Joe's Liver

by Di Filippo, Paul

  Ardy turns uneasily in his seat. Eighty opaque eyes are fastened on him like fishing hooks. Facing them is like trying to out-stare Mount Rushmore.

  “Hello, uh, hombres.”

  Silence.

  “Is everyone as famished as I find myself?”

  Ditto.

  “I see. Have any of you ever visited New York before ? I confess I have not.…”

  As before.

  “Uh, redistribution of land to the peasant class strikes me as eminently sensible …”

  Kirsten returns just as the uncanny silence is about to make Ardy run. He actually jumps as she comes on board.

  “Okay, first shift, time to eat!” she calls out cheerily.

  Half the Indians get up with awesome dignity and file out. The other half remain as utterly immobile.

  “You’ll eat with the second group, Ardy. After lunch, Father Jim wants you to remain behind in the Winnebago and talk with him.”

  Kirsten leaves again. The minutes dribble by. The first contingent of diners returns, and the second arises wordlessly and moves out. Ardy brings up the rear.

  The large homey interior of the Winnebago is crammed with people. Each Indian holds a paper plate piled high with chili, which they scoop up with tortillas. Kirsten is helping to distribute the food. At a tiny stove, stirring an immense pot, stands a man. He is tall and wiry, rather ascetic looking in fact. He wears a black turtleneck, black polyester pants, and dull black shoes. His disordered brown hair is tinged with grey at the temples. His features bespeak suffering matured like fine wine into noble wisdom.

  When Ardy enters, the chef turns and smiles. Ardy sees that he wears a big gold cross on a chain around his neck.

  “Father Jim, this is Ardy.”

  “Hello, son. Grab a plate, find a corner, and feed your body. We’ll discuss matters of the soul afterwards.”

  Ardy does as he is told.

  There is no conversation, as the Indians eat with the same intensity they seem to bring to bear on every action. Finally they are finished. Kirsten escorts them back to the bus, then returns to throw away paper plates and scrub the chili pan. At last the caravan is ready to roll.

  “Son, can you drive?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Well then, I’m going to put myself in your debt by asking if you’ll take over. Frankly, I’m bushed. I don’t know how Kirsten does it. She’s younger than old Father Jim, of course, but Still, we’ve both been driving for what seems like days. Just one misfortune after another has plagued our itinerary. In Vermont, some sort of armed insurrection was flaring up again after a few quiet months, so we kept going toward Boston. Luckily we had the radio on, and we heard about the radiation sickness, so we swung wide and headed toward Providence. Well, damned if it didn’t seem like half the city was on fire! If that wasn’t bad enough, we ran into some sort of shootout as we were leaving. Mob activity, if you ask old Father Jim.”

  “I suspect you’re right, Mister —”

  “The last name’s Bracewell, son. But please, call me Father Jim — everyone does.”

  “Well, Father Jim, as far as driving goes …”

  Father Jim waved away Ardy’s inchoate objections. “Oh, I know you probably don’t have a license, son, but don’t let that worry you. Our whole enterprise here is illegal, so I figure breaking one more manmade law won’t matter much. Just remember, there are laws higher than those of Caesar.”

  “Yes, I agree, Father Jim, but it’s not Caesar I’m worried about, it’s people like state troopers and two rather skittish agents of justice from the Immigration Service, who tend to shoot first and ask questions later.…”

  “You’re not referring to the Johnsons, are you?”

  “Why, yes, how did you …?”

  “When you’ve adopted a mission like mine, son, you’re bound to run across such infamous philistines. Don’t worry about them, the last I heard, they were busy running down some extremist group. We shouldn’t encounter them.”

  “Still, I don’t …”

  “Son, your modesty is holding up God’s work.”

  Confronted with the calm and almost predefined assurance of Father Jim, Ardy relents.

  A sliding curtain is all that separates the rear of the vehicle from the driver’s compartment, and Ardy is soon perched behind the wheel, handling the unfamiliar controls and guiding the bulky house-trailer down the highway. For the first time in what seems like days, he notes his appearance, courtesy of the rearview mirror: the dye-job on his face is fading in a random pattern, leaving him with a piebald epidermis. His droopy eyes, however, seem to be regaining their customary tonus.

