The Church of the Marigold

A man, his girlfriend, and his son are on a road trip out of Memphis. It’s high summer and the father wants to get out of town for a bit. The three of them have headed east, moving along State Route 20, and have found themselves in Huntsville.

Alabama is supposed to be a backwards hellhole, peopled with hicks and unschooled rednecks, one of those places on the map where the confederate flag still flies high. But here they’ve found themselves at a NASA space station outfitted with a museum for visitors. The boy has been in a low mood throughout the journey, brooding about the divorce, but now his spirits seem to lift, if only modestly so. The father and the girlfriend try to infect him with their own enthusiasm.

The man pays for three tickets and the trio wanders inside, all of them surprised by the enormity of the place. It’s a massive hall that lays out the history of space exploration in its entirety. Even the Russians are included. A life-sized Sputnik satellite is mounted on display. It’s much larger than any of them realized.

In one corner there’s a single rocket booster from an early Apollo mission. Just the one. It stands by itself, a solitary witness to humanity’s deep-seated need to stretch its boundaries, to move beyond itself. It’s massive too, a giant, really. A monolith.

The boy mopes about the hall. He’s only eight, and he’s trying to come to terms with his new situation. He falls into these reflexive interludes that simply cannot be shaken. Like any child, he wants a complete family. Not even NASA can take that desire from him. His father often has to reassure him.

“You are loved,” the man sometimes tells his son, "and by many people, too. And that means everything.”

The morning is spent quietly, the three of them walking about the space center, moving from display to display. The father has to hand it to NASA. They’ve put together a top-notch museum. Tax dollars at work and all of that.

Then it’s on to the bookstore slash gift shop, where one can spend additional hours browsing heady titles about the science of rocketry and deliberating over novelties to bring back to loved ones.

“Daddy, who are those people?” The boy tugs at his shirt sleeve. The man looks down. The boy has an index finger extended to the left.

“Don’t point, son,” he says. “How would you like it if a stranger pointed at you?”

“They’re different looking is all,” the boy answers, dropping his hand to his side.

The man raises his head. The boy’s right. But it’s a surprise to see them here. It’s a big group, too. Maybe as many as 30 of them. They’re moving about the bookstore, browsing idly, but not touching a thing.

If he didn’t know better, he’d say they were Amish. Those rounded brow hats sit atop the crowns of both men and boys, all of whom are decked in overalls. They are strangely cut beards are throwbacks to another era.

The women are equally forbidding, stern and unforgiving in their demeanor. Simple chromatic dresses hang from their shoulders, dropping past the knee, in a manner clearly meant to conceal rather than reveal. They wear their hair in tight buns covered over in small folded caps. The girls in the group are draped in the very same manner.

“They’re a religious group of some kind,” he tells his son. “They’re harmless. Let them be.”

Only, what are they doing in here? They seem like the kind who have rejected technology. So it’s curious they would want to visit a space museum. In any case, there’s something inordinately beautiful about them, he thinks before turning back to pick out a planetary jigsaw puzzle for his son.

Then it’s lunchtime. “Do we want to eat here or go find something else?”

The girlfriend volunteers that her legs are tired from all the standing and the walking, and that she’d rather not wait in the line at the museum café. So they move on. They’ve seen everything anyway.

After lunch at a pizzeria, they drive around looking for something else to do. They wind up at a botanical store the girlfriend has managed to pull up on her phone. Its exterior is decidedly deceptive, concealing just how large it is on the inside. She wants to look around at the potted plants and garden decor. The father is on board with it, but the boy needs a little coaxing. Not many adolescent males care much about gardening.

“Tell you what,” his father tells him, “after this we’ll go see something at the IMAX.” The boy agrees and then they’re inside, wandering the warren of twisting aisles like penitents in search of redemption.

They get about halfway into the place when the father spots them again. The people from the space center. The religious ones. Only this time he accidentally makes eye contact with one of them. An elderly woman whose frown seems permanently fixed upon her. He smiles at her, but she remains impassive, looking briefly away. And then a self-consciousness steals over him that feels more like shame. It’s clear the woman is judging him. Not just him, but them. All three of them. The boy too.

And now he understands why. It’s summer in Alabama, and they’ve dressed for hot weather. He steals a glance at his girlfriend. She’s beautiful, radiant even. But, yes, the old woman must think her the Whore of Babylon. Her golden hair falls to her shoulders, skimming the neckline of a sleeveless tank top that puts her breasts on prominent display. Beneath that a pair of high-cut khaki shorts allow the eye to travel down the length of her legs.

