Authors: Edward Lee
“Thanks,” Gerold said.
“Come on in. Your lunch is on me. All-you-can-eat clam strips, man, and they’re hand-dipped. None of this pre-breaded frozen shit.”
Gerold felt dizzy in despair. “Thanks but . . . I can’t now. I don’t even know why I came here. I’m on a restricted diet ’cos of my kidneys.”
“Shit, that sucks. Those fuckers.” The cook paused. “Did you . . . Well, never mind. None of my business.”
“What?”
“Did you get any of them?”
Gerold didn’t look at him when he said, “Four, I think. With a machine gun called an M2. It tore them apart.”
“Fuck ’em.”
“Half hour later . . . this happened.”
The moment collapsed into cringing awkwardness. “I gotta go,” Gerold said.
“Sure. See ya around.”
I doubt it
. Gerold wheeled away, back up into scorching sun. His throat felt swelled shut; he didn’t want the cook to see the tears in his eyes. Eventually he made it to one of the covered bus shelters—
finally, some damn shade
—but when he wheeled in, a squalid face peered over very quickly. It was a woman, probably a lot younger than she looked. She wore dingy shorts and a baggy men’s white T-shirt. “Hey,” she said and smiled.
“Hi.” Gerold knew at once what she was, from the smile. Her teeth were gray, from either meth or crack.
A street whore
, he knew. There seemed to be twice as many of them now, since the recession had bitten in.
“You know,” she began, and now her bloodshot eyes were intent on him. She stood up. The sweat-damp T-shirt betrayed flat, dangling breasts. “We could go over by them trees.” She pointed.
Gerold saw one of many stands of trees around the park. Gerold sighed. “I’m not looking for any action, if that’s what you mean.”
She walked over and without warning began to rub his crotch.
Gerold frowned.
Her desperate whisper told him, “Let’s go over to them trees. Twenty-five bucks. I’ve done guys in chairs before; some of ’em get off.”
“I don’t get off!” he spat.
“Hmm? You sure?” She kept rubbing, her grin knife-sharp. “You feel
that
, don’t you?”
“No,” he grumbled. He was enraged and humiliated. “I’m paraplegic. You know what that means? It means
dead from the waist down
.”
“Come on, just let me play with it anyway. Twenty bucks. You’ll like it.”
“Get away from me!” he bellowed.
“Well fuck you, then!” she yelled back. “Fuckin’ cripple.”
“Yeah,” he said, grimacing. He got out his wallet. There was his bus pass and a fifty-dollar bill. “Do you have a knife or a gun?”
“What?”
“I’ll give you fifty bucks, my bus pass, and my bank card—”
“For what?”
“I want you to kill me.”
The junkie face seemed to pucker like a pale slug sprinkled with salt. She left the shelter and jogged away.
Anyway,
that’s
what had brought Gerold down here in the first place.
That’s
why he’d been in the library: to use their computer, go online, and read about castor bean poison, which he’d found quite easily. Just as easily, however, he’d found that the extraction process was way too complicated, save for anyone but a chemist; and then when he’d looked up some other poisons, he’d caught the librarian eyeing his screen with a troubled frown on her face. He’d felt idiotic so he’d left in a rush.
SWOOOSH!
The next bus drove right by, its driver pretending not to see Gerold waiting in the shelter.
No. Today just wasn’t Gerold’s day.
When Hudson finally fell asleep, he dreamed almost in flashback: the recent past. A year ago when he’d graduated
from Catholic U., he’d taken a summer job for a Monsignor Halford, the chancellor of the Richmond Diocesan Pastoral Center. Hudson needed a letter of reference to get into a quality seminary, so here he was.
Halford had to have been ninety but seemed sharper and more energetic than most clerics half his age. He did not beat around the bush with regard to spiritual counsel. He said right off the bat, “The only reason you’re working here is for a reference, but I won’t give you any manner of reference or referral unless you do this: take a year or two off, go into the work force—not volunteer work or hospices—you’ll do plenty of that during your internship.” The pious old man chuckled. “Work a real job, live like real people, the
other
people. You have to
be
one of them before you can be one of us. Work in a restaurant, a store, do construction work or something like that. Earn money, pay bills, know what it’s like to live like
they
do. Go to bars, get drunk, smoke cigarettes, and, above all . . . familiarize yourself with the company of women, like St. Augustine. There’s nothing worse than a young seminarist going straight from college to seminary and taking all his idealism with him. Those are the ones who fold halfway through their pastorship.”