  From close behind Ardy comes the voice of Father Jim.

  “Ah, it feels good to stretch out. Thanks a lot, son. As I said, I’m in your debt.”

  The sound of a bottle being opened reaches Ardy, followed by the clink of glass on glass and the gurgle of liquid.

  “I’d offer you a drink, son, but one of us has to keep his senses.”

  Father Jim can be heard to sip luxuriantly.

  “Now, tell me about yourself.”

  Because Father Jim is on the far side of the curtain and Ardy cannot see him, as in a confessional; because of his air of benevolence and the cross he wears; because he has resolved not to lie anymore; because of all these things, Ardy tells Father Jim his whole true story, minus a few of the less savory sexual elements he feels might embarrass a man of the cloth.

  “I see,” says Father Jim in a slurred voice, when Ardy is done. Father Jim, Ardy suspects, has been drinking steadily during Ardy’s tale. The smell of liquor is heavy in the air. “It’s an odd story, but the Lord moves in mysterious ways. I think you can be of service to our cause, Ardy. Let me tell you a little more about it.

  “As you might have guessed by now, I was once a missionary priest. My parish was in a poor and humble town in Chiapas province, Mexico. I was unhappy there, Ardy, very unhappy. There was so much to be done, in terms of improving basic living conditions, and I felt like my hands were tied. The church just wouldn’t let me undertake the kind of programs that would mitigate anything. I felt helpless. I’m afraid it wasn’t long before I took to drink. After a while, I felt like a character out of a Graham Greene novel. I suppose I would have ended my days there, except for one thing.”

  “A revelation from on high?” ventures Ardy.

  “Hardly, Ardy. No, the whole town — suspected of harboring Zapatista guerillas — was wiped out by government troops funded by United States dollars. Bullet-riddled bodies in a mass grave, pools of blood on the church floor. It was a vision of hell, pure and simple. The only reason I survived the slaughter was that I was dead drunk underneath the altar, and the soldiers overlooked me. Well, when I came to and saw what had happened, it completed my radicalization. I officially resigned from the stifling embrace of the church upon my return to the States, determined to alert the majority of good-hearted people in this country to what their government was supporting in Mexico. But I found that no one would listen to me. Have you ever had that problem, Ardy?”

  “Frequently.”

  “Yes, well, where was I? Oh, right. At first, I despaired. But after many hours of prayer, I was vouchsafed the revelation you guessed at earlier. In one shining moment, I conceived of The Ethical Circus. You see, Ardy, unlike the Third World, where words by themselves still carry an almost magical weight, the First World now respects only images. And by myself, I just wasn’t a potent enough image. When I got up on the platform to speak, all people saw was someone just like them. Nothing strange or shocking that would shake them out of their complacency. Well, once I realized this, it became plain what I had to do. I flew to California and raised enough money to buy this van and bus. Then Kirsten and I — a wonderful girl, perhaps the only one to ever really listen to me — we drove throughout Chiapas, recruiting refugees to bear witness to the cruelty of the PRI regime. We crossed the US border — which is where we met the Johnsons, but that’s another st
ory entirely — and ever since we’ve been taking our little road show around the land, trying to wake this country up.”

  “Father Jim, it appears to me that you are in earnest, and that your cause is worthwhile. But I don’t see how I fit in. Do you wish me to recount how the Spice Island was invaded? I personally saw no terrorist acts. In fact, my compatriots were kissing the American soldiers rather freely.”

  “No, you’re right, that whole Spice Island invasion is a dead issue. Hardly anyone ever cared about it in the first place, and those who did forgot about it as soon as the Gulf War thing happened. Only a few cranks get worked up about it any longer. No, I need you as a voluble spokesman for the Zapatistas.”

  “In the manner of Subcommander Marcos?”

  “Exactly. We’ll dub you, oh, let’s see — how about Sub-subcommander Tostito?”

