Eight: Let Me Help!
* * *
Eric Camden led Jill deeper into the large house that lay at the very center of Glenoak. She had her hands held tight to her sides, and she glanced around nervously. She saw the strange boy who had followed her as he skulked quietly toward a door.
"Do you know him?" she asked the Reverend.
Eric looked and shook his head. "He's probably just a friend of Simon's," he said, scarcely glancing at the stranger. "You look nervous, Jill. Why don't you come into my office while Annie finishes dinner?"
Jill resisted the urge to bolt for the door. As she followed Eric across the living room, she noted that the strange boy had disappeared into the kitchen, where she heard the sounds of cabinets being opened and closed.
"Here," Eric said as he guided her into the office and closed the door behind her. "Have a seat." He indicated a chair, and Jill sat. He took the seat behind the desk.
"Now," he said. "I'd like to get to know you."
Jill gulped.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, since you are an unmarried young woman, you must have some trauma or other problems that you need help solving. Fortunately for you, I'm an expert at everything. We can't have you dating Ben until we're sure you aren't broken somehow, now can we?"
Jill spoke softly. "I really don't want to date Ben, Mr. Camden."
Eric laughed. "Of course you do. Have you seen his chest? Any woman would want to date him." Eric's face grew serious. "But not every woman is worthy, Jill. There are a lot of women out there who are bad, bad people, like single women and teen mothers and smokers and flight attendants. You're not one of those, are you?"
Jill shrank back into her chair. "Well, I'm single ...." she managed.
Eric smiled. "That can be cured, fortunately. But let's get to some of your other traumas. Do you do drugs? Smoke pot?"
"God, no. What are you talking about?"
"How about alcohol? Are you an alcoholic? Because we have a spare room upstairs where you can detox. We used it for my lush sister."
"No! I've had a glass of wine with dinner sometimes, but --"
Eric looked at her seriously, his gaze silencing her. "You didn't dump it on a man's head, did you?"
"No ...."
"Good. Now, let's see. Have you ever had depression resulting from a failure to become a cheerleader?"
"No."
"Have you ever been homeless? Do you suffer from kleptomania?"
"What are you talking about? No!"
Eric smiled reassuringly. "It's all right, Jill. I know it can be hard to confront your past traumas. Do you know the words to the national anthem? Are you an orphan? Have you or your dog ever been hit by a car?"
"Why are you asking me this?" Jill demanded.
"Why, because I can help you," Eric replied. "I'm an expert with emotional trauma. Has a boy ever snapped your bra?"
"Well, once, but --"
"Oh, my. You poor thing. Was it at a fraternity party? Was it in the back seat of a police car?"
Jill shook her head.
"Was the boy a single teen parent you met at the playground?"
"No!"
"Have you ever violated school policy by taking an aspirin on school grounds? Are you bulimic? Have you ever gone across the country without your parents' permission because a boyfriend left you?"
"What?"
But the questions kept coming, rapid-fire, as though by rote.
"Are you in a gang and do you hide weapons under your brother's mattress?"
"My brother is 30, Mr. Camden. Will you please stop this?"
Eric shook his head. "It's for your own good, Jill. I'm here to help you. Remember that it is better to be harmless, not helpful. Or is that helpfully harmless? Or harmfully helpful? Or helplessly harmful? I never can remember. Have you ever gone to the mall dressed up like a tart and flirted with the security guards?"
"Are you insane?"
Eric shook his head. "Of course not. I'm a Minister. Have you ever been traumatized by a Holocaust denier?"
Jill stiffened. "If I ever met a Holocaust denier, Mr. Camden, I'd kick his ass."
Eric nodded. "I'll put that down as a 'maybe'. Were you ever invited to a slumber party by the popular girls only to be picked on there? Has an older relative in a bad toupee ever frightened you?"
"Hey! I love my grandfather! He can wear any toupee he wants!"
Eric made a little face. "I can see we'll have to work on that. Have you ever been caught kissing at the movies by your mother so your older brother had to punish you for it? How many best friends have you had?"
Jill tried to rise, but it was like some strange, terrible force written into the script of her life was holding her down in the seat.
"What?"
"You know. Girls you've known at least two days. How many of them have died tragically? How many have moved away and never appeared in your life again, even if you had a phone card you could use to call them?"
Jill tried to speak but no words came out. Eric continued.
"Have you ever had a false pregnancy scare that turned out to be your mother? Do you cut yourself? Have you ever been sent away never to be heard from again as a result?"
