The Book of Joby (34 page)

He denied himself even a simple piece of bread, lest the devil use even that little weakness to gain power over him.

Joby had gone still as stone, then weak as water as the rest of Father Morgan’s words had come rushing back as if whispered in his ear.

To be faithful at all, you must be
absolutely
faithful. Nothing less will do. If you truly want to beat the devil, you must be prepared to deny any hunger he might use to breach your defenses.

The trap had closed around him with an almost electric shock. Unable to wash his guilt away in the shower, Joby’s dread had grown worse and worse until, mastering his shame, he’d gone to ask Father Richter if what he’d been doing was wrong.

Despite Father Richter’s obvious effort to be gentle, he had made it clear that Joby must bridle such “impure thoughts and actions” at any cost. Joby had not needed to ask what that really meant. God might leave him, just as Arthur had . . . as his father had. Though Father Richter had assured him that the sacrament of confession would cleanse him of any sin, even this one, Joby hadn’t been about to risk God’s friendship on cheap rationalizations. From that moment forward, he had promised God that he would utterly renounce, until marriage, the impure thoughts and deeds that had almost cost him his heart’s deepest desire—the chance to be God’s knight. That goal had proven excruciatingly difficult, but in time, he had learned to keep both impure desires and acts utterly at bay—even in dreams—until now.

Laura had a way of looking at Joby when they were together, of leaning too near, or brushing against him in passing, that had quickly reawakened everything Joby had worked so hard to put to sleep. He had begun to dream of her; wonderful, terrible dreams that he could no longer control, often culminating in the very pleasures he had fought so hard for so long to refuse. He was glad to have a girlfriend at last,
very
glad that it was Laura, and, frankly, deeply relieved to have an answer, finally, to the humiliating rumors he’d always known were traded about him behind his back. But he could not risk losing the battle he had waged so fiercely for so long, not even for Laura.

“Well, Joby,” Father Richter said when they were settled alone in the priory’s sun porch, “what’s got my favorite pupil in such a turmoil?”

“Father,” Joby said, “I’m having trouble with . . . with impure thoughts.”

“Ah,” the priest said. “Is
that
all? You had me worried for a moment. I trust you are repelling them?”

“Father? Is it a sin if . . . if it happens in dreams?”

“Of course not, Joby. God holds none of us accountable for what we cannot control.” He smiled. “But our dreams
are
less likely to move in such directions if we are careful to keep our minds pure during the day. Are you doing that?”

Joby haltingly explained his budding romance with Laura, and his anxiety about having a girlfriend without being tempted to impure thoughts and actions.

“Joby,” Father Richter said when his confession had exhausted itself, “you are a good boy. I know how your heart burns for God, so I will not trouble you with unnecessary admonitions. God does not hate the gift of sexuality. He made it after all, and wants us to enjoy it fully in marriage. It is the devil who hates God’s gifts, and wants to see
us
destroy them through misuse. As I see it, the problem is one of ownership. Anything
we
own can be used against us by the devil, because he’s so much more powerful and clever than we are. But the devil can use nothing that
God
owns, because
God
is more powerful than
he is.
We all desperately want to own our bodies, Joby, but if we let
God
own them instead, then the devil can
never
use them against us again. Do you see?”

“I guess,” Joby said. “But how do I let God own my body?”

“Every time you are tempted, Joby, just remember that God wants you to sacrifice your sexuality to Him, so that He can give it back to you later, in marriage, immeasurably improved. Every time you put your own desires to death, you can take comfort and courage in the expectation of some even greater pleasure after marriage, when God returns what you have given Him, multiplied many times over.”

“Does that mean . . . Should I give up dating Laura then?” Joby asked apprehensively. “Sacrifice it, like you said?”

“Absolutely
not,
” Father Richter replied sternly. “She must be a very special girl to have won the affections of such a fine young man.” He smiled. “The thing to do, Joby, is devote yourself to learning how to
love
her, instead of
lusting
after her. That way, if you are ever married, the difficult part will all be done, and the easy part will merely complete your joy together.”

Joby was filled with relief. Laura had always mattered to him, always made him feel proud—of her and of himself. Perhaps . . . perhaps they
really would be married someday. The thought set everything within him singing.

“Thank you, Father.” Joby beamed. “I feel much better now.”

Father Richter grinned. “Your purity and devotion to the faith are an example to everyone.” He leaned forward to pat Joby’s shoulder. “I’m
proud
of you, Joby.”

Never one to cut corners, especially with God, Joby still resolved, as he left the church, that he would learn to wake up if he had any more of those dreams. He still wanted God to know that there was nothing for which he would ever renounce Him, not the smallest piece of bread or the greatest pleasure.

Williamson hovered like a chill at Joby’s back as the boy finished overdressing for Lindwald’s party. Getting Joby to attend at all had proven harder than prying hallelujahs from Hell. They’d already had to postpone the event twice. Lindwald had always taken pains to arrange things so that Laura couldn’t come, of course, but Joby hadn’t wanted to go without her. Ironically, that snag had finally been resolved by Laura’s own well-meaning insistence that Joby start developing a more independent social life. Even then, weeks of persistent pressure from both Lindwald and Mayhew had been required to convince Joby he’d have any fun with a bunch of people he didn’t know. And getting past Joby’s mother had taken a performance by Lindwald’s young henchman, Johnny Mayhew, worthy of Eddie Haskell at his smarmy worst.