Another woman, this one younger, is gathering up clusters of marigolds and distributing them among the group. The father can’t hear their muted conversations, but it’s clear there’s an excited energy running among them.

The three of them turn the corner, where a line of trowels hang along the wall. They almost knock over a young girl who is standing stock still in the center of the aisle. She is beautiful, this child, almost otherworldly in her appearance. A mound of yellow tresses set a top her face, which is splattered with a spray of freckles across the nose and cheeks. Her eyes are sharp blue, the color of water in paradise.

It’s clear she’s with the church group. Her plain dress and simple shoes are the giveaway. She must have gotten separated. In her hands, she holds a single marigold, just like the ones the woman across the way is handing around.

“Want to see something magical?” she asks.

“What a strange question,” the father thinks but bends to his knees, anyway. “Sure,” he says with that measure of kindness in his voice that is set aside for the very young. The girlfriend joins him at knee level and the boy closes in as well.

“Ok, now, here goes,” the girl announces. Then, taking a deep breath, she blows across the surface of the flower and a golden dust rises into the air, scintillating around them, hovering like angelic dust mites. It moves across their faces and, without warning, the three of them are inhaling this fairy dust, this glimmering powder of potency, and an unfamiliar sense of pleasure overtakes the trio. Drowsiness sets in, but it soon passes. Suddenly everything seems quite agreeable to the man.

Now the entire assembly moves across the store in their direction, all 30 or so of these primitive believers.

The oldest of the men clasps the father gently on the shoulder. “Come, my brother,” he says. “Take rest in the bosom of Abraham.” The matron of the group, the old woman from before, is at his girlfriend’s side, bringing her into a warm and loving embrace. The children gather about his son, smiling gently upon him.

A warmth passes through the father as he allows the three of them to be led to the back of the shop and through a rear entryway. The son and girlfriend come willingly as well.

They are taken gently to a large room with dim lighting. A cascade of hands moves up and down their bodies, removing their clothing, wiping away the day’s sweat and grime.

The patriarch of the group gathers up their electronics. A couple of cell phones and the Nintendo Switch. He takes their car keys, his wallet and the boy’s too. The girlfriend happily surrenders her purse.

“You don’t need these contraptions,” he tells them.

“No, we really don’t,” the father says compliantly.

“They only complicate things,” the man goes on. “Make you easy to find, easy to control.”

“Yes,” the girlfriend agrees.

Then white robes are brought out and slipped over their heads. The three struggle to fit their arms into the unfamiliar sleeves, but a young woman comes forth to offer them assistance.

“You’re going to be really happy with us,” the old woman promises them. “You know why?” She pauses a beat. “Because God brought you here.”

“You can leave that old world behind now,” another man says. “No longer must you waste your days in meaningless slavery.”

“Amen!” someone declares from the back of the assembled throng.

“From this day forward, you will know nothing but peace. Peace and honest labor. Labor that yields rewards.“

Another “Amen!” resounds across the room. A feeling of lightness moves through the father. He looks across at his girlfriend and then at his son. In their new clothes they are beaming broadly. Joy has settled into their features.

“Our family is now increased by three,” the elder man says. “And you shall be given new names in good time.”

“But now dusk is upon us,” the old woman observes. “And dusk is for sleep. Beds have been prepared for you, but first a simple meal, good and honest nourishment from the earth. Let us give thanks for the Lord‘s mercy and generosity.” A prayer is spoken in unison, recited by all present, excepting, of course, the three of them.

“You will know these words soon enough,” the old woman tells them. “These and many others. They are our bridge to God.”

It is then that reason begins to make its way back to the boy’s father. For a brief interlude, doubts about these proceedings become manifest in him.

“Now, wait . . .” he begins..

But then another woman steps fourth and blows another breath across yet another marigold, and that glittering dust appears in the air again. The three of them inhale it once more.

“You must never listen to your own logic,” the man in front tells him. “Reason is the voice of the Devil. It leads only to despair.” He hands him a glass filled with off-colored milk. “Here, drink,” he instructs.

As the thick liquid courses down his throat, the father sees that his girlfriend and son are handed glasses as well. They, too, consume what they are given. The milk is sweet and filling. It leaves him satisfied.

But he has barely finished his drink before an overwhelming exhaustion settles into his bones. He feels himself weaken.

“You must sleep now,” the grandmother tells them. “Sleep beneath the watchful eyes of angels. Sleep a true and honest sleep. For tomorrow your labors begin.”

“Yes,” the father thinks as the three of them are led into another room where a trio of freshly-made beds await them.

“We are home at last.”