chaos, the reverend feels what he's sought all his life: an upheaval of the static reticence which had forced him into spiritual submission.

"My prayers have been answered," Kate moans as she lays prostrate, spread-eagled upon her bed. The cosmos were moved; heaven and hell ceased to exist; the unity of flesh and flesh produced a proximity to God the likes of which the reverend had never encountered.

The next morning, a Sunday, the church of Reverend Curtis Hartman is filled with his flock, but no reverend stands at the pulpit. He and Kate lay intertwined, splayed out upon her bed, unstirred by the ringing of the church bells.