by J. R. Mabry
No, he decided, it must be in that locker.
He peeked around the corner again to make sure that Dane was out of sight, and then, as nonchalantly as he could, he made for the front desk in search of an idea. Could he tell the guy on duty that he’d forgotten his combination, and could they please cut the lock off? What would he say when it opened and the thing was full of clothes—when Richard was already wearing clothes? They might make him prove the contents were his, maybe look at the wallet? Too risky, he told himself. “Shit!” he breathed and willed himself to be calm. He may not have viewed himself as a good man, but Richard knew what he loved, and there was way too much at stake to blow this. At the end of the foyer was a Dutch door, the upper half of the door wide open and the lower half slightly ajar, with soiled towels piled on its ledge. Glancing back at the front desk, Richard saw that it was mobbed with people either trying to get in or complaining about someone’s behavior in the baths. Three employees were trying to expedite things, and none, fortuitously, were taking any notice of him. He ducked through the Dutch door and, casting about with barely controlled panic, found himself in a utility room. A freestanding tool chest on rollers was pushed to one side of the room, almost obscured by towels. He leaped to it and jerked open the lowest and largest drawer. Inside there was only a very large crescent wrench and some rusted pipe. He tried the second-largest drawer and nearly fainted from relief—a pair of short-handled bolt cutters.
Acting quickly, he found a stack of clean towels and wrapped one around the cutters. Then he made for the door.
He had just entered the hall when a voice stopped him. “You! What were you doing in there?” A man in a dark blue polo shirt with the Jizz Factory logo was staring right at him and glaring. “Yeah, you? What were you doing in there?”
Richard hesitated just a moment, his brain nearly short-circuiting with panic. He held up the cutters, wrapped in the towel. “You’re short on towels. I was looking for one.”
“Goddammit. Will someone go and stock the fucking towels?” The man turned away from him, and Richard continued, swallowing hard and willing his heartbeat to slow.
Turning the corner into the row of lockers where Dane’s effects were housed, Richard approached the locker and turned his back to the men dressing or undressing several lockers down. He held one corner of the towel and let the rest of it fall, making sure that its length still obscured the cutters, but now only one layer thick so that the tool was still operable through the fabric. To anyone else on the row, he hoped it would look like he was holding a towel while fiddling with his lock, when in reality, he was cutting it off.
It would have been an impossible deceit, but fortunately no one was paying him any attention, and no one seemed to notice when the lock broke off with a satisfying but too-audible-for-comfort “snap!”
Richard laid the cutters on the bench in front of him, making sure to cover them with the towel. Then, stealing one more glance behind him, he raised the lever on Dane’s locker and swung wide the door.
Inside was the sort of suit Richard had seen him in just days before. His heart raced as he felt at the pants pockets. Nothing.
He reached past the trousers to the suit jacket and felt at the inside pocket. A comb. Lowering his hands, he felt at the large outside jacket pockets—and there was a likely bulge. He fished inside the pocket and pulled forth an enormous golden ring with a gleaming red stone.
He stared at it with his mouth agape, in wonder at the historic and mystical treasure in his very hands. This was the stuff of legends, and its appearance did not disappoint. It looked exactly as he had expected it to, and he trembled and quailed at its power.
Then, suddenly, he realized where he was and what he was doing. He stuffed the ring into the front pocket of his jeans—he had, wisely, left his cassock in the car—and began closing the door to the locker. A shine of black leather caught his eye, and he bent to investigate. Sitting on the bottom of the locker was a black leather bag, kind of like an old doctor’s kit but deeper. Without thinking, he took up the bag in his left hand and closed the locker door with his right. He left the bolt cutters where they lay and, trying to appear as nonchalant as he possibly could, strolled out the front door into the frigid Berkeley winter night.
MONDAY
54
When the bells sounded for morning prayer, Richard hissed and covered his eyes like a vampire allergic to the sun. He’d only gotten a few hours of sleep, but the events of the coming day loomed heavily over him, and his pulse was already pounding beyond the possibility of sleep.
