The Lightning

The Lightning


HE didn’t realize it that morning as he woke up, but that would be the day that Justus would have his revenge. He watched as the photographer set up and tested the lighting equipment. This was the fifth year in a row that his father had set up the “Christian Family Photo Album,” so at this point; the sessions were becoming something of a tradition. For the rest of his family, it was a time to enjoy each other’s company, to put on the very best of their Sunday Best and to smile like the proud family of a successful minister should smile. Yet, for Justus, it was a time when he was forced to swallow all the resentment he had built up toward his father over the years and smile like a jackass.
The photographer flashed the bulb again, “We should be ready to go in just a second, Reverend Watts.”
“Oh,” His father released an affectedly good-natured chuckle, “I prefer Pastor Watts, but sounds good, we’re ready when you are, thank you.” He took a last minute glance over at Justus in an attempt to weed out the smallest imperfection. “Justus, your tie’s crooked, fix it!”
Justus put an obligatory hand up to fix his tie, not really caring which way he moved it, simply trying to give his father what he wanted with the least amount of attention or effort. He continued to stare into the flashes of the lighting equipment. That’s what started all of this god damn mess, anyways, he thought, ever since those god damn lights did the trick he’s been riding his high horse into god damn heaven.
The time in question that Justus was thinking of, had been a little more than five years ago, just before the “Christian Family Photo Album” had started. Justus was eleven, and his father had been placed at the First Baptist Church just a year before. He was a young minister who believed passionately, and who could hold the attention of a large congregation quite easily Sunday after Sunday. In those days, Justus had to admit, even he looked forward to seeing his father speak the sweet truth of Jesus Christ, and bring people to the most emphatic reaffirmations of their faith. Had he not developed such a hatred for his father since then, Justus might have allowed himself to remember the happier times he and his father had shared together in his youth. It was an almost everyday occurrence that his father would read scripture with him, and Justus delighted in the proud looks he received from his father when he was able to recite the Ten Commandment and the Beatitudes from memory. Yet, anytime he thought of these things now, Justus was sure that what his father had enjoyed most was not he, himself, but his accomplishments that would serve to affirm his father’s reputation as a holy man. Still, things had been quite alright until the Sunday when a simple coincidence had changed his father from a simple and honest minister to what Justus heard some of the more senile women of the church refer to as “the right hand of God in our own backyard!”
Justus had been listening to his father’s sermon that Sunday very intently, as usual. It was about the Christian’s responsibility to remain active for the purposes of God everyday, and that no matter what we couldn’t just sit around and wait for God to make us do something. During one of the more animated moments of the sermon his father had raised his pointed hand to the sky and shouted the phrase that, very soon, Justus would mark as a turning point in he and his father’s lives:
“Don’t sit there and wait for the lightning!”
And then, as soon as the word “lightning” had left the parted lips of Pastor Watt’s bright red face, by mere coincidence, by Holy intervention, or by what Justus would refer to later as the “god damn grace of god,” the lights flickered. It wasn’t the sort of phenomenon that if experienced by itself would be considered supernatural. It lasted for, at most, five seconds, but perhaps what made it seem more fantastic was the accompaniment of a buzzing noise. Although it was probably just the muffled hum of electricity, the sound was enough to link Pastor Watt’s preceding sentence with the flicker of the lights, so that all who were in attendance would swear that it could be nothing but Divine Intervention. The immediate reaction of the congregation was to sit, awestruck. No one knew exactly what to say or perhaps if it was even appropriate to speak, as the Pastor was, actually, still in the middle of his sermon. He seemed just as stunned as everyone else. Finally, there seemed to arise a chuckle of good humor, which the Pastor embraced with a polite and playful “Ahem” and continued on with the sermon, as though nothing had happened. But Justus looked back at the congregation and from the front pew where he always sat. They were beaming. The minister had arrived. That afternoon around the supper table he saw similar grins emanating from his mother and younger sister. His father ate his roast beef, smiling to himself. Justus couldn’t place what it was, but what to everyone else seemed like a miracle, to him seemed only ominous. It was though on that day, his father went to bed as a different man, someone who seemed entirely alien to Justus.