Williamson had to concede that this evening might actually be
amusing.
Only half the guests would be human. Joby would finally come face to face with the very demons who’d been tormenting him for years—though he’d not know it, of course. Malcephalon would be there disguised as a young Goth pseudo-poet; Tique, Trephila, and Eurodia as a rudely attired skate punk, a teenage wannabe gypsy, and a slutty cheerleader. Kallaystra was scheduled to show up later as the femme fatale. Even Lindwald’s so-called parents, supposedly out of town for this party, would actually be attending as a wiry skin-head and a preppy teenage lush.

After all these years, Williamson thought with the ghost of a smile, finally something fun.

Forbidden to enter any teen-driven car, Joby was forced to ride his bike to Jamie’s party. He’d forgotten how bad the neighborhood was. After chaining
up his bike, he headed toward the front door and knocked, but the music was so loud that no one heard him, so he pushed the door open for himself.

Throbbing heavy metal and dense, acrid smoke drifted past him through the opening, as if desperate, themselves, to flee toward fresher air. The shades were drawn, and all the normal lightbulbs replaced with red, blue, or green ones, turning complexions lurid, and filling the room with shadows, though it would be light outside for hours yet. Joby’s first impulse was to leave, but Lindwald suddenly appeared wearing a wide, slightly bleary grin.

“Hey, Joby!
All right!
” He threw an arm across Joby’s back, and ushered him deeper into the house. “I was afraid you weren’t gonna show! Wanna beer? A cigarette?”

Joby stared at him incredulously. This was not at all what he or Mayhew had led him to expect. “Jamie . . . I . . . I can only stay a little while. I—”

Jamie hooked his arm around Joby’s neck, pulling their heads close enough to talk more quietly. “Look, Joby. Don’t freak out, okay? I know you’re new at this, but that’s why I worked so hard to get you here. You’d be a lot more popular if you weren’t so uptight.” He gave Joby a conspiratorial grin and a good-natured thump on the back. “Just loosen up a little and hang out. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

Before Joby could answer, Johnny Mayhew popped up with a slutty-looking brunette under one arm, and a beer in his hand. “Joby!” He smiled. “Glad yer finally steppin’ up to the plate, dude! The drinks are in there.” He pointed at the red-lit kitchen doorway. “Grab yourself some brew!”

“Is there anything nonalcoholic?” Joby asked.

“What?”
Jamie smiled, cupping his ears to hear over the music.

“I said, is there anything besides beer?”
Joby yelled, just as the song ended, so that everyone turned to look.

“Oh. . . . Sure,” Jamie said, glancing self-consciously around them. “There’s vodka, rum, schnapps, whatever you want, bud. Come on.” Jamie pulled him toward the kitchen as the music started up again: gangster rap this time, which was quieter at least. In the kitchen, Jamie pulled Joby aside, and said, “Look. Joby. Just be cool. You embarrass yourself here, you embarrass me, okay?”

“Jamie, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I don’t think—”

“Just take a soda,” Lindwald said, grabbing a 7 Up off the counter and thrusting it into Joby’s hand, “and I’ll introduce you around. Give it a try, Joby. They’re people too, ya know. Just be friendly, and you’ll have a great time.”

Soda in hand, Joby followed Jamie back into the crowded living room, where they were enthusiastically assaulted by a skater and his gypsyish girlfriend.

“Gonna be a
rager,
bra!” shouted the skater, slamming Jamie an exuberant high five while his girlfriend threw herself around their host in a wild embrace.

“Damn straight, Skat!” Jamie shouted back. “Hey you guys, this is Joby.”

Joby was shifting his soda around to shake Skat’s hand, when Skat launched another of his mad high fives, knocking the can out of his grip to gush its contents over Joby as it fell, leaving a dark stain down one leg of his khaki slacks.

“
Whoa!
Sorry, bra.” Skat grinned. “You better clean that up. Look’s like you pissed yerself.” His girlfriend laughed uproariously. “Hey, Jamie! Where’s the juice?”

Jamie nodded toward the kitchen, then surveyed Joby’s new look with a grimace. “Come on. The bathroom’s upstairs.”

As Jamie led him toward the staircase, Joby realized for the first time how horribly wrong his clothes were, soaked in 7 Up or not. He’d dressed for a party while everyone else there was dressed for Halloween or heavy yard work.
What a geek I am,
he thought just as Johnny and his girl popped up again.

“Nice look, Joby,” Mayhew scoffed. “Can’t even hold yer soda, huh?”

“Back off, Mayhew,” Jamie growled.

Mayhew shrugged, and vanished back into the swirl of partyers.

The upstairs landing was blocked by an entourage of dark-clad girls surrounding a teenage boy with thin hungry features, dark eyes, and black hennaed hair. His long coat, heavy sweater, and ragged jeans were all black as well, right down to his battered steel-toed boots. He sat in a cloud of pot smoke, a joint hanging loosely from one hand.

“Out of the way,” Jamie gibed. “Wounded comin’ through.”