“Come here, doll,” he says, pulling her toward him. She sets her head on his chest, where he nuzzles at it with his chin. Her frame is so fragile; she feels slight, vulnerable in his arms. Wind and rain hammer the house, drowning out the softer passages of music crackling through the radio. “I haven’t seen you in a week,” he says into her hair.
“Mm.” She squirms out of his embrace and shuffles a few inches away from him. “I think I forgot what you smell like. It’s … potent.”
“My musk? I thought you liked it. You told me it was pleasing.”
“I do like it. It’s just … it’s not even that hot tonight.”
Ben lies still, stung, trying to sniff out any noticeable change in his healthy animal musk. After a few minutes of charged silence, Joly reaches out a conciliatory hand. “I liked the look of that chicken,” she says. “I’m sure it would have been bang-up.”
“Oh, it would have been revelatory.”
“Maybe we can have it tomorrow?” She tugs on his wrist, drawing him into a spoon.
“Of course.” His head presses into her shoulder blades. “No wait. Tomorrow’s Wednesday. Church dinner. How about Thursday?”
“I’m babysitting Yvie.” She waits a beat, then adds, “You can come over … if you want. Cook it at my place?”
“At your brother’s?” Her brother, the parasite, the adulterer. Ben hates going over to that pleasure palace.
“If you want.”
How can he say no? This is the first time she has initiated a rendezvous in weeks. And her body relaxes into his when he accepts.
Unaccustomed to this blackout darkness, he touches his hand to her face, her small cheek, and he lets his fingers feel out her features. Then he moves down, feeling out her whole form, his hand pausing at her stomach.
This is the most sustained contact they’ve had all month. Uncertain about the recovery time of an abortion, he has been afraid to touch her. The literature he consulted instructed him to wait at least two weeks, a window that has doubled. But he is keen, a newly bought pack of condoms awaiting use in his nightstand. He bought them—his first time buying condoms in years—the day she announced her pregnancy, as though they would have a retroactive efficacy. But neither of them likes condoms.
In his most panicked moments of the last month, he’s even weighed the possibility of a vasectomy. Though the idea produces a quivering in his testicles. His father had a vasectomy, a blessing for the world, but less of one for the old man himself, who came out of the procedure with what was aptly diagnosed as “post-vasectomy pain syndrome.” He spent months with either a hot water bottle or an ice pack on his groin, uncertain over which better eased the pain. One evening, while Ben was eating dinner (cereal), the old man stormed into the kitchen in search of the ice pack. He dropped his two hundred and fifty pounds of weight into a chair across from Ben and held the compress to his crotch, his head thrown back. When, after long dragging minutes, some version of relief came, the old man sat up, reached for the cereal box, paused with his fat fingers around it, looked Ben in the eye, and said, “Don’t ever let them fuck with your balls, boy.” That nugget sank deep into Ben’s neural network, so that every time he even thinks the word vasectomy, he feels a phantom pain in his scrotum.
But he’d do it if she asked him to. If that is the only way to get back on track.
He moves an exploratory hand to her hip. She guides it up to her face and curls herself against him. No suggestion of anything more.
6
IN THE SMALL horseshoe-shaped rectory kitchen adjoining the church, Ben scrubs meat loaf remnants from a dinner plate, his feet positioned awkwardly beside the bucket that’s catching rainwater leaking from the ceiling.
Turnout at tonight’s dinner was better than expected: over fifty, a quarter of which were parishioners, a quarter university students looking for free food, and the other half local derelicts.
The dishwasher already full and running, Ben is hand-washing the overflow. He passes off a soapy plate to Reverend Roberta, who rinses it and sends it along to Ray, a reluctant boomer volunteer, coerced by his wife into helping out. Ray has been given the easiest of tasks: drying the dishes and putting them away.
“What a great system you three have going,” croons Judy, the wife, wheeling in the last load of dishes from the narthex, which doubles as the dining hall.
“The assembly line model is what made our civilization great, ma’am,” Ben says, passing along another plate. “That, and the endless wars. Now why don’t you take over for a minute?” Ben presses the wet sponge into her hands. “I need to rock one.”