That thought was suddenly tempting.
"Do you think violence is romantic, Jill, like, say, the movie Gone With The Wind? Are you addicted to coffee? Do you take drugs to enhance your athletic performance? Have you ever had a heart attack?"
"Does now count?"
"No. Have you ever failed to listen to a male authority figure about sex? Have you ever been to a coed sleepover? Was your intimate sex talk with your parents videotaped for your brother's sex education assignment? Do you wear candy-cane pajamas at Christmas even though they are too small? Have you ever had a dog die?"
Jill groaned. She put her hands to her ears and held them there, but somehow the Reverend's words got through anyway.
"Have you ever vandalized your high school gym or been held in an internment camp by the United States government during World War II? Do you sniff paint fumes?"
"Stop it!" Jill shouted.
"Ah," Eric said knowingly. "Tourette Syndrome."
"I do not have Tourette Syndrome!"
Eric rose and came to her. Jill struggled weakly as he put his arms around her and held her close. "It's all right, Jill. It's all right. You're safe here. We won't judge you."
"Let me go!"
But he didn't, and the questions kept coming.
"Did your science teacher in elementary school call you 'stupid' because she was having troubles finding a husband, Jill? Or did someone accuse you of being an immoral teen mother because they saw you with your little brothers?"
"You sick bastard! Let me go!"
The embrace tightened. "Oh, when, WHEN will people learn not to be prejudiced?"
Jill struggled helplessly. She was crying now. "Stop it! Just stop it, you freak!"
Eric drew back. His smile was kind and genuine. "Have you ever committed plagiarism, Jill? Did you postpone college against your parents' wishes?"
"I'm in college RIGHT NOW!"
"Do you have a lot of unpaid bills?"
"NO! And that's none of your business!"
Eric reached out and caressed her cheek. "You poor thing. You once saw your parents having sex, didn't you?"
"You gross pig!"
"And then some boys who listen to rap music sexually harassed you, didn't they? Oh, when will people learn that rap music is evil? When? Did your father abandon you so you were homeless and had to move in with the family of a boy you tried to seduce in a sleazy motel?"
"I talked to my father last week, like I do every week. Shut up!"
"Ah." Eric nodded knowingly. "It's hormones, isn't it? Menopause. I understand, Jill. It's all right. It's nothing to be ashamed of."
"WHAT?"
"Do people tease you, Jill? Do they make fun of you in school? You know that violence isn't the answer, right? It's because you're a Muslim that they tease you, isn't it?"
"I'm not a Muslim. My neighbors are Muslim."
Eric drew back as though he might catch something.
"Your neighbors are Muslims? Oh, my! They're moderate Muslims, right?"
"What?"
"You know. Moderate. This is very important, Jill."
"They're Muslims. Why is that such a big deal?"
Eric sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's 9-11 trauma, isn't it, Jill? You know, it's all right to be sad and angry about 9-11. Maybe you don't know this, but terrorists destroyed the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. They attacked the Pentagon too. That's why we're at war in Iraq and Afghanistan. The terrorists were Muslim extremists."
"Do you live in a box or something?" Jill shouted. "I cried my eyes out because of 9-11! I saw the second plane hit LIVE on television! You think I don't know about that? God, will you stop?"
"God," Eric said. "It's a perversion of God, what those Muslim extremists do. But not moderate Muslims. Moderate Muslims are good people. We have to rescue the moderate Muslims."
"Will you shut up?"
"We have to thank our servicemen and women. We have to thank them for their sacrifice. They've given everything so we can be free."
"My uncle fought in Vietnam, Reverend. He lost an arm. Don't try and tell me about sacrifice."
Eric looked at Jill, a tear streaming down his cheek. "What's his name?" he asked. "What was his rank?"
"Daniel C. Martin. He was a Sergeant."
Eric raised his eyes to heaven, his voice suddenly breaking.
"Thank you, Sergeant Daniel C. Martin."
Jill struggled to get up, but was still held fast by the mysterious forces of unrealistic plotting and continuity. Eric turned to her again.
"Oh, you poor, poor girl," he said. "You wanted to join that traveling puppet show, didn't you? I'm so sorry we weren't able to get to you sooner."
Jill felt her jaw drop.
"Huh?"
Eric smiled, and he reached down and helped Jill to her feet, the chair miraculously releasing her.
"Come on," Eric Camden said. "Let's join the others for dinner. And don't worry, Jill. Your days of spending Valentine's Day alone with your Hello Kitty dolls are over. We're going to make sure you get a man."