  “Ridiculous! No one will buy it for a moment. My appearance —”

  “Not so. With a beret in place of that dead beaver and a bandana across the lower half of your face, you could pass for Che himself.”

  “Father Jim, this reeks of deceit.”

  “Weren’t we just speaking a moment ago of higher laws, Ardy?”

  “Father Jim, I can’t …”

  “Ardy, I don’t wish to play Judas here, but if you don’t cooperate — and remember, this is all for the good of millions of suffering peasants — I will be forced to turn you in to the authorities as soon as we reach New York.”

  “Mi nombre es Tostito.”

  “Excellent! Ardy, I’m inspired to introduce you to the rest of the group right this minute! Flash your lights a couple of times. That’s our signal to pull over.”

  Once both vehicles are stopped in the breakdown lane, Ardy helps a rubbery-kneed and spirit-scented Father Jim over to the school bus and up the steps. He confronts the solemn Indians and lifts up his hands in a blessing.

  “¡Senores y senoras, aqui es nuestro amigo nuevo, Sub-subcommander Tostito!”

  Kirsten immediately begins clapping and loudly shouts, “¡Bravo, bravo, viva la revolucion!”

  The Indians do not stir so much as an eyebrow.

  Ardy smiles until his jaw aches.

  “Buenas dias,” he says.

  One old Indian lets out a muffled fart.

  At short intervals the others follow suit.

  It is the only rendition of the New — or First — World Symphony Ardy will ever hear.

  11

  Drama in Real Life

  “Father Jim, it’s just incredible. I had no idea the city was so — so dingily awesome.”

  There is no answer from Father Jim, for the whiskey ex-priest has fallen stuporously asleep on the floor, filling the recreational vehicle with ester-scented snores. Ardy is left alone with his awe.

  He is driving west across an anonymous bridge athwart what he believes is the Harlem River. The time is late afternoon. The sinking sun before him backlights the ranked buildings of Manhattan with a febrile glow.

  Manhattan, that glamorous rock in the Atlantic, upon which many a hope and dream has run aground …

  Ardy keeps close on the tail of the painted school bus ahead, as he has done since they set out after his rousing and aromatic reception by his fellow Indian refugees. The last thing he wants is to become separated from Kirsten, forced to wander the incredibly complex network of mean urban streets as he searches for a destination he has neglected to learn before Father Jim dropped off. He can just imagine stopping a policeman to make inquiries.

  “Excuse me, sir, but do you know where I can rendezvous with a troupe of political mountebanks known as The Ethical Circus, who are bent on subverting this country’s probably well-reasoned Central American foreign policy?”

  “Awright asshole, outa the car.”

  No, best not to let matters come to such a pass. Therefore Ardy drives the schooner-like recreational vehicle with devil-may-care sang-froid, cutting off other cars, passing where not allowed, racing through caution lights, all in an effort to keep up with Kirsten, who appears to have taken driving lessons at the same school as Miss Dawn Shattuck. Do all American women exhibit this same recklessness behind the wheel, or is he extrapolating from too small a sample? To experiment further, with other as-yet unmet daredevil damsels, would probably involve further interpersonal complications Ardy is uneager to embrace, so he tables the proposal for the nonce, the better to concentrate on the devilish subtleties of New York traffic.

  After traversing what appears to be the width of the fabled island, they turn south onto a pleasant winding street that seems to follow the contours of the island’s western shore. What is surely the Hudson gleams off to Ardy’s right.

  While waiting at a red light which Kirsten has capriciously chosen to obey, Ardy notices a sign that informs him he is following Riverside Drive. Ah, the famous Riverside Drive! Instantly a remembered tune fills Ardy with nostalgia: Paul Whiteman’s Orchestra, accompanied by the inimitable Mildred Bailey, playing “Penthouse Serenade.” “A view of the Hudson, just over the Drive …” How many times did he listen to that warped record on the orphanage gramophone, dreaming of his visit to the First World …?

