Dallas Koelling

Wife Guy

Novel extract

1.

When Grace was baptized, I got an erection. 

Wait, that sounds terrible. Grace was not a child, she was twenty-one years old, and we baptized her in a blow-up pool in the middle of the church. She was wearing a white dress with nothing underneath. To be submerged in water in front of at least one hundred people. Is that not odd? It’s not like the urge to be baptized sprang up in her spontaneously as a part of some college revival, she wasn’t jumping into a campus fountain to be saved with hundreds of other awakening souls in a collective frenzy of spiritual renewal. The baptism had been on the church calendar for weeks. She had seen people go before her. So, she knew better. 

Amanda and I pulled her out of the pool and she was reborn. The dripping white fabric clung to the perky evidence of the cold water. I felt an unwanted rush of blood. Unwelcome. Involuntary.  

I shouldn’t blame Grace. She was naive, unaware of the effect her contours would have on the men present. 

Then again, none of the other men present seemed affected. Everyone was applauding, laying innocent hands on one another, hugging, cheering, whistling. A soul was saved. But what of mine? So dramatic, John. No one else was rushing off to the sacristy to take deep breaths and pray for sanctification, purity. Only me. I put back on my vestment even though my clothes underneath were covered in wet patches. I couldn’t let anyone see. I felt that I was in violation of my morality contract.

I grabbed a towel for Grace and reentered the nave. As I handed it to her, I felt like I was seeing her for the first time. There was a physical difference in her; whereas before she had been pale and gaunt, now she had a fresh face, fuller cheeks, a misty reverence in her eyes. She was crying and the tears seemed to glow, the wet glass of her eyes shining. 

2. 

Every time I posted a video, I found myself refreshing the page over and over, watching the numbers tick up, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was addicted to the dopamine rush of my phone buzzing with notifications. I liked the idea that people were looking at me, hearing my words, having discussions about my message, even getting into arguments in the comment section. The idea that images of me and words I spoke could reach far corners of the world made me feel bigger than I was. 

We validate what validates us, I’d said in a sermon. When we allow something to make us feel valid, we give it power. 

An anonymous user commented on one of my Tik Toks: I want this man to have premarital sex with me but he’s almost hotter for the fact that I know he wouldn’t. 

I clicked on her profile. It was clearly a throwaway account, the username a series of inscrutable numbers and letters, no videos. 

Still, I felt validated. 

3. 

I met Grace in late spring, when she showed up at the church one day. It was storming outside and we were expecting a small crowd for the Sunday evening informal Worship and Praise service. 

Grace was dry thanks to her Hello Kitty umbrella. She was also wearing a men’s trenchcoat, at least three sizes too large, imbuing her with the strange illusion that she was really two small children stacked on top of each other, pretending to be an adult. 

She looked lost, confused. 

“Are you here for the service?” Amanda asked. 

Grace nodded shyly, her sunken cheeks blushing. 

“Welcome,” I said. “What’s your name?” 

“Grace.” 

“Are you a student?” I asked. 

“Um, kind of,” Grace said.

She seemed reluctant to meet my eye. 

“Well, come on in,” Amanda said. “Here, come sit next to me.” 

4. 

I thought I would be married, or at least engaged, by the time I finished college at Duke. Then I figured I would be married by the time I finished Divinity School at Yale. Then, I assumed, wished, hoped against all hope, that I would be married by the time I got ordained. 

I was an Associate Pastor at Good Shepherd Episcopal Church, I was twenty-six years old, and I was still deeply single. 

My problem was that I rejected every woman who came my way. Well, every woman since Maeve. Maeve was precious and beautiful and she said no when I proposed. I was down on one knee and everything. We were surrounded by mist and blooming flowers in the botanical garden at Duke, at daybreak. She cried, she was so sorry, she really wanted to marry me, but she wasn’t sure she believed in God anymore, and she couldn’t dedicate her life to ministry, which is what marrying me would have meant. 

Afterwards, I distrusted beautiful women. I also felt, immovably, that my future wife would have to be a beautiful woman. It put me in a difficult position. 

5. 

But what about Amanda? 

Yeah, John, what about Amanda? Why don’t you just marry Amanda? 

The people in the comments sections of our podcast clips demanded to know: Are these two together? Why is there so much sexual tension between the hosts? 

I clicked on the sexual tension comment, which had at least ten replies calling it inappropriate, another blank profile. 

“For those who want to get married, I would ask them the question: Are you praying for a wife, or are you praying for your wife?” I asked on one of our episodes of the Thirsty Thursdays with John and Amanda.  

“Mm, so good,” Amanda responded. 

“Because if you get married, the most important thing you will do in your marriage, in my opinion, is pray for your spouse. You will intercede for them in ways no one else can, and if you truly believe God has someone for you, who is out there in the world living their own life, why wouldn’t you say a prayer for them?” 

