Between the Bridge and the River (38 page)

George stood in one of the little semicircular projections that Henri IV’s experts had added to the structure and gazed down at the water below. The drop wasn’t enough to kill a man on a fall, not convincingly. It was only about fifty or sixty feet to the surface.

George wasn’t too concerned by that. If he was not rendered unconscious by the violent impact on the surface of the water, which he probably would be, all he had to do was get below and take a deep
breath—or so he had read somewhere. Death would be swift and painless. But even if he couldn’t manage that, he had his guilty secret.

All of his life he had told himself that the day he had refused to drink from the bottle of Eldorado and had protected Fraser from the gross ministrations of Willie Elmslie, he had been acting as a good egg. A loyal pal. He had done the right thing but he knew in his heart that this was not true. The reason he had whipped the older boy with the fishing rod, the reason he had not joined in the cheap wine communion, was that he was afraid. He could not be out of control or have events get out of his control so close to a body of water.

He couldn’t swim.

He had never learned. He had had a fear of water as a little boy, and by the time he reached adolescence, he was too embarrassed to admit his failing to his friends. Then the moment had passed and he had plunged into a dry life that had not required him to do much swimming. He had played with his daughter in the water when she was little but he had never gotten out of his depth.

Actually, Nancy had been taught to swim by Barry Symington at the leisure center. George still couldn’t believe he wasn’t gay. Sheila must have gotten it wrong.

He had never really been out of his depth in anything until the test results. Since the diagnosis, he had been drowning. Claudette had waded in to his rescue but he was dragging her down. The right thing to do was jump, push off, and let her swim to safety.

Claudette had told him the previous evening that she wanted to go with him when he went. There was too much death in the world, her heart had been shattered too many times, and she wanted to leave with him.

He had been appalled and put the conversation down to too much wine and enthusiastic, romantic pillow talk, but he couldn’t take the chance of being around her anymore. He was pulling her under.

It was still reasonably quiet. The big department store nearby, Samaritain, had not yet opened its doors, and the only people about were a few late revelers who had pulled all-nighters, a couple of jetlagged tourists, and some people on their way to work.

One or two of the ubiquitous coal barges puttered up the river on their way to or from the north coast ports. George took a deep breath; he looked all around him at the heavenly city, then climbed onto the parapet.

Claudette screamed his name as she came running down the street to the bridge, her voice echoing off the buildings. She was running as fast as she could, tears streaming down her face.

George knew that he would not be able to resist her if she got to him. He had to go now and make it quick, or hang on for a world of agony and despair—and then go anyway.

He looked at her. He mouthed,
“Je suis désolé.”

He thumped his chest and threw out his hand toward her as if tossing her his heart. He sent up a quick and silent prayer to anything that might be there asking for help for Claudette.

Then he jumped.

IT HAD BEEN A CHALLENGE
for Saul to deal with T-Bo. He wanted to tell him he was a dim-witted, grubby nigger and have him whipped but he knew he had to be a bit more canny in the world these days. Instead he promised the young man wealth and fame. He promised him a place in the Holy United Church seminary, and when he graduated (which he also had to guarantee), he would be taken into the Church as a pastor and—this was the clincher—given his own spot on the religious network.

T-Bo also made him promise that no harm would come to Fraser or any of his friends.

Saul had promised unreservedly, he had no intention of making a martyr. He remembered the story that Roscoe had told him years ago. Only tyrants and fools made martyrs.

He was certainly no fool.

And he was no tyrant either—how could he be, he had suffered a hideous stroke. He was a victim. The victim excuse, where evil is born.

T-Bo had given them the location of the disused olive-oil plant but none of Saul’s security guys could find it; they were all imports from Atlanta and didn’t have a clue how to get around Birmingham.
Finally, Saul made him guide them to the site and T-Bo was deeply embarrassed when Fraser and the others saw him in the company of the Holy United Churchmen, who demanded that Fraser come with them.

