by Bower Lewis
“What the hell is wrong with You?” she demanded of the grease stains. “I’m a waitress, for crying out loud. And not some radioactive, ninja waitress, I’m just the regular kind. Last time I checked, we didn’t store grenade launchers in the cellar, Biz. We need that space for the pickles.”
RADIOACTVE NINJA WAITRSS! LOL!
I SHUD MAKE 1 OF THOSE! :)
She cast the phone to the table with a look usually reserved for mean drunks and bad tippers. “Joke all You want, but You’ve picked the wrong girl to try to get Your Old Testament on with. As far as I’m concerned, the fact that You’d even request a thing like this is proof that I’ve been right about You all along.” She ducked beneath the table to free herself of Zane and the Agent of Destruction on the tabletop before him, pulling herself back up on the other side. “There are plenty of people in the world who’d be happy to kill for the Lord, Zane. I’d expect Him to know who they are. Whatever it is in that phone, that’s not my God.”
PATIENCE!
She grabbed it again and Zane took her hand before she could hurl it to the floor.
“That’s not my God, either, Patience. I think you may have been right about this being a prank. I had no idea I was so easy to get one over on.” He looked down. “It’s useful information, I suppose, if humbling.”
The phone cut her off from responding.
WHO SED ANYTHNG ABOUT KILLNG?
THOU SHALT NOT KILL!
Zane straightened as Patience gaped down at the screen.
“What the hell? But He said…”
THOU SHALT ALSO NOT PUT WORDS INTO MY MOUTH!
NOT A DROP OF BLOOD SHALL B SPILT BY UR HANDS
I NEED UR HELP, BUT NO BLOOD!
Patience thrust the phone back at Zane and grabbed her bag from the bench. “You know what, Zane? I think I just might be sane, after all, and it’s God who’s the fucking schizophrenic.”
He stared mutely down at the screen, but some of the color seemed to be returning to his face. Patience looked away.
“Leave it alone, would you, please? It’s not healthy.”
“Just stay a little longer, Patience, please. I want to see what else He has to say.”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like in a lab like SolarTech’s? People work around the clock. When I blow up a building, I try to respect the fact that I’m blowing up everything and everyone inside it as well. Not a drop of blood shall be spilled? Christ, Zane, does He know what a grenade launcher does?”
There was a faintly strained quality to the phone’s next chirp.
IT LAUNCHES GRENADES, IIRC
NUTHNG IS IMPOSSBLE UNLSS U DO NOT TRY
She backed away from the table. “That’s an excellent point, Biz. And what I’m trying to do right now is walk out that door.”
“Patience,” Zane said. “Please?”
She turned back and leaned low over the table to look into his eyes.
“Has it occurred to you that this could be something else altogether? We’re talking about politics and big business, here. Those are two things I know nothing about, but those who do know about them seem to find your family very compelling. This could be the work of people we really don’t want to screw with. We need to get rid of that thing and just leave this whole mess alone.”
He shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Patience, but I can’t. I don’t expect this to make sense to you, but I don’t remember a time when I’ve ever gotten worked up about somebody trying to mess with me. When I’ve had a problem in the past, I’ve tried to take care of it myself. When that inevitably didn’t work out as I’d hoped it would, I went and had a conversation with Ed from my father’s security force about it. Then, I ate a sandwich. That’s the way problems are handled in my family, and it’d been one-hundred-percent effective until I met you. I don’t think I can walk away from this. I can’t explain it, but there hasn’t been a moment since we met when it’s occurred to me that I should go and talk to Ed. I just don’t believe this is something he can help me with.”
She crossed her arms and looked away.
“What’s this Ed’s number? He sounds like a handy guy to have around.” He didn’t respond and she nodded. “Frankly, Zane, I don’t care if this is big business at work, or the Big Guy, or some twenty-eight-year-old sitting in his mother’s basement. I’m sorry, but I’m out. I hit my limit a grenade launcher ago.”
