Man of Pain: A Novel

By Christopher B. Barnett

Howard Lamb is a trial lawyer--bright and accomplished, with a home adjacent to one of Alabama's most prestigious country clubs. He also believes he is an apostle of Jesus Christ. Without telling anyone, Lamb takes to the streets of Birmingham, seeking to bring "good news" to everyone he meets. But he soon discovers that his message of love and forgiveness is misunderstood by friends and foes alike. With his efforts increasingly thwarted, and his whereabouts finally revealed, Lamb's leap of faith soon becomes a race against time.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Dec 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781666767834

Christopher B. Barnett

Christopher B. Barnett is professor of theology and religious studies at Villanova University. He is the author of dozens of books, book chapters, and articles, including the recent monographs Kierkegaard and the Question Concerning Technology (2019) and Bob Dylan and the Spheres of Existence (2023). Man of Pain: A Novel is his fiction debut.

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MAN of PAIN

A Novel

by Christopher B. Barnett

MAN of PAIN

A Novel

Copyright ©

2023

Christopher B. Barnett. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers,

199

W.

8

th Ave., Suite

3

, Eugene, OR

97401

.

Resource Publications

An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

199

W.

8

th Ave., Suite

3

Eugene, OR

97401

www.wipfandstock.com

paperback isbn: 978-1-6667-6781-0

hardcover isbn: 978-1-6667-6782-7

ebook isbn: 978-1-6667-6783-4

version number 091715

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1: Vocatio

Chapter 2: Caritas

Chapter 3: Evangelium

Chapter 4: Contemplatio

Chapter 5: Miraculum

Chapter 6: Transfigurationem

Chapter 7: Inferno

Chapter 8: Passio

Epilogue: Epitaphium

For W.A.N., in remembrance.

To weep is to make less the depth of grief.

—William Shakespeare, Henry VI, Part 3

"He had no form or majesty that we should look at him,

and no beauty that we should desire him.He was despised and rejected by men,

a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief;

and as one from whom men hide their faces."

—Isa 53:2–3

CHAPTER ONE

Vocatio

Forty days after his wife left him, a Birmingham attorney named Howard Lamb decided to quit his firm, forsake his

9

,

000

square foot home, and become an apostle of Jesus Christ. As dawn silhouetted the dogwoods and poplars in his backyard, Lamb dressed himself in a homemade tunic—an ashen sheet with holes opened for the head and arms—tied a rope around his waist, and slipped on a pair of turquoise flip-flops. In his basement, among empty electronics boxes and legal files, he dug out a cherrywood cane. Seventeen years earlier it had been given to him at his bachelor party in New Orleans, and its sides, caressed by dust but otherwise smooth, rose to a fist-thick knob, conspicuously whittled into the form of woman’s profile atop two generously proportioned breasts. Lamb tucked it under his arm and, without a bite to eat, entered the August morning. He left his house open. He carried no bread or bag, no wallet or drink. He awaited only salvation.

The Lambs had built their home in Fox Glen, a neighborhood of about twenty residences snuggled among the pines and shrubs adjacent to the Magic City Country Club. The developer had touted its prime location: ten minutes to work, one minute to the golf course. Lamb followed the sidewalk up the road, which, among ranch-style brick homes and a vert awning of trees, snaked its way up Red Mountain. Behind him the golf course smoldered in the early morning sunlight, its sprinklers firing off in a sequence of clicks and hisses, as if they were toy Wurlitzers.

As he approached the top of the hill, Lamb turned off the road and followed a mud-spattered trail into an expanse of woods. Cherokees had taken similar paths three hundred years before, when they had used the mountain as a lookout point—their scouts tracking rival hunting parties entering Jones Valley in search of deer, bear, and wild turkey. Later, railroad barons and Confederate sympathizers began blasting and gouging the mountain, finding an abundance of coal and iron ore in its recesses. From a clearing in the trees, Lamb could see the results of their discovery: to the northwest, steel factories belched smoke and flame into the air, while above him stood a row of mansions, built by the industrialists who fashioned Birmingham ex nihilo. Still higher towered Vulcan, the Roman god of fire and metalworking, whose awesome likeness, cast in nearly sixty feet of iron, glowered at the valley below.