Ben takes a leak and a five-minute break, resting outside on a rock under the overhang and watching the rain. He’s been on his feet since one o’clock and they’re aching inside his boots. But when he returns to the kitchen, he finds a shocking lack of progress on the dishes, and Judy and Ray inexplicably donning their coats. “Oh, we hate to leave you and the Reverend with such a mess, Ben. But I don’t want to drive in the dark. Do you know that traffic lights are still out? Our streetlights too, isn’t that an outrage?”
“Unconscionable, ma’am.”
So Ben and Reverend Roberta are left to plough through the remaining piles on their own. When they’re down to the pots, pans, and serving dishes, Ben kicks at the bucket. “How’s that roof fundraising going?”
In unison, they tip their heads back to look at the water stain on the ceiling. “It’s been slow, I won’t lie. We’re still short.”
“Can you tap the university coffers?” he asks. “We’re on campus territory, with strong ties to the school.”
“It’s tricky. The university earmarks certain funds for sanctioned ‘safe spaces.’”
“Sounds perfect. This is a church.”
Roberta’s fringe of short grey hair flops across her broad cheek; she blows it to the side with a heaving breath. “A church is not an official ‘safe space.’”
“It is the original safe space.” When Ben looks at her for some recognition of the irony but gets only a grim frown, he throws his soap-covered hands way up over his head. “Sanctuary! Sanctuary!”
Roberta, as though reciting from a pamphlet, explains: “An official ‘safe space’ makes a commitment to welcoming and including marginalized groups.”
“Isn’t that the implied commitment of the Anglican Church?”
“I suppose it depends on whom you ask. But it’s not an official ‘safe space’ until we get the certificate. And the decals. Pins, too, I think. And for that to happen, I need to complete a workshop. I’ve got that scheduled for tomorrow.”
“And this is going to help you pay for the roof?”
“Possibly.” She rubs a tea towel around the edges of the mashed potato pot. “Like I said, a lot of hoops. But you have to play within the system sometimes or you don’t get anywhere.”
“That does seem to be your attitude. Explains the tone of your sermons, at least.”
“What tone is that, Ben?”
Ben’s sponge pauses on its path across a serving plate. “Weak.”
“Oh dear god, spare me, would you?” In an ungainly squat, Roberta tries to find a way to jam the pot into the crowded bottom cupboard. “I’m not in the mood for another critique of my sermons. It’s late.”
But Ben is already on a tear: “You ask nothing of your parishioners, do you realize that? Nothing! You barely ask them to engage in their own community. Look around, Reverend, is anyone helping us tonight? Where are your legions of volunteers? Are you aware that I had to abridge the menu due to a lack of kitchen help?”
“The menu was fine.”
“It was lackluster! Yes, of course, the meat loaf was perfectly moist. And the gravy a tour de force. But where were the glazed carrots and buttered green beans? And the fresh-baked bread? I was promised two boomers for prep.” He stabs two fingers way up into the air. “One was a no-show, the other was useless, unable to chop potatoes without constant instruction and validation.”
Ben scrubs ferociously at the already-clean serving plate. The problem extends far beyond delinquent volunteerism and community engagement. The Church, with its history, tradition, and reach, should be ground zero for social activism. None of the rinky-dink activist groups that have been popping up lately have the institutional heft to support a true movement. In the coming Dark Age, when the corporate state abandons its citizens entirely, the Church will be the only institution left that can operate as a powerful force of change. It will be the only institution to preserve the artefacts of civilization, as it did in the last Dark Age. The only institution that will preserve hope.
“You coddle these people,” Ben mutters bitterly.
“I don’t coddle them. I relate to them,” she says, snatching the plate, still covered with suds, from his hands.
“No hard truths. No call to action. We ought to be reminding them of the stark sacrifices that have to be made. This world is in crisis!”
“What would you have me do? Scream at the few remaining parishioners we still draw?” Some crazed gestures are happening with her arms and Ben starts to worry about the fate of the serving plate.
