Towing Jehovah (27 page)

"We'll give it to you straight," said Pembroke, merrily devouring his candy bar. "Assuming you're willing to bankroll us, Alby and I intend to turn the Sundog into a classic-type USO Club. You know, a home away from home, a place for the boys to get a free sandwich, dance with a pretty hostess, and hear Kate Smith sing 'God Bless America'.''

"If it's entertainment your people want," said Oliver, "Barclay does a damn good magic act. Last year he was on the
Tonight
show, debunking faith healers."

"Debunking faith?" Flume opened the refrigerator, removed a Rheingold, and popped the cap. "What is he, an atheist?"

"No, nothing like that."

"We don't mean to disparage your friend's abilities," said Pembroke, "but we're envisioning something more along the lines of Jimmy Durante, Al Jolson, the Andrews Sisters, Bing Crosby . . ."

"Aren't those people dead?"

"Yeah, but it's not that hard to come up with impersonators."

"We'll also be importing a string of attractive young women to work the room," said Flume. "You know, nice girl-next-door types handing out cigarettes, offering to dance, and maybe allowing a stolen kiss or two."

"No bimbos, of course," said Pembroke. "Wholesome, aspiring actresses who know there's more to life than topless bars and wet T-shirt contests."

"Right now it's three A.M. in Manhattan," said Flume, "but if we get on the phone 'round suppertime we'll be able to reach the relevant talent agencies."

"You actually think the average New York actor will drop whatever he's doing and catch the first plane to Oslo?" said Oliver.

"I do."

"Why?"

"Because for the average New York actor," said Flume, swallowing Rheingold, "getting paid a scale wage to impersonate Bing Crosby on an obscure island in the Arctic Ocean is the closest he's come to a job in years."

August 27.

In my entry of July 14, I told you what I heard, saw, and felt when I first laid eyes on our cargo. For sheer exhilaration, Popeye, it was nothing compared to my second epiphany. At 0900 I was standing outside the wheelhouse, binoculars raised, watching the mutineers lying about in the streets of their shantytown. Until that moment, I hadn't realized what a difference our feeble rations make. We, at least, can move.

A gamey fragrance wafted across the bridge wing. Then: a low, deep drumming. I pivoted toward the beach.

And there it was, the glorious promontory of His nose, rising in the distance like Mount Sinai itself. My migraine vanished. My blood jumped. The drumming continued, the steady
boom-boom-boom
of surf crashing inside His armpits.

Whether this amazing break ultimately traces to rogue winds, maverick currents, chaos theory, or some posthumous form of divine intervention, I can't really say.

I only know He's back.

After considerable soul-searching and much mental agony, Thomas decided to start with the bosom. Given its vastness, he reasoned, mutilating this feature would constitute a lesser violation than an equivalent assault on the brow or cheeks. Even so, he was not at peace. Situational ethics had always given him pause. Were the
Valparaíso
not cut off from the outside world, Thomas would certainly have faxed Rome, soliciting the cardinals' official views on deophagy.

The eight loyalists and their captain made the crossing in the
Juan Fernandez
and, maneuvering past the starboard ribs, landed on the inflatable wharf. Shouldering their various backpacks and seabags, they fought their way up the Jacob's ladder, and, led by Van Horne, began the dizzying hike east across the collarbone and south along the sternum. Pots and pans swung from the loyalists' belts like gigantic jail keys, clanging in counterpoint to the thunder booming from His armpits.

At last they reached the edge of the areola, a red, rubbery pasture dominated by the tall, pillarlike form of the nipple. Thomas stopped, turned, removed his Panama hat. He bade his congregation sit down. Everyone obeyed, even Van Horne, though the captain kept his distance, secluding himself in the shadow of a mole.

Opening his knapsack, Thomas drew out the sacred hardware: candlesticks, chalice, ciborium, silver salver, antependium (the pride of his collection, pure silk, printed with the Stations of the Cross). The congregation awaited the sacrament eagerly but respectfully—all except Van Horne and Cassie Fowler, who both looked highly annoyed. Eight communicants, Thomas thought with a wry smile, the most he'd ever had at a
Valparaíso
Mass, either before or after His death became known aboard the tanker.

Sister Miriam reached into her seabag and removed the altar: a situational-ethics altar, he had to admit, for in truth it was a Coleman stove fueled by propane gas. While Miriam unfolded the aluminum legs and dug them into the soft epidermis, Thomas spread out the antependium like a picnic blanket, fastening the corners with candlesticks.

