Gloria Patri

By Austin Ross

"Ominous, gripping . . . beautifully observed and cleverly structured . . . a thoughtful and provocative journey into the dark, bloody heart of American lunacy."

--Dan Chaon, National Book Award finalist and New York Times best

• Language: English
• Publisher: Malarkey Books
• Release date: Aug 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088186961

Book preview

Portions of this novel have appeared in substantially different form in Literary Hub and Still: The Journal.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:

Excerpt from Ganymede by Jericho Brown, copyright 2019 by Jericho Brown. Used by permission of the author.

Excerpt from Revival by Peter Gizzi, copyright 2002 by Peter Gizzi. Used by permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

For Philip J. Reed

Oh

stay at home, my lad, and plough

The land and not the sea,

And leave the soldiers at their drill,

And all about the idle hill

Shepherd your sheep with me.

A. E. Housman, Oh Stay at Home, My Lad, and Plough

May the Lord deal kindly with you, as you have dealt with the dead, and with me.

The Book of Ruth

Selah

2013

The fire spread as she slept. It climbed past the barn’s rotting wind braces and collar beams to the imitation gambrel roof until it was uncontrollable and violent, exuding its black soot until the air was filled and Naomi Becker was dragged from sleep by the smell of woodsmoke. She had dreamt of birds flying, of the winged soaring toward a glowing horizon. When she woke, this same horizon transformed into the image of the flaming barn. The small home filled with the sound of crackling, the intense buzzing of a raging fire as fifteen yards away smoke billowed from the dilapidated barn like a great exhalation of the earth. Planks of wood popped as they burned. The stench of smoke clung to the carpet fibers and walls of the house.

Jonathan’s room was across the hall from Naomi’s; she scooped him from the crib and carried his tiny body beneath her right arm. Found within herself a rising panic as she remembered the man who’d recently visited her. She thought immediately of arson, that whoever had set this fire must surely be waiting outside, and she feared for her life. Around the corner of the kitchen doorway was the pegboard. Naomi grabbed the car keys and ran out the back, the screen door banging shut behind her. She had never experienced such heat; a radiating wall so hot it physically pushed against her. The fire had now spread across the length of the barn roof, the flames so high they must have surpassed the tops of the surrounding trees.

She turned toward the open field behind the house. What awaited was a deep and subtle darkness. The light from the fire had confused her eyes so she no longer saw anything clearly. She shifted her grip on Jonathan and took off barefoot. Had run this field so many times she could have closed her eyes and still known every divot in the earth, the placement of each muddy patch. Jonathan screamed, but there was no time to calm him. Ever since the threats and the doxing, Naomi had taken to parking the hatchback at the edge of the dirt road across the field. Keeping her car hidden made it a viable escape option if necessary.

Her lungs burned as she ran. She clung to Jonathan with both arms, pushed his head into her chest to muffle his cries. She thought she heard a shout somewhere behind her but was not convinced this was real. As she ran, her phone bounced out of the pocket of her pajama bottoms. She thought of Lot’s wife; she thought of pillars of salt. No time to go back. Death itself was crouching at the door.

When she crossed the field to her hatchback, she got in the driver’s seat and hugged Jonathan to her chest. Headlights flared somewhere near the house. The possibility that this may have been merely a passing car on the nearby connecting road did not occur to her. She threw the car into drive and spun the wheels on dirt before they found purchase. The road was more or less straight all the way to Route 33, with the exception of one tight curve about halfway there. Naomi left her headlights off even for this, relying instead on instinct and the faint light of the moon. She rounded the curve and sped down the road before arriving at the comfort and safety of streetlamps. She doubted she would be able to escape with the car’s weak engine, and so circled back to where she had first emerged from the woods and hid behind the husk of the abandoned glass factory. She cut the engine and waited. A black SUV and a motorcycle pulled to the intersection and stopped. Naomi thought she recognized the SUV from the other day, though she couldn’t make out its plates or driver.

She held her hand over Jonathan’s mouth. The man on the motorcycle looked both ways and saw no cars. He spoke with the SUV’s driver, but Naomi couldn’t hear what they said. Finally, they left. Naomi, after some time, got out and quickly placed Jonathan in the car seat behind her. He fussed. As she drove away, turning back onto Route 33, his cries slowed.

I know, baby, shh, she said. You go back to sleep.

She drove aimlessly for a time until an oncoming car passed her. In the rearview mirror she saw it turn around after about a quarter mile to follow her. This may have been a coincidence—perhaps they were lost—but Naomi got off the main roads then, unsure who was out there that night, assuming it was everyone. That there was not a soul on the planet who did not want her dead.