Hudson sat agog.
St. Augustine was a whoremonger before he found faith
. . . “You don’t mean . . .”
“I mean as I’ve said,” the elder replied in a voice of granite. “Am I
ordering
you to engage in sexual congress outside of wedlock? No. But hear this, Hudson. A venal sin now is much more forgivable than a grievous sin later, later as in
after
your ordination.”
Hudson couldn’t believe such an implication.
“Are you receiving my meaning, son?”
“I’m . . . not sure, Monsignor.”
“In the real world you’ll be subject to the same temptations that Christ faced. We in the vocation
all
need to know that.”
“But I’m perfectly happy with a vow of celibacy.”
The monsignor smiled, and it was a
sardonic
smile. “Go out into the world first, and that includes the world of
women
. If you don’t, you’ll probably quit in ten or twenty years. It doesn’t do God any good to have priests that quit when they start feeling that they’ve missed out. It’s the same things with the nuns—good Lord. I’ve been around a while so I know what I’m talking about.”
Before the notion to ask even occurred consciously, Hudson began, “Monsignor, did you ever . . .”
The old man lurched forward in his chair. “Did I ever break my vow of celibacy? Are you being audacious enough to ask me that?
Me?
”
“I-I-I,” Hudson bumbled. “Not audacious, sir. But . . .”
“Fine. It’s an honest answer. God needs priests with balls, too.”
Hudson’s brow shot up.
“No, I never broke my vow of celibacy, and I’ve been a priest for almost seventy years.” The monsignor’s gaze sharpened to pinpoints on Hudson. “But I’ll tell you this. I
almost
did many times, but in the end, I resisted.”
“That’s . . . probably easier said than done.”
“Nope. I asked God to take the burden of my temptations off of my shoulder and onto his. And he did. He
always
does”—very quickly, the Monsignor pointed—“
if
you have faith.”
“I have faith, Monsignor.”
“Of course you do, but you’re also full of idealism—you’re too young to know what you’re talking about.” The old smile leveled on Hudson. “I’ll bet you don’t even masturbate—”
Hudson didn’t, but he blushed.
“I won’t ask if you do or you don’t, but know this, young man. There’ll be none of that shit after you’re a priest.”
Hudson had to laugh.
“All I’m saying is it’s reasonable in God’s eyes to get all of that out of your system before you take your true vows. That’s why I won’t give you a referral until you’ve gone out into the world for a year or so. You see, if I recommend you to a seminary, what I’m really doing is recommending you to God. Don’t make a monkey out of me in front of
God
.”
This guy’s a trip
, Hudson thought. “I understand, sir.”
“Good, so where are you going?”
Hudson drew on a long breath. “Florida, I think. I grew up in Maryland, where I learned to shuck oysters. I could get a job doing that.”
“Good, a real-world job, like I’ve been saying.”
“A friend of mine lives down there now. We were acolytes together.”
The old priest’s eyes widened. “Is he in the vocation?”
Hudson chuckled. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. He’s, I guess, lost his faith, but—”
“Excellent. You can help him find it again while you’re shucking oysters in Florida and experiencing real life. The real world, Hudson. You need to know it before you can be a priest.”
“Yes, sir.”
The monsignor looked at his watch. “I have a golf match now. Make sure you clean all the windows in the chancellery today. Then you can take off. Go to Florida, live amongst the other people. Then come back in a year or so and I’ll get you into any seminary you want.”
“Thank you, Monsignor.” Hudson kissed the old man’s ring as he reached for his golf bag . . .
That was the dream. Hudson awoke late, slightly hung-over. He supposed a soon-to-be seminarist getting half drunk was easily more pardonable than soliciting hookers. He was proud of himself for resisting the temptation last night, but then . . .
Pride’s a sin, too
.
Had it really been resistance, had it really been
faith?
Had passing up the prostitutes to help a poor woman
really
been a good deed?
Or was it just guilt?
He hoped it wasn’t the latter.
