The Mirror Apocalypse

by John Ayang

  “What is Easter duty,” Dr. Horacek inquired, confused.

  “Doing manual labor at the church grounds during Lent and, for the womenfolk, donating eggs and bundles of firewood, then confessing your sins to a priest so you can receive Holy Communion on Easter Sunday,” Dr. Eshiet explained, almost sneering. “That is the one that got me the most. I cannot get over the treatment that was meted out to my uncle, when in Europe and here in the United States, every Tom, Dick, and Harry is buried by the Church. The term, ‘Easter Duty’, is absent from Catholic vocabulary in the white man’s land. Three years ago, a young man who committed suicide was buried with full liturgical rites here in one of the churches, as a matter of compassion. But back home, we were taught that anybody who committed suicide was damned to Hell for all eternity and it was a mortal sin for any Church member to attend his funeral, let alone allow his corpse see the inside of a church. Now, tell me, Doctor: Why is compassion germane in such cases in the white man’s land and a mortal sin in the black man’s land, within the same context?”

  “Well, Doctor,” Dr. Horacek said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, “that’s quite an intense tirade, I must say. I can see you feel very hurt by these things, but seeing as I am not Catholic, and not even a practicing evangelical, to my shame, I must admit that I am bankrupt for an answer to your question.”

  “That’s the reason why I had to sue, as a matter of principle,” Dr. Eshiet said, almost self-righteously. “I still smart over that fateful Sunday when I walked up to receive Holy Communion, and Fr. McCarthy asked me to get back to my seat. My first impulse was to punch him in the face and knock him out flat. But in doing that, the consecrated hosts would have been spilled. You see, Doctor, I am a good Catholic. I revere the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist. And besides, the issue was between me and Fr. McCarthy, not the good Lord. It wouldn’t do to knock the Lord Jesus to the ground for the folly of His priest. That would be transferred aggression, like crucifying Him again. He didn’t deserve that then and He certainly doesn’t deserve it again now,” Dr. Eshiet concluded, to the cheerful laughter of his guests.

  “The Crown Prince, himself!” Dr. Horacek cheered humorously, rocking with laughter.

  “The same as ever,” Dr. Eshiet acknowledged and sipped his palm wine, joining in the laughter at his own humorous digression. “I am the true son of my dad, man. I can’t suffer in silence. Haba!”

  Barbara laughed guardedly, but couldn’t help liking the way their host cracked them up to ease the tension of his long, angry rant. A brief silence followed their cathartic laughter. Everyone sipped their wine and Dr. Horacek and Barbara mulled over Dr. Eshiet’s gripe. Eventually, Dr. Horacek spoke, somewhat abruptly, catching his host midway as he got up to open and serve another bottle of palm wine.

  “Drop your suit, Doctor. Let’s work as a team to figure this out together, as in the good old days at Norfolk.”

  “What?” Dr. Eshiet asked, confused. For almost a minute, he thought Dr. Horacek was referring to his jacket, which he was still wearing. Then he got the meaning of it and, chuckling dismissively, replied, “I am trying to make a valuable point here, Doctor Horacek. Someone has to do something radical to wake the institution from stupor and get folks thinking outside of the box.”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more. With all the media attention on the case, I would think you’ve made your point. But as valuable a point as you have made with your suit, it’s like suing God!” Dr. Horacek sparred. “I mean, c’mon, you are the Catholic here and I am the supposed infidel. If that is how it appears to me, then…I wonder at your audaciousness.”

  “That’s the point, Doctor. If my legal opponent is God, which he isn’t, then I am suing him for his hypocrisy and pretense,” Dr. Eshiet replied, incisively, and added, “Why should he judge and sanction me for the same act that he himself is implicated in?”

  Dr. Horacek looked hard and long at his host and realized he was dealing with the same stubborn, pig-headed Edidiong Barnaby Eshiet as during their days together at Berkeley Medical School, a man who swore he would never take any nonsense from any white man. Sensing he would not sway Dr. Eshiet otherwise, Dr. Horacek decided to cut straight to the heart of the matter and come clean.

