The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (8 page)

As she sought a reply, Leslie wondered if this squat man was trying to impress
himself
. He reminded her a little of Tom. She forced herself to smile for the second time and lied to him: “Your name? I'm sorry; I don't believe I know who you are.... “While she wondered at her own sudden subtlety, the coordinating saint made a show of ignoring the put-down, saying, of course, of course, his Sainting was a few years old, as important as it was, perhaps she'd missed the vision specials then?

Or was that question a return insult?

The saint relaxing to her left brushed her bare shoulder with his knuckles, and Leslie turned. When her mouth fell open, he smiled, dimpling his right cheek. She hadn't realized she was sitting beside Saint Horace, who had donned his sainthood six months ago after starring in a series of highly successful romantic thrillers about the great Benjamin Franklin, giver of light, on the vision. Leslie had to look up to meet his hazel eyes even while they both sat there. He scratched at his bronzed chin and leaned toward her. Leslie felt his breath against her ear and neck. “Don't mind him,” he whispered. “He's the Patron Saint of Trumps. Rich, by the highest standards, so he thinks he's better than the rest of us. The usual saint's salary is meaningless to him. And he doesn't have to scrape for vision sponsorships for extra money."

The next hour was spent sitting there while the coordinator reviewed the ceremony, and even walked Leslie through parts of it. When it was time to discuss the actual baptism, the coordinator had Leslie stand by the wading pool and mime the motions of removing her summer blouse and skirt. All around her great saints laughed at her hesitancy—not with malice, but at the self-conscious displays of a younger sister. The room was suddenly a blur of colors and faces. She felt sick to her stomach, which she wanted to believe had something to do with her head mem. Through it all she continued to recognize the other saints around her, representatives of great athletes, actresses, warriors and technicians, rock stars and businessmen. She knew she didn't belong.

Leslie tried to concentrate on her nausea, as if scrutinizing it would prove the head mem guided her. It
had
to be responsible for getting her through this practice, even if she was too distracted to recognize its motion inside her. Already she'd seen a heightened awareness of social fencing, as when she had pretended not to recognize the coordinator. And her vocabulary seemed so much greater now; had she ever known such words as ‘emulate’ and ‘myriad’ and ‘syncretic’ even existed? She decided she didn't know enough about her new programming.

When the practice was finished, Leslie followed the others backstage, where she shrank even further inside herself to avoid the stage crews surrounding her in a chaos of activity. The coordinator gestured her and nine other saints into one of the bright dressing rooms, where Leslie found a make-up-stained couch to sink into. This was a part of the Congregation of Saints she had never seen before, for vision was not allowed backstage.

You are so alone,
she told herself.
So. Alone.
Tom didn't understand. None of these sanctified demigods had any idea of what a fiction she was as she sat among them. She wished she had Gun in her hands. Gun would know what to say to make her feel like a human being. Right now she was nothing. Not a security guard, not yet a saint. The only thing that made her alive right now was a little knot of growing tissues inside her uterus, and it was against Washington's design, a sin. Her mind kept returning to the idea that, against all logic, meeting Roger tomorrow afternoon would make things different. Did she really want to hear terrible truths about this man's brother, to assuage her uneasiness about killing him that was part guilt, part pride? And there was something else, something she allowed herself to only half realize. The Sons of Man were outlaws. If she and her fetus wanted to survive together, where better than among outlaws to find a way to save them?

"Leslie, right? Are you okay?"

Leslie turned. A young woman, large green eyes staring curiously, slid onto the couch beside her. Leslie shifted to give her room. “You looked sad,” the woman said. Her skin was smooth, white and pink, and her long hair was corn silk.

"No. It's. I mean...” Leslie looked away. This woman was everything Leslie couldn't be. Leslie had seen her on the vision many times. She was a rock singer who had written an opera about teenaged patriots. sainthood had come after her fifth platinum album. Her name was Bree. Now she was seen on vision ads for a new pharmaceutical company specializing in its own line of antidepressants.