He had very little money right now, especially after emptying his wallet to the poor mother last night. And he’d been let go at the Oyster House several days ago due to a recession-induced lull in local tourism. It didn’t matter, though; he’d be leaving for the seminary in Jersey in less than a week, and he could always get a meal at the church where he helped out with lay duties. He had to go there today, as a matter of fact, to help Father Darren prep for the late service.
God will provide
, he thought, and believed it. But still . . .
It would be nice to have a little cash for his remaining days in town.
Hudson grimaced when a knock resounded at the door.
Oh, for pity’s sake
. . . It had to be somebody selling something. No one else
ever
knocked on Hudson’s door. He pulled on his robe inside out.
“Look, whatever it is you’re selling,” he preempted when he opened the front door, “I’m flat broke—” But the rest was severed when he looked at his caller.
An attractive but blank-faced woman stood without. The cause of Hudson’s jolt was her attire: a long black surplice and, of all things, a Roman collar.
A female minister?
he hazarded.
Must be asking for donations
—He could’ve laughed.
Lady, you picked the WRONG door to knock on today!
Her blonde hair had been pulled back; her eyes were an odd dull blue. She was in her forties but striking: shapely, ample bosomed. A stout wooden cross hung about her neck.
“Are you Hudson Hudson?” the woman asked in the driest tone.
“Yes, and I’d love to give a donation but I’m afraid—”
“My name is Deaconess Wilson.” She stared as she spoke, as if on tranquilizers.
“I’m sorry . . . Deaconess, but I don’t have any money—”
“I’m here to tell you that you’ve won the Senary,” she said.
Hudson stalled. “The
what?
”
She handed him a nine-by-six manila envelope. “May I . . . come in, Mr. Hudson?”
Hudson winced. “I’d rather you didn’t, the place is a—” He looked at the envelope. “What is this?”
“It . . . would be easier if I told you inside . . .”
He stepped back. Obviously she was Protestant. “All right, but just for a minute. I’m very busy,” he lied.
She entered slowly as if unsure of her footing. Hudson closed the door. “Now what’s this? I’ve won the
what?
”
She turned and stood perfectly still. It occurred to Hudson now that whenever she spoke, she seemed to falter, as if either she didn’t know what to say or she was resisting something.
“The Senary,” she said in that low monotone. “It’s like . . . a lottery.”
“Well I never signed up for any
Senary
, and I never bought a ticket.”
“You don’t have to. All you have to . . . do is be born.” She blinked. “I’ve been instructed to inform you that you’re the twelfth person to win the Senary. Ever. In all of history.”
“Oh, you’re with one of those apocalyptic religious sects—”
“No, no.” The deaconess ground her teeth. “I’m just . . . the messenger, so to speak.” Then she flinched and shook her head. “I’m-I’m . . . not sure what I’m supposed to say . . .”
Crazy
, Hudson thought, a little scared now.
Mental patient with some religious delusion. Probably just escaped from a hospital
.
She groaned. “You see, every . . . six hundred . . . and sixty-six . . . years, someone wins the Senary. This . . . time it’s . . . you.”
She reminded Hudson of a faulty robot, experiencing minor short circuits. Several times her hands rose up, then lowered. She’d shrug one shoulder for no reason, wince off to one side, flinch, raise a foot, then put it back down. And again he had the impression that some aspect of her volition was resisting an unbidden impulse when her hands struggled to rise again.
Shaking, they stopped at the top button of her surplice. Then, as if palsied, her fingers began to unfasten the buttons.
Her words faltered. “Ssssssss-atan fell from Heaven in 5318 BC. The ffffffffff-irst Senary was held in 4652 BC. It was wuh-wuh-won by a Cycladean coppersmith named Ahkazm.”
Crazy. Pure-ass crazy
, Hudson knew now. Yet, he didn’t throw her out. Instead he just stood . . . and watched.
Watched her completely unbutton the surplice, skim it off along with the Roman collar and cross. She jittered a bit when she faced Hudson more resolutely, as if to display her total nakedness to him.
I don’t BELIEVE this
. . .
“Listen,” he finally forced himself to say. “You’re going to have to—”
The image of her body stunned him. Her torso was a perfect hourglass of flesh; high, full breasts; flat stomach and wide hips. Her skin shone in perfect, proverbial alabaster white.