Part One:

Glory be to the Father and to the Son

It’s good to be dead in America.

Peter Gizzi

Chapter One

Naomi

One Year Earlier

November 17, 2012

Naomi packed a small duffel bag with a few changes of clothes. She wanted someone to see, to bear witness to her grief.

In the room down the hall, she heard Elizabeth moving to dress for the day; Ryan and Anna, in the room opposite, were still asleep. Naomi felt as though a rift had formed between the four of them and did not know what to do about it, and so prepared to leave without saying goodbye. It had only been recently that she had discovered the existence of her half-sister Elizabeth. Naomi’s father, ashamed that she had been born out of wedlock, had never spoken of Elizabeth or her mother. As Naomi reached for the duffel, she considered telling Elizabeth the news: our father has died. But Elizabeth had never known Richard, and the words would be meaningless. To add to this the death of Naomi’s brother on the same day would be utterly meaningless to anyone else, and so Naomi left quickly.

She found as she drove that she could finally think of it, could finally take on the full emotional weight without collapsing. They had died on the same day: Her father and brother were now united in death just as they’d been estranged in life. She’d heard the news from her mother, who’d wept to her over the phone as she spoke, but Naomi had found that—after everything her father had done—she felt nothing at all in his absence.

The death of her brother Solomon, on the other hand, created within her a cavern of deep and unspeakable anguish. Something between anger and despair. A federal agent named McCormick had called to inform her that in the early morning hours, a short time before Naomi’s father passed, Solomon David Becker had, with an assault rifle, opened fire on the Waterson Municipal Building in downtown Seattle, killing sixteen people and wounding twenty-three others before being killed himself by SWAT and FBI and ATF during an escape attempt through the parking lot across the street. McCormick said he was on his way to Naomi’s mother’s house to speak with her, would very much like to speak with Naomi as well. The absence of words with which to express the aching of her heart was what Naomi imagined it must be like to experience phantom limb syndrome.

Naomi had not been home since last Thanksgiving, had last seen her brother Solomon a year before that. Not since he had entered the Southeastern Ohio Regional Jail for charges of assault and battery. Even after his release, he had not come home for last year’s Thanksgiving, despite Naomi’s invitation. In his absence, old patterns had emerged between Naomi and her mother like ghosts coming to dine with them. Naomi had, as she often did, brought up the specter of selling the house and surrounding farmland and instead finding her mother a condo or apartment they could share, an idea which seemed to Naomi reasonable enough but which struck her mother as obviously horrific and unthinkable. Instead, her mother asked if Naomi would ever deign to see her father again. Naomi had scoffed. The thought of seeing Richard again, she said, was not something she would entertain. She would never forgive him. This clearly stung Mom deeply despite the divorce, and after Naomi had said it, they focused their attention on the wine they’d bought for three. Solomon’s portion helped them forget the tension for a few hours.

Today, Naomi would make her return home. Open fields, now barren as they awaited the fullness of winter, greeted her as she left Jersey City. Crows and ravens pecked at the ground for leftover kernels of dried corn. Blackbirds and magpies chased each other across the gray sky. As Naomi drove, she listened to Broadway soundtracks on her MP3 player, classics like West Side Story, Moulin Rouge, RENT. Her hatchback was so old she was forced to use a tape adapter. Smartphones remained to her an impossible luxury.

Rain fell. She passed a few signs for gas stations and stopped at an open pump where the prices were written in Sharpie on paper plates taped to the pump itself. The wind whipped at her back as she waited for the tank to fill. She paid on an old credit card imprinter which the bored cashier swiped; the TV in the corner played CNN, a breaking news bulletin about the shooting in Seattle. Helicopter footage showed FBI and SWAT teams slowly moving inside the Waterson building. Her brother was so small in the footage she could barely see him.

She returned to her car and left. Fields of wheat turned to irrigated soybeans as she entered the skinny arm of western Maryland. Abandoned buildings lined the streets with broken windows like jagged teeth, a testament to their sudden abandonment.

She was nearly home when she received a call on her flip phone. The area code was the same as Agent McCormick’s; she picked up in case it was about Solomon.

Naomi? It’s Andrew.

This came as such a shock to Naomi that she very nearly dropped the phone. She felt, if anything, confusion at the sound of his voice, the thought of his name. Something she’d left long buried clawed its way to the surface: a combination of curiosity and aversion. They caught up briefly; he’d heard about Solomon, had not heard about Richard. He told her he imagined all this must feel like a horrible dream, something you couldn’t wake up from. She realized she no longer had a framework through which to perceive Andrew—not since he’d left for the Army, not since he and Solomon had moved to Seattle the year prior. Was he, too, recalling their drunken kiss? Did he even remember it? This seemed to her to be a dozen lifetimes ago.