* * *
Eric Camden led Jill deeper into the large house that lay at the very center of Glenoak. She had her hands held tight to her sides, and she glanced around nervously. She saw the strange boy who had followed her as he skulked quietly toward a door.
"Do you know him?" she asked the Reverend.
Eric looked and shook his head. "He's probably just a friend of Simon's," he said, scarcely glancing at the stranger. "You look nervous, Jill. Why don't you come into my office while Annie finishes dinner?"
Jill resisted the urge to bolt for the door. As she followed Eric across the living room, she noted that the strange boy had disappeared into the kitchen, where she heard the sounds of cabinets being opened and closed.
"Here," Eric said as he guided her into the office and closed the door behind her. "Have a seat." He indicated a chair, and Jill sat. He took the seat behind the desk.
"Now," he said. "I'd like to get to know you."
Jill gulped.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, since you are an unmarried young woman, you must have some trauma or other problems that you need help solving. Fortunately for you, I'm an expert at everything. We can't have you dating Ben until we're sure you aren't broken somehow, now can we?"
Jill spoke softly. "I really don't want to date Ben, Mr. Camden."
Eric laughed. "Of course you do. Have you seen his chest? Any woman would want to date him." Eric's face grew serious. "But not every woman is worthy, Jill. There are a lot of women out there who are bad, bad people, like single women and teen mothers and smokers and flight attendants. You're not one of those, are you?"
Jill shrank back into her chair. "Well, I'm single ...." she managed.
Eric smiled. "That can be cured, fortunately. But let's get to some of your other traumas. Do you do drugs? Smoke pot?"
"God, no. What are you talking about?"
"How about alcohol? Are you an alcoholic? Because we have a spare room upstairs where you can detox. We used it for my lush sister."
"No! I've had a glass of wine with dinner sometimes, but --"
Eric looked at her seriously, his gaze silencing her. "You didn't dump it on a man's head, did you?"
"No ...."
"Good. Now, let's see. Have you ever had depression resulting from a failure to become a cheerleader?"
"No."
"Have you ever been homeless? Do you suffer from kleptomania?"
"What are you talking about? No!"
Eric smiled reassuringly. "It's all right, Jill. I know it can be hard to confront your past traumas. Do you know the words to the national anthem? Are you an orphan? Have you or your dog ever been hit by a car?"
"Why are you asking me this?" Jill demanded.
"Why, because I can help you," Eric replied. "I'm an expert with emotional trauma. Has a boy ever snapped your bra?"
"Well, once, but --"
"Oh, my. You poor thing. Was it at a fraternity party? Was it in the back seat of a police car?"
Jill shook her head.
"Was the boy a single teen parent you met at the playground?"
"No!"
"Have you ever violated school policy by taking an aspirin on school grounds? Are you bulimic? Have you ever gone across the country without your parents' permission because a boyfriend left you?"
"What?"
But the questions kept coming, rapid-fire, as though by rote.
"Are you in a gang and do you hide weapons under your brother's mattress?"
"My brother is 30, Mr. Camden. Will you please stop this?"
Eric shook his head. "It's for your own good, Jill. I'm here to help you. Remember that it is better to be harmless, not helpful. Or is that helpfully harmless? Or harmfully helpful? Or helplessly harmful? I never can remember. Have you ever gone to the mall dressed up like a tart and flirted with the security guards?"
"Are you insane?"
Eric shook his head. "Of course not. I'm a Minister. Have you ever been traumatized by a Holocaust denier?"
Jill stiffened. "If I ever met a Holocaust denier, Mr. Camden, I'd kick his ass."
Eric nodded. "I'll put that down as a 'maybe'. Were you ever invited to a slumber party by the popular girls only to be picked on there? Has an older relative in a bad toupee ever frightened you?"
"Hey! I love my grandfather! He can wear any toupee he wants!"
Eric made a little face. "I can see we'll have to work on that. Have you ever been caught kissing at the movies by your mother so your older brother had to punish you for it? How many best friends have you had?"
Jill tried to rise, but it was like some strange, terrible force written into the script of her life was holding her down in the seat.
"What?"
"You know. Girls you've known at least two days. How many of them have died tragically? How many have moved away and never appeared in your life again, even if you had a phone card you could use to call them?"
Jill tried to speak but no words came out. Eric continued.
"Have you ever had a false pregnancy scare that turned out to be your mother? Do you cut yourself? Have you ever been sent away never to be heard from again as a result?"
That thought was suddenly tempting.