"Can't he move any faster?" grumbled Fowler.

"He's doing his best," snapped Miriam.

As Sam Follingsbee handed the nun a battery-powered carving knife, Crock O'Connor gave her one of the waterproof chain saws he'd used to open God's eardrums, and she in turn passed these tools to Thomas. In the interest of speed, he elected to dispense with the normal preliminaries—the Incensing of the Faithful, the Washing of the Hands, the Orate Fratres, the Reading of the Diptychs—and move straight to the matter of deconsecration. But here he was stuck. There was no antidote for transubstantiation in the missal, no recognized procedure for turning the divine body back into daily bread. Perhaps it would be sufficient simply to reverse the famous words of the Last Supper,

"Accipite et manducate ex hoc omnes, hoc est enim corpus Meum."
Take and eat ye all of this, for this
is My body.
Very well, he thought. Sure. Why not?

Thomas hunkered down. He yanked the starter cord. Instantly the chain saw kicked in, buzzing like a horror-movie hornet. Clouds of black smoke poured from the engine housing. Groaning softly, the priest lowered the saw, firmed his grip, and stabbed his Creator.

He jerked the saw away.

"What's the matter?" gasped Miriam.

It simply wasn't right. How could it be right? "Better to starve," he muttered.

"Tom, you
must."

"No."

"Tom."

Again he lowered the saw. The spinning teeth bit into the flesh, releasing a stream of rosy plasma. He raised the saw.

"Hurry," rasped Lou Chickering.

"Please," moaned Marbles Rafferty.

He eased the smoking machine back into the wound. Languidly, reluctantly, he dragged the blade along a horizontal path. Then a second cut, at right angles to the first. A third. A fourth. Peeling away the patch of epidermis, he inserted the saw clear to the engine housing and began his quest for true meat.

"Pleni sunt caeli et terra gloria Tua," Miriam recited as she primed the altar.
Heaven and earth are full
of Thy glory.
Opening a box of Diamond kitchen matches, she ignited a stick, cupped the vulnerable flame, and lit the right-hand burner. "Hosanna in excelsis." Instinctively they were opting for the grand manner, Thomas realized: an old-style Eucharist, complete with the Latin. The fog hissed as it hit the little fire. Miriam seized Pollingsbee's eighteen-inch iron skillet and set it atop the burner.

"Meum corpus enim est hoc," muttered Thomas, cutting and slashing as he desacralized the tissues,

"omnes hoc ex manducate et accipite." As heavy magenta blood came bubbling to the surface, Miriam took the chalice, knelt down, and scooped up several pints. "Omnes eo ex bibite et accipite," said the priest, filtering the holiness from the blood. He kept working the saw, at last freeing up a three-pound swatch of flesh.

It had to be this way. No other choice existed. If he didn't do it, Van Horne would. Shutting off the vibrating blade, he carried the fillet to the altar and dropped it into the skillet. The meat sizzled, pink juices rushing from its depths. A wondrous scent arose, the sweet aroma of seared divinity, making Thomas's mouth water.

"It's done," seethed Cassie Fowler. "It's fucking
done."

"Patience," snarled Miriam.

"Christ on a raft . . ."

Sixty seconds passed. Thomas grabbed the spatula and flipped the fillet. A matter of balances: he must heat the thing long enough to kill the pathogens, but not so long as to destroy the precious proteins for which their bodies screamed.

"What's next?" snorted Van Horne.

"The Fraction of the Host," said Miriam.

"Screw it," he said.

"Screw you," she said.

Sliding the spatula under the meat, Thomas transferred it to the silver salver. He took a breath and, switching on the carving knife, divided the great steak into nine equal portions, each the size of a brownie.

"Haec commixtio," he said, slicing a tiny bit off his own share, "corporis et sanguinis Dei"—with the particle he made the Sign of the Cross over the chalice and dropped it in—"fiat accipientibus nobis."
May this mingling of the body and blood of God be effectual to us who receive it.
"Amen."

"Stop stretching it out," gasped Fowler.

"This is sadistic," whined Van Horne.

