God Game

by Andrew M. Greeley

  That’s what you get when you meddle in a small way, when you play God by indirection and by listening to people talk out their problems. You play God and you become a scapegoat.

  What would happen if you played God in a big way and people messed up their lives anyway?

  Shanahan and the jury vote on it and the razor’s the boy.

  Or, if you’re safe from that fate because you’re immortal or because you live in another world, they’ll still blame you and rant against you for the rest of their life.

  It’s not easy being God.

  They had made their marriage bed—let them sleep in it. They were on their own. The rest was up to the Other Person.

  Looking back on it with the wondrous wisdom which comes from hindsight, I can see that there were too many loose ends dangling where I thought the story had ended.

  Another perfectly splendid Lake Michigan storm roared across from Chicago, shook the trees, rattled the windows, illumined the sky, drenched everything, and swept on towards South Bend trailing a wake of humidity-smashing coolness. I turned off the air conditioner and opened the windows wide. It would be a night for sleeping with a blanket.

  No lightning struck my satellite disk. The Other Person was not ready to make my decisions for me.

  I went to bed restless and uneasy. Was she pregnant? What had happened to Ranora? Had the clerical conspiracies continued? What, I thought, as I fell asleep, had become of Malvau and N’Rasia, about whom I’d almost forgotten?

  I woke from a deep but anxious sleep to find someone in bed with me. Obviously a dream. Still, one is entitled to one’s comforts even in one’s dreams. So I pushed the other away.

  And discovered in the act of pushing that the other was a woman. Now that showed bad taste on her part. I knew who it was before I turned on the light.

  Her eyes fluttered open, she looked at me, gasped in horror and jumped out of the bed, hands crossed in front of her breasts. Only after she was standing, shaking with terror, did she glance down to see if she was wearing her short purple kilt.

  She was.

  “What are you doing in my bed?” she screamed.

  “Look around, N’Rasia. Is this your chamber?”

  “Oh no. It’s yours. You are in my dreams again. It is because I prayed so hard to you tonight.”

  “You’re in my dream, or we wouldn’t be in my house.”

  “This is your house?” She looked around. “It is very nice … may I have some of your wine?”

  “You’ll get drunk again.”

  “I promise I won’t, and I will clean the glasses too.”

  “All right.” Baileys, always readily available in a dream, was there on my bedstand.

  “Not that. The real wine, the one your other creatures drink.”

  “Jameson’s.”

  She nodded.

  Well at least she hadn’t asked for the twelve-year special reserve. Or for my very limited supply of Bushmill’s Black Label.

  So the Jameson’s bottle materialized where the Baileys had been and two old-fashioned tumblers replaced the cordial glasses. I poured her a modest shot, and a tiny sip for myself, because unlike my characters I don’t drink whiskey, not even with the “e” in it.

  “With the frozen water, please,” she asked meekly, shivering from the winds that were coming through my open window.

  “It is customary in our world to consume this wine straight up.”

  “Straight up?” One arm ineffectually covering her breasts, she reached for the glass with the other.

  “That means without the frozen water.”

  She nodded, sipped the drink, made a terrible face, shut her eyes, and gulped.

  “It is very powerful wine.” She licked her lips. “And it makes me feel very warm.”

  “Not warm enough for you to stand there like that.” I found a Chicago Cubs jacket in my closet and handed it to her. “You’ll get a cramp in your arms standing that way. Put this on and sit down.”

  She admired the color of the jacket, slipped it on, but did not at first fasten the buttons.

  “Do you like me this way?”

  “In purple and blue?”

  “No. I am no longer slightly overweight. I was furious when you described me that way.”

  “You were slightly overweight. I liked you that way too. I created you so of course I like you.”

  “Love me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Love me more now that I am thin?”

  “Love is love. You are an attractive woman.” No way you can win in this game of compliment soliciting, not even if you’re a creator. “Now you are even more attractive. And you can button up the jacket.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m the boss and because you’d never make such a display of yourself in your own world.”

  “I’m in your dream world now. And I don’t have any secrets from you.”

  “A few more minutes and you’ll go into a guilt fit. You’re beautiful when you’re overtly provocative, but it’s not your style, except with your husband and then probably not enough. Anyway, button up.”

  She did, halfway. “I will never be slightly overweight again,” she said fiercely. “I hate myself when I am fat.”

  “You were never fat,” I insisted. Then, having learned some skills at the game over the years, I added, “Now you’re dazzling.”

  “Good.” She sat on the chair behind my desk and filled the glass with Jameson’s, having somehow removed the bottle from my custody.

  “Go easy on that stuff, it’s dangerous.”

  “Of course. I am pleased you are pleased with me.”

  Well, there was one way to end it: give her another injunction. “You’re just about perfect now, as I’m sure Malvau would agree.”

  “He cannot keep his hands off me,” she boasted, half pleased and half angry.

  “Understandably. But you should not lose any more weight. Then you would look gaunt.”

  Did they have anorexics in that land? Was she the type?

  “I will obey,” she said dutifully. “Even if you permitted me to be beaten by those terrible men and then forgot about me.”

