Flight Dreams

by Michael Craft

  Except, his happiness. The penetrating ease and warmth defy analysis. He tells himself that these feelings might be logically explained, dismissed as the expected consequence of his escape from winter—or as the afterglow of his sated libido—but he knows that the reasons for his contentment are far more profound. Someone has quietly slipped into his life, changed his life in ways he could never have predicted, taught him pleasures he never knew existed, exposing the sheer, innate rightness of desires he will never again neglect. He proclaims himself a lucky man as he rinses his razor, turns on the shower, and ducks under the steamy spray.

  After dressing with inordinate self-scrutiny—khakis (of course), cashmere sweater (sleeves shoved to the elbow), penny loafers (sweat socks)—he pops into the living room to present himself for Neil’s approval. Neil is gone, but his whereabouts are revealed by the hiss of spraying water from the other bedroom wing.

  The smell of roasting lamb fills the air, fueling Manning’s hunger. He helps himself to a carrot from the veggie tray Neil has set out, then wanders the room, examining it in detail, impressed more than ever by its restrained design, the choice of furnishings—and of course, the Biedermeier console. His eye travels to the dining table, its two elegant settings, a bottle of Bordeaux. He approaches the table to determine the wine’s vintage, then notices a folded place card centered on one of the plates. Intrigued, he picks up the card and reads its message, written in Neil’s distinctive hand: “Dear Mark, IOU one Christmas gift. FedEx next week. Promise.”

  Neil’s voice says, “Didn’t take you long to zero in on that!” He laughs while watching from the bedroom doorway, then crosses to the table to hug Manning’s waist.

  “What’s this about?” asks Manning, holding the card. “You shouldn’t … buy me things.”

  “Tut-tut,” says Neil, tapping a finger on Manning’s lips. “You’ll understand soon enough. Now”—he checks his watch, changing topics—“we’re just in time. Dinner’s going to take a while, but there’s something I want you to see.”

  Manning quips, “I thought I’d seen it all today.”

  “On television, wise guy. It’s a church service you don’t get in Chicago—I checked when I was there.”

  “Church?” says Manning. “I’d have guessed you weren’t ‘into’ that.”

  “Of course I’m not. But this’ll be a hoot. Brother Burt, the crackpot evangelist I told you about, is doing a Christmas special on cable tonight. So get comfortable—and enjoy.” He ushers Manning to a sofa at the far end of the room, rolls a television out from its hiding place, and switches it on.

  The set bursts to life with flashing pictures and the frenetic garble of messages between programs. Then the screen goes black and all is quiet. Faintly, the voices of a choir emerge from the void, accompanied by a piano. The darkness of the screen gives way to hazy-focus sparkles of light reflected from a revolving mirrored ball. Ornate Bible-style text appears superimposed over the disco ball, announcing: The Holy Altar of Mystic Faith.

  “What the hell is this?” Manning asks.

  “It’s the Miss Viola show. Keep watching.”

  Two cameras pan back and forth across a small choir, cross-fading to give the illusion that the group is ten times its actual size. They wear gold satin robes and sing a homely though rousing hymn about Thy holy law. Verse plods to verse, but at last the final cadence of triumphal chords is banged out on a gleaming white baby grand, an instrument that would appear more at home in a cocktail lounge.

  “That’s pretty bad,” Manning says flatly, objectively.

  “Just wait,” says Neil through a grin.

  The screen fills with the chubby, smiling face of a man who carries a white microphone, sporting a gaudy ring on his plump pinkie. Fifty-something, maybe sixty, his age is made iffy by heavy makeup and the blue gleam of dyed-black hair. He wears a white suit with red contrasting stitching on its double-wide lapels. His brow sweats dramatically as he flourishes his free arm and blusters in an evangelical drawl about the Holy Altar of Mystic Faith. Every other sentence contains the word “Jesus,” which he pronounces Cheee-suss, protracting the first syllable, wagging his jowls on the second.

  “Who is this guy?” asks Manning.

  “That’s Brother Burt. He’s Miss Viola’s archdeacon.”

  “You mean her sidekick?”

  “Sort of. I’ve heard he’s actually the ‘brains’ behind the whole business, if you can believe it.”

  While Brother Burt harangues his audience with scriptural citations instructing the chosen people to build a Holy Altar, the cameras entice the viewers with glimpses of the edifice itself.

