Scattered Faith by David Henson

I’ll tell you, I saw my fair share of weird. It was par for the course when I was a belief policeman. I never passed judgment.  I once tested a man whose One True Belief was a body part and a woman who worshipped a raw potato. It takes all kinds, but I moved on as long as my detector beeped twice and the OTB wasn’t harmful. If my OTBD beeped only once, I took the heretic to my district HQ. What happened next was outside my control. I told myself my hands were tied.

Before you get the wrong idea, let me assure you that not all of my assignments were strange. Some folks I checked believed in their hobby … painting, photography, gardening… worthwhile things like higher-ups claim they intend. Who knows, maybe the potato woman started off believing in her garden.

Whether the person was odd or ordinary, I began dreading the consequences of a single beep. I’ll share with you how it came to a head a few months ago.

The Fandrixsons, an older couple, lived in a bungalow near the town center. I remember they had a garden gnome on the front porch, and I hoped the statue would bring them good luck. According to my background material, the couple had been together for decades and claimed that their One True Belief was in each other.

It was late in the day, nearly dusk. Mrs. Fandrixson’s eyes widened when she opened the door and saw me. I allowed a moment of connection, hoping to help her relax, but I could see her breathing quicken. I’m pretty adept at picking up on tells like that.

I entered their home and set up my equipment in the kitchen. I noticed the table was wobbly, and the yellow paint on the walls was fading and peeling. They seemed to be on the edge. I hoped I wasn’t going to push them over it. There was a framed photograph of four children with the couple when they were younger. Better times.

Mr. Fandrixson insisted on being tested first. His wife squeezed his hand as I attached the sensors to his temples. They both took deep breaths when I flipped the switch. The detector beeped twice. I was relieved, but couldn’t show it. I was required to maintain an emotional distance, and all my activity was recorded when I was on the job.

I removed the sensors and attached them to Mrs. Fandrixson. Her whimpering gave me a sinking feeling. When I activated the detector, it beeped once. The Fandrixsons waited. I waited. As if to coax another beep, Mr. Fandrixson kissed his wife’s cheek. Technically, that’s not allowed, but it’s not a major infraction, and I was rooting for her. My detector remained mute.

Mr. Fandrixson groaned and asked his wife if there was someone else. Her sobs stifled her words as she shook her head. She stood, rolled up an area rug, lifted a loose floorboard, and pulled out a legacy religious icon. I sighed and told the woman I had to take her in, that my hands were tied.

Mrs. Fandrixson asked what harm she was doing. I’m not supposed to engage with heretics, but couldn’t help myself. I parroted the benefit of required scattered faith — a society pacified by belief, but belief in many small packets, not the big ones that have riddled history with conflict. 

As I led the woman away, I looked back and saw Mr. Fandrixson standing, his arms reaching out. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you the sight stabbed my chest. From what I’ve heard, I think you would’ve felt the same way.

On the drive to the station, shadows from the streetlights flew through the cabin like giant bats. Mrs. Fandrixson was talkative, but she wasn’t trying to convince me to let her go. She told me about her life, the good and bad … She wasn’t complaining, just setting the record straight. She’d experienced many losses. I hoped none of them were my doing. I’d always made it a point to forget.

When we arrived at the district HQ, Mrs. Fandrixson refused my offer to help her out of the van. I’ll never forget how the frail woman pushed back her shoulders and lifted her chin when my sergeant grabbed her elbow and pulled her toward the bowels of the station.

After clocking out for the day, I went home and turned in early, but tossed and turned all night. Sometime before dawn I heard a train wailing in the distance and wondered if it were headed for a re-education center. Was Mrs. Fandrixson on it? Would that be better for her than the alternatives? And what were the alternatives? Scattered faith had been my OTB, but would I still get two beeps? Too many questions and no answers. The uncertainty gnawed at me.

I went for a drive to clear my mind. Before long, I found myself at the Fandrixson home. I parked out front for a couple hours before mustering the courage to go in. I knocked and rang. As I waited, I noticed the gnome seemed to be scowling. Go away. You’ve inflicted enough pain here. When no one came to the door, I found it was unlocked and let myself in.

Mr. Fandrixson was sitting at the kitchen table. I told him how sorry I was. His voice a flat line, he said he realized my hands were tied. His words — my words — slapped me in the face. He said now that his wife was gone, so was his OTB. I should have arrested him on the spot, but couldn’t bring myself to do so.

In that moment, our movement was born.

Free to believe. Free to not.

Shoulders back. Chin up.

Join us.

David Henson

Image: Pixabay.com – necklace spelling out the word love in gold letters.