And then things changed. First with his father’s creation of the “Christian Family Photo Album,” which was really more of a glorified phone directory with family portraits. What Justus finally saw during the annual photo shoots was his father’s ridiculous vanity. He would spend hours parting his hair just left of center, stealing his mothers tweezers to remove any gray hairs and liberally applying cologne. Justus would always consider it his father’s annual fashion show for the old women of the church. They would gather in the room to see the proud minister’s family have their picture taken, gabbing back and forth continuously. Within a few years, Justus would find it amusing to look at them and imagine that they were a bunch of chickens, clucking away unintelligibly at the most trivial of matters. Aside from these sessions of vanity, the Pastor’s sermons became fierier, instead of a reaffirmation of faith; he began to speak of “the depths of hell” and “sins which will weigh us down like a heavy and rusted chain.” He remained affable at church activities but at home he would sequester himself within his study for hours on end, reviewing drafts and sermons, and preparing Bible studies and church events. The first direct attack Justus felt against his own self was when he was forced to take part in the town’s Fourth of July parade. He and his sister, Kara, were supposed to sit on a trailer as his father towed them with his truck through the parade route. When Justus, who at the awkward age of twelve had embraced a rather shy and introverted disposition, asked his father why they had to sit on the stupid trailer, the Pastor only chuckled and said, “You’ll see, Justus... you’ll see…”
Then the day came. Justus waited to leave for the parade in the back of the truck, as his father walked out to the driveway and started the car. And then he saw the scheme his father had concocted. His little sister, led by his mother’s hand, had been done up to look like the Statue of Liberty. When thinking back about how long it had taken him to realize the significant connection he had with such a get-up, Justus would actually become angry. He sat with a downtrodden scowl as he and his sister were towed through the entirety of the parade with dual signs on the side of the trailer that read “Liberty and Justus.” It occurred to him only then, that perhaps when his father had chosen an uncommon name like “Justus” for him, that this had been his plan all along. He stared into the rearview mirror of the truck to find his father’s eyes, and when he did, he was disgusted to find that the possessed a look of complete self-satisfaction. The humiliation of Justus’s friends laughing and jeering at his participation in a spectacle so stupid left a scar in his heart.
But the actually cruelty of his father, the really malevolent and horrible actions, came the following year, when Justus turned thirteen. At this point in his schooling, Justus truly had become the quintessential example of a shy and lonely teenage boy. He would eat with other kids from church, which he was grateful for, but his conversation was limited to various “umms” and “ahhs” whenever he sought to say something meaningful. He soon chose not to speak at all, based on his irrational reasoning that it would be better not to do so than to develop a stutter. Being so terribly shy, he had nothing to do most days but fantasize, and being racked by the hormonal explosion occurring in his body he began to take an acute notice of the budding bosoms on his female schoolmates. Then, there were fantasies about his Sunday-school teacher, Mrs. Dobbs, a woman of thirty-eight with breasts large enough that pant-suit could do nothing to hide. The cycle was set, and Justus quickly discovered how to tame, and subsequently reward his erections while showering on most, if not all mornings. It never occurred to Justus that his father might notice the excessively long time it took his son to bathe, and instead of simply yelling at him, as was usual, use a more creative means of showing his son that water wasn’t free. The irony was that just as his father sought to teach Justus a lesson, Justus, in his imagination, was actually teaching Mrs. Dobbs a lesson of his own. He quivered at the thought of sharing the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil with his sultry temptress of a Sunday-school teacher, who would most certainly submit herself to being carried away in his strong arms and allow him to ravage her night after night. It was in the middle of this fantasy that Justus was shocked by his father pouring a glass of ice cold water on him, which, in contrast to the steaming-hot shower proved enough to send Justus skyrocketing out through the shower curtain onto the bathroom floor. Justus realized as he lay there that his hand was still gripping his previously hard and quickly dissipating member, and that his father was standing directly over him, witnessing his mortal sin. Pastor Watts, in turn, was so shocked that he dropped the glass which shattered on the floor next to his feet. Justus stared up at his father, mortified, and Pastor Watts stared back at him, mouth agape.