  “Have you ever seen anything so tacky?” Neil comments. “It looks like it was slapped together by the prom committee.” Disco balls flash and whirl at random heights before the Holy Altar. Niches enshrine life-size papier-mâché angels, spray-painted gold, some brandishing foil-covered swords with the jerky, repetitive movements of a department store Christmas display. At the center of the altar sits an enormous open Bible, far too big, too perfect, to be real. Behind the Bible loom two arched tablets, clearly of spackled cardboard, “engraved” with Roman numerals to represent the Ten Commandments. Smoke machines puff dry ice around the base of the altar so that it appears to drift on a cloud.

  “Wouldn’t you love to get a look behind that thing?” Neil asks with a mischievous chortle. “I can just see it—all braced up like a movie set, barely able to support its own weight, held together with staples and tape. Imagine all the motors, the tangle of cords, the big ugly tubes running to the cloud machines. God, I’d love to get back there and cross a few wires!”

  Manning asks, “Is this a local show?”

  “It sure is,” boasts Neil with feigned pride. “It originates at a cable company right here in Phoenix.”

  “Perhaps we could go down to the studio later and take a peek behind the Holy Altar,” says Manning, snickering at the absurdity of the suggestion.

  “You may laugh now,” says Neil, “but you’ll be mad as hell in a minute. Brother Burt is still working up to his pitch.”

  As predicted, Brother Burt soon mentions a “prayer cloth.” Quizzically, Manning draws his brows to the bridge of his nose as Brother Burt reverently displays an oblong piece of terry cloth, about six inches by twelve, with two red circles printed on it. “By now, my brothers and sisters, most of you already have a prayer cloth of your very own, and you have come to know the healing powers, the mystical forces that your prayers can unleash as a result of using this amazing worship aid. Those of you who do not yet have your own prayer cloth—or would like another as a Christmas gift for a loved one—will want to call now.” A toll-free number, 1-800-GOD-LINE, flashes on the screen, along with the logos of every credit card known to man. “Miss Viola will send you your very own prayer cloth in return for a hundred-dollar pledge to the work of Cheee-suss.”

  Neil says, “Can you imagine allowing that crap on television? If you or I tried to sell some worthless piece of junk for a hundred bucks and promised it would cure cancer, we’d be tossed in jail and deserve it. But this clown can get up there to rob suckers in the name of Jesus, send them a strip of old washrag, explain away—as lack of faith—the fact that the rag won’t do a damned thing, and then pay no taxes on his profits. Sure, he’s just some local clown, a backwater evangelist with his hand in the till, but he’s really no different from those network yahoos touting the Christian Family Crusade. They’ve all got ulterior agendas that are anything but ‘religious.’”

  He catches his breath before continuing, “I understand, Mark, why Brother Burt is protected, and I realize that this country already suffers from far too much regulation, but boy I’d like to punch a hole in that racket.”

  Manning has nodded quietly throughout the brief tirade, fully grasping the dilemma, fully sharing Neil’s frustration.

  “And so, my brothers and sisters, let us now pray. In the name of Cheee-suss, through the intercession of our beloved
high priestess, Miss Viola, let us now kneel upon our prayer cloths with one knee placed firmly on each of the red circles—red from the blood of the Lamb—that we, too, might be cleansed, washed pure in the sacrificial blood.”

  The choir strikes up a chant of mystical-sounding nonsense syllables as Brother Burt turns his back to the camera and approaches the Holy Altar. He walks with a severe limp, dragging his right foot behind his left… thump-slide … thump-slide. He lets his prayer cloth drift to the floor, then, with difficulty, drops to his knees upon it. Whiffs of cloud spurt up at his sides to accommodate the intrusive mass of his body. With head bowed and arms raised, with the choir still murmuring, he prays loudly, blabbering about love and Thy holy law, railing against secularists and sodomites with repeated references to “the serpent.”

  Neil says, “He used to include a bit of snake-handling in his act—honest—but the authorities put an end to it.”

  The choir stops. Still kneeling, Brother Burt looks over his shoulder at the camera and smiles through the sweat of his religious experience. “And now,” he announces in the tone of a carnival barker, “the supreme high priestess of the Holy Altar of Mystic Faith: Miss Viola!”