I’m really sorry, Andrew said.

You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.

I mean I’m sorry sort of generally. Andrew paused. Hey—this is gonna sound like a weird question. Has the FBI been in touch with you? Naomi sensed some trepidation in Andrew’s voice. I’m just curious. I’d imagine they must be. The nature of the crime. I just wanted to let you know I’m happy to talk to anybody if it helps at all. He trailed off, said something about how he’d love to catch up in person sometime.

That’d be great, Naomi said, but knew as she hung up that neither of them had any such intentions. She pulled up her mother’s contact, which she’d input rather formally as Ruth Becker rather than something simple like Mom. As it rang, Naomi found herself remembering the slightly pudgy version of Andrew she’d met a little over fifteen years ago. Time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away, as the old hymn went. They fly forgotten, as a dream dies at the opening day. Andrew, she knew, was just another dream who’d flown away long ago.

Where are you? her mother said. Are you almost here?

Naomi sensed a good deal of agitation in her mother’s voice. About an hour left, she said.

The FBI is here, Mom said. They want to ask us some questions about Solomon. Let me know when you get here. Be careful, sweetie. See you soon.

Sweetie. This was a term her mother used for her only when others were present, when Mom knew she was being listened to, when she knew she was being judged.

The last hour of the drive passed quickly, and Naomi barely had time to register the dread she felt as she pulled up to her childhood home. Her mother paced back and forth on the porch as she spoke with an officer. Naomi and Mom hugged briefly—her mother felt light, hollowed-out—and then Naomi was ushered inside. Naomi felt a deep sense of embarrassment at the state of her mother’s home. She had tried to help tidy up, but in the absence of regular visitors, Mom had let the place increase in its filth. The lead agent, McCormick, introduced himself. He was smaller than Naomi had expected, with thinning mousy hair in tufts around his ears, a thick bristled mustache, and a dry forehead that flaked as he spoke. He wore a black windbreaker jacket with FBI on the back in large yellow letters like the markings of a wasp. Behind him were two other agents, a man and a woman, who remained mostly silent. McCormick spoke into a digital recorder before setting it on the table between them.

Your relationship to Solomon Becker? McCormick wiped coffee from his mustache, brushed it to either side with his fingers, and took another sip from the ceramic mug.

His sister.

You’re aware of what he is alleged to have done.

Yes.

What is that, exactly? In your own words.

He’s a murderer. This felt so distant from reality—like she was describing a character on a TV show. The only way to speak of it was to imagine she was talking about a fictional Solomon Becker.

When was the last time you spoke with him?

I don’t know. It’s been a while. Maybe a year? Two?

Do you have any idea why he may have done this?

I do not.

Why did you two stop talking?

We just—I’m not sure. He drifted away. Time. That sort of thing.

Did he have any friends that you’re aware of? Here or in Seattle.

Some. Not many. A boy named Andrew Cook, for sure. Whether or not he had friends after he moved there, I don’t know.

Why did he go to Seattle? That’s quite a move.

I don’t really know. He and Andrew went together. Maybe they were bored of this place.

Was there any indication that he might have been capable of something like this? Anything at all that you can remember? Things he said, or did?

No, Naomi said. Solomon had said and done many things that could be interpreted in hindsight as signs of a future collapse, but these seemed anecdotal, and required context.

Is there any history of mental illness in the family?

Not that I know of.

You know he went to prison.

Five years ago, Naomi said.

He was a violent offender, McCormick said. We also have reason to believe he trafficked in novel psychoactive substances to a concerning extent.

He wasn’t a meth head.

Synthetic opioids are no longer looked at with a lack of concern. Whether he himself was a user of all or some of these is yet to be determined.

Yet to be?

An autopsy is underway. This will help determine.

You think he shot all those people because he was high?

This is part of what we’re trying to determine. It seems your brother identified the Waterson Municipal Building as a target based on an internet rumor that it was hosting sacrificial blood rituals, offering up children.

Why would they kill children?

This is a frequent concern of the paranoiac.

You’d describe Solomon as paranoid? Naomi knew only too well that McCormick was right.

If you read the same material I have, you would as well.

McCormick motioned to the agents leaning against the kitchen counter. They set two large folders on the wooden table. McCormick placed his palms over the folders as though he were going to swirl them around in an oversized card trick. This is some of the information regarding the incident. We’d like for you to read it, see if it sparks any memories. Your mother refused, but Solomon mentions this address and your name in particular. Which is one of the reasons we’re here.