Lamb flitted down the mountain, as if trespassing on the deity’s domain, until he emerged on a residential street. No one was around, but, in the distance, he could make out the screeching brakes of a garbage truck. He moved towards the noise, and, as he got closer, he could hear the whoops and whistles of the vehicle’s crew. His first converts.

* * *

Lamb tracked the clatter to an alleyway, which, years ago, had been wedged between a block of flats and a mom-and-pop grocery. The garbage truck alone almost spanned the alley’s width, and, as it nudged forward over glass chippings and collapsed Styrofoam cartons, little clouds of smoke escaped from its exhaust pipe. A pair of workers toiled at the rear of the truck: they emptied spongy white bags into its mouth and then, with the delicacy of wrestlers, flung aside the garbage cans. A southerly breeze kicked up the aroma of sodden banana peels and rotting fried chicken.

Lamb turned into the alley and approached the truck from the front. He raised his right hand like a trainer, as if he were teaching a beast to heel. The truck’s breaks shrieked in frustration, and the driver leaned out the window. From his lips drooped a Marlboro, which, along with his dark, coriaceous skin, gave him the appearance of a lapsed shaman.

Get out the way, man! he barked.

Lamb lowered his hand, but did not move. The sunlight, angling in over the mountain, lit up his wiry frame and his plume of silver-streaked hair. Once he had been told he looked like George Clooney, but now, with his unkempt beard and Pentateuch attire, he might have been an extra from Ben Hur.

The driver punched on the truck’s horn, and, obediently, it let out a few hollers.

Go on now! he added, as if the truck’s meaning were not clear.

Lamb, however, moved several steps closer. The driver shoved open his door, flicked away his cigarette, and scuttled to the front of the truck. After him emerged the two garbage men. The first almost sauntered to the scene. A White Sox cap concealed his eyes, and a pair of AirPods gave him the look of a humanoid. The second came around the opposite side: short and squatty, he looked like a lima bean with human extremities. Tiny needles of sun-bleached hair rose just off his skull, and his skin possessed the flushed complexion of a still ripening strawberry. A t-shirt reading BORN AGAIN REDNECK outlined the camber of his upper body, bulging, in particular, around his abdomen.

The three men formed a line before the truck, which, ever ready, continued to whirr in the background. Lamb raised both of his arms above his head—the staff stretching out from his left hand like a lightning rod—but his eyes remained on the spectators.

Repent, my brothers, for the kingdom of heaven is upon you! he exclaimed. Today you pick up garbage, but, in the name of our Lord, I ask you to pick up men!

The fat one chuckled with juvenile satisfaction.

"Pick up men?"

He looked up at his partner, his lips separating into a smirk.

Daequan here might be into that, he quipped.

But Daequan stood motionless, Lil Baby pumping through his headphones.

Your insult, Lamb countered, is my appeal. The one who has ears, let him hear.

The driver pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, took one out, and lit it.

Bobby Ray, not another word, he snapped at the fat garbage man. Ain’t no use talkin’ to this crazy sumbitch.

A pall of smoke left his mouth and, as it drifted towards Lamb, broke into infinitesimal swirls and wisps.

You blockin’ my truck, he blurted at Lamb, so go on and clear out of here. Jesus want the garbage picked up too.

Lamb inched a step closer.

Rest assured, brother . . .

Brother? Do I look like fuckin’ Ralph Abernathy to you?

Lamb smiled.

I need just a moment to share the good news. A month ago I was an incorrigible sinner, slaving for money and prestige and influence and . . .

Chicks? Bobby Ray put in.

Well . . . Lamb sputtered.

Chicks is what gets me, continued Bobby Ray. They always want something. Jewelry. Or my man-junk.

A guffaw fled from the driver’s lips, and he began to trundle back towards the garbage truck door.

Apostle, he called out, not bothering to turn around, you got one minute before I run over yo’ ass.

Lamb hurried.

