The Cockroaches of Stay More

by Donald Harington

  The other crickets beat their wings in applause. They clapped and smiled and cheered, and Sam took a little bow, then went on his way. The sky, he noticed, was fully darkened by clouds, and the weather segments of his sniffwhips had upped the chances of thundershowers from 30? to 85?.

  His fears that he had been totally abandoned were soon relieved by the sight of the interior of Holy House, which was crawling with roosterroaches. The cookroom, which Sam visited first, was aswarm with Frockroaches and Smockroaches battling one another over bits of Frito on the floor, and upon the table there was a mob scene in the arena of a paper plate containing the remains of Man’s supper: chicken à la king on toast. Although hungry, Sam did not join in. He moved unnoticed and unrecognized among the Holy House rooster-roaches. He left the cookroom and entered the loafing room, where a crowd had gathered around Brother Chidiock Tichborne, who was preaching. Sam realized that it was Sunday night, time for the usual Sabbath service, but there was something different about this one: they were meeting right in the presence of the Lord, Who, however, did not seem to notice the hundreds of them gathered together in His Name on the floor around His cheer-of-ease, in which He sat drinking and reading.

  “Sinners! Look in yore hearts!” the minister was exhorting the congregation, who were mostly Crustians and did not include those the minister considered true sinners. “Who amongst us can look in his heart and say, ‘Lord, I am free from sin’? Up yonder sits our Lord Hisself, and verily I say unto ye, though He may have a book in His lap, His eye is upon ye, His all-seeing eye is lookin into yore heart, and He knows which of ye have kept His commandments and which of ye have sinned! Repent, for His terrible wrath is soon to be visited upon ye!”

  Of course Sam could hear none of this, but he was impressed with the minister’s ability to hold his audience, who included, Sam was startled to notice, his own father, Squire Hank, crouched at one edge of the crowd, almost unnoticed except by a girl whispering at one of his tailprongs. The girl, Sam was further surprised to discover, was Tish, his own beloved. Why was his father here? Why was she here?

  “Oh, what a blessed privilege it is,” the minister went on, “for us pore sinners to come together tonight right smack dab in the Lord’s Own Mighty Presence, where few of us has been before, to lay our hearts bare before Him and invite His judgment. Repent, I say, for the hour of reckoning is at hand! No one of ye is free from sin! Who amongst ye has tasted of the crumb when the crust would do? Who amongst ye has jined in lust and sin with thine own kindred in incest? Who amongst ye has adulterated? And who amongst ye has fornicated?”

  Though Sam could not hear, he could see, and he saw Tish trembling. Was she a Crustian? He recalled her belief in the Fate-Thing, such a naive but passionate conviction, and he wondered if she had room in her heart for belief in the Crustian drivel espoused by Chid Tichborne.

  “Oh yes, my friends, don’t ye doubt for a minute that He won’t rise up against the sinners in yore midst and smite them! He will smite thee with his bullets! His Holy Revolver is loaded and ready! Hit’s up yonder right alongside His Great Sacred Crystal Ashtray, and it’s ready to use! Look in yore heart, I tell ye, and ask: Is it me, O Lord? Am I the one who deserves Thy punishment? Have my sins offended Thee, O Lord?”

  Sam was tempted to join his father and his beloved. He noticed that his father was the only member of the audience unaffected by the preacher’s oratory. The others, including Tish, seemed to verge on hysteric frenzy. Several had bowed their heads to the floor in abject propitiation. Others, mostly males, were rising up and wringing their sniffwhips together in anguish. Still others, mostly females, were raising both touchers and sniffwhips in the direction of Man, in imploration. All of these prostrated themselves when the minister shouted:

  “Let us pray! Almighty Man, our Father who art Lord of all the world, we beseech Thee to heed our solemn prayer.” So loud was Chid’s voice, with his face turned upward toward Man, that one would have thought that Man, if not Sam, could have heard him. Indeed, Sam could catch a word or two here and there. “All of us are guilty of wickedness! And transgression! And iniquity! And unrighteousness! And evil! O Lord our Man, if it be Thy will, rise up against these sinners and smite them with Thy Holy Gun!”

  And verily, the Lord rose up. He put His book down and stood. But He did not lift up His revolver. He lifted up His empty glass and took it to the cookroom, for a refill. He had not even appeared to notice the assembly of worship on the floor of His loafing room. Many of them had scrambled and scurried for the nearest hiding place at the instant the Lord’s knee-hinges straightened Him upward. But most of them had remained crouched where they were, increasing the fervor of their prayer.