She paused at the exit long enough to glance back at him before she pushed the door open. “You seem like a really good guy, Zane, and you’ve got that trusting thing going for you. I’m sure you’d make one hell of a martyr. For what it’s worth, though, I hope you don’t.”
• • •
“One, please.”
“Which movie?”
Patience glanced up at the endless list of titles, until they blurred together in her fatigue.
“I’ll just take whatever’s starting next.”
The girl behind the counter wore a bored expression and a name tag that read “Bradley.” She scratched at a bit of chipped purple nail polish and waited, so Patience sighed and ceded Bradley the battle. She stepped back for a better look and screamed. The titles were all the same.
Are You There, Patience? It’s Me, God.
The crowd behind her stared as she raised a hand to her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I think I just ate a bee.”
Bradley recoiled in her booth, finally showing some sign of life. Patience noticed a small child at the feet of the woman behind her and turned to her. She looked smart enough, and she was at least polite enough not to be glaring.
“Hi, Honey.” Patience crouched down. “You seem pretty advanced for your age. Do you see a movie about God up there in those pretty red lights? Or how about a message for me? My name is Patience. Do you see anything like that?”
“Mommy!”
The child’s mother whipped the whimpering toddler up into her arms and charged to the ticket window, demanding to see the manager.
• • •
The front door of the Boston-West Mental Health Center fell closed behind her and Patience blinked into the late afternoon sun. Then she straightened at the sight of Zane, sitting halfway down the steps with his arms at his knees and the phone dangling from one hand.
“Couldn’t go through with it?”
She’d waited nearly two hours to be seen emergently by the psychiatrist on call, only to walk right back out again the moment her name was called. She felt it was impolite of him to know that.
“I will,” she said. “When it gets bad enough. And I don’t appreciate you following me.”
He laughed and held the phone up without turning back.
“If this isn’t it, Patience, I hope I never find out what your definition of ‘bad enough’ is. Come on, you must have figured out by now that you’re not crazy. And I didn’t follow you, I found my way here the same way I found myself compelled to take in the scenic wonders of Comm Ave with my coffee yesterday morning and the same way I found myself compelled to get drunker than I’ve ever been in my life at your godfather’s pub, only to be placed in your custody. Losing control’s not my thing, I don’t do that. Do you really believe it’s an accident that when I finally did, it occurred at O’Malley’s?”
“I can’t think of a more suitable place, actually.”
He kept his back to her. “I sat for a while after you left the diner, having no Earthly idea what I should do next, and then I started walking. I came upon this staircase, and I sat down to wait for you. Here you are, end of story.”
She dropped down onto the top step and he crawled up to sit beside her. A couple of women in scrubs stepped from the center and they moved aside to let them pass. Then Zane held the phone out.
“I don’t want That. You’ve got a lot more patience with It than I have, and It likes you better, anyway. We’ll probably all live longer, happier lives if you’d just hang on to It.”
He shook his head at her with
a sigh. “You do understand that it’s not the phone that’s communicating with you, don’t you, Patience?”
“I’m not the one with the fancy degrees from Harvard. This is your area of expertise.”
“That’s religion, Patience. This is God.”
She looked away. The women in scrubs had turned down Brighton Avenue, laughing over a shared joke. It occurred to her then that she didn’t want them to die in some massive SolarTech flame out. She pushed her hair behind her ears and held a hand out for the phone.
“I accept and agree to nothing.”
“Understood,” he said. “But we really do need to talk. Can we go somewhere?”
She groaned. “What, now? Sober?”
Zane’s eyes widened and he took her by the arm. He turned his sights toward the pub.
“Good God, Patience. I’m not a monster.”
CHAPTER SIX
Patience dropped her hand onto the bar and fought the urge to let her head follow. She was exhausted from explaining herself, and doubly so from repeating herself.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t accept that a plan this irresponsible could be by the Lord’s design. It reads like a special Apocalypse episode of I Love Lucy or something. I hated that fucking show, Zane. I want nothing to do with this.”