He threw on his cleanest cassock and stumbled down the front stairs, yawning as he took his place in the choir.
He was amazed that he’d made it with a couple of minutes to spare. Either Brian or Terry rang the bells ten minutes prior to the commencement of all the daily offices, which was usually enough time for the friars to wrap up what they were doing and get to the chapel.
He listed, trying to focus his eyes, when Dylan entered and sat next to him, dropping a newspaper in his lap. The headline screamed in 135-point type: DOG RAPTURE ROCKS WORLD!
Struggling to see the smaller type of the story more clearly, he read about the “mysterious disappearance of canines all over the planet.” The writer even linked it to the disappearance of the avocados, Richard was pleased to see. He was particularly interested in the mention of breakaway evangelical cults that had arisen in the past day, interpreting the disappearance as an actual Rapture. “The Lord has chosen to take the purest in heart first,” said the Rev. Spike Malloway of Calgary, Idaho. It made Richard smile.
“Did yah see the bit about the UFO cults?” Dylan asked.
“No, not yet,” Richard chuckled.
“Y’know, it’s weird bein’ the handful of people on the planet who actually knows what’s goin’ on,” Dylan mused.
“I’d feel a hell of a lot better about it if we actually did know what was going on,” Richard countered. “I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Why do we have to wait for them to act; why not stop ’em now? A preemptive strike, y’know?”
“What are we going to do? Have them arrested? With what evidence?” Richard answered, turning the page. “Are we going to kill them? Bad ethical form there. What exactly do you propose we do, Dyl?”
Dylan pursed his lips and rocked back and forth slightly. Before he could think of an answer, Terry and Kat had found their places, and Dylan rang a Tibetan bell to mark the start of the service.
They sang the canticle and sat quietly as Terry recited the readings. Afterward, none of them had a “word from the Lord” to share, so the homiletical portion was observed in silence. They moved on to the prayers.
Richard offered prayers for all those grieving the loss of their pets. Dylan offered prayers for the soul of Kat’s brother. Terry offered prayer for Mikael’s restoration. Then Kat exploded.
“Fuck you!” she screamed at the patchwork icon of Jesus. “Fuck you, you motherfucking son of a whore!” She stepped into the middle of the room and threw her coffee at it. The cup smashed into the icon’s chin, and a brown spray covered the lower half of his face. She pointed her finger at it. “Fuck you and everything you’re trying to do! How could you…” Then she collapsed to her knees and buried her face in her hands, making soft whimpering sounds.
The friars, moved, spontaneously applauded. “That there’s some good fucking prayer,” Dylan noted with approval.
“Let ’im have it, Sister!” Terry cheered encouragingly.
Kat looked up at them, horrified. Richard could not tell, however, whether the horror was in response to her own outburst or to their response. “Well done,” he said, and smiled at her.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” she shook her head, incredulous. “I just ruined your prayer.”
“Nah, Ah think ya saved it,” Dylan said. “That was the most honest prayer Ah’ve heard in ages.”
“Hear, hear,” agreed Terry. “You don�
�t have to worry about swearing at Jesus. He’s a big boy. He can take it. All he wants is to know how you really feel anyway.”
“Do you have anything else you want to say to him?” Richard asked her. “We’re still doing the Prayers of the People, you know.”
She shook her head, apparently a little dazed.
Terry sang the benediction, and they rang the big bell again, bringing prayer to a close.
Kat’s outburst had had a revivifying effect on them all, and whereas they had all stumbled in feeling defeated and morose, they closed their prayers feeling invigorated and hopeful.
Dylan paused to consider the stain on their icon. “Y’know,” he said to Terry, “Ah think the coffee stains give him a more handsome, rugged appearance. It’s the five o’clock shadow, sensitive-but-macho Jesus.” Terry bobbed his head back and forth, uncertain about the new look.
Richard knelt by Kat. “You okay?” he asked.
“You are the weirdest fucking people I have ever met,” she said, looking up at him uncertainly.