  Tish, Sam noticed, was among those staying in place and praying almost aloud. Sam’s father, he saw, was looking at her with pity.

  Chapter eighteen

  Chid was disappointed. It had been one of his finest sermons, and one of his most eloquent prayers, inspired not only by the occasion of their meeting for the first time at the Lord’s gitalongs but also by Chid’s having Squire Hank himself in the audience, though only on the fringe of it, not down front among the oldest elders and deacons, where he could rightfully crouch if he so desired. What was the Squire, that infidel, doing here, at all? Hoping to see Chid make a fool of himself? Well, the Squire would be surprised. Even if the Lord had not risen up with His revolver, as Chid had been almost certain He would do, the night was still young, the worship service was just getting started, the Lord hadn’t consumed more than a halfpint of the quart He usually drank, and Chid, if he used his best devices, might yet get a rise out of Him.

  “Brethering and sistering,” he addressed the crowd, attempting to summon back those who had fled, “the Lord goeth away, yea, He goeth to His cookroom to open His Fabulous Fridge and get more ice cubes, but He shall come again! Be ye faithful and watchful with me, friends, ere the Lord returneth. Meanwhile, a few announcements.”

  The Ladies’ Aid would next meet on Thursday night. The Gents’ Saturday Prayer Breakfast would have a guest speaker. The Crustian Young People’s Fellowship would go on an outing to Banty Creek Tuesday night.

  “Brother Duckworth,” Chid requested, “would ye kindly report on the membership rolls?”

  Chid yielded the floor to Elder Duckworth, and Tolbert stood to announce, “Brethern and sistern, the elders and deacons of this here church is proud to announce that sixty-three young folks has done reached the age of imago and jined up; seven roosterroaches has repented of their past sins and atoned for their expulsions and has asked to be taken back into the fold. The deacons and elders is powerful sorrow to announce the following expulsions from the church: Brother Theron Coe, who has been found guilty of incest with seven of his daughters, is no longer with us. Brother Jesse Clendenen, Junior, has been found guilty of excessive profanity, and is expelled. Brother Hector Duckworth, who I am glad to say aint no brother a mine, has confessed to incest with five of his sisters and is removed from the rolls. Sister Nancy Whitter has committed incest with eight of her sons and is no longer amongst us….”

  Chid listened idly to this recitation of transgressions, backslidings, expulsions, and reprimands, and noted that it was no worse than usual. His eye and his sniffwhip roamed the congregation, to note their reactions to this tabulation of wrongdoing, and all of them were looking properly solemn and contrite…all except one, who was grinning. Who was that stranger? Why, yes, it appeared to be Squire Hank’s boy, name of Samuel. What was Squire Sam doing here? Worse, why was he wearing such an idiotic grin during this public declaration of awful sin? Did he think it was funny that so many church members were being expelled and castigated?

  Chid’s eye and sniffwhip moved onward, pausing here and there, until he noticed his own family, his wife Ila Frances and some of their children—but where was Archibald? Oh, yes, there was Archibald, over to the other side of the congregation, near Squire Hank but talking to some girl, that same female who had been out there
in the Roamin Road earlier this evening, who had seen the Woman mail Her letter to the Lord. Chid realized she was Josie Dingletoon’s daughter, and, probably because she was the result of that there marble that Chid had given Josie in a moment (or two hours) of weakness and temptation, Chid’s very own daughter too, therefore a half-sister of Archy. Chid would have to remember to give Archy a little lecture about getting so chummy with his half-sister. If nothing else, Chid would have to tell the boy not to talk to her during the worship service.

  But Chid remembered that Tish was probably in mourning for her parents, and this reminded the minister that he had to give the funeralizations, so when Brother Duckworth finished the expulsion announcements and crouched back down, Chid rose again and said, “Well, brethering and sistering, maybe we’ve got time before the Lord returneth to take care of this week’s funeralizations. The following has done went and westered off lately since our last meetin, and we do hereby commend their souls to the Lord: Malvina Swain Murrison has gone west of old age in her twenty-seventh month; James T. Bourne, beloved son of Millard and Gladys Bourne, in only his third instar, has been eaten by a salamander; the childern of Nolan and Bertha Coe, sixteen in number, in their third instar, has been chewed up and westered by mites; nine of the fourth-instar children of Fred and Florence Chism has been consumed by pismires.