"Do you think violence is romantic, Jill, like, say, the movie Gone With The Wind? Are you addicted to coffee? Do you take drugs to enhance your athletic performance? Have you ever had a heart attack?"
"Does now count?"
"No. Have you ever failed to listen to a male authority figure about sex? Have you ever been to a coed sleepover? Was your intimate sex talk with your parents videotaped for your brother's sex education assignment? Do you wear candy-cane pajamas at Christmas even though they are too small? Have you ever had a dog die?"
Jill groaned. She put her hands to her ears and held them there, but somehow the Reverend's words got through anyway.
"Have you ever vandalized your high school gym or been held in an internment camp by the United States government during World War II? Do you sniff paint fumes?"
"Stop it!" Jill shouted.
"Ah," Eric said knowingly. "Tourette Syndrome."
"I do not have Tourette Syndrome!"
Eric rose and came to her. Jill struggled weakly as he put his arms around her and held her close. "It's all right, Jill. It's all right. You're safe here. We won't judge you."
"Let me go!"
But he didn't, and the questions kept coming.
"Did your science teacher in elementary school call you 'stupid' because she was having troubles finding a husband, Jill? Or did someone accuse you of being an immoral teen mother because they saw you with your little brothers?"
"You sick bastard! Let me go!"
The embrace tightened. "Oh, when, WHEN will people learn not to be prejudiced?"
Jill struggled helplessly. She was crying now. "Stop it! Just stop it, you freak!"
Eric drew back. His smile was kind and genuine. "Have you ever committed plagiarism, Jill? Did you postpone college against your parents' wishes?"
"I'm in college RIGHT NOW!"
"Do you have a lot of unpaid bills?"
"NO! And that's none of your business!"
Eric reached out and caressed her cheek. "You poor thing. You once saw your parents having sex, didn't you?"
"You gross pig!"
"And then some boys who listen to rap music sexually harassed you, didn't they? Oh, when will people learn that rap music is evil? When? Did your father abandon you so you were homeless and had to move in with the family of a boy you tried to seduce in a sleazy motel?"
"I talked to my father last week, like I do every week. Shut up!"
"Ah." Eric nodded knowingly. "It's hormones, isn't it? Menopause. I understand, Jill. It's all right. It's nothing to be ashamed of."
"WHAT?"
"Do people tease you, Jill? Do they make fun of you in school? You know that violence isn't the answer, right? It's because you're a Muslim that they tease you, isn't it?"
"I'm not a Muslim. My neighbors are Muslim."
Eric drew back as though he might catch something.
"Your neighbors are Muslims? Oh, my! They're moderate Muslims, right?"
"What?"
"You know. Moderate. This is very important, Jill."
"They're Muslims. Why is that such a big deal?"
Eric sighed. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's 9-11 trauma, isn't it, Jill? You know, it's all right to be sad and angry about 9-11. Maybe you don't know this, but terrorists destroyed the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. They attacked the Pentagon too. That's why we're at war in Iraq and Afghanistan. The terrorists were Muslim extremists."
"Do you live in a box or something?" Jill shouted. "I cried my eyes out because of 9-11! I saw the second plane hit LIVE on television! You think I don't know about that? God, will you stop?"
"God," Eric said. "It's a perversion of God, what those Muslim extremists do. But not moderate Muslims. Moderate Muslims are good people. We have to rescue the moderate Muslims."
"Will you shut up?"
"We have to thank our servicemen and women. We have to thank them for their sacrifice. They've given everything so we can be free."
"My uncle fought in Vietnam, Reverend. He lost an arm. Don't try and tell me about sacrifice."
Eric looked at Jill, a tear streaming down his cheek. "What's his name?" he asked. "What was his rank?"
"Daniel C. Martin. He was a Sergeant."
Eric raised his eyes to heaven, his voice suddenly breaking.
"Thank you, Sergeant Daniel C. Martin."
Jill struggled to get up, but was still held fast by the mysterious forces of unrealistic plotting and continuity. Eric turned to her again.
"Oh, you poor, poor girl," he said. "You wanted to join that traveling puppet show, didn't you? I'm so sorry we weren't able to get to you sooner."
Jill felt her jaw drop.
"Huh?"
Eric smiled, and he reached down and helped Jill to her feet, the chair miraculously releasing her.
"Come on," Eric Camden said. "Let's join the others for dinner. And don't worry, Jill. Your days of spending Valentine's Day alone with your Hello Kitty dolls are over. We're going to make sure you get a man."