Friends, he began, clearing his throat, "I have been freed from the bondage of demons. I, who once labored in darkness, now rejoice in the light of God. The light that shines forth from all that is. From whatever is good and beautiful—Brother Sun and Sister Moon. Yes, from each human being, each of us. We all bear the image of God. It’s there: in what we are and in what we know and in what we want and in what we can do. We are one. A family. And, today, it’s in that spirit that I have begun my mission—God’s mission—to serve my brothers and sisters in this fine city."

Lamb paused, breathless. The driver, now back at his perch, revved up the engine of the truck. It might have been a consumptive octogenarian, wheezing and bubbling and rattling.

Who, then, will join me in ministering to this lost and graceful world? Who will suffer thrashings and stonings, false friends and truer enemies, hardly sleeping, lacking in food and shelter, ever anxious for God’s will and God’s children?

Daequan nodded at the orator, but, like a teenager going to clean his room, pivoted around and headed back to his post. Bobby Ray, however, remained.

Man, that’s some wild shit, he said. Y’know, Mama always wanted me to be a preacher, and Juwanna . . . well, she’ll be mighty impressed. What church you with?

The Lord himself has sent me—like an angel, but here, with tissue and marrow, in history, subject to the flux and ravages of time. I belong to every church, and to none.

You got benefits?

The best: to walk in a world charged with God’s presence, to feel, at every step, that sweet vim deep down things.

Nah, I mean, like, vacation, health insurance . . .

Your vacation is your freedom, your insurance God.

You right, Bobby Ray bellowed, competing with the snarls of the truck, This job’s about as good as nailin’ Jell-O to a tree. Juwanna said so herself. The Spirit, just maybe, is trying to tell me something.

The driver sounded the truck’s horn and, releasing the brake, urged the vehicle forward a few inches. Bobby Ray spun around.

Fuck, Lester!

But the truck lurched forward again and, then, began to roll. Inside the cab, the driver’s lips clenched and loosened, as if he were mouthing clues to an otherwise clandestine mantra. Bobby Ray and Lamb scurried from the truck’s path.

It looks like he’s telling you something, Lamb inferred, as he stumbled over a garbage can lid. Bobby Ray braced himself against a chain-link fence.

"I’ll tell him something," Bobby Ray responded, clutching his crotch with his right hand.

The truck, however, continued down the alley. After a moment, its brake lights flashed, and, with a final yelp, it turned right onto an avenue. Daequan stood on a small platform at the rear, his body rocking in harmony with the truck’s jerks and thrusts.

Yep, Bobby Ray added, the Spirit is here for sure.

He looked back, chuckling, only to find that Lamb was twenty yards ahead of him, his staff tapping out a staccato rhythm as he strode.

Whoa, hold up! Bobby Ray called out, breaking into a hasty waddle, I still need to go by my place!

Lamb waved his partner on with his cane but exited the alley without stopping.

I need to get a coupla things, is all! Bobby Ray shouted again. But he could no longer see anyone.

* * *

Bobby Ray’s flat was just three blocks away, but Lamb did not want to visit it.

No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God, he averred, thrusting his cane in Bobby Ray’s direction.

Bobby Ray explained that, given the perils of their mission, he would need his preacher bag, which, unfortunately, lay back at his apartment. The precise contents of this bag remained unspecified. However, Bobby Ray likened it to an indispensable weapon, not unlike those mentioned in the Old Testament.

Suppose Solomon would’ve denied David his slingshot, he reasoned.

Saul.

Okay, suppose Solomon would’ve taken the slingshot from Saul.

No, you’ve mixed it up.

Fine, suppose Saul would’ve taken the slingshot from Solomon.

Lamb shook his head.

Aw, whatever, Bobby Ray sighed. My point is that my bag is kinda like the slingshot. I need the fuckin’ thing.

Lamb finally assented, and so the pair, following a sidewalk cracked and distended by tree roots, trudged up to the mountain’s base. The air carried the crackling smell of the barbecue joint a couple of blocks away.

There we are, Bobby Ray said, pointing with one hand and, with the other, shielding his eyes from the still mounting sunlight.

