“But then where does evil originate from? How do you explain all the evil and suffering in the world? Who created it?”
“Well, I guess they’d say Satan did,” the bodybuilder conjectured.
Swan cackled, and poured himself a glass of chardonnay from a flask. He drank it greedily and smiled.
“Now we’re getting somewhere. What would you say if I were to tell you that God, according to official Christian and monotheist doctrine, creates evil? Would that make God partially evil himself?”
“I don’t know what those racist Christians believe, Terry.” Smith shrugged his massive shoulders.
“Well, in the hateful Hebrew book of Isaiah, God declares that He is the author of both good and evil. Moreover, if the Devil creates evil, as you allege, God has the power to stop Satan’s machinations at any time because God is more powerful. But God permits the Devil to go about his deviltry. In so doing, God is the true author of the Devil’s actions. If we adhere rigidly to true monotheistic doctrine, everything issues from the one God, including evil.”
“Well, that’s pretty crazy stuff.” Smith feigned interest by protruding his bottom lip and nodding his head.
“Yes, it is,” agreed the president. “Evil is the, and I hate to use this decidedly Caucasian expression, evil is the Achilles heal of all monotheisms. Herbert uses the word ‘theodicy’ to open these discussions. No normal, hopeful human being wants to believe that God creates evil, or that God is part evil. And alternative, flimsy explanations that try to explain evil in the world, like the transgressions of Adam and Eve and the sins of humanity, well, they just don’t hold up too well—God is still the progenitor of evil.” Swan caressed the white king with his gray fingers.
“Okay, so what are you getting at, Terry? I need to hit the gym soon.”
“What I’m getting at, you Herculean dolt, is that while official Christian doctrine holds that God creates evil in the world, nobody wants to believe it. Do you think the average Christian woman or man wants to envision God as anything less than pure goodness? Of course not. So they cram all the world’s evil into the mouth of the Devil. Satan caused the car wreck. Satan caused the hurricane. Satan caused the illness. Satan compelled the psychopath to kill. And Satan caused all these things not acting as a pawn of God, but under his own powerful agency. Satan’s power grows, he becomes god-like himself in some respects, and a dualism emerges.”
“So, in spite of theology and scripture, no one really believes that God creates evil?” Smith rested his chin on a fist, suddenly obedient.
“That’s right; they don’t want to think that. So they attribute evil to something else, another source, and their monotheism splits like a contagion into a dualism. Often that source of evil is the Devil, as evidenced by your impulse a few seconds ago. But many times, it’s the black homeless man in the street, or a young homosexual man, or an Arab merchant. That’s what’s so dangerous about all this. For some reason, humanity loves the opposition of pure goodness and pure evil. They love the simplicity. But that simplicity is dangerous. Do you know why it’s dangerous?”
“Nope.”
“It’s dangerous, Scottie, because everyone always thinks they’re on the side of goodness. And since monotheism necessarily holds that there is only one truth, only one goodness, then that means that everyone else who thinks differently is on the side of wrong, the side of evil. So you see, monotheisms, for all their grand mono-this and mono-that, are dualistic to everyone but the most precise theologians. Both religious systems are intolerable. Either you accept precise monotheism, with its unsavory dollop of evil slopped on ‘the one,’ or you accept dualism and become a foot soldier in a deadly, reductionist, infantile war of good versus evil.
“Polytheisms, on the other hand, tend to be gray. They eschew black-and-white notions of good and evil. Again, I hate to cite a Hellenic example, but look at the gods of ancient Greece. Was there a god of pure evil? Was there a god of pure goodness? Of course not—even holy Zeus was just a power-drunk, wife-abusing oppressor. On the other hand, monotheisms and dualisms are black and white, just like this blasphemous chess board.” Swan scowled at the pieces. “If I were childish, I’d swipe the rest of the pieces across the room.”
Smith hugged the pieces to himself protectively.
“Please don’t. You might chip them, and these are very expensive. This set’s a replica of an ancient set found on the Isle of Man.” The vice president’s eyes widened, knowing he had blundered.