He opened the first folder and showed Naomi receipts from gun shows where Solomon purchased with cash at least three separate AR-style rifles and boxes of ammunition. To this he added the purchase of various weapons-grade explosives: chlorates and perchlorates; sprengel, liquid oxygen, and nitrostarch explosives; ammonium nitrate-fuel oil mixtures; blasting caps with delay systems; detonating cord.

McCormick left Naomi with the folders and returned to Oregon. The terms Naomi read about meant nothing to her, but their cumulative effect was obvious: her brother had intended to kill far more people than he had managed to. A photocopied letter in McCormick’s folder, typewritten on a single sheet of paper and which they’d found on Solomon’s body, was her brother’s last known communication with the world before he’d been killed. At seemingly random points around the margins of the letter, which he’d oddly addressed to The Continental United States of America, were Solomon’s bloody fingerprints, indicated by McCormick to be a marker of sorts, an indicator of the kind of extremist group into whose gravity Solomon had drifted.

I, solomon-david: becker, a most Natural being, a Man, living & breathing, and standing hereupon the Land. I am NOT a creature, though I am Created. Nor am I a subject of or subjected to the SEE (SKY). I do hereby affirm & attest that I seek the Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth, in every matter, those unseen & Seen, unknown & Known, imagined or Real, intangible & Tangible, immanent & Transcendent.

I am the protective-Warrior for those who do not know how to speak of the crimes against them. I bear Witness of Truth for those unable to defend themselves. I inform & educate those whose eyes, ears & minds are open—receptive—and ready to see, hear, & think—should their choice be to seek those freedoms for themselves. I invoke practices of juris divini at all times: I, with my mind & Heart united as One.

In all matters regarding all states, Nation-States, and countries where disenfranchisement, oppression, serfdom, exploitation, contravention, antitrust, piracy, slavery of any kind, including involuntary servitude through our most wrongful Prison System, tyranny, monopolization in any form, terrorism (domestic & abroad), blackmail, extortion, wrongful imprisonments & internments for profit, have been alleged and/or charged and/or convicted—in all these I have the utmost jurisdiction.

I do NOT in any way abdicate, or retreat in fear or apprehension from these great responsibilities. I do NO harm where none has been earned! I carry this precious vessel of Light & Truth wherever I will, knowing that wherever Truth prevails, Darkness falls.

My Oath is my Bond. My Word is my Honor. My Honor is Steadfast & Resolute.

So Say (i): solomon-david: becker

ps i give all i have left to my sister, naomi-candace: becker.

she knows that the sky is blue.

Naomi recognized this bizarre writing style from the few letters he’d sent to her from prison, though it still read as though an alien had written this in an approximation of human speech. Naomi, at a loss, began to draft a response she imagined putting into the world as a press release: I condemn in the strongest possible way the actions of my brother. She stopped, put the pen down. She couldn’t finish it, crossed it all out until it just read: I condemn. And when she couldn’t bear to look at it anymore, she stopped.

Chapter Two

Ruth

Naomi left that night to sleep at a hotel. Said she couldn’t bear to stay here, even though Ruth had kept her room in pristine condition. Ruth had forgotten that the last time her daughter stayed here, Naomi had asked to change the bedding to another color, to shift the bed itself to a different spot in the room. Anything, it seemed to Ruth, to prevent unwanted images of childhood from returning. Ruth had planned on rearranging the room and perhaps even repainting it, but the project had completely slipped her mind over the last year, and now her daughter had left. Ruth found herself forgetting things recently; her own father had died at fifty-seven from the effects of dementia, a state she had lived in fear of all her life. The intensity of this fear had grown recently as she was unable to remember where she had left things or recall conversations she’d had. The idea that she housed the seeds of dementia in her own mind was terrifying, and one she rejected outright. It was the fault of these antidepressants she’d been taking since the divorce. She was sure of it; they must be what had thrown off her chemical balances, caused her to forget things. She prayed in her heart that the Lord would heal her of this malady.

After the federal agents finally left, and Naomi had booked a room at the Comfort Suites, Ruth, alone, poured herself a glass of bourbon and lit a cigarette. She had picked smoking back up in the wake of her divorce. In the light of the setting sun, she wandered the property, feeling for all the world like a surveyor, evaluating the land.

It was as though she had never tasted alcohol before—that sudden flare of understanding as her veins lit up and her belly warmed—though of course she’d been drunk with Richard before, just the once: one night long ago, as the two of them read (Richard, The City of God; she, The Once and Future King), her