"If you don't like it," said Miriam, "find another church." Squeezing his portion between thumb and forefinger, feeling the sticky warmth roll across his palm, Thomas raised it to his lips. He opened his mouth. "Perceptio corporis Tui, Domine, quod ego indignus sumere praesumo, non mihi proveniat in con-demnationem."
Let not the partaking of Thy body, O

Lord, which I, though unworthy, presume to receive, turn to my condemnation.
He sank his teeth into the meat. He chewed slowly and gulped. The flavor astonished him. He'd been expecting something manifestly classy and valuable—London broil, perhaps, or milk-fed veal—but instead it evoked Follingsbee's version of a Big Mac.

And the priest thought: of course. God had been for everyone, hadn't He? He'd belonged to the fast-food multitudes, to all those overweight mothers Thomas was forever seeing in the Bronxdale Avenue McDonald's, ordering Happy Meals for their chubby broods.

"Corpus Tuum, Domine, quod sumpsit, adhaereat visceribus meis," he said.
May Thy body, O Lord,
which I have received, cleave to my inmost parts.
He felt a sudden, electric surge, though whether this traced to the meat itself or to the Idea of the Meat he couldn't say. "Amen." Myriad sensations gamboled among Thomas's taste buds as, silver salver in hand, he approached Follingsbee. Beyond the burgerness lay something not unlike Kentucky Fried Chicken, and beyond that lay intimations of a Wendy's Triple.

"Father, I feel real bad about this," said the plump chef.

"I'm sure you could've cooked it better. Don't tell the stewards' union." Follingsbee winced. "I used to be an altar boy, remember?"

"It's perfectly okay, Sam."

"You promise? It seems sinful."

"I promise."

"It's okay? You sure?"

"Open your mouth."

The chef's lips parted.

"Corpus Dei custodial corpus tuum," said Thomas, inserting Follingsbee's portion.
May God's body
preserve thy own.
"Eat slowly," he admonished, "or you'll get sick." As Follingsbee chewed, Thomas moved down the line— Rafferty, O'Connor, Chickering, Bliss, Fowler, Van Horne, Sister Miriam—laying a share on each extended tongue. "Corpus Dei custodial corpus tuum," he told them. "Not too fast," he warned. The communicants worked their jaws and swallowed.

"Domine, non sum dignus," said Miriam, licking her lips.
Lord, I am not worthy.

"Domine, non sum dignus," said Follingsbee, eyes closed, savoring his salvation.

"Domine . . . non . . . sum . . . dignus," groaned the radio officer, shuddering with self-disgust. For a committed vegetarian like Lianne Bliss, this was obviously a terrible ordeal.

"Domine, non sum dignus," said Rafferty, O'Connor, and Chickering in unison. Only Van Horne and Fowler remained silent.

"Dominus vobiscum," Thomas told the congregation, stepping onto the areola. Under the captain's direction the loyalists drew out their machetes, stilettos, and Swiss Army knives and set to work, systematically enlarging the original indentation as they carved out additional fillets for their mates back in the shantytown, and within an hour they had flensed the corpse sufficiently to fill every pot and pan.

"He smells ripe," said Van Horne, pinching his nostrils as he joined Thomas on the areola.

"If not rotten," said the priest, watching Miriam cram a bloody fillet into the ciborium.

"You know, I probably believe in Him more strongly right now than I ever did when He was alive." The captain dropped his hand, letting his nostrils spring open. "It's an absolute miracle, don't you think?"

"I don't know what it is." Fanning himself with his Panama hat, Thomas turned toward the communicants.

"Either that, or His body got caught on the crest of the Canary Current, entered the North Atlantic Drift .

. ."

"Ite," Thomas announced in a strong, clear voice.

". . . and then came 'round full circle."

"Missa est."

"So what do you think, Father? A miracle, or the North Atlantic Drift?"

"I think it's all the same thing," said the dazed, exhausted, satiated priest.
Feast

WILD APPLAUSE AND delirious cheers greeted Bob Hope as, dressed in baggy green combat fatigues and a white golfing cap, he stepped onto the stage of the Midnight Sun Canteen. The spotlight caught his famous and complex nose, limning its beloved contours.

"I'm sure havin' a swell time here on Jan Mayen Island," the comedian began, waving to his audience: a hundred and thirty-two Navy pilots and gunners—most of them wearing chocolate brown bomber jackets with black fur collars—plus two hundred and ten sailors in white bucket hats and blue neckerchiefs. "You all know what Jan Mayen is." He tapped the floor mike, producing an amplified
thock.
"Shangri-La with icicles!"

Appreciative howls. Delighted guffaws.