  “Let’s see, now,” Chid went on, searching his memory, “Brother Rodney Stapleton has been eaten by a nightingale. And oh yes, the entire family of Clarence and Beatrice Whitter and their sixteen imago childern, fifteen fourth-instar childern, sixteen second-instar childern, and thirteen newborn nymphs and swains, has all been consumed by a opposum, may Our Lord and Saviour Joshua Crust take them each and every to live forevermore on the Right Hand of Man! Now, let’s see, yes, also little Joseph Donald Dingletoon, eaten by a green frog, has predeceased his parents, John or Jack Orville Dingletoon and wife Josephine, logdwellers of Carlott, who was last seen in a beercan in the Lord’s cookroom, where they had no business in the first place.

  “And last but not least, just a few minutes ago, out yonder in the Roamin Road, before my very own eyes, Brother Luke Whitter was crushed beneath the sole of the Woman of Parthenon! Now, my friends, I wish I could tell ye that She did it of a purpose, that She had seen him and stomped on him to punish him or to rapture him, but I do believe it was pure accidental-like. But who is to say? Maybe Luke didn’t care, or maybe he thought he had it coming to him, on account of his wife Nancy….”

  Chid detected a murmur running through the crowd, but it was not because of his words. Those in the back of the audience had detected the footsteps of the return of the Lord! Once again, many of the congregation dashed away beneath the rug or pieces of furniture, but once again the majority of them remained rooted and watched in adoration as the Lord walked back to His cheer-of-ease and plunked down into it. Chid was glad to have the Lord back. Why had He taken so long? Maybe he had grabbed Hisself a snack in the cookroom, which meant there might be more crusts and crumbs littering the floor. Yes, a few of the faithful were becoming unfaithful and edging away in the direction of the cookroom.

  “Hold on there!” Chid shouted, stopping them in their tracks. “This here service aint over yet! Why, no, my friends, we are hardly started! I’ve got a real important message fer ye tonight! But first, Brother Chism, supposing ye lead us in a hymn or two?”

  Deacon Fent Chism rose and, using both of his sniffwhips to set the tempo, led the gathering in a four-part harmonization of “I’ll Meet You in the Morning on That Glorious Shore of the Sweet Bye and Bye Right Along Topside of His Blessed Hand.” After four verses and chorus of this, Fent Chism conducted them through “At The Old Shiny Pin Where My Saviour Did Bleed I Shall Lean on Those Everlasting Arms and Get Ready to Leave This World and Go to Gloryland.”

  Now for the best part, Chid said to himself as the last chorus faded off and he picked up its last word to open his resumed sermon: “Glory land! How sweet the sound! Yes, brethering and sistering, we shall all meet in Gloryland! But who will be waiting for us there? Why, of course, those I’ve jist funeralized, what has been eaten by frogs and salamanders and possums and mites and what-all, and them that has westered of plain old age or jist disappeared, but most of all, my friends, I tell ye, the ones that will be waiting to save us a place will be them that have already been dispatched by His Holy Gun!

  “You know I didn’t mention none of them in my funeralizations for this week. You know why I didn’t mention ’em, because they don’t need no funerals! Nossiree, their souls is already in Gloryland! This past week, the following has not westered a natural west nor been eaten by critters, but has been raptured and pulverized into smithereens by the Holy Bullets of the Lord! Brother John Thomas Murrison! Brother Carl Henry Duckworth! Brother Arnold Justin Chism! Sister Jessamine Sue Plowright! Sister Sophronia Marabelle Coe! And Brother Oscar Robert Whitter! These are the saints who have been raptured and sanctified in the fire of His Fire!”

  This was the moment that Chid liked best, and he paused for breath, and to let the mood be set for his next words: “Who will jine them tonight? Who amongst ye has already been chosen for the Sacred Fire? Who will stand bravely with head upraised and ask, ‘Is it I, Lord?’ Search your hearts, I say, and ask yourselfs, ‘Am I ready?’” Chid felt no guilt over this contradiction. The best way to hold them, he knew, was to confuse them. Let them be uncertain whether the westering by gunfire was punishment for sin or a rapturing and reward for faith, whether the pulverization into smithereens was to be avoided by clean living or sought as the ultimate salvation. No school of theology had implanted Chidiock Tichborne with this fundamental lesson of evangelism: perplexity is the foundation for faith. Do we live our eastering in order to seek west or avoid it?