“The Isle of Man?” Swan jibed, adjusting the pin that transfixed his left nostril. “You know, when I hear the words ‘isle’ or ‘island’ I think of sunny, sandy, diverse places inhabited by beautiful peoples of Color. How unfortunate that some isles are inhabited by white people. Thanks for bringing that up. Now you’ve ruined my nice conception of islands. But I must say that I’ve always found the Isle of Man’s flag to be thoroughly lovely . . . I think it’s because of its entrancing spin design.”
With a clumsy hand, the president snatched the white king from Smith. The vice president cried out as Swan threw the piece to the floor and stomped his foot repeatedly on the little ivory man with drawn sword.
“Go to the gym, then. Good luck in your efforts to look like a Greek god or something. And good luck keeping your nice little white chess pieces immaculate.”
Swan stormed from the room, laughing. Smith sighed, and bent down to pick up the white king. It was gashed, but unbroken. Scuff marks arched peculiarly over each eye, giving it the look of rage.
***
Rick Wilkerson stared at himself in the mirror out of one eye. He pushed a comb through his thinning brown hair, and began to button his white dress shirt. A moment later he threw on a worn suit coat, and swiped at the faded portions with his hands. He glanced around at the tiny bedroom, fist clenched.
His wife, Cathy, walked in and shook her head. She was wearing a dress that she had worn to many formal gatherings past. She possessed a natural beauty that couldn’t be diminished by the clothing she wore, but the dress, like the suit, was old.
“Baby, I’m sorry, but you don’t look good.” Cathy caressed her husband’s cheek and examined his black eye. “You’ve always been so excited before going to company parties. Why don’t we just skip this one.”
“I’m not depressed about my black eye. I’m depressed about all the subservient shit I’m gonna have to put up with at the party. And it’s worse because it’s in front of you and Blake.” He sighed heavily.
Cathy stared at his open eye, and scrutinized its brown depths. She clutched his hand and moved close.
“You’ve never really liked them. I know. But you used to get yourself into a fake mood of happiness to please your bosses. You’ve always told me how important it was to be happy and upbeat around them. Lately you’ve just been so bitter.”
“It’s never going to happen, Cathy.” Rick’s jaw twitched with emotion. “I’m never going to get my damn engineering position back.”
Cathy hugged her husband, and waited for the onrush of tears that always accompanied talk of reattaining his lost position. As she hugged him she was startled by the strength in his rigid body.
With a heavy exhale he resumed his stare into the mirror, and relaxed. His good eye was dry.
“It’s not worth my fucking tears,” he commented in a dull voice. “And it’s unbecoming for a man to cry except in extreme circumstances like the death of a loved one.”
Cathy pulled away and examined him skeptically.
“Honey, what’s wrong with you lately? I mean, you used to cry a lot. And you always cried when you talked about your job situation. Now you’re saying that your crying’s only okay when someone dies. And the way you said it seems like you’ve heard it from somewhere. And the other day you come home with this black eye. And I hear that you’ve been boxing? Are you going crazy? What’s going on with you? Do you need help?” There was no sarcasm in her voice, only concern.
“I did need help,” Rick
uttered calmly, “and I found it.”
“If you’re referring to that crazy organization you’re meeting with all the time, I don’t know what they’re going to help you with. So far they’ve only beaten you up. And if anyone finds out you’re going there you won’t have any job at all, and you’ll be wishing you still had your secretary position.”
“No one beat me up, Cathy. It was my own fault, like I told you yesterday. But baby, I’m good. I’m not the best, but I’m actually pretty tough. I’ve got good hands and my chokes are excellent. I’m better than most of the other guys, and George uses me to spar with. I was stupid though because I insisted on using three ounce gloves instead of the usual twelve ounce sparring gloves and he caught me with a good clean right down the pipe . . .”
Cathy turned away and folded her arms.