He started to respond, but she cut him off with an accusing finger pointed at the phone.
“How can He not understand that I’m the worst possible choice for this? I don’t know anything about politics or solar power technology or grenade launchers, and I don’t want to know about them. I’m not even religious. He’s God, for crying out loud. He’s got armies. He’s got zealots. He’s got armies of zealots. He doesn’t need an agnostic waitress from Allston. What the hell is He thinking?”
The phone chimed in and she turned it face down on the bar. Zane sighed and took a drink of his vodka.
“Have you considered asking Him that?”
“Asking Him what?”
“What the hell He’s thinking? Why He wants you? He’s right there, Patience.”
She lowered her eyes as the tequila sanded down the sharper edges of her mind. When she looked up again, he was still watching her, and he appeared disproportionately sober. Then she remembered that she was ahead of him by nearly two-drinks-to-one, so that was all right. She was glad he was sober, actually. Zane Grey Ellison was turning out to be a pretty responsible guy, for a guy who’d never had much of anything to be responsible for. He was nice too, and getting nicer by the margarita. She was certain he’d never replace the word to with a 2 or LOL at her. Patience liked that about him. That and his ass.
“I’m sorry, what were we talking about?”
He touched his fingers to her hand to prevent her from lifting her glass again. “We were talking about what it is that’s preventing you from asking The Biz why He’s tagged you for this mission.”
“Oh, that.” She shrugged. “I’m not speaking to Him.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d like to avoid getting smited, if at all possible. I’d also like to skip the eternal fires of hell, or waking up in a bed full of locusts.”
“I’m pretty sure you made that last one up, but I hear you. I’m not sure I see how ignoring Him is going to help you—”
“Just look at our history so far. Look, I’ll do my best to respond when I can figure out what He’s getting at with all this texting nonsense, but I sincerely feel that it’s safest for everyone involved if we restrict our personal contact to the barest minimum.”
He stared back for a moment, then released her hand so she could take that drink at last.
“Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You’re comfortable talking back to Him and smashing up His designated means of communication whenever you don’t like what He’s got to say, and you certainly aren’t the least bit shy about taking His name in vain, even when speaking directly to Him, but you won’t ask Him why He wants you to blow up the SolarTech Industries Exploration and Development Laboratory, and you won’t ask Him why He feels so strongly that you, specifically, are the best girl to prevent the Apocalypse?”
“We all have our comfort zones, Zane. As far as I’m concerned, the less I know about His motivations, the better off I’ll be.”
He sighed and Patience smiled down at her margarita. Zane’s face was so sincere, and his hair was so floppy. With a little more hair gel, and a lot less money, he’d make one hell of a Calvin Klein ad, sitting there with his hand on his drink and a thousand-and-one unasked questions swimming around in those dark-brown eyes.
“So, I gather that prayer is out of the question?”
She smiled and bumped that count back to a thousand.
“Of course not, Zane. Knock yourself out.”
Her voice trailed off as her attention was captured by something down the bar. She squinted through the haze and a whole new countenance came over her being. For the first time in weeks, Patience felt something close to hope.
Zane followed her stares and worry lines deepened in his forehead. She ignored them and grabbed him by the arm.
“What are the odds of that? It’s a sign, Zane. The Biz finally realizes that He dialed the wrong number after all, and now He needs our help to forward the call. Now, that is a job I’m up for. Let’s not keep Him waiting.”
Zane’s back remained turned to the priest in his clergy shirt and clerical collar sitting a few stools down the bar. He pulled his arm from her grasp as Patience jumped down.
“Patience, this is Boston. Two things you’ll find in abundance here are priests and bars. There’s no reason their paths shouldn’t cross on occasion. That’s not a sign; that’s a man reading his paper over a beer. Please, leave him alone.”