  “That was not my fault…”

  “You were there and you let it happen.”

  “I cannot prevent random accidents.”

  “Certainly you can.”

  “Look, ’Rasia,” I walked over to the desk, tilted her head back, and kissed her lips. “I love you. I created you, you seduced me, and I have fallen in love with you, a most improbable event, but it’s what has happened. I would protect you from the slightest harm if I could. I can’t eliminate all the evils in your land. Is that clear?”

  She swallowed a big gulp of Jameson’s. “Yes.” Tears in her eyes. “Thank you for the kiss. I know I’m not worthy of it.”

  Dear God in heaven, will the self-hatred ever stop?

  “If you weren’t I wouldn’t have kissed you … You certainly fought those so-and-so’s fiercely that night.”

  “So my husband says,” she smiled proudly. “I cannot believe it of myself.”

  “You went after him pretty hot and heavy too, the night of the marriage of the Duke and the Duchess.”

  She buried her face on my desk. “I am so ashamed. You have forgiven me for that?”

  “The question is whether poor ’Vau has forgiven you.”

  She straightened up wearily. “I suppose so. He seemed almost to enjoy the fight. I won, of course.”

  “Doubtless.”

  “He even seems proud that I fight. It is impossible.”

  “Maybe there is some anger, deep down, because of the attack in the woods.”

  “No, no.” She waved that away with a slightly tipsy gesture of her empty glass. “The child piped that away too.”

  “She merely awakened you.”

  “When you were losing interest in me and devoting all your time to B’Mella, she came to our pavilion and told me she would pipe away the anger. I did not r
ealize I had any. It was so wonderful when she was finished.”

  ‘Nora with her pipe was turning into a medical resource.

  “So what are your complaints this visit?”

  “I want to go back to what I was.”

  “To what you were when?”

  “When I was a dull middle-aged matron, a shallow character in a minor subplot, perhaps even one her husband would leave for a woman who was younger and more vital.”

  “My men don’t do that sort of thing.”

  “All right. I still want you to change my part in the story.”

  “Make you fat again?”

  She scrunched down in her Cub jacket and laughed guiltily. Part of the laugh was the drink that had taken, but part of it was a new aspect of this ever-changing woman: a slightly bawdy, self-deprecating wit. “Everything but that. Can’t I choose?”

  “You chose once. Anyway, even if I could rewrite the story and even if I would, if I kept the weight off you, your husband would still have a hard time not pawing you.”

  “I want to change back,” she said stubbornly, filling her glass again. “I do not want to be who I am now.”

  “Look, woman, you elbowed your way into my dreams, demanded a bigger part, told me, in effect, you wanted to be someone important. So on one day I made you an enticing lover, a gracious hostess, a subject for beautiful music, and a brave fighter. Now you’re complaining.”

  “I am none of those things,” she said bitterly. “They think I am, but I am not.”

  “Yes, you are. Unless those qualities were already in you in some way that maybe I didn’t even see, they never could have emerged in the story. It took the ilel to see you as you really are.”

  “I don’t want to be that.”

  “Too bad.”

  She sighed. “My husband used to ignore me, now he adores me. I can do nothing wrong. Even when I am rude and shallow and nasty, he still thinks I am perfect. He will not leave me alone.”

  “I thought you were fighting.”

  “Of course, we’re fighting, stupid…” Hand to tipsy mouth in dismay. “I am so sorry…”

  “You’re entitled to your feelings.”

  “Well, we are fighting. We cannot live with each other in peace and we cannot live without each other. The fights are … unimportant. It is the endless adoration. I cannot stand it. I am merely an aging grandmother…”

  “With a wonderful thin waistline and flat belly.”

  “… with no depth, and no wisdom, and no great skills. I do not want the responsibility.”

  “You have it, kid. Like it or not. I loved you before, but I love you more now. I even love your struggle. It delights me to see you fight against your new self. Keep it up. It makes a wonderful plot line.”

  “Bastard,” she shouted.

  She put down her glass, being careful not to spill any of the precious liquid—admirable frugality—and rushed across the room at me, pounding my chest with solid fists. Poor ’Vau, if this sort of thing happened every night. The attack ceased almost as soon as it began and she was sobbing in my arms.

  Poor dear woman. But she got herself out on this limb, she belonged there and no way was she going to be given a chance to go back. I understood ’Vau’s attitude. Even her fury was a delight.

  “You cannot possibly love me.” She disentangled herself and went back to her drink.

  “If I didn’t love you, I’d zap you for that assault.”

  “You’re as bad as my husband. He even admires my temper tantrums.”

  “Understandably.”

  “My children, my grandchildren, everyone—they expect me to be the woman in that God-condemned melody. I cannot do it, I cannot be her. I will not.”

  “You can and you will.” I found that I was shaken by the experience of holding her in my arms. Small wonder. “The complaint, my beloved, is really that it’s hard and uncertain. You must try every day and you do not know from one day to the next what will happen with you or anyone else, especially Malvau, whom you must be driving out of his mind.”