Through the glare, Lamb made out a shingled building. Apart from its tomato-sauce color, it blended in with the landscape, clinging to the hillside and, alongside the pines, reaching up a few stories. On its western wall ran a network of wooden stairs and rails, which spilled out into a small parking lot. A solitary vehicle occupied a space: a

1993

Ford F-

150

, whose left taillight bore the fissures of an apparent rear-ender. A fiftyish woman, her cheeks sallow and concave, smoked a Winston from her fourth-floor balcony.

Hooda! Bobby Ray called out, I’d like you to meet . . .

She ground her cigarette into the deck-rail, flipped it off the balcony, and disappeared inside.

"Just $

300

a month, can you believe that? Bobby Ray noted. Juwanna seems to like it, too, if I can ever get her back up here."

Bobby Ray continued on, leading Lamb up a concrete stairwell—its edges worn and increasingly choked by ivy—to the base of the building.

By the way, hadn’t caught yer name yet, he said, shambling over to a row of mailboxes. He took a set of keys from his pocket and unlocked the box labeled Boner.

Howard Lamb, though I’d prefer it if you’d call me ‘Howard of Birmingham,’ according to the manner of those sage fathers of our faith, Cyril of Alexandria, Theodore of Mopsuestia, and, of course, Fulgentius of Ruspe. And you? Your name is . . . is . . . Boner?

Yep, Bobby Ray Boner. Or maybe I ought to say, ‘Boner of Birmingham’?

That’s nicely alliterative but, on second thought, perhaps a bit too . . .

What?

Graphic.

Boner spit into a nearby patch of kudzu and shook his head.

I’ve been gettin’ that crap my whole life. Hell, even Juwanna said she wouldn’t take my last name if we was married.

Indeed, it is an unfortunate coincidence of appellations.

It ain’t like someone’d notice.

Juwanna . . . Boner?

Well, so what? Boner is a name of pride, a name of farmers and workers. We crossed the Atlantic on boats out of Glasgow, and, once we got here, we spilled our blood at Gettysburg. My great-grandfather, George Whitfield Boner, come through the Cumberland Gap and settled up near Knoxville, but our kin stretches all the way up to Paducah and Carbondale. No, I ain’t changin’ my name for nobody, certainly not for you or for some two-faced bitch!

Lamb pulled at his beard, watchful, like a man dealing with a stubborn child.

‘Boner of Birmingham’ could work, he finally noted.

It’s stupid.

Boner sighed and began climbing the stairwell.

One more ‘n’ and my name would’ve been ‘Bonner,’ ya know, he murmured.

The pair carried on to the third floor, where Boner took a sharp left turn and came to a sad yellow door, adorned only with a tiny eye-like peephole. He pushed the door open and entered.

Take a seat on the couch if it suits you. But I’m all out of bologna and Cheetos, so the cupboard is pretty much bare, he said.

Lamb came in, stepping over and around the myriad of old, taped-up liquor boxes speckling the floor. There was a stale smell of long-extinguished cigarettes. Lamb dropped onto Boner’s worn, sea-green sofa. The apartment looked like a Cracker Barrel gift shop. Several advertisements for Coca-Cola—each dating from the

1940

s or

1950

s, and now cast in burnished aluminum—hung on the taupe walls. A figurine of a little black boy carrying a fishing pole sat adjacent to a sooty ashtray, which appeared to be fashioned out of bottle caps. It was warm inside the apartment, and a touch of nausea came over Lamb. He stood up to open the door and then, for the first time, noticed the entertainment system dominating the wall opposite him. Two rectangular speakers, as tall as middle-school kids, flanked a sixty-inch television and its battery of accessories.

Silent and dark, the television screen had the look of an abyss. Lamb inched closer to it, enticed, drawn, and yet not without antipathy, like a girl moving in to kiss an older man. His reflection began to take shape in the dim glass—the deep-set eyes, the slanting nose, the severe jaw and cheek bones.

Where am I, he thought.

He placed his hand on top of the TV to steady himself. He suddenly realized that he could disappear right now. Go home. Get some rest. Get cleaned up. This was just an episode. An episode.