To read more from Shea Zellweger, check out his blog.
The
term ‘Prayer Closet’ is one which is commonly used in certain circles, and is
generally understood as a euphemism. When someone says they are going into
their prayer closet, what they really mean is that they intend to find some
privacy and have a rather one-sided conversation with their deity of choice.
Janet Thornton never really got euphemisms, and as a result there was always a
physical closet in her home which was equipped with candles, pillowed floors,
incense, and all of the other things which might be necessary for a marathon
prayer session. Over the years, Mickey had come to realize that what his mother
actually did in that closet was not so much prayer as it was a hunger strike.
Any time her children were doing something which made her unhappy, she would go
into the closet to ‘pray’ until such time as the cause of her consternation
knocked on the door and promised to make amends. Mickey had once allowed her to
stay in her closet for 39 hours before finally breaking down and promising he
would wear the red sweater she’d bought him for picture day. Ever since that
faithful filibuster, Mickey and his sisters were quick to change their minds
when mom started making her way to the closet. Even after they realized it was
an act of pure manipulation, they couldn’t help but give in out of fear that
their mother’s stubbornness would be harmful to her health. But despite calling
the room a prayer closet, Mickey was vaguely aware that his mother only ever
set foot in there when it was her children who were upsetting her. She never wasted
her time praying if the result she wanted was something only a god could
provide (come to think of it, Mickey wasn’t sure which god it was she had
claimed to be petitioning all of those years).
And yet, as he crossed the threshold of the den, Mickey found precisely the scene he’d hoped he wouldn’t. There stood his father, sleep-deprived and bearing the general appearance of a zombie as he leaned against the closet door and beseeched his wife to come out. Mickey couldn’t believe it- his mother was actually using the closet to manipulate her god... or goddess. It seemed that if she had her way, either Frenchy would be alive, or she would be dead. He began to wonder whether she’d do the same in the event of his death, but pushed the thought out of his mind before it could do any serious damage.
All that day, and all the next, Mrs. Thornton remained in her closet. Her occasional humming of unfamiliar tunes was the only indication to those waiting for her that she was still alive. As the sun set on the second day, Mickey knocked softly on the door.
“Mom,” he said with all of the tenderness he could muster, “Stacy and I have to head back up North in the morning. I hope you’ll come out to say goodbye.” The humming faltered for a moment, and he took this as an indication that she would give it some consideration. Resigned to the fact that this was the best answer he was likely to get, Mickey made his way to bed, not even bothering with the balcony route, as that was a charade put on solely for his mother’s benefit.
On the morning of the third day, Mickey and Stacy were loading up their car when they heard a peculiar sound. It was the odd cross between a yip, a growl, and a gurgle which they had always associated with Frenchy’s attempt at barking. It struck them both as odd that there might be another thing in the world which made such a horrid-sounding noise, and they glanced around in search of the source. It was Stacy who saw it first.
“Frenchy?!” she gasped. Mickey followed her gaze to find that, sure enough, there was Frenchy, looking as evil as ever. She was missing her collar, had lost some fur, and had taken on a sort of greenish-grey pallor, but it was unmistakably Frenchy. “Mrs. Thornton! Come quick!” Stacy began to approach the prodigal poodle.
So it takes three days to pray the dog back to life, mused Mickey, I guess mom must be praying to the Christian God. He laughed silently at his own awful joke. As Stacy began to approach the wretched excuse for a dog, another thought, this one even less funny than the first, crossed his mind; do dogs really
turn green when they’re sick? He looked at Frenchy more closely. Not only had she acquired a distinctly greenish hue in her skin, but her drool also seemed to be mixed with verdigris. In several places, it looked like her fur was beginning to slough off, and Mickey was almost certain Frenchy’s wagging tail was slowly becoming detached from her rear.
“Stacy!” he said sharply, “Back away from her. Something’s not right.”
Stacy jumped back, more out of shock at Mickey’s tone than in response to his words. He never said anything sharply to her. That fact alone may have saved her life. Unfortunately, Mrs. Thornton was not so easy to deter. She burst through the front door and swooped down upon her precious pup.
“Mom!” Mickey tried to warn,“don’t-”