  He shoots one arm toward the heavens, and the camera follows to focus on a large crescent moon being winched down from the heights of the studio among the disco balls. The moon is ridden by Miss Viola, a svelte, ageless woman with vivid orange-red hair, wearing a fur muff of the same color on one arm. A blue mantle flutters from the collar of her long white gown. Smiling for the camera, she clutches the descending moon with a cautious, uncertain grip. The moon jitters ominously as it lowers, its wires glistening with light reflected from the disco balls. The piano thunders majestically as the moon at last touches the floor with a jolt; Miss Viola becomes visibly more relaxed. She steps off the edge of the moon, her feet disappearing in the cloud of carbon dioxide. With one hand she holds the little fur, and with the other she dismisses the moon, which soars back to its celestial home with a squeaking of cranks and pulleys.

  This is the part of the program Neil always enjoys most. Tears fill his eyes as he laughs so gustily that he can barely sit up, gasping for each new breath. Manning also finds it funny, but his laughter is restrained by the incredulity that holds his mouth open in a wondering gape.

  The camera zooms inward from Miss Viola’s full figure to a tight shot of her face. Her eyes twinkle as she opens her mouth and speaks: “I am the Light of Mystic Faith.” The choir wails, Woo-oo, woo-oo, while the piano tinkles impressionistically at the upper end of its keyboard. Miss Viola preaches soothing bromides to her followers, extolling the merits of the prayer cloth, enjoining them to send her a hundred bucks for Jesus. As she patters on, the choir continues to warble in the background.

  The joke is wearing thin, and Manning is now bored with it. Even Neil’s laughter has subsided. And something has apparently gone wrong with the program’s sound. As Miss Viola speaks, her words are garbled by loud scraping noises. A second-noise begins to overpower the first—a droning sound resembling the putter of an engine. Neil and Manning exchange an annoyed expression that says, Time to turn it off. But as Neil reaches forward and is about to touch the button, the camera zooms back from Miss Viola, revealing the source of the noise. The fur that Miss Viola holds in her arms is not a muff. It is a live animal—a small orange-red cat purring loudly, pawing the microphone hanging from Miss Viola’s neck. The camera zooms in tight. It is an Abyssinian kitten of exceptional beauty.

  “Huh?” gasps Manning, nearly choking.

  Neil tells him, “She’s never had that Abby on the show before. Look at that cat—what a magnificent little animal—far more beautiful than any we saw at the show in Chicago.”

  Manning readily agrees, nodding his head while keeping his eyes riveted to the screen. “Neil,” he asks, “in the letter you sent me, you said that you went to a cat show here in Phoenix and saw some fine Abbies. Were they of the quality of this kitten?”

  “Yes.”

  Manning turns to face Neil squarely and tells him, “I’ve got to talk to that woman. The program must be live; otherwise they’d have cut out the business with the cat. Can you drive me over to the station?”

  “Sure,” says Neil. “Just give me a few minutes to put our dinner on hold. There’s plenty of time to catch her—the program lasts another half hour.”

  In the car, between bites of another carrot, Manning tells Neil, “I hope this little outing doesn’t ruin your meal.”

  “The lamb will be on the dry side, but I’m sure you’ll make it up to me.”

  Manning reaches across the back of the seat to squeeze the scruff of Neil’s neck, winding a lock of Neil’s hair around his middle finger. Aroused by the contact, Manning leans over to kiss Neil’s ear, inserting his tongue.

  “Down, boy,” Neil cautions him. “We’re here.”

  The cable company sits near the edge of town in an anonymous building, probably a converted supermarket, with sections of its parking lot fenced off for satellite dishes, all staring blindly at the night sky. The front office is dark, so Neil drives around back, where a few cars are parked near a well-lit metal door bearing a sign: AUTHORIZED ENTRY ONLY.

  Manning muses, “We’ll soon find out if a Chicago Police Department press pass has any clout in Phoenix.”

  Neil parks the car and asks, “Want me to wait out here?”

  “Please.” Closing the door behind him, he adds, not entirely in jest, “And keep the engine running.”

  “Mark,” Neil calls after him through the window, “if you find yourself behind the Holy Altar, don’t forget to cross a few wires.”