Pinkerton, Potter, Mickey, and Vermont had wanted to fight, as did Cherry and Salome and the rest of the girls, but Fraser had broken his silence and said that to fight would not be helping others, it would only be helping themselves, and he would not endorse it.

He allowed himself to be taken away but before he did he spoke to Pinkerton.

“You must not fight this Church. It doesn’t matter if demons are at its head. It doesn’t matter if it is founded on wickedness and deceit. It helps some people. All that matters is that you help others. Before yourself. Go back and repair your own church in the woods. Have Potter and Vermont and Mickey and the others help you. Leave the snakes alone. Ask Salome and the girls to sing for you, that’ll bring the people in.”

Pinkerton cried, said that he would do as he was told, then kissed the hem of Fraser’s orange dress. As Fraser was taken out by the church security men, even though he was still as blind as a bat, he seemed to sense T-Bo. He stopped and put out his hand until he touched the young man’s face. He felt the cheeks and the eyes and the mouth to make sure, then he leaned in and kissed T-Bo lightly on the forehead.

Leon had wanted to know why they hadn’t taken in the Reverend Pinkerton, surely he was where the real trouble was, but Saul said no.

After his discussions with T-Bo, Saul had reached the conclusion that Fraser was the head of the monster, and that without the holyman, Pinkerton would retreat back into the shadows. Leon had assented.

Saul was always right.

Fraser stood sightless at the feet of the motionless fat man propped up in the hospital bed. Saul had insisted that he speak to Fraser alone, and now that he looked at this filthy, blind cripple he felt sick. Sicker than usual.

“You smell nice,” said Fraser.

Saul was wary. He was trying to determine if Fraser was fooling with him or was genuine. He thought back to the day he had met
Potter Templeton and had told him he and Leon had been thrown out of the orphanage for being good Christians. He remembered Potter’s suspicion.

“What do you want here?” Saul asked.

“Nothing,” said Fraser.

“Then why did you come?

Fraser shrugged. “I just kind of drifted along and ended up here. I suppose God brought me.”

Saul asked Fraser if he knew a fat man named Roscoe. Fraser said that no he didn’t but that he knew a French policeman who was a bit quick with his nightstick.

“Can you really heal people?” asked Saul.

“I don’t think so,” said Fraser. “They think I can heal them and that’s what does it. I think it just helps them feel better if they know there are miracles in the world.”

“What about the woman you brought back from the dead?”

“She wasn’t dead, she fainted.”

“Could you heal yourself?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“You can’t see.”

“Oh, that. That’ll clear up. Or it won’t.”

“You’re insane.”

“Yes, probably.”

Saul paused, moved his left hand slightly, the only motion allowed him below the neck. “Could you heal me?”

Fraser said he didn’t know but he’d give it a shot, if Saul wanted.

Saul whispered a tiny yes, that he would, then Fraser stepped forward hesitantly and felt the bed.

Saul watched Fraser’s hands dance lightly along the covers, over his purple robes, until he had his dirty hands on Saul’s head. The two men were very close. Saul closed his eyes and tried not to breathe, unable to stand the sight or smell of this disgusting tramp close up.

“I don’t think I can heal you,” mused Fraser sadly.

Saul asked why.

Fraser said, “Because this is who you are.”

Saul thought for a moment. Then said, “You’re a phony.”

Fraser agreed that, yes, he was a phony, and also asked that Saul not forget that he was also a hypocrite and a drunk and was wearing a stolen frock.

Saul, for the first time since Candy Chambers had blown him in a stall at the Foxy nightclub, started to cry. Big, fat, helpless tears poured down his cheeks. Fraser put his hand out to touch the man’s face.

But Saul turned his head away.

Fraser said, “I once got so afraid that I lay in a ditch with my hands over my ears until my friend fell on me. I hated myself and I had to change, and he helped me. I had to let him but I had also to participate in my metamorphosis. Misery is a choice. I got help from a brave soldier. If you want to feel better, help others.”

Saul whimpered, “How can I help others? Look at me!”

“I’m blind,” Fraser reminded him.

Saul wasn’t listening. He wept openly for a time, then he yelled for Leon and had Fraser removed.

