BY SEAN EADS AND JOSHUA VIOLA This is one of the tales from the cinematic horror anthology — It Came From The Multiplex: 80s Midnight Chillers. The man Richard pointed to as we entered the foyer of First Baptist Church of Harmony wore a crisp blue suit and a black patch over his left eye. He looked to be in his early thirties. The eye patch did nothing to detract from the sharp beauty of his face. Shaking his warm, large hand, the tingle I felt wasn’t a bit Christian, and I hoped my attraction wasn’t too obvious, considering my husband Richard and two boys, Matthew and Gordon, stood right beside me. The three men in my life wore white shirts, black ties, and had their blonde hair in identical styles, parted on the left and held in place with three pumps of Dry Look. “Elaine, this is Cooper, the guy at the factory I was telling you about. He’s also the youth pastor here.” “Please, call me Coop. How are you liking Indiana, Elaine?” “She likes it fine,” Richard said. “Or she will, once we’re settled in.” We’d moved here just two weeks ago. Richard was managing a manufacturing plant that employed half the town. I was proud of the boys for their maturity in the matter. We left Denver as soon as the school year ended, which made it hard on them. Not only were they being ripped away from their summer vacation and friends, they’d have to wait until September to make new ones. Or so I’d thought. Our church back in Denver hadn’t had an active youth group beyond a few kids. First Baptist appeared to have about fifty children between the ages of twelve and fifteen. Matthew and Gordon were going to make friends fast. But Coop was the one they talked about during the drive home. I learned he served in Vietnam and found God after being shot in the eye. Coop shared his story as an act of witnessing, and it appeared my sons absorbed every word. I listened to them relay how Coop’s No. 118 resentment about the injury turned him into a militant atheist, war protestor and drifter. The details astonished me, but I found the story of his renewed faith just as compelling. There was no epiphany, no chance encounter with a street preacher who opened Coop’s heart to the Lord. He just let go of his anger over time. As someone who rolls their eyes at Reader’s Digest stories of poetic coincidence and grand encounters changing lives, I found the tale of Coop’s recovered faith so … reasonable. I was surprised at how fast our social lives became intertwined with First Baptist. The church promoted regular picnics and get-togethers. It seemed there was never a weekend we weren’t gathering at some park to eat fried chicken and potato salad as one large community. Afterwards, the older men pitched horseshoes while Coop organized the kids into a game of baseball. Watching Coop’s self-assuredness and relaxed masculinity made me feel like I was fifteen again, sitting close to the field at a high school football game to steal glances at the quarterback. It was clear the older girls had a crush on him. The boys were no less jealous of his attention, always jockeying for his approval and praise in ways they never sought from their fathers. Matthew was no different, and even Gordon, who’d never shown the least interest in sports, gave all his uncoordinated effort trying to impress his youth group leader. The summer of outdoor church socials promised to become a fall and winter dominated by the Haliled Multiplex. Construction on it started a year before we arrived, and the Harmony Gazette featured breathless updates on the rise of the ten-screen movie theater. Its owner, Jacob Dorenius, promised his multiplex would attract people as far as thirty miles away, and those who drove thirty miles to see a movie were bound to stay and shop or eat. I didn’t realize the Haliled was a source of tension in the church until our last picnic in late August. I’d read about the multiplex’s grand
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