“YOU,” he said suddenly, readjusting his gaze, “are a filthy fucking abomination in the sight of the Lord.” Justus couldn’t believe his father had actually cursed, “Rinse off… then clean this up. Hurry, we’re going to be late for church,” He stepped over Justus and out of the bathroom.
Surprisingly, there were no immediate repercussions of this incident. His father and he stopped talking altogether, as opposed to hardly at all, and Justus continued about his regular routine… although he always, always remembered to lock the bathroom door.
The axe finally fell after about three weeks when he and his father went to the Father-Son Bible Study on Wednesday night. Justus had only suspected in his worst nightmares that his father might mention something about their encounter in the bathroom at the Bible Study, and after the first two weeks following the incident had passed and the had said nothing, he began to relax and pass the time in a foggy daydream as he usually did. He almost didn’t notice when his father began to discuss the sin of lustfulness as a pitfall to young men, but then he felt his father’s glare fall upon him.
“Justus has had his own problems with lustful thought,” the Pastor said.
“Dad, don’t,” it was impossible, surely his father couldn’t be this cruel.
“Some of you might be surprised to find…” he continued.
“Dad, STOP it!” Surely, his father had to have some boundaries.
“…that Justus has had trouble abstaining from the Sin of Onan,” and thus his father proved that he had none.
The other boys, most of whom were Justus’s lunch mates, looked at each other confusedly. “What’s the sin of Onan?” one asked.
“Onanism is the same thing as autoeroticism,” The Pastor explained. “You boys might know it better as masturbation.”
Justus didn’t wait to hear the snicker see the looks of shock and embarrassment fall on him. He threw his chair across the room and stormed out into the hall, his face ablaze with anger. His father followed after him.
“Justus,” he called, “Justus, stop!”
Justus reeled around, “Are you fucking kidding me? I go to school with them, I’m going to have to see them tomorrow… GIRLS will hear about this!”
“We have to be held accountable for our sins of thought and action… even if it means a little petty embarrassment on your part!”
“A little petty embarrassment? I’d like to see you cope with—“
His father cut him off, “I am a LEADER of this church, and as my son, it’s important that you be made an example of from time to time, especially if your behavior isn’t all that exemplary. You should thank God that I’ve called your sin to the forefront, and now you’ll be able to deal with it more easily. You don’t know how many boys your age struggle with this problem in secret. It separates them from God.”
“I don’t care about God!” He was overwhelmed by thoughts of his father’s hypocrisy, so much so that after the words had left his mouth he stayed long enough only to see the fire of his father’s temper start up. He didn’t wish to continue the battle, only to provoke his father to the point of anger. He turned again and ran the whole two miles home.
He was grounded obviously. Yet, surprisingly, it was a decision made solely by his father. When Justus had spoken to his mother about the incident, a woman who was usually well-versed in submissiveness, even she had to acknowledge the ridiculous of his father’s actions. Instead of the usual attentive and loving greeting, she gave her best try at a sidelong glance and managed to let out an “Honestly, dear,” but this was to no avail. The Pastor had not cooled off, he had been justified, he was a man of god and Justus would have his punishment. But other than that, life at home didn’t seem to change much. Justus and his father continued a cycle of not talking, and Justus was left alone and no longer made an example of, so long as he came to church and kept up the act as best he could. But at school the torments never ceased. His shyness was intensified by having the entirety of the school know how he spent his free time. It wasn’t long before girls were pointing and laughing or turning away in disgust, and the boys from the bible study, those he had mistakenly thought were his friends, stopped associating with him altogether. Justus became the sad spectacle of a boy at school who eats alone.