  “It is so hard in our land now. Everything is going wrong. He is under such strain. I am no help. He needs what he thinks I am, not what I really am.”

  “You’re wasting your time. What I have written I have written.”

  She poured herself another drink. “Did you stay for our orgy?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You should have. I was very good. Very.” She preened herself, but shakily.

  “I can believe it.”

  “Sex,” she began to lecture like an inebriated associate professor describing his doctoral dissertation to junior faculty at a cocktail party, “is comic. Anyone who doesn’t understand that,” a gesture dismissing them into Lake Michigan, “is a fool. There must be delicacy in it, but dignity is impossible. You understand? Impossible. My man is so dignified and important—his family background you know—it was difficult for him to give himself over to the comic indignity of sex. Well,” mildly lascivious smile, “I taught him to laugh when he is with me and now he is a much better lover, and a better politician too.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a moment.”

  “Yes, I am quite good now.”

  “Indeed. You want me to write that out of the story?”

  “What!”

  “You can’t pick and choose. If you want to go back to the person you were before you forced your way out of a minor subplot, then you will have to put on weight again, a suggestion to which you did not take kindly a few moments ago, and give up your newfound sexual prowess.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” She searched for fury but couldn’t quite remember where she had put it before her last drink.

  “I was only pointing out the logic of your request.”

  “You love me too much to do that to me.” She hiccuped with delicacy and dignity and returned to her theme. “I am much better than that fool.”

  “What fool?”

  “You know.” She waved a hand vaguely. “The frigid one on your side. I tell her what to do. She will not listen.”

  “You talk to Joan?”

  “Joan? Yes, what a strange name. J’Oan? She is a fool.”

  “How do you talk to her?”

  The Jameson’s was having its full effect. “Hmmn … Oh, in dreams, how else? I have very good dreams with her. She will not listen to me, however.”

  “Your dreams or her dreams?”

  “You should know, I don’t.” She swayed again. “I do not feel very well.”

  “Small wonder. You tell her to have an orgy with her husband?”

  “Oh no.” She tried an expression of exaggerated surprise. “Not yet. Well…” Impish grin, worthy of an ilel, “I give little hints.”

  “So you should have one with your husband again.”

  “No!” Instantly she was completely sober. “I will not give myself over to his lust like that ever again.”

  “His lust?”

  “Of course.”

  “You were just telling me how good you were.”

  “I was … now I am very sick. Will I die?”

  “Hardly. Just too much of the creature taken. Before you pass out, let me warn you that I’ll not back down one bit. You’re terribly appealing when you plead with me. I like you that way. I love you when you struggle, so you’re going to have to keep on with your struggle. And I won’t guarantee the outcome because that would take the struggle away. Understand?”

  She slumped over against my desk. “I knew you’d say that … where can I be very, very sick?”

  I managed to get her to the bathroom, where she was very sick indeed and at great length. Then I forced her into the shower, wrapped her in a terry robe, and mostly carried her to a bed in one of the guest rooms.

  “Silly stupid little cow,” she murmured.

  “You’ll be all right.”

  “I will do another orgy,” the words were now so slurred that I could barely make them out. “If you want.”

 
; “Not what I want; what you and he want.”

  “He wants. All the time.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Afraid, always afraid of everything.” I pulled a light blanket over her. Even in the dream world, you can be cold. “Still love me?”

  “Still love you.”

  She looked likely to make a comparison with someone else and then, drunk or not, thought better of it. “Kiss me again?”

  So I kissed her again, tucked her in, and turned off the light.

  Wow, as Nathan would say.

  John Fowles complains about how impossible it is to avoid fornication with your woman characters. Maybe it’s my different background and life history, but I love them too much to take advantage of them. They are powerlessly dependent on you for their being, their life, their freedom. Such vulnerability generates love, indeed, enormous love, but also such respect that you feel (well, I feel) like their father or mother. Or maybe both.

  Anyway, I cleaned up the bathroom, brought the empty Jameson’s bottle downstairs, cleaned my old-fashioned tumblers and put them away, and climbed back up to bed. It had been an exhausting dream, if that’s what it was.

  No rest for the wicked that night, however. Kaila, ashen-faced in his usual black gown with silver trim, was waiting for me. He was reading Wendy’s other book Women, Androgynes, and Other Mythical Beasts, but with the inattention of a man who reads to keep other concerns off his mind.

  “Well, this is my lucky night.” My sigh sounded exactly like that of Blackie Ryan. “Two of you in one dream.”

  “There is someone else? Who?” He jumped up.

  “Sorry, only N’Rasia.”

  “Only is not the right word. Where is she? May I see her?”

  Why not?

  “If it is a dream,” he seemed puzzled, “why is she asleep?”

  “Aren’t we all, presumably?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “A bit too much of the creature taken.”

  “Huh?”

  “Too much of our strong wine.”

  “Ah.” He stroked her face lightly. “A truly superb woman. One of your finer creatures. You must be very proud of her.”

  “I am.”

  “No one would have suspected what was within her.” His hand rested on her cheek. “Not until you told the ilel to search into her soul.”