  “Again, to my shame, I have no answer to your question. I’m only requesting that you drop your suit because of a vested interest I have in it,” Dr. Horacek said, firmly, looking straight at his host.

  “What vested interest could you possibly have in the case, Doctor?” Dr. Eshiet asked, looking quizzically at his guest.

  “You are suing my son,” Dr. Horacek replied, matter-of-factly.

  “Say…I am not sure I got you,” Dr. Eshiet said, straightening up and looking confused. “Can you…please…repeat what you were saying?”

  “You are suing my son, Doctor. And the woman sitting beside me now and across from you is his biological mother, the surrogate who gave birth to the Reverend McCarthy.”

  Dr. Edidiong Barnaby Eshiet sat down before he fell down. He put down his wine glass before it slipped out of his fingers. “You son-of-a-gun!” he said, looking at his guest with bulging eyes and a shark smile.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Dr. Horacek corrected, smiling toothlessly. “I’ve been called that many times,” he added, and earned an elbow jab in the ribs from Barbara. “I donated the sperm that we used to fertilize the surrogate’s egg. The man’s sperm was defective for the purpose, remember? And we had to substitute it.”

  “You said you bought the sperm from one of the residents,” Dr. Eshiet said, nostalgically, recalling the events.

  “I did,” Dr. Horacek replied, looking honest. “I was ‘one of the residents’, and I needed the money.”

  “I’ll be damned! You two-faced, double-crossing, slick-talking…!” He paused.

  “Shall I lend you some more negative hyphenated adjectives?” Dr. Horacek interjected humorously.

  “No. I’m not done yet,” Dr. Eshiet replied and resumed his expletive-filled tongue lashing. “You’re a real fast-handed, loop-hole-exploiting, smartass of a lucky guy!”

  “Wait!” Dr. Horacek, said. “I can understand all the other expletives but…Why ‘lucky’, all of a sudden?”

  “Because you outsmarted everybody and got away with it,” Dr. Eshiet replied, to the amusement of his guests. “Although, the fact that you were smart about how you went about it didn’t make it right. You do know that?”

  “I know,” Dr. Horacek replied. “I was young and wild then. I wouldn’t do that now.” It was difficult to tell if Dr. Eshiet was upset because he was beaten to it by his friend or because his friend did something unethical and got away with it.

  “So, you and Barbara are Reverend McCarthy’s biological parents?” Dr. Ima Eshiet asked, having sat quietly through her husband’s rant until then.

  “That is what it means, Ma’am,” Dr. Horacek replied, affirmatively. “And for old time’s sake, that’s why I am asking your husband to drop the suit against my son. We can work out something satisfactory to both of you, I’m quite sure.”

  “Well, I may be willing to consider your request, but quit repeating the phrase, ‘my son’, ever so proudly, as if we need to decorate you with a medal,” Dr. Eshiet carped bitingly. “You broke every ethical rule in the book, man! You should be sued!”

  “Darling, don’t be so hard on him,” Dr. Ima rebuked her husband eventually. “I am so sorry, Doctor, for my husband’s unfriendly behavior. He doesn’t know how to be a gracious host.”

  “Not when the guest is a former colleague who unfairly corners everything, He gets the beautiful lady surrogate and her handsome young priest son, and he’s not even Catholic! That’s the irksome part. For that, he can take a few beatings from me as the price for his unwarranted good fortune.”

  “Sorry about that,” Dr. Horacek said, jesting. “But I assure you, it’s not my fault. Believe me, I jus
t woke up to see myself undeservedly blessed.”

  The ladies had another round of laughter at Dr. Eshiet’s acrid humor and his friend’s mock apology. The phone rang and Dr. Ima got it. She listened for a few minutes and then said, “Yes. My husband is here. You can talk to him.” She handed the phone to her husband announcing, “Dr. Murphy.”

  Dr. Edidiong Eshiet stayed on the phone for about two minutes, then hung up, and returned to his seat, announcing, for the benefit of his guests, that it was Dr. Regis Murphy of the University of Houston’s Law Department, drafted by the Archdiocese to negotiate for an out-of-court settlement of the case.

  “He’s been talking with my lawyer, and just called to let me know that my lawyer has left the final decision to me.”