“We aim to please,” Richard smiled down at her and offered a hand up.
She took it, and they both headed toward the kitchen.
“No Susan?” Brian asked, skillet in hand.
“She was up late with the paramedics and the police,” Dylan said. “Ah’ll put a plate in the fridge for her for later.”
“You’ll need to, ’cause I have to work this morning,” Brian said, emptying the skillet of its bacon onto a paper towel-lined bowl on the lazy Susan.
Fresh-squeezed juice was on the table as well, along with fried potatoes and blueberry muffins with jam.
“Every meal around here is nothin’ but fucking food porn,” Dylan said admiringly.
“How could it be porn?” Terry asked, scrunching his brows together. “It’s the real thing, not a representative of the real thing.”
“The signifier co-inheres with the signified,” Dylan quoted, and Richard recognized it from a sacramental theology text he had read years ago.
“Dylan, you are so talking out of your ass,” Richard accused.
“Mah ass can also play the trumpet,” Dylan grabbed a handful of bacon, “although the spit valve is not pretty.”
“When your ass can shuffle cards, call me,” Terry said, giggling.
“You know,” Kat said, her face ashen and grave, “someone did die yesterday. And millions of people lost loved ones.”
The friars looked down at their plates. “Perhaps we have not met the morning with sufficient gravity,” Richard said, by way of apology.
He helped himself to a muffin. “Brian, did you say you were going in to work today?”
“Yup, ten o’clock.” Brian worked part time as a research specialist at the Graduate Theological Union Library.
“Well, while you’re there, see what you can find out about this,” and with slow, dramatic flourish, he placed the Ring of Solomon on the table in front of him.
“What the fuck?” asked Terry. “That’s not—”
“It is.”
“Ho. Ly. Shit,” breathed Dylan. “Have you put it on?”
“Are you fucking nuts?” asked Richard. “I don’t know what it does or how it works.”
“That’s what you want me to find out, then?” Brian asked, slapping Dylan’s hand. “Save some bacon for Sue.”
“Exactly,” Richard said. “We know that demons have to obey it, but we don’t know how or why. We don’t want to break our vows out of ignorance any more than we do from volition.” Nods all around confirmed their commitment.
“What good is it if we don’t kn—can’t use it?” Dylan asked, scowling at Brian.
“At least Dane doesn’t have it,” Terry said. “And hey, how the hell did you get your hands on it, anyway?” Terry asked.
Richard blushed, his eyes skittering back and forth like a cornered cat. “You didn’t…” Terry looked at him with his disappointed look. “You whore,” he said.
Kat’s brows knitted as she attempted to follow the conversation. “What am I missing?” she asked.
“Simple. Richard went to a sex club last night because, oh, I don’t know, his friends weren’t enough support for his fragile self-image, apparently.” Terry glowered at him.
Richard betrayed no other visible sign of shame besides his color, which was now approaching chartreuse. “Dane was there. I stole the ring while he was boinking,” he explained. “I also took this.” He set Dane’s leather bag on the table. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear to contain anything of import. I thought maybe you could have an energetic look at it just to be sure, Terry.”
“I’m tempted to say ‘good job,’ but I refuse to encourage you,” Terry said.
“Why is it that monogamous gays are way more judgmental than monogamous straights?” Richard asked no one in particular.
“’Cause we’ve seen more people die of AIDS up close and personal, you asshole.” Terry threw down his napkin, grabbed the leather bag, and stormed out of the kitchen toward his cottage.
“Ya struck a nerve, dude,” Dylan said. “He’s right, too, and”—he patted Richard’s arm—“good job.”
“Assignments for the day,” Richard announced, grateful to have thought of a change of subject. “I have a spiritual direction session at ten, no thanks to you.” He nodded at Dylan.
“Ah’m gonna have another go at a soul retrieval this a.m. Then Ah have a baptismal rehearsal for little Jamie this after.”
“I’ll work on the ring at the GTU,” Brian said.