Before he left Fraser told Saul that it was nice to meet him and wished him luck and courage.

Leon felt a deep melancholy as he watched Fraser be taken away. He couldn’t put his finger on it but he somehow knew that something very valuable was going with the mad blind cleric.

He shook off the thought. Saul would take care of it. Saul would take care of him. Saul would take care of everything.

After Fraser left, Saul fell into a deep sleep.

He dreamed he was young and fit and free. The dream terrified him.

Over the next few weeks and months he began to have terrible dreams. Dreams of health and well-being that only compounded his misery when he was awake. He could not throw himself into the relief of his unconsciousness, he had to stay in the temporal world, or what felt like the temporal world, at all costs. He was afraid that in another dimension he would be held accountable for who he had become, not for a moment considering that accountability was already upon him.

He began taking amphetamines in order to avoid sleep, and that is how he lived out the rest of his long, long life at the head of the giant, profitable organized religion he had created.

Motionless, terrified, completely awake, and dreamless.

AS HE FELL
, George’s life did not flash in front of his eyes. He supposed that was because it had been slowly unfurling since the diagnosis.

He felt the fun-fair thrill of the quickening as gravity grabbed him, and then he thought about Father Kenny. Father Kenny was a young hippie-type Jesuit priest who had taught religious instruction when he was in high school.

His first name was Kenny. Kenny McCann. Older churchgoers insisted on calling him Father McCann even though he said he preferred the use of his Christian name. He was, after all, a Christian. This was his wee joke.

Father Kenny was one of a new breed of Catholic clergy who had started to appear around that time, just after the Second Vatican Council. Priests who wanted to be friendly with the kids. Not in a disgusting, altar-boy-abuse sort of way, but in a genuine and earnest fashion.

Father Kenny had talked to the teenagers in his class about all manner of things. Love, sex, death, the weather, drugs, contraception— anything. He had always declared that no subject was off limits, and he would be happy to discuss and defend the Church on whatever topic his pupils desired.

At first the kids were wary, they had a long history of teachers lulling them into a false sense of security, but Father Kenny kept his word. He never admonished a student for a belief or a stance, even in the case of Maxine Harrison, who at the time claimed to be a practicing Satanist. She wasn’t really, of course, but sometimes she listened to Black Sabbath with the lights out.

During one of his class discussions, George had asked Father Kenny if it was true that all suicides went to hell.

Father Kenny hemmed and hawed a little bit. Finally he said that probably most suicides were in hell before they even attempted the act. The earnest teens would not let him get away with that, so Kenny was forced to admit that given that suicide was a mortal sin with no chance of repentance, yes, he supposed it would be inevitable that they would go to hell. But he added a codicil.

If, for example, a person had jumped off of a bridge to take his own life and genuinely repented before he hit the river, then he would enter the kingdom of the Lord.

The children had asked what constituted repentance in this case.

Father Kenny told them a true regret for having committed the act in the first place.

George figured this must mean he was going to hell because he remained certain that this course of action was the only right one for him.

Father Kenny would have had no trouble explaining what happened next but it puzzled George, Claudette, Alain Pantelic, Yves Bunuel, and a few others for many years to come.

Father Kenny would have said that, because the last thing that George had done before stepping into the void was to offer a prayer for someone else, he brought upon himself an act of divine intervention.

Alain Pantelic said that the results were inconclusive.

Claudette said that Love is stronger than death.

Yves Bunuel said Parisians were getting crazier.

M. Bunuel had been running a coal barge from Calais down to Paris for over thirty years and things had changed a great deal in
that time. The river was busier but not with commercial traffic, with pleasure boats and speedboats and Jet Skis and all manner of nonsense. The city of Paris was by far the worst part of the journey. The place was crawling with Bateaux Mouches, the huge sightseeing boats that ferried Japanese and American tourists past all the sights, and then there were the restaurant boats. Yves could never understand why anyone would eat in a restaurant that you couldn’t leave if you didn’t like the food or the service.