Rick put a hand on her shoulder. “Okay, don’t worry, I understand now. I’m not gonna spar anymore with the fight gloves. And I won’t spar anymore period until this heals.” He pointed at his black and lavender eye. “I’ll work on my Greco-Roman wrestling instead for a while.”
His wife spun around, her face an illustration of bewilderment.
“Wrestling? Boxing? Why are you doing these things? What kind of example are you setting for our son? Do you want him to get into that too? The other white boys his age are still playing with dolls and developing their cooking skills. I saw you the other day showing him how to make a fist and throw a punch. I’m afraid you’re going to become some kind of barbarian thug and he’s going to become a juvenile delinquent.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, everything’s going to be okay,” he reassured.
“Well what are we going to do, Rick? There’s no way we’re sending him back to Oak Creek. And we can’t afford a private school, not that it’d be any better. And we’re both at work all day so home schooling’s out too. What the hell are we going to do?”
“Stewart’s wife, Margaret, teaches kids. She’s a really bright lady. We can send Blake there, so he can get a good education. I’d like to take you two up there with me soon to introduce you to Max and Margaret.” Rick smiled hopefully.
“Oh, God no. No, no, no. Blake is not going off to some KKK camp. Get that thought out of your mind right now, Rick!” Cathy fulminated.
“But baby, it’s like I’ve told you, it’s not a KKK camp. They don’t believe in hurting people or killing. They’re totally against those things. And they don’t hate other races. They just want to stand up for white civil rights and culture. The FCP, and the other groups like it that are starting to sprout up . . . they’re the only groups in America that are looking out for our interests.”
“Honey,” she pleaded, “you’re going to get yourself sent to an asylum or a prison. What would Stewart and his gang do if government cars pulled up outside our apartment complex? What would they do if you were thrown into one of Swan’s asylums for a year? What would Blake and I do? Do you think this old Stewart character and his gang would spring you or something? It would be your ass in prison and I would be missing a husband and Blake would be missing a father.”
“Actually, they just might try to spring me,” mused Rick. “But don’t worry, sweetie, none of that’s going to happen. We’re too smart for Swan, and we’ve got great cover. You see, Stewart’s rich, brilliant, and determined as hell. He’s camouflaging the FCP as a pagan religious group. Swan and his cronies love that stuff.”
“Yeah, but baby, you yourself told me there are hundreds of men showing up at these things, and you say that each time there are more and more people. That’s bound to attract attention, and all it takes is one traitor.”
“I know,” sighed Rick, “but it’s something I feel that I have to do. Not for my sake, but for your sake, for Blake’s sake, and for the sake of the future. I’ve never been so excited about any idea or movement in my life, baby, and I’ve got to do my best to see that it succeeds.” Rick pulled his wife near, and kissed her deeply.
Chapter 6
A live pianist did his utmost to track the intricacies of Chopin, his gray face exaggerated with effort. His movements were stiff and uncoordinated, and errors occurred with such frequency that the net effect was a discordance unpleasant to hear. His eyes were as black as the ebon keys mashed beneath his fingers. With every missed note his purplish lips writhed in frustration.
The guests mingled in a posh living room with vaulted ceiling and a dining room with embrasured windows and an exquisite, oversized crystal chandelier. The windows were left open, and a summer night’s breeze visited the estate.
A large man rested his bulk against the side of the piano. His face, like the pianist’s, was like gray shale. A throng gathered around him, and trailed after as he lumbered toward the bar for another martini. His following was dressed as regally as he. A few gray faces were among their number, but they were primarily black, Hispanic, and Asian. On the room’s periphery, a few white families waited for their opportunity to greet the bosses. They humbly sipped wine, and smiled—some weakly, some enthusiastically.
“Mr. Bradley,” spoke a tall, rich-voiced black woman, “it was so nice of you to invite children to the party. Little Kevin is having a wonderful time, aren’t you, Kevin?” Her son, about Blake’s age, looked up hesitantly from his point of protection by his mother’s leg. He nodded quickly, then resumed working on his plate of boiled shrimp and cocktail sauce.