“No, exactly,” Amanda said. “Because the Holy Spirit intercedes when we pray, no prayer is ever wasted.” 

Amanda was so holy. She really, really loved God. Sadly, she was fat. 

6. 

What was so refreshing about Grace was that she wasn’t interested in me at all. 

I’ve had four separate women over the past year tell me that they thought God had given them a special message: He had told these women that I was their husband. There is nothing that turns me off more than shoddy interpretation of God’s messages. If God told you that, why didn’t He tell me? Why is it a strange woman coming up to me, cornering me in the parish hall, earnest and nervous, burnt tongue smelling of coffee? Would the woman God has for me make me so uncomfortable? 

Grace didn’t make eyes at me. I tried to catch her eye during worship, but she always had her eyes closed, her hands in the air. 

I watched Jesus change her. God filled in her face, brightened her eyes. She grew in confidence. She made friends. She became close with Amanda. She auditioned for the worship team. 

I felt a growing sense of calling, of attraction. I didn’t know why I was so drawn to her. Was it her shiny hair, the color of honey? Her cherry red lip gloss, the way she smelled like sugar and vanilla on the rare occasions she got close enough for me to take in her scent? 

It couldn’t be such superficial, material, olfactory things, when the attraction I felt came from so deep within me. It had to be from God. 

7. 

When Grace joined the worship team, I felt undue excitement. So many people came and went from the church. I knew she was really in it when she wanted to be baptized, but joining the band meant she would really be there every Sunday.

And it meant I would see her outside the church. 

On a Monday in early July, I went to the climbing gym for the church crew social. I wasn’t wearing my collar, which was rare for me. I loved wearing my collar. My uniform was my black shirt with my white collar, black jeans, and a black blazer if I was feeling fancy, and I often was. 

“Father John off duty!” Amanda remarked at the sight of my loose gym clothes. 

I did an attempt at a hip-hop dance move, which made her laugh. Amanda’s laugh was high-pitched and loud but I still enjoyed eliciting it. 

The lobby of the climbing gym had a display case full of energy drinks and protein bars. We signed in, were given our shoes, and headed in to the main room, which boasted expansive mats and walls full of bright-colored “rocks” which were color-coded by their difficulty levels.  

Rosco, the worship pastor, was already there, with his girlfriend Karah, who also sang on the worship team. Rosco was a big guy with a big bushy beard and thick-framed glasses. He had been with Karah, who was curvy yet athletic and a natural blonde, for four years. They met in Bible college. It was a big mystery in our group as to why they weren’t engaged yet. 

“Hey, guys,” I said, and we exchanged fist-bumps and high-fives. 

“My mom wanted me to tell you that she really liked your sermon yesterday,” Karah said. 

“Oh dang, I got the Susan stamp of approval?” I said with a smile. 

The sermon already had eighteen-thousand views on YouTube, and I had only posted it this morning. I didn’t mention it, lest I reveal the outsized satisfaction that it gave me. 

“Father Andrew isn’t coming, by the way, he hurt his shoulder in the gym on Saturday. So we’re just waiting for Tony, JP, and Leah,” Rosco said. 

“And Grace,” Amanda said. 

“Oh yeah, we have a new kid,” I said, as if I was only just now remembering that she would be there. 

Tony, the drummer, JP, the bassist, and Leah, the pianist, all arrived together, carrying smoothies from Bebida. 

“We gotta finish these before we get on the mat!” JP called from across the room. 

When everyone except Grace was there, the group began passing around a canvas bag full of chalk and discussing which difficulty level they would start with. Orange was for beginners, green a little harder, purple intermediate, red advanced, and black was nigh on impossible. Most of the group was experienced enough to completely bypass orange. I secretly loved the confidence boost I got from dashing quickly up an orange or green run, but I only dared get on the easiest routes when I was alone. I came to the climbing gym two afternoons a week. 

“Always gotta do a few green and purple runs first to get the blood pumping,” Leah said. She pulled her frizzy brown hair into a ponytail before chalking up her hands. 

Leah was engaged to a medical student who, in a twist of the tongue, was named Leo. 

“Should we have a prayer before we get going?” Amanda said. We all joined hands. 

Just then, Grace joined the group. She was wearing a tight green tee shirt in the style of a Brazilian soccer jersey and loose camo pants, showing off a good three inches of midriff. My eyes lingered on the exposed pale skin for a second too long before I looked at her face and smiled. Her honey hair was pulled back in a black headband. I stepped back and offered her my hand. She joined the circle, joining hands with Amanda and me. 

“Hey, Grace,” I said. 

“Sorry I was late, they made me take like a test and fill out a bunch of forms.” 

“You’re all good, we were just about to quickly pray before we start,” Amanda said.  

Grace immediately bowed her head and closed her eyes. Almost imperceptibly, she squeezed my hand a little tighter. I squeezed back.  