The phone chimed and Patience took it from him and shoved it into her coat pocket.
“The Biz hasn’t exactly been cryptic with you thus far,” Zane said. “A detail that would have the College of Cardinals tying nooses in their rosaries if they knew. Would you at least see what He’s got to say before you charge up to an unsuspecting priest and try to rope him into doing your chores?”
She shook him off and turned away. He’d already killed her buzz, she wouldn’t let him kill her conviction. “Everything’s going to be all right, Zane. I’m nauseous and my ears are ringing, and that says God to me. Stay here if you don’t want to help.”
She pushed her way through a throng of Boston College students and paused beside the freshman sitting next to her target. He looked up with an expression of optimistic surprise, until she whispered something into his ear and he slid his fake ID back toward his pocket and pretended to notice someone more interesting across the pub.
“Excuse me, Father. May I speak with you for a moment?”
The priest was youngish—perhaps in his mid to late forties—and he appeared to be in reasonably good shape. He turned to her with a bemused smile and refolded his section of newspaper.
“Of course, my dear. Please, have a seat.”
Zane approached as she was introducing herself. She ignored the cautioning hand on her shoulder and introduced him as well.
“Rick Conner,” the priest replied. “It’s nice to meet you both.”
“Do you work at one of the churches around here, Father Rick?”
He shook his head and took a sip of beer. “I don’t have a parish, Patience. I run St. Mark’s Shelter in Dorchester.”
She beamed at Zane and he gestured no. Father Rick cocked his head at the exchange.
“Are you interested in the Church, Patience?”
“No, I’m interested in you. Running a homeless shelter sounds like very demanding work—physically as well as mentally and spiritually. You probably have to keep in pretty good shape to do a job like that, right?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand what you’re—”
“Well, you must get all kinds down there. I figure it probably gets a little dicey at times, with so much hard luck bumping up against itself at suc
h close quarters, day in and day out. I was curious whether you receive any special training to do what you do.”
He raised an eyebrow at the question, but then shrugged it off. “We have our moments. There are generally a couple of challenging cases around at any given time, but that’s an important part of our role, Patience. St. Mark’s doesn’t exist just to nourish and shelter the body, we nourish and shelter the soul as well. Anyway, I’ve found that people generally mean well, even when they’re at their worst. They’re usually just depleted. It’s our job to help them locate the enrichment they need.”
“That’s nice,” Patience said. “But say you had to protect yourself from some maniac with a knife, or to save a room full of nuns or something, before you could hit him with the religion and the nutrients. You could bring it, right?”
Father Rick paused with his glass midair. Then he lowered it and glanced around the room before beckoning her closer. “The Vatican frowns upon priests sharing classified information with civilians, Patience. I’m sorry, but I’m sure you understand.” He winked at her. “My divinity school did have a fight club in the basement. But, of course, I can’t talk about that either.”
She turned back to Zane and said, “See?” before returning her attention to the priest. “I think what I admire most is your faith. Not everyone has that, or would know what to do with it if they did. Take me, for example. I just can’t seem to figure that sort of stuff out. I definitely don’t think I’d be a good instrument for God’s will, if you know what I mean.”
“We all have our purpose, Patience. If God sees fit to—”
Her phone chimed and she silenced it with an apologetic wave. Then she took the priest by the arm. “Here’s the thing, Father Rick. God’s been a little…up in my business lately. He’s got it stuck in His head that I should perform a specific task for Him, and it’s not something I feel at all qualified to do. I’m better suited for what I’m doing now, which is waitressing. Being a soldier of the Lord is serious business, and it should be handled by a serious person. So, when I noticed you sitting over here, I couldn’t help thinking that what He really needs is help locating a better candidate for the job, someone who’s maybe prepared for this sort of thing all his life, and who’s already got a positive working relationship established with Him. Then I could go back to waitressing, which is an area where I feel I can actually do some good.”