Royce Mullins and The Case of Virtue's Burn, A Novel: Chapter Two

by Jeff Hart

Most of the clients that wandered into my office fit the bill of damaged goods and Paul Fennel was no different. He’d shown up bearing a referral from God himself, who hours earlier had saved me from mortal injury with a convenient ball of flaming garbage. While I’d fully intended to resume my carefree life as a non-believer, reserving my brush with death as a cute story for atheist cocktail parties, I could not deny the inconvenient serendipity of Paul’s sudden appearance. He was exactly how I imagined a lamb of God — thin, fidgety, too nervous to bleat. When Paul and the rest of the meek inherited the Earth, direct eye contact would be one of the first things to go.

Paul peered out the window while I cleared a stack of final notices from my guest chair. Three stories down, yellow-vested city workers armed with snow shovels pushed piles of Chinese garbage down 2nd Avenue. Mayor Kelly’s clean-up efforts were officially underway.

“Do you think we’ll declare war on China?” asked Paul.

“I hope not. I owe the Chinese my life.”

“Is that what you think?”

I looked up to find Paul staring at me. He quickly turned away, his head cocked downward like a dog waiting for the rolled up newspaper. I gestured to the open chair and he settled into it obediently. I sat opposite, on the futon, next to a pile of blankets rank with the smell of my sweat.

Used to be this office didn’t so much toe the line of midlife crisis bachelor pad, back when Claudette was around to keep things in shape. This was back when I was closer to having a home-office than an office-home. Those were halcyon days when I’d conduct my business with at least an air of legitimacy from behind a desk that I’d inherited from my grandfather, a real fine piece that I sold to a writer in exchange for two-hundred bucks and the same musty futon that brought on this digression. I loved that desk, but as tired as Claudette was of me, so was I tired of sleeping on the floor. Sacrifices had to be made.

“So, tell me what exactly God signed me up for.”

“Mr. Mullins,” began Paul, who had clearly rehearsed for our meeting, “I have recently met a woman whom I believe to be my soul mate.”

I felt like telling Paul, him the classic milquetoast that never had a bitter father figure pound the ways of the world into him, that they all start out as soul mates. Then they marry a vegan grocery magnate and move to Park Slope to start hatching out near-sighted cello prodigies. After that? Not so much. I kept quiet though, aware that an interruption might disturb Paul’s practiced rhythm.

“She is being held against her will by a man named Wayne Maker. You may have heard of him.”

“The guy from the subway ads? The open-yourself-to-goodness dude?”

“Yes, him,” stammered Paul. “He is the spiritual leader of The Unfettered Souls, a self improvement community I was, until my recent banishment, a member of.”

“Why banished?”

“For attempting to contact my beloved. She is of higher rank than I. It is strictly forbidden.”

“She have a name?”

“Yes, but I don’t know it. Our only time together was during The Joining. It takes place in silence and darkness.”

“So you’ve never seen her or spoken with her.”

“We connected in a more profound way, Mr. Mullins. The Joining is a transbody experience where a novice like myself bonds with an ascended member of the community — they are called Virtues — in order to reach a higher level of awareness.”

Hot as it was in my office, and as difficult as exposition can be for those unloading it, Paul had nonetheless begun to sweat at an inappropriate clip. It’s always been my experience that the abruptly and abnormally sweaty are prone to rash action or, at the very least, sudden heartfelt confidences that tend to make stiff-upper-lip types like myself uncomfortable. My advice then, and you can thank me when this saves you from getting strangled or otherwise marinated by the sloppy hug of an effusive acquaintance, is to keep your distance from those dripping with a danger sweat.

I stood up from the futon and crossed to the window, keeping an eye on Paul. He’d become aware of his condition, having left hand prints on his khakis that he attempted to wipe away before giving up and squishing his hands together in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “This is difficult for me. All these details are supposed to be confidential.”

“What makes you think this Virtue of yours is being held captive?”

“Maker won’t let her leave.”

“He’s got her chained to a divine radiator?”

“Metaphorically.”

“And literally?”

“She told me.”

“I thought you said there wasn’t any talking during the whachamacallit.”

Paul stared down at his hands.

“Our souls touched, Mr. Mullins. There was a moment of pure communication, where her soul screamed out at mine for freedom. I was frightened. I pulled back too soon.”

Paul yanked his shirt over his head. He was all cavernous rib cage and pale skin, except for the perfectly circular pink burn about the size of a coffee saucer seared over his heart.  Â

“Shit,” I said. “Is that contagious?”

“This is what was left when our souls ripped apart,” said Paul, and looked up at me with a watery gaze of abject need the likes of which I’ve seen only in hungry babies. “You have to help us.”

“Alright,” I said. “Put your shirt on.”

I had Paul write down the address of Maker’s midtown Wellness Center, where enlightenment was apparently synonymous with balling a stranger in a dark room until she burns a hole in your chest. I’d had women leave their mark on me before, but never one quite like the raw spot over Paul’s heart. I won’t kid you. I was excited to meet her.

Previously: Chapter One

Jeff Hart lives in Brooklyn. His other writing can be found over at Culture Blues.

Photo by Fabio, from Flickr.