  And now he is actually here! True, things have not turned out exactly as he pictured.… Still, any wonderful twist of fate is still possible, and Ardy resolves not to despair just because he finds himself temporarily forced to masquerade as a leftist gun-toting land-redistributor.…

  The further south they proceed, the more park-like Riverside Drive becomes. Snow covers great grassy tracts dotted with oaks and sycamores and park benches whose wooden slats have been set afire by vandals. Up ahead, Ardy notices some sort of immense domed building set on its own expanse of lawn. It looks almost like a mausoleum. Could it be … ? Yes, a sign proclaims that this is grant’s tomb. How wonderful, they are stopping for a bit of sightseeing first. He should have known that Kirsten and Father Jim could not possibly be as single-minded as they both appeared.…

  But Kirsten does not halt at Grant’s Tomb. Once past it, Ardy notices a huge cathedral across the street. It is this building that the bus heads for, finally pulling up in front.

  After parking behind the bus, Ardy tries to awaken Father Jim, but is unsuccessful. Reluctantly he leaves the man behind on the cold carpet and exits the van.

  Kirsten Stands outside the bus.

  “Come on, Ardy, this is Riverside Church, our first gig. We won’t be going on tonight — its too late — but we’ve arranged for various church members to each take home an Indian for dinner and put him up overnight. We have to find someone who can call each sponsor and tell them to come and pick up their guests.”

  “And what about me, Kirsten ? Am I also to be loaned out also like a video tape?”

  “Gosh, there’s no reason to be snide. I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. We only arranged forty sponsors. I suppose we could rustle up one more.…”

  “What of you and Father Jim? Where will you sleep?”

  Kirsten looks nervously at the ground and scuffs some snow.

  “We usually sleep in the Winnebago.…”

  “I see.…”

  Kirsten raises defiant grey eyes. “No, don’t say it like that! You don’t see anything! I’m sure you’re thinking something nasty, but you’re all wrong! Father Jim’s a saint. He doesn’t have any interest in screwing me — oh, don’t look so shocked, I know that’s what you were thinking. Well, nothing could be further from the truth. Father Jim has nothing on his mind but the salvation of the souls and bodies of these poor peasants. He couldn’t be less interested in carnal relations. Would you like to know how I can be so sure?”

  “Miss Dahl, I never intended — that is, my curiosity does not extend …”

  “Well, I’ll tell you anyway how I know, now that you’ve exposed your sleazy interest. It’s because I offered to go to bed with Father Jim, and he refused. Even though he’s not bound by his vows any longer, he still remains celibate, so as to concentrate all his energy on his missio
n. And it’s not like it would’ve been a sacrifice for me or anything, because I really respect and worship Father Jim, and it would’ve given me so much pleasure to make him happy, and the poor man has to drink himself insensible each night just to escape the awful weight of his memories and his self-imposed obligations, and I — I — I —”

  Ardy is by the side of the weeping Kirsten, an arm around her shoulder for comfort. The Indians stare impassively out the window at the affecting tableau. A pedestrian makes a wide detour around them. The sun sinks below the Jersey Palisades. Finally Kirsten regains her composure, sniffling.

  “Thank you, Ardy, thank you. I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. I guess I’m just tired. All this driving …”

  “We all could do with a good night’s rest, Kirsten. Let us quickly dispatch our charges to their respective foster homes, and get to bed.”

  Somehow, Ardy realizes, it has been silently decided that he will share the accommodations in the RV.

  Inside the vast cathedral Ardy and Kirsten soon track down a beadle or sexton of some sort who is aware of their mission. With his help all forty sponsors are eventually contacted and asked to fulfill their promises to host a refugee. Kirsten thanks the friar — who has also obligingly run an extension cord to the RV’s electrical hookup — and she and Ardy return to the bus to await the sponsors.

  In half an hour, while the last faint daylight still lingers, the procession begins. From all over the West Side arrive cheerful earnest couples, some with cheerful earnest children in tow, by car and subway and bus. Each family graciously shakes hands with their assigned refugee, bravely attempts a few words of high-school Spanish, and departs, proudly bearing their new possessions off. Ardy senses that there will be many impromptu gatherings tonight, as these living tokens of liberal charity are displayed to friends and neighbors.