“Dear Lord Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing this group together, and we ask that you keep us safe, fill us with your Spirit, and strengthen our forearms. And all God’s people said?” I said, and everyone said, 

“Amen!” 

The group sat on the mat and watched each other climb, one at a time. It was a slow, ineffective way to climb, but we were mostly there to chat and make fun of each other, and talk in a way that veered towards gossip but pretended it didn’t. 

It became Grace’s turn. 

“Oh, no,” Grace said. 

“You can do it!” Amanda said. 

Grace chose an orange path. “I’m so weak, ya’ll, this is gonna be embarrassing.” 

Grace was, indeed, incredibly weak. Her pole-thin arms shook as she grasped on to each orange rock. 

“Try to keep your hips close to the wall,” I said. It suddenly felt very crude to use the word ‘hips.’ 

Grace got halfway up the wall before her limbs failed her and she fell to the mat with an unceremonious thud. She was winded as she crawled back over to our circle. 

Throughout the evening, I kept trying to catch Grace’s eye, but she seemed to be looking at everyone but me. At one point, Amanda whispered something in Grace’s ear, and Grace started laughing so hard she wheezed. I felt left out, I wanted to know what was said, but it was clearly some private joke that probably wouldn’t be funny if it was explained to an outsider. 

It was my turn. I approached the wall. I started to reach for the red path, but I felt a rush of private desire to impress. I went for black. This earned me a round of wolf whistles and ribbing from the group. It was tricky and my muscles shook but I couldn’t bear the humiliation of letting go and falling off or climbing down. I made it to the top of the wall. I looked back down at the floor and was pleased to see Amanda was recording me. I climbed back down to a round of ironic applause from my friends. 

“That was pretty cool,” Grace said in a low voice, making just a flash of eye contact. 

It was enough for me. 

8. 

I pulled out of the parking lot of the rock climbing gym and onto the main road. I saw Grace waiting at the bus stop. I stopped and rolled down the window. 

“Hey, do you need a ride?” I said. 

She looked up from her phone. “Hey, um, yeah, that would be great.” 

She climbed into the passenger seat and my old Toyota was filled with a scent like a carnival, cotton candy and frying dough and powdered sugar. I felt hungry. 

“Where do you live?” I asked. 

“Just up Kirby, near River Oaks.” 

“Ooh, fancy lady.” 

“Kind of,” Grace said, laughter in her voice. 

“Why didn’t you drive?” 

“I don’t have a car. I don’t know how to drive,” Grace said. 

“How do you live in Houston and not drive?” 

“I don’t know. It kind of sucks. I grew up in New York, so I never had to learn. I take the bus and I walk a lot. And if I’m really feeling indulgent I’ll take an Uber.” 

This was the most I had ever heard Grace speak at one time. I felt like I was being given access to some mystical knowledge. 

“It must take you forever to get to church.” 

“The walk is only like an hour and a half.” 

“I can pick you up next time,” I said, not aware that I was going to say that. 

“You work all day on Sunday, you don’t have to do that.” 

“We can’t make our newly minted worship singers walk ninety minutes in the heat before they perform.” 

“Don’t worry about me. I’m obsessed with getting my ten thousand steps in.” 

I couldn’t think of what to say. I didn’t want her to walk, and I wanted an excuse to see her. Being met with resistance only piqued my interest. I breathed in the scent of sugar. 

“Are you hungry?” I asked. 

“Not really,” Grace said. “I did want to say though, I really liked your talk yesterday.” 

“Yeah?” I said, trying not to smile too widely. “I wondered if I was doing too much.” 

“Yeah, I mean, a little… but you’re a performer.”

“What do you mean?” 

“You turn it on for the cameras. I’m sure it will be big on YouTube.” 

I felt a strange sensation; annoyance, vulnerability. She saw right through me, and as I paused at a stop light, I looked over at her. Her expression wasn’t one of judgment, just observation. 

“You’ve seen my social media?” 

“Everybody has seen your social media. You’re the famous John Globe.” 

“So you knew who I was before you joined the church?” 

“No,” Grace said, quick and hard, and I believed her instantly. “It’s this high rise up here on the left.” 

I pulled in to her parking lot. 

“Thanks for the ride, John,” Grace said. She gave me a sweet smile, and I realized something big and weighty. 

I was going to do it. I was going to ask her out. I opened my mouth to speak, when she said, 

“Bye, see you Sunday.” 

The door opened, then shut just as quickly. Grace disappeared inside her building. 

9.

I reached one-hundred-thousand followers on Instagram. Is fame a corrupting force? I didn’t know, and I wanted to find out myself. I had my first viral video on YouTube in 2017: “Why I’m Leaving the Evangelical Fundamentalist Church.” I animatedly detailed the abuses of the high-control church I had grown up in, and broke down in tears that I tried mannishly to suppress as I admitted that my parents would probably never speak to me again.