So Justus was surprised and relieved when he finally saw a window of opportunity for revenge at the annual photo shoot. It came upon him almost without warning as is mind wandered while waiting to fake a smile. It dawned on Justus that his father’s one weakness in regard to sin was that he was always known to use the f-word in cases of surprise or disgust. He thought back to the time he had been caught in the shower, and even to a different time he had been forced to help his father move a couch. It proved too heavy for Justus, and he accidentally let the sizeable piece of furniture fall on his father’s foot.
“Mother fucker!” his father had practically shrieked.
He quickly apologized, to both Justus and his heavenly father, and proceeded to ice the wound. It had almost slipped Justus mind as something significant, but rather solidified his opinion of his father as a religious hypocrite.
But on the day, he finally realized that he could use the bad habit to his advantage. It finally dawned on him as the old women began to gather in the room to see them have their picture taken. They began to gab about how big Justus had gotten, where he would go off to college, how beautiful his mother’s blouse looked and of course how the minister had a photogenic quality that was almost regal. He once again, began to imagine them as chickens, taking extra satisfaction in demeaning them because he was quite sure that of all the member of the congregation, it was they who held his father’s image most dear.
The photographer began to orient them in their sitting position in front of the camera. “Okay, Pastor Watts, looks like everything’s all set up, “ he announced, “Let’s have your children sit in the middle, we’ll have your daughter and Justus sit in the middle, and then we’ll have your lovely wife beside your daughter and you can sit right behind Justus here… there we go, that looks great…”
Justus couldn’t believe his luck. Actually, he could. It was the same stupid pose they sat in every year, and the only difference would be that sometimes he and his sister would switch places. But this year he was lucky to have his father sitting right next to him, thus setting him in the perfect position to execute his ad hoc plan for revenge. The photo session began, which usually meant leaving the same plastered smile on for about five minutes. He waited for a sufficient amount of flashes until he could tell that the photographer would keep going, as he would develop a rhythm of click and flash. Then, slowly, purposefully, he extended his leg straight outward. The cameraman didn’t see, and no one else in the family seemed to notice until right before it happened. He waited until a few seconds before the next flash and then, with all his might, summoning all his pent up rage, he swung his heel downward as hard as he could.
“Justus, what are you—” the Pastor started.
BAM! Right down onto his father’s slightly exposed ankle. And then, Justus smiled, and with that smile, he realized he was happier than he had been in years.
“Fucking CHRIST, Justus!”
FLASH. The old ladies stood silent in shock and heartbreak. Justus was already being scolded by his mother. His father chuckled in an embarrassed manner, and asked the old women to forgive him. His sister started to cry. The photographer looked up, not realizing what was going on. But to Justus, everything just seemed to fade into the background of his newfound contentment. He was quite sure that he had timed it just right. The grounding would be so, so worth it.

The photo arrived a month later. Justus found it before his mother did, as he’d been skipping his last class of the day for about a week to get to the mail first. In the parking lot of the church, he had offered the photographer fifty dollars for an eight by eleven print of the shot. It had turned out perfectly. The part that actually pleasantly surprised by was his mother and sister’s eyes focused downward directly on the point of impact. He could actually see his mouth wide open in fear and puzzlement. His father’s face was the crowning achievement. From the way his mouth was positioned open and his eyes seemed to be clenched shut in pain, Justus was sure that the picture had caught him mid f-word, just as the “u” sound was rolling into the hard “k”. And there, in the middle, smiling with what he realized was his first genuine smile in the “Christian Family Photo Album” was Justus. Smiling because he had held his father accountable for his sins of thought and action. Smiling because of his liberty and justice. Smiling because, in the end, all he had had to do was sit there and wait for the lightning.