  Manning gives Neil a thumbs-up, checks his own pockets for pen and notebook, then presses the button of an industrial-size doorbell bolted to the cement-block wall.

  A tin-badged security guard opens the door a few inches. He’s paunchy and genial—hardly intimidating—but he does wear a holster. “Yeah, buddy?”

  “Good evening,” says Manning. “I wonder if you could tell me if Miss Viola’s program has ended yet. I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Yeah, they wrapped it up a few minutes ago. You don’t want a prayer cloth, do you?” The guard laughs. “Some other outfit handles those.”

  “No. No prayer cloth.” Manning flashes his press pass. “I’d just like to speak to Miss Viola.”

  The guard examines Manning’s credentials, impressed. “Sure, buddy. Hold on a minute.” The door thumps closed.

  Manning turns to look back at Neil, whose expression asks, What’s up? Manning shrugs his shoulders. He’s so hungry that he feels weak, so he lights a cigarette, hoping it will slake his appetite. While inhaling the first drag, he notices Neil still watching him and wonders if he disapproves. Neil doesn’t smoke—they’ve never discussed it. Does Neil consider it a filthy, damning character flaw? Manning quickly drops the cigarette onto the asphalt. As he snuffs it out with his toe, the door swings open.

  “Yes, sir? What can I do for you?” It is Brother Burt himself, waving Manning in, but just over the threshold.

  “My name is Manning,” he begins to answer as the door closes with a thud behind him. They stand in a big open room—part warehouse, part garage—cluttered with lights, cables, props, and a couple of service vans.

  “Of course,” says Brother Burt with an obsequious bow of his sweating head, “the esteemed reporter. Whatever brings you to Phoenix—business?”

  “No, pleasure. I happened to catch your program tonight and wonder if I could speak to Miss Viola.”

  “Miss Viola is a very busy and important lady, Brother Mark. Besides, Vi makes it a rule not to speak with the press. She doesn’t feel it’s in the best interest of her mission.”

  “I’ll bet she doesn’t,” says Manning. “Let me level with you. I don’t give a damn about your ‘mission’—though it would certainly make a hell of a story. I’m here only because I have an interest in cats, and I want to talk to Miss Viola about that kitten on T
V tonight. Let me see her, then I’ll go away. Otherwise, who knows?”

  Brother Burt studies Manning with eyes drawn into tight slits, weighs the options, and decides that it will be prudent to cooperate. Wordlessly, he leads Manning off to another part of the building, thump-sliding across the waxed concrete floor. Arriving at the far side of the warehouse, he struggles with an oversize door. Manning tells him, “Let me get that. I’m sorry.”

  Indignant, Brother Burt asks him, “For what?”

  “Well … your leg.”

  “It’s not my leg,” Brother Burt tells him, as if any fool could see. “It’s my foot. An accident during my youth. My right foot was crushed in a fight with Satan. It never really healed—can still cause excruciating pain.” He winces at the words. “A hard-learned lesson in the wages of perversion.”

  Manning repeats, “I’m sorry.”

  Brother Burt’s tone turns cynically philosophical. “Why dwell on the past? It can be so ugly.” As they stroll down a messy hallway, he stops at a door with a dog-eared foil star stapled to it. “Wait. I’ll tell Vi you’re here.” He slips inside the dressing room.

  As instructed, Manning waits, hands shoved into his pockets. Hearing a din of activity around the next turn of the hall, he steps to the corner and looks out into the main studio.

  A crew of technicians and stagehands scurries about, dismantling the Holy Altar and setting the stage for tomorrow morning’s garden show, Cactus Chat. Entire sections of the altar, huge slabs of “marble,” are turned to reveal panels of a desert landscape painted on the other side of the canvas. A pair of angels—swords poised, cords dangling—lurch toward the warehouse on the prongs of a forklift. Another forklift stops in front of Manning. Whining, it lowers a metal-cased control cabinet, depositing it at his feet, blocking his view of the commotion. He stares directly into the back of the device.

  Its innards are a jumble of resistors and other arcane electronics interconnected with a tangle of cords. At the end of each cord is a plug—some black, some red, some yellow—inserted into color-coded sockets. Manning glances heavenward, wondering if maybe someone is smiling upon him. Then he checks over his shoulder, whistles nonchalantly, and switches the plugs in a red and a yellow socket.