  Already the more susceptible were whipped into a frenzy of postures and devotions, some of them shouting aloud, “Is it I, Lord?” and “Am I ready?” while still others strained their entire bodies in the direction of Man and declared “It is I, Lord!” and “I am ready!” Surely, Chid thought, the Lord Himself could hear them. He was pleased to notice that Squire Sam Ingledew had stopped grinning his stupid grin and was looking around himself in wonder. And then, as if the young squire could not bear the sight of so much faith and fervor, he slipped away from the crowd and disappeared into the darkness. Good riddance, thought Chid.

  It sure would do me a right smart of good, Chid thought, if the Lord would shoot one of them Ingledews. It would not only strengthen Chid’s power over the unbelievers and the Crustian backsliders, but it would also reduce by one the obstacles to the Crustian takeover of Parthenon.

  “Just a little more hubbub,” Chid said to himself, “and the Lord Hisself may hear us.” He shouted to the crowd, “WHO IS READY?!?” and he commanded them, “PRAISE HIM! PRAISE HIS HOLY NAME!”

  A great tumult of sound rose from the congregation, a blending of cries of “I AM READY!” and “CHOOSE ME, LORD!” and “BLESSED BE THE NAME OF THE LORD!” And Deacon Fent Chism managed to get a few dozen of them to harmonize on a loud chorus of “Gettin Ready to Leave This World of Sorrow to Head My Gitalongs for the Gloryland Up Yonder.”

  Even Archibald, Chid was pleased to note, had stopped fooling around with that Dingletoon gal and was getting into the spirit of things. But Chid silently prayed to the Lord to spare Archibald and all the rest of his own family, including especially himself, although he quickly added, “But if it be Thy will, Lord, and You don’t need me no more to watch after Yore flock, why then just Rapture me too.”

  Then, somehow, the tumult of all those prayers and songs, the very loudness of those hundreds of voices raised in worship and supplication, must have reached Him. He closed the book He was reading, and seemed to stare off into space for a moment as if He were thinking about what He had just read, but then He reached up and turned His reading lamp so that it shone full upon the entire congregation. The Lord leaped out of His cheer-of-ease.

  “Shit!” spake the Lord,
and snatched up His revolver. “BANG!” spake the Holy Gun, and dispatched Deacon Fent Chism to the Gloryland he was singing about. So many of the faithful were so close to the Lord’s gitalongs that the Lord began stomping at the same time he was shooting, and westered several at a time beneath his shoes, narrowly missing Chid himself. “KER-POW!” spake the Holy Gun again, and obliterated Ila Frances Tichborne, Chid’s wife. “Oh, take me next!” Chid cried, in a curious mixture of grief for his wife and elation at his own imminent Rapture.

  But the Lord was not aiming at him. The Lord was aiming at one in a group of three: Archibald Tichborne, Tish Dingletoon, and Squire Hank Ingledew. “Oh, let it be the Squire!” Chid screamed.

  “PLEW!” spake the Holy Gun, and Chid looked to see which of the three was hit, but none of them were. The Lord had missed? Chid looked up, and saw that the Lord’s eyelid, the lid of His sighting eye, was covered by a clinging roosterroach! Some blasphemous roosterroach had climbed up the Lord’s person and dropped off the top of His head at the instant of His firing, seizing Him by the sighting eye’s lid! The Lord had been made to miss!

  “AAAAGGHH!” spake the Lord, and dropped His revolver, which crushed the Stapletons, and swatted at His own face, knocking the offending rooster-roach away, then raised and clutched His gitalong. The Lord had shot Himself in His own gitalong!

  Chapter nineteen

  When Tish heard the fourth explosion she thought it was one more discharge of the Lord’s Holy Bullets, but how could that be? The Holy Revolver was on the floor, lying atop poor westered Mr. and Mrs. Horace Stapleton, and the Lord Himself was sprawled out on His loafing couch, clutching His gitalong in agony, moaning and cursing. No, the fourth explosion must have been somebody else shooting a gun, but who?

  Tish found that one of her gitalongs was enwrapped by the sniffwhip tip of Archy Tichborne, who was pulling at her and saying, “Come on, gal, let’s skedaddle out of here!” He led her through an old bullethole in the wall and into the space behind the walls, a deserted corridor, where they were squeezed together in their hiding. Hiding from what? Tish wondered. Then a fifth explosion sounded, and she jumped, mashing up against Archy, who enfolded her with his sniffwhips and said, “Easy, sweetheart, He caint git us here.”