  “So?” Dr. Horacek inquired, expectantly.

  “Let me sleep on your request, Doctor,” Dr. Eshiet hedged. “I can’t give any guarantees now. There are still other things to consider. Let me think about it.” With that, he turned his attention to Barbara and continued the conversation. “Tell me all the good things that have happened in your life, miss, since you left Norfolk General. Don’t tell me the sad ones. When you handed the baby to the legal parents and left the hospital, it must have been very difficult, in spite of everything. So, I don’t want you to relive that. How was the journey of your life which ended with the success story of being one of the top Professors of Nursing at Baylor University?”

  “Yes. I would like to hear it too, Barbara,” Dr. Ima Eshiet concurred with her husband. A sneaky movement and a tripping noise behind the wall of the connecting passage to the dining area annexing the sitting room caused a distraction. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” Edo-Mma said, coming out of the shadows. “We were just trying to go outside through the garage.”

  “No, Edo-Mma, you were not trying to go outside,” Dr. Ima said with patient forbearance. “You have been eavesdropping behind that wall since you pretended to go to your room, and I have been watching your reflection on that TV screen. If you are tired of standing, you can come and sit down. Miss Crystal, you come and sit down, too.”

  Edo-Mma and Crystal looked at the telltale TV screen, then looked at each other and broke into girlish giggles, embarrassed at being caught in an awkward lie. They came out from behind the wall still giggling with hands over their mouths.

  “Come out, girls. Come and sit down,” Dr. Eshiet called out. “Edo-Mma, why did you make your friend stand all that while? We were not discussing classified information.”

  Edo-Mma went and sat beside her step-mom, Dr. Ima, and Crystal sat beside her mom, who looked at her with a toothless, disapproving smile. She knew her mom would lecture her at length on the etiquette of being a good guest when they got home.

  “By the way, Edo-Mma is my daughter, from my first wife, God rest her soul,” Dr Eshiet said, sounding doleful at the memory of his deceased wife. “I lost her to cancer fifteen years ago. My son, her brother, is now in Nigeria, volunteering during his internship year with Roesche, a German pharmaceutical company operating there in partnership with Welcome Nigeria, plc. He graduated as a pharmacist last June. He is due back here in the States in three months.

  “Looks like you’ve been quite lucky, too, Doctor?” Barbara quipped in veiled critique of her host.

  “Let’s not go there, Barbs,” Dr. Horacek said, baiting his friend. He put a hand beside his mouth, as if to shut out Dr. Eshiet. Dr. Horacek mockingly leaned over and whispered loudly, “His own luck was warranted.”

  “I heard that,” Dr. Eshiet called out, looking morose and amused at the same time, and refusing to take the bait. His wife chuckled silently and signaled Barbara to continue with her story.

  On December 22, at 4:30 p.m., prompt, Stacy Donovan rang the doorbell at Barbara Sander’s house on East Westheimer Missouri City. The door opened to reveal a beautiful, shapely young lady whom Stacy surmised might be Dr. Horacek’s daughter, since she looked too young to be his wife. She was right.

  “You must be Ms. Donovan,” Crystal inquired, and without waiting for an answer, invited Stacy in. “Come in. My dad is expecting you.” She led the way into the sitting room and offered her a seat. “Dad, Ms. Donovan is here,” she called out. “Can I offer you something to drink, Ma’am?” she asked, politely. Stacy requested a diet soda and sat on the single settee, which felt quite comfortable and almost swallowed her. She thought whoever furnished the house had good taste. She had learned a lot from her mother about interior décor. Judging from the choice of fabric and matching color combinations, she thought the whole thing must have been the work of a professional. She had barely enough time to savor the beautifully furnished sitting room when Dr. Horacek appeared from behind an adjoining door. He looked intelligent and stately, and she quickly took a liking to him.

  “Hello. Doctor Horacek?” Stacy stood up and greeted him, stretching out her hand for a shake.

  “Yes, Ma’am. I’m Dr. Josef Horacek.” He took the proffered hand.