“I would have you rouse them!” he cries. “Awaken them to the realities of the world around them, beyond their bubbles of privilege and prestige.”
“You think haranguing people gets them on your side?” Roberta says.
“Yes! Yes! That’s exactly what I think. That is the essence of the prophetic tradition. Jeremiah! The legendary haranguer!”
“Well, Ben … I’m not a prophet.” Roberta shoves the wide plate into an overflowing cupboard and slams the door three times before she finally gets it to close.
“Clearly.”
“You think you can do better?”
“I could not do much worse.”
“All right then,” she says, drying her plump hands aggressively on the sopping tea towel. “Why don’t you rouse us this week, oh prophet? You give the sermon. Let’s see how that goes.”
Ben stares at her, the drip from the ceiling the only sound. “You want me to deliver the sermon?”
“Sure, why not? You have a lecture prepared every time I see you.”
Ben’s mind darts around for excuses and evasions. “Me?”
“That’s right. Rouse the rabble, Ben. Lead us all out of the wilderness and into the light.” She chucks the tea towel onto the dull laminate counter. “And finish the damn dishes yourself.”
7
AND SO IT is that the leadership of an entire congregation falls upon Ben. A reluctant prophet, like his ancient brother Jeremiah, he sits in the Sanctum, at the tiny desk in his bedroom, poring over the scripture cited in this week’s lectionary. A thousand ideas spring onto the sheets of his notebook, but he has difficulty distilling his angry thoughts into a stirring homily.
The week’s Gospel reading again comes from Luke, 12:56. “You hypocrites!” rails Jesus. “You know how to interpret the appearance of earth and sky, but why do you not know how to interpret the present time?”
The present time, of course, is characterized by the decline of an empire. Surely this is what God wants Ben to discuss. Dispatches from the heart of an unholy empire. Like so many prophets before him. Only … the prophets of old never had to bother with the work of composition; scripture teaches that God put His words directly into their mouths.
In search of inspiration, Ben lets his thoughts circle around the ills of Empire, a pervasive theme in the history of human civilization. It’s right there in Genesis, in the story of Babel. Flipping the Bible to its opening book, Ben revisits this fable of hubris, as clear in its moral lesson as Icarus and his waxen wings. A proud people seek to build a great civilization, make a name for themselves, more interested in cultivating their own image than in knowing God. They don’t care to pursue an understanding of anything greater than themselves. They have no interest in faith. They are narcissists and solipsists, like so many around him today. And they are punished for it.
The passage inspires in Ben a sense of humility. So he abandons the arrogant exercise of trying to guess at God’s message and sends out a quick prayer: “Come now, Lord, make with the holy words.” He squints open an eye, listens. Crickets.
8
THE CORNER WINDOW of The Poppy Seed is boarded up. Thieves smashed it during the blackout and jacked the computers from the back office, along with a few assorted tubs of cream cheese—not the pumpkin spice—and, curiously, all of the rosemary bagels. The blackout lasted less than twenty-four hours: time enough for looting to start.
Dickhead Debbie, however, is unbothered by theft and vandalism. It’s left her giddy. The destruction of the window has presented her with a long-awaited opportunity to “spruce up the corner.”
“We’re gonna build a tower!” she says. “Huge huge. I want it to go right up to the ceiling, all right? A showstopper!”
Ben and Lyle, tasked point men for this project, have been ushered to the alcove to absorb Dickhead Debbie’s demented instructions. They have been called away from their actual duties at the counter, leaving Megz to handle both coffee and cash on her own.
“It’s too bad that someone had to smash up the window to get us thinking about a face-lift. But life gives you lemons? And you make lemonade, right?”
Her lemonade is a tower made out of bagels. A great big tower of bagels. Dickhead Debbie lays out her design on the alcove table.
“See the pattern?” She jabs an enthusiastic finger at the architectural design. “I want you to go poppy seed, sesame seed, caraway. Got it? That’s the pattern. Poppy, sesame, caraway. Poppy, sesame, caraway.”