"Here,” Bree said. “It's just a little stage fright. That's all.” She reached down and Leslie let her grasp her hand. “It's completely natural!” The woman's eyes brightened as if she were a mechanical eye. As grateful as Leslie wanted to be for her interest, she could not help feeling even more miserable.

It could have been a different building she entered when it was finally time to step on stage with the other saints and cross to their honored seats in the front row. Leslie and all the saints were dressed in red, white and blue robes. The Speaker of the House had finished singing his version of ‘America', and introduced the Pageant of Saints. Leslie was the last in the line. She entered the stage to blinding light and an oceanic roar of applause. This was not the dim, empty cavern they had practiced in. This room was tense with sweat and glowing eyes in the darkness just beyond brightly burning suns. The lighting was hot against her face and, blinking, she stumbled to her seat.

A rock band began to overpower the roar of the crowd with drums and bass and a barrage of growling rap phrases. They were set up on the far left of the stage. As they bellowed to the end of their number, Father Washington appeared far above rear center stage in a glass elevator. Leslie thought earlier that the crowd could not get any louder, but as the elevator slid downward she had to cup her hands over her ears. The floor shook. Father Washington waved his hand gracefully and his smile was almost inhuman it was so perfect. He was wearing his Papal Business Suit of Green Camouflage, cut squarely, accenting his broad, straight shoulders.

When he reached the stage, the band had finished. Washington raised both hands to still the crowd, and it was as if Leslie had already forgotten what silence was. Nature itself ceased. Then The Speaker of the House spoke into his wireless microphone: “Ladies and Gentlemen, The President of the United States,” and left the stage.

Even as close as she was, Leslie could not see Washington's mike. But his deep voice flowed through the wall speakers like the breath of a great giant.

"My friends. We have gathered ourselves here for the noble purpose of holding up one of our sisters to the grace of God, to be proclaimed into sainthood for the selfless act of saving Father Washington. And I ask you, what could be more blessed than this? Our sister will join the ranks of the greatest Americans; Saint Iaccoca, who created the car, Saint O'Neil, whose spirit lives on in the mountains of the moon for his great race with the forces of Red Hell. Saint Revere, the messenger of God. The great Fathers of the original Moral Crusade—Saints Falwell and the others. The Great Star of Reagan. Our great savior in the desert, consubstantial with the father, who delivered us from Evil and rebuilt the Towers of Trade. And our own Living Saints, some of whom sit among us here today.

"I am but flesh and blood, an avatar, the human manifestation of the Spirit of Seventy-Six. But we must all remember there was an original Father Washington, who suffered and died for us all. Our country's Eternal Father, who fasted in the desert, who gave his only cloak at Valley Forge, who overcame temptations symbolized in the Cherry Tree, who had come once before to be crucified on a Jew's swastika of wood.

"It is that Holy Son of God who walked the earth to create our chosen Union. It is that Holy Spirit now who will bathe our sister in the fire of baptism. It is the light of that Spirit which filled our sister with righteousness when she cooked the terrorist's head with her Gun. The poor, pitiable creature who in his confusion and despair tried to assassinate what can never be killed. Let the rise of Saint Leslie forever be a reminder to the forces of Evil and Godlessness, our Crusade will not end until they have perished from the earth. Let the story of her success—the success of a poor orphan who rose in the ranks of Security, all the way to the Congregation of Saints—let the story of her success remind us all anything is possible, through the graces of Washington, when we hold purity and the love of God in our hearts.

"Let the House of Representatives stand in awe before Leslie. Let her be a reminder to them grand accomplishments can be performed without bipartisan politics. Let Leslie remind us all of where we come from and who we truly are in this great country!"

Father Washington approached the steps in front of the stage, bathed even more in the suspended lights above him. As he walked, the wading pool slid toward center stage on a hidden track. It stopped behind Washington almost at the same time that he held out his hand to Leslie. “My child,” he said. “Rise up and be bathed in the Holy Spirit."

Leslie stood as a spotlight suddenly warmed her. She mounted the steps and took Washington's hand as she'd been instructed. Her hand felt hot and slippery against his cool dry one. She was vaguely aware of the other saints quietly filing onto the stage to form a semicircle behind the pool. She let Washington lead her to the pool, then stood between it and him, terrified.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident,” Father Washington said.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident,” the Congregation of Saints repeated.