  “I’m Stacy Donovan, Attorney at Law. I’m the Defense Counsel for the Reverend gentleman you read about and watched on TV being sued by a former colleague of yours, I believe, a Doctor Eshiet.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Please be seated. I am fully aware of the case and I spoke with Dr. Eshiet yesterday,” he replied.

  “Oh, you did?”

  “Yes, and I think I might be able to persuade him to drop the case,” Dr. Horacek said, sounding somewhat confident. “He’s not yet convinced, but we may soon be there.”

  “I don’t doubt you, Sir,” Stacy complimented. “I appreciate your invaluable help, but there is still a possibility of a last-minute refusal, knowing very well the Counsel who is representing him. In that case, I need to have a back-up plan, and that’s why I want to get the story from you first hand, Sir, to have a good handle on the process that resulted in the Reverend gentleman’s conception.”

  “Your diet soda, Ma’am,” Crystal said, placing a saucer with a diet soda can on the table and a drinking glass and some napkins. “Dad, do you want something to drink?”

  “No, sweetie pie. I’m ok,” Dr. Horacek said. Then he continued with Stacy, “It’s a long story, but I’m happy to tell you everything, if you have that kind of patience.”

  “Patience is my second name right now, Doctor,” Stacy quipped.

  Dr. Horacek chuckled briefly at her humor and settled down to tell his story.

  It wasn’t a long story, as he had indicated it would be, but Stacy thought it was an interesting one. Nothing gave her more satisfaction than learning the intricate process of how Fr. McCarthy was conceived. In the end, she thought she could still argue his case, proving that he was indeed adopted. To crown it all, Dr. Horacek had offered to extend his vacation to attend and testify during the second hearing on January 8, if it came to that.

  Stacy was quite excited as she drove back to John McCarthy’s place that evening. She couldn’t wait to give him the news. She had, of late, taken to discussing her legal strategies with him, not only because he was a willing ear and showed a lot of interest, but also because he offered useful suggestions, too. He had worked as a paralegal for some years before quitting to join a pharmaceutical company as a regional sales executive, a job which he was still doing, but using the new and popular style of working mostly from home. Stacy thought that the computer age was making a lot of things possible, but, at the same time, teaching people to be lazy, and she teased her boyfriend mercilessly about that. John took it all with good grace.

  Stacy couldn’t understand why John decided to have a doorbell with the sound of a barking dog and a cooing pigeon. The Bark! Bark! Coo! Coo! sound was irritating, but she endured it and waited for the door to open. She had stopped arguing with him about changing it, making a mental note that if things came to a head, that that would be her first project done on her own authority with no need to consult him. Th
e door flew open, revealing the form of John McCarthy swathed in his satin-lined velvet robe. Holding a glass of scotch in one hand, he swept Stacy with the other into a tight hug and kissed her. Stacy couldn’t help feeling the bulge pressing against her, below the navel. She grinned and asked coyly, “Is that the scotch or are you just happy to see me?”

  “I guess it’s the latter,” John replied, looking unabashed as he followed her into the sitting room.

  “Well then, hold on to your breeches for a couple more hours. I have good news to tell you first.” With that, she wriggled to duck his hand, which reached out for another amorous grab, and wiggled her way into the adjoining room. “Gotta change first.”

  Venice, Italy

  January 1, 2013

  A WASH OF DULL light enveloped the room and tickled Fr. McCarthy’s face to complete wakefulness. Jennifer was at the window, pulling the curtains open and silhouetting her killer, slim figure-eight form against the dull white scenery that was the Venetian winter morning of the first day of the New Year. Fr. McCarthy could see from the hotel window that it had stopped snowing. The white fluffy matter covered the rooftops, and hid the water and boats below in thick blanket-like layers. He took a minute to muse at the human ingenuity of building an entire city on top of water. Venice was cold, dull, and slow in winter, but, for him, it wasn’t as depressing as he was told it would be. The dull and calm of the city held a beauty of its own that was more captivating than alienating. He thought he understood why many of the world’s great artists were from Venice and its surrounding areas—from Giorgione with his famous depictions of the goddess, Venus, from whom Venice takes its name, to Michelangelo with his opus magnum, The Last Judgment.