Neither the frenzied pitch nor the obvious delight she’s taking in her own authority suggest that she has been humbled by a good talking-to from a superior. Has Frank spoken with her about her managerial style? About the overtime? About anything at all? Ben will have to write another letter. Maybe one a day until matters are resolved.
On the bright side, earlier this morning, Ben stumbled into a defective smoked meat sandwich situation. A big shot banker-type ordered the smoked meat, but forgot to mention no mustard. By the time he remembered, the mustard had already infiltrated the whole sandwich, the pores of the bread, the underside of the meat—couldn’t be saved. A definite defect, safely tucked away in the fridge. A red-letter day. Ben hasn’t had a smoked meat defect in months, not since the spring, and then, because of his Lenten abstention from all forms of meat, he wasn’t able to accept it. It took enormous spiritual will to withstand that temptation.
“But there’s not enough support here, Debbie,” Lyle is saying. “This will tip over.”
“That’s what the metal rod is for.”
Lyle grabs the metal rod, light and flimsy in his hands. “But it’s not sturdy enough for—”
“Just look at the sketch, Lyle. Follow the design. And keep an eye on traffic at the counter. If we get a rush and Megan looks swamped, I want you to help her out, okay? The Customer has to take priority,” she says. Though these last words come out grudgingly.
“But—”
“Make it high! High high!” And with the extra-hyper dispensation of this final instruction, she bobbles away.
“Lyle, my brother in arms,” Ben says as they begin the preposterous process of building this tower, “it’s time. I’ve done some preliminary research. I think the UFCW is our best bet. As a union, they don’t have the hugest balls, I’ll admit that myself, but they are the food industry experts. We call them up, we sign some membership cards, and we reclaim a small ounce of power. And dignity.”
“Yeah sure, Ben, if you give me a card, I’ll sign it. But …” Lyle stops to smile, a wicked glee spreading across his entire face.
“What?”
“I sort of took care of my problems with Dickhead Debbie.”
“What do you mean?”
He leans toward Ben, but his eyes are fixed on the counter, where Dickhead Debbie is helping herself to her daily bagel with its thick sme
ar of cream cheese. His smile intensifies, his eyes aglitter, and he whispers, “I jizzed in the pumpkin spice cream cheese.”
“Sorry, what?”
“I did. I totally jizzed in it.” He pinches his nose and laughs. “She had me in the back for the first few hours. Refilling the cream cheeses. No one was around … so I just whipped it out, jerked it, and jizzed right into that pumpkin spice that she loves so goddamn much. Hahahah.”
So. This is how far they’ve come. This is the sort of job action that remains for the working man. Impotent in his battle against management, he’s left to thrash against his lot with a primitive display of bodily fluids.
Lyle can’t stop looking at Dickhead Debbie as she chomps on her specially-spiced pumpkin spice bagel. He smothers his mouth with a palm to mask his laughter, delighted over this moronic bit of vengeance. But his mirth attracts Dickhead Debbie’s attention. “Get going over there, boys,” she calls. “I want to see some real height when I come back out here.”
Lyle stands on a chair, slipping the bagels one after the other down the metal rod while Ben feeds him the appropriate choice from the basket: poppy seed, sesame seed, caraway. At two feet, the structure is already unstable. When they get it up to five feet, Megz, bored by a lull at the counter, wanders over. Today’s button features fallopian tubes that curve toward a pair of very large, not-at-all to-scale ovaries, beneath which diagram is the imperative: Grow a Pair.
“Tower’s looking … high.” She wiggles it, testing its stability. “Pretty shaky, though.”
“Won’t last the night,” says Lyle.
“Did I hear you guys talking about the union?” she asks.
“Yes! Absolutely and always!” Ben turns his complete attention to her, abandoning the bagel basket.
“Because I’ve been thinking about it. And I just don’t like how Debbie treats people. There’s a lot of unfair bullshit. Like, I was talking it over with Lindsay, on the morning shift, and we both agreed that Debbie treats the female staff differently. She, like, infantilizes us.”
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