Here is an excerpt from “PEF Rancourt’s World,” one of 10 short stories contained in Doug Wolter’s new book “Absolute Summer and Other Stories.” The story “PEF Rancourt’s World” is set in the future, in a society where people of faith have been deemed enemies of the state, where “principle essence facilitators” assume positions once filled by church pastors. In this world, Leander Rancourt wields his malignant power unconcerned about the damage he inflicts on everyone he meets. This excerpt is where Leander Rancourt is introduced, confidently asserting his privilege as the arbiter of untruth oblivious to surprises that await him.
“Absolute Summer and Other Stories” may be purchased at the author’s discount at a book signing from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. Nov. 13 at the Daily Globe. The author looks forward to seeing you there.
Look for another story excerpt at this location later this week.
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He told Mrs. Anawaty with an almost imperceptible upturn of his chin that he would return in an hour or so, and he walked out the big doors of North Side Mind-Faith Assembly a moment later, stepping his way onto the sidewalk of Primrose Street in the drab pursuit of everyday duty.
His hard, shiny black shoes strode briskly along the pavement at precise intervals, making a regular light clicking noise like that of a well-ordered metronome. He looked neither right nor left. His eyes adjusted briefly to the woman jogger with the stocking cap and ear buds who nearly bumped into him, but his head didn’t move. She did not apologize as she brushed by. He continued assiduously on to his destination.
The crisp pleats on the cuffs of his black dress pants bobbed gaily as he walked, in contrast to his dour face. Mr. Leander Rancourt’s thin colorless lips pressed down tight. His rather white, chalky face looked even whiter against the black upraised collar of his long black coat that swung all the way below his knees. His pale blue eyes, protected by thin eyelids, narrowed. The receding light brown hair on his scalp was close-cropped above the oval of his clean-shaven face, which he held together like a statue.
To look at him now, you wouldn’t suspect Counselor Rancourt enjoyed his job very much. Oh, but he did. As the only tenured principle essence facilitator on the entire north side of the city, he possessed a certain respectability that other PEFs didn’t have. The government salary he earned wasn’t what made him feel so special, and why should it? It wasn’t all that much, really. But others in his profession looked up to him, and why shouldn’t they? He had written books.
Mr. Rancourt’s destination was close at hand now. It had been only three blocks away from the Assembly, after all, and with his hands still hidden in his coat pockets he took the five steps which brought him to the entrance of a three-story red-brick apartment building. He drew out his right hand and grabbed hold of the brass handle. Inside, he glanced at the names of the residents on the slender tin mailboxes affixed to a nearby wall. He found her. Anne Crestmann, second floor, apartment 5B.
What did she want? Mrs. Crestmann had been a semi-regular attender of the Assembly, and when she was there she usually sat in the first row of pews. Rancourt often wondered if she had wanted to make herself conspicuous to the facilitator, because when he read passages from the books he’d picked out for instruction and encouragement, she’d take out a book of her own, open it, and display it on her lap. It was a thick black book, a superstitious book full of worthless myths — a book that he consciously tried not to acknowledge among his congregants.
A younger woman opened the door to Mrs. Crestmann’s apartment. She said she was her daughter, and would he please follow her to her mother’s bedroom. There, the old lady’s bed was semi-made with two fluffy white pillows propped against a dark chestnut headboard, the top pillow still indented from where her head had rested. Mrs. Crestmann sat in a straight-backed chair, stiff and upright, and thanked the counselor for coming.
“Anne,” he began.
Calling her Anne sounded strange to Rancourt. They were never close, and rarely did they even speak to each other when she appeared at the Assembly. But he knew every regular or semi-regular attender by name. Although the sanctuary (actually nobody ever really called it a sanctuary very much anymore) seated 400, on a normal Sunday less than a 100 could be expected to show up. The only large gatherings occurred at the Winter Festival celebration, which old-timers used to call Christmas.
“I haven’t been to your services lately,” Mrs. Crestmann said. “It’s been a couple of months.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” said Rancourt.
“I have cancer,” Mrs. Crestmann said in a craggy voice. “I am feeling well enough at the moment to sit in my chair. But I don’t get out much anymore. I would like to receive Holy Communion.”
Rancourt fidgeted as he slowly eased his wide rump on the straight chair Mrs. Crestmann’s daughter provided for him. He sighed, and said, “Dear Mrs. Crestmann. You must know that I am not authorized to administer Christian communion. To anyone.”
“I explained that to her, Counselor,” interjected the daughter quietly and respectfully. “But she insisted that I ask you to come. She’s … she’s my mother, you know. And I…”
Rancourt smiled at the woman in the chair, who gazed at him in a way that to him seemed like a quiet pleading. Mrs. Crestmann seemed so frail in that chair. The bony hands that she held in her lap, lined with protruding veins, shook faintly.
He reached inside his large coat and took out a little green leather-bound book. “What I have, I give you,” he said.
He turned quickly to page 87. “This is from an anonymous writer,” he said.
“What do you require … in your time of need? Those who love you are here to help … Your community of friends is here for you, and only for you … To comfort … To share …What do you require, dear friend?…
He glanced up from the page to look on Mrs. Crestmann. He saw her looking at her daughter, and saw the old woman’s daughter return the glance, pained.
Rancourt coughed, then continued.
“Pray, do not deny the reality of your pain. Go to it, and go with courage, for if it be that this present world is all that we have… Remember that the sunshine penetrates the darkness. See it. Embrace it… Go to it now, for it calls to you…”
Mrs. Crestmann looked at him now with expressionless eyes.
“Perhaps this will help,” he said, flipping through the pages. He stopped on page 142. “I have a wonderful poem here by Emily Dickinson. You may find some comfort in it. … I have William Wordsworth also in this book. Or Elizabeth Barrett Browning… Perhaps you prefer someone more contemporary, such as Maya Angelou.”
He looked again at Mrs. Crestmann’s daughter. Then back again at Mrs. Crestmann, sitting wordless in the chair, her 82-year-old eyes watery and searching.
“I have others still living. Uh … maybe we should dispense with the poems today. Would you simply like to converse?” And he reached out and touched the old woman lightly on her right hand that had been resting on her lap.
“I would like Holy Communion, please,” she said…
- “Absolute Summer and Other Stories” can be purchased for the author’s discount price of $12 at a Nov. 13 book signing at the Daily Globe.