"That all Men are created equal,” Washington said.

"That all Men are created equal."

"That they are endowed by God with certain inalienable rights, and among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That it is the right of all men to abolish any government."

"...abolish any government."

"That to preserve the sanctity of our country the separation of Church and State is of the highest priority, to ensure our freedom from the mind control of Communism, Atheism, Voodoo, Islam, and other pagan and non-Christian beliefs."

"...Atheism, Voodoo, Islam, and other pagan and non-Christian beliefs."

Father Washington paused to look down at Leslie. He nodded his head slightly and she knew he expected her to do something. She reached hesitantly to the loose fabric of her robe. In the sudden pause, she heard the water falling from the Minute Men's mouths. She felt beads of sweat on her temple and rolling down her left side. Washington cleared his throat.

"This is Leslie,” he finally said. “She came into this world as an infant, innocent and naked.” He cleared his throat again. Then he frowned at her, reached over her shoulders and yanked her robe over her head. It fell softly to the stage behind her. Wearing only her shoes, Leslie forced herself to stand erect. She clasped her hands in front of her groin. Soft hair brushed against the heel of her hand. The air she tried to breath had turned to jelly.

"She stands before you now, Lord, naked once again. For in your fire she will be born again.” Washington clamped a hand around Leslie's arm and pushed her toward the pool. Leslie stumbled once, bent forward to slip off her shoes, then stepped over the pool's edge. Time was caught in the hot blister of this moment that would not end. Leslie looked up and was flash blinded by the lights. Then she felt Washington nudge her shoulder and her head went under the spit of the Minute Men. She felt her skin go tight across her back and shoulders, and her nipples harden under the water. She gasped, inhaling the rain, then coughed.

"By the powers vested in me as the Holy Lord made Flesh in this Chosen Country of Chosen People,” Washington said. “I baptize this woman, Saint Leslie of our Homeland's Security. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."

The roar of the crowd avalanched across the stage again as if it had never stopped. Leslie couldn't separate it from the ringing in her ears. Father Washington was holding her arm, pulling her out of the pool. She looked at him, vision going amber and grainy.
You're going to pass out. Please don't pass out
. She swayed as she stepped onto the stage and leaned heavily against the President. He was glaring at her, pushing her away slightly to reveal her wet imprint on his lapel. One of the saints had stepped forward, and pulled Leslie's robe over her head.

"It's all right, honey,” she whispered. It was Bree. Gratefully, Leslie clutched at the woman's forearm. Bree scooped up Leslie's shoes, and they returned to the line of saints. They stood there as Father Washington, glancing darkly at Leslie, returned to the elevator behind them and rode upward. Then they filed backstage as the band began to play.

Leslie found a bench in the darkness beyond the stage and sat down. Bree was with her still. “Welcome to the congregation,” she said, then patted her cheek. Leslie smiled.

"Look. If you need anything,” Bree said. “I'll be around.” Then she disappeared into the hall to the dressing rooms with the others. Leslie just waited in the darkness while the crew moved around her. Eventually the stage, the dressing rooms, and the cathedral beyond grew quiet. Tom appeared before her then, and took her to get her things in her dressing room. Security had faked out the paparazzi by sending an actress dressed as Leslie off in a limousine from the front of the building. They left through a back door, and then walked without pomp to the subway two blocks away.

It wasn't until they were sitting on the subway home Leslie noticed how quiet Tom was. She looked at him in the pulsing dim light, sitting beside her on a cracked, greasy vinyl bench seat, his paw gripping the vertical bar by the door. He stared straight ahead, his face flushed, and occasionally she saw his head shake almost imperceptibly. Leslie felt the inner arm of her head mem flex as if she'd slept on it and only now was aware of its leaden weight, its sharp needles. The word ‘grim’ appeared in her mind. That was how Tom looked—grim. She glanced around the subway car as if to find the reason for his withdrawal. There were only the usual winos and tired-looking nightshift workers, a few young men on the town, one of them grinning at an argument between his friends.