Kat was tempted to say, “What about me?” but she held her tongue. She had something to show Terry.
55
Kat was squeezing water from a sopping washcloth into Mikael’s mouth when Dylan and Susan entered the room. She forced a smile for them and made way for Dylan to lie down.
She had heard about shamanic journeys before but had never seen one. “What went wrong yesterday?” she asked Dylan, as the rotund friar wiggled his way into place.
“Nothin’ went wrong, exactly,” Dylan said, getting comfortable. “We jes’ wasn’t lookin’ in the right place. Today, we’ll look somewhar else.”
“We?” Kat asked.
“Me and Jaguar,” Dylan said. “He’s mah power animal.”
“Does everybody have a power animal?” Kat asked.
“Oh, they do, yeah. But it never turns out to be what you think it’s gonna be. Me, Ah’m a dog person. Ah always assumed it would be a dog. Imagine mah surprise when this enormous cat shows up.”
“What’s your power animal like?” she asked, more and more curious. Susan was taking her place beside Dylan, tapping at her drum.
“He’s a surly motherfucker,” Dylan answered. “But he’s mah surly motherfucker. Ready there, Honey Pants?”
“Ready, curly buns,” Susan replied. “Going up or down?”
“Up this time. Need to get some guidance.”
“How long?”
“Give me an hour, then a half hour return.”
She nodded and with an encouraging smile at Kat, began to beat the drum.
Kat sat still and listened to the hypnotic pounding of the drum—plain, regular, fast, and utterly without deviation. Within minutes she could feel herself getting sleepy and wondered at how Susan was able to drum for so long. A minute later, she got up and moved to the guest room. There she leaned against the wall and looked at the empty bed, where her brother had lain just a few hours ago.
It seemed almost like a dream, it was so grotesque. An alien being inhabiting the body of the boy—no, the man—she loved so very much. She fought back tears and swallowed. She thought back to how much she had cried in the past couple of days, and fought against an overwhelming feeling of shame. Her behavior had been so at odds with how she had always seen herself—strong, indomitable, resolute. But the events of the past few days had completely undone her. She never would have believed any of it if it had not happened to her. She wasn’t sure she believed it now.
She turned and looked back at the open door to Mikael’s room, still held in the trance of Susan’s otherworldly rhythm. Love at first sight was something she had always sneered at, never imagining for a moment it would fall on her. She wasn’t ready for him. Mikael had just happened. And at the most inconvenient time imaginable. And now, now he was the most important thing in the world—this skeletal goth boy that she barely knew.
Being trapped in the house did not help matters, either. At least the house was big—it didn’t prevent her feeling claustrophobic, but it sure as hell helped. It felt good to have been able to help with the web research—she just wished there was more she could do.
She turned around again and saw the mirror. With the bright sun filling the room, she saw nothing in it that was unusual. She cupped her hands around several sections, but it was no good. Should she bring Terry up here? What would he see if she couldn’t even see anything? He’ll think I’m an idiot, she said to herself. And pursed her lips. She could take it to a darker place, she reasoned, and with that thought she lifted it off the wall and started down the narrow back stairway.
Carrying the mirror under her arm, she went out the back door of the kitchen and crossed the yard to the cottage. She hesitated for a moment—she didn’t really know Terry all that well, and if she were honest, his mercurial extroversion scared her a little. But she breathed deep and knocked.
He answered the door moments later dressed in a lavender leotard, wearing white pancake makeup with neat little circles of rouge painted onto his cheeks.
“Do I need to explain this to you?” he asked her with the tiniest intimation of prickliness.
“You do not,” she assured him, mildly amused.
“Please come into my fairy castle, fair princess,” he waved his hand in a grand gesture bidding her to enter.
“Why, thank you, I think.” She smiled, a little nervously. The cottage was very small but was painted with such bright colors and was so devoid of clutter that the size did not seem oppressive. The furnishings were elegant, modern, and spare. A couple of scented candles gave the room a yellow warmth on what was otherwise a gray and gloomy day.