“Oh, it’s my pleasure, Trisha.” The gray man laughed hardily, his speech garbled by jumbo olives. “You’re the lady of honor, tonight, after all. Why shouldn’t your whole family be here to celebrate your promotion with you? And what a fine, handsome little boy you have here.” Bradley bent down, as far as his corpulence would permit, to better examine the boy. At the gray man’s invasion of his space, Kevin withdrew a few steps toward his father, Laurence, who greeted him in an open arm.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Bradley. Kevin’s just a shy boy. We’ve been working on his manners, but sometimes he forgets them,” Trisha apologized, shooting a sharp glance at her son.
“Oh, it’s quite alright. I was scared of adults when I was his age, too,” offered Bradley jovially. He smiled, revealing gums that were slimy and gray. “And Mr. Haynes,” Bradley turned to Trisha’s husband, “do you realize what a brilliant woman your wife is? I mean, she’s sweet with the clients, tough with the subcontractors, understanding with the employees. She’s amazing.”
“Yes, she truly is amazing.” Laurence grinned at Trisha. “But I’ll have you know that she isn’t the only one racking up the accolades of late.”
“Oh, really? Do tell all!” As Bradley put back the martini glass to catch a last olive, his eyes roved secretly to drink in his employee’s husband.
“Well, just a promotion, a few awards from the firm and sundry legal magazines. And, well, do you promise not to tell? Because I’m not one hundred percent sure yet and I want some more time to think it over.”
“Scout’s honor!” exclaimed Bradley, grinning hideously.
“I’m contemplating running for state judge in 2085.”
Bradley exploded, “Laurence, that’s wonderful!” He swiped two glasses of merlot from a passing tray, and thrust one into the hands of the attorney. “You’ll most certainly win the bench, especially with all the vacancies these days. So here’s a victory drink, albeit prematurely.”
Laurence took a sip. Bradley imbibed the entire glass in a few gulps, staggered, but caught himself on a dessert table.
“Trisha,” drawled Bradley, “you and your husband are a regular power couple. I think you’ll find after your Americanization that even more opportunities will present themselves.”
“We hope so, Mr. Bradley. My treatment is scheduled for this Saturday. I made the appointment as soon as I discovered my promotion.”
“Yes, yes, the loftier positions tend to be reserved for citizens,” observed the CEO as he snatched another glass of wine. “Does anyone know where my pianist went? I like to hear live music when I
drink.”
“It’s a jurisprudential and legislative revolution,” spoke Laurence excitedly. “There hasn’t been anything like it in terms of scope and effect since the New Deal. But even FDR didn’t wield a scintilla of the power Swan wields. And unlike FDR, the courts have been under his thumb from the get go. There isn’t any of that ‘switch in time that saved nine’ bull shit. There doesn’t have to be. Swan’s got every one of those nine Justices eating out of his hand. And both Houses to boot.”
“He has charisma, wonderful oratory skills . . . you name it, Swan’s got it,” Trisha agreed.
“But I still don’t understand how he does it.” Laurence laughed. “How does he garner so much support, so much uniformity? I mean, the man became a hero for finally putting his foot down and pulling us out of endless war. That started his presidency with a bang, and popularized him. But the amount of change he’s achieving . . . it’s unprecedented. And I still don’t completely understand his selective deference to the Constitution. He turns to the amendment process to sanctify his ideas of citizenship, but then flagrantly violates the Establishment Clause with state and federal endorsement of Divine Color.”
Bradley bolted some wine and smirked knowingly.
“You’ll find that once you become Americans everything will become clear. So your wife has declared her intent to become a citizen, Laurence. What’s your timetable like?”
“He’s a scaredie cat, Mr. Bradley,” Trisha spoke up, laying both her hands on her husband. “He’s putting it off as long as possible. I think you should give him some words of encouragement, like you gave me.” She winked at the CEO.
“Well, Laurence,” Bradley’s corpse breath vied with alcohol, “you know what they say. . .black is beautiful. . .”
“But gray is glorious!” completed the attorney with enthusiasm.
The Gods of Color Page 6