The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security

by Andrew Tisbert

  "You have my word this is not a setup."

  "The word of a saint,” he said. Then he told her to come alone, when to come the next morning, take it or leave it. The connection clicked a final time. Leslie stretched her legs across the couch and tried not to think. If she rocked herself slightly where she sat, the rhythm of her motion could shut everything out. After some moments she found herself pressing into her abdomen, searching.

  * * * *

  Oh, it was there, all right. Not that there was any doubt. And she'd already gained four pounds. She rose from the couch and went to the bedroom, to stand in front of her full length mirror. Did she look any different? Maybe. Probably not. She studied her abdomen, her light brown face, thick lips—for a second she puckered, as if giving herself a kiss. Tom had said she was pretty. She supposed it true, but she couldn't see it. She brushed her fingers through her short copper hair. She thought her eyes were set too widely apart. She watched her wide nostrils flare with a surge of scorn.

  A corner of her bed was reflected in the mirror. She thought of Tom, over her, crushed against her breasts he said were really no more than thick nipples, then raising himself with his arms, fists on the bed by her muscled shoulders. Driving into her hard, she not wet enough yet and feeling as if he was tearing her open. Leslie closed her eyes to the mirror, to the memory. But with her eyes closed, her body remembered.

  Her throat tightened against the sensual memories until it ached like a rough stone. It was like that sometimes. Body associations she couldn't stop. She felt the sliding inner arm of her head mem, seeking control. Tom thrusting into her until his hips were soft against her rough hair. The tightness in her face, muscles like bands of soaked leather drying in the sun. His tongue pushing into her teeth. And then not Tom, but ... her father? At first he fists the hair at the back of her neck. How old is she? Six? Seven? His voice saturating like dirty oil in her ears. A whisper, not a memory, but the echo of one: Do as Daddy says. Something salty on her lips and tongue. Then, when she is older, big hands tighten on her wrists as she drops, first to an explosion in her knees, and then friction burning her shoulder blades on the floor. He, swatting her legs. Leslie, standing by the mirror, and Leslie lying on the floor, crying, Stop, please stop. She opened her eyes and tried to shut out the sensations.

  Tom had known her father. She never asked anymore about their relationship, and Tom rarely offered. Leslie didn't even know where the man was now, since she had been taken away from him by the government. And she couldn't remember what he looked like. Sometimes blurred images—more sensation than sight—pricked through the protection of the head mem. But then they disappeared, and no matter how she tried, she couldn't remember exactly what she had been thinking. She couldn't remember her mother at all. What she could see most clearly in that past was its ending, when security took her away from the country house. Tom was running the operation. She remembered knowing who he was, as if he'd been around for years, a familiar shadow. He found her a home. Then when it didn't work out, he got her into the head mem program, and eventually, the Academy for Security Guard training.

  Tom knew how the memories, as vague as they were, made her feel, not only in relation to having sex, but within the context of her whole life. Being forced to do something, told by people with all the symbols, the social trappings of power, told how to act and what to say ... it was like being raped all over again.

  Yes, raped, for that was what she believed had happened to her even though she could never get her mind around the memory. And her head mem—the constant programming, reprogramming. Even with her total reliance on it now, it was still like having the vague blur of her imagined old man over her, slamming her head on the floor whenever she tried to fight, to get up, to ... kill him.

  Tom knew. And sometimes he seemed so sympathetic, so understanding. But there was the ugly night, probably the night of the conception—and others like it. And now the sainthood. And the idea of an abortion. She wasn't in control.

  Leslie's eyes focused on her reflection again. She watched herself sit on the edge of the bed, a pathetic, lonely woman. Oh, she had her vision and she had Gun. And her security job. And in the back of her mind, there was the unspoken chance that she would never have to be alone again ... growing there inside her.

  But that's all to end soon, isn't it?

  Leslie shook her head, feeling the mental slur of the head mem fragmenting her memories. Sometimes they burst out so sharply. Really, it was a blessing she could only see these glimpses, which soon confused and faded under the programming. She didn't want to see her past any more clearly than that.

  * * * *

  The Congregation for the Causes of Saints was the cathedral where all the beatifications, miracle proclamations and saint celebrations, were performed. It took its name from the board which, under the direct supervision of Father Washington, decided such matters. Older than the rebuilding of the White House, it dated back seventy years to the last of the truly great TV Evangelists, legendary Holy Men like Roberts and Graham and Falwell. It was a huge coliseum of glass and steel with a curved stage at one end and seven stories of facing balconies. There was a gallery in front of the cathedral, with sculptures of the Virgin Mary and her Christ before the coming of Father Washington, and sculptures of Father Washington Himself. Behind the cathedral stage stood altars trimmed with gold. Near its center, water rained into a wading pool from the stone mouths of a circle of Minute Men. And Michelangelo's great frescoes were projected overhead on the high vaulted ceilings.

  Tom brought her to the cathedral an hour early to run through the ceremony with the rest of the Congregation of Saints. Surrounded by over a dozen agents and guards, she followed the others through the great empty building to sit in a row directly before the stage. Tom had disappeared somewhere behind them. Leslie counted fifty saints in addition to herself and the coordinator of ceremonies, the eldest saint, who stood below the steps of the stage and faced them.

  He was a pudgy man with no more than a tuft of white hair sprouting from the back of his head. His voice was oily and soft. “I would like to welcome you all, and thank you for participating in the rebirth of a new member.” Faces turned to Leslie and smiled. She tried to smile in return. The coordinator looked directly at her as the smile caught itself on her uneasiness. “Saint Leslie,” he said. “Welcome to power!"

  Leslie thought he was trying to impress her with his own sainthood and decided she didn't like him. He waddled toward her and clasped her hand with doughy fingers. When Leslie realized he wasn't intending to release her hand, she squeezed against his grip until he changed his mind. “Yes, well,” he said. Then he regained his composure. “You'll find being a saint has myriad advantages, my dear. Since we're heroes, you know, a lot of people do as we say. But with power comes responsibility. You will see people from all walks of life trying to emulate your lifestyle, your fashions.” He chuckled. “It can be quite fun. By the way, I'll be interested in hearing what you think of our syncretic little ritual here."

  As she sought a reply, Leslie wondered if this squat man was trying to impress himself. He reminded her a little of Tom. She forced herself to smile for the second time and lied to him: “Your name? I'm sorry; I don't believe I know who you are.... “While she wondered at her own sudden subtlety, the coordinating saint made a show of ignoring the put-down, saying, of course, of course, his Sainting was a few years old, as important as it was, perhaps she'd missed the vision specials then?

  Or was that question a return insult?

  The saint relaxing to her left brushed her bare shoulder with his knuckles, and Leslie turned. When her mouth fell open, he smiled, dimpling his right cheek. She hadn't realized she was sitting beside Saint Horace, who had donned his sainthood six months ago after starring in a series of highly successful romantic thrillers about the great Benjamin Franklin, giver of light, on the vision. Leslie had to look up to meet his hazel eyes even while they both sat there. He scratched at his bronzed chin and
leaned toward her. Leslie felt his breath against her ear and neck. “Don't mind him,” he whispered. “He's the Patron Saint of Trumps. Rich, by the highest standards, so he thinks he's better than the rest of us. The usual saint's salary is meaningless to him. And he doesn't have to scrape for vision sponsorships for extra money."

  The next hour was spent sitting there while the coordinator reviewed the ceremony, and even walked Leslie through parts of it. When it was time to discuss the actual baptism, the coordinator had Leslie stand by the wading pool and mime the motions of removing her summer blouse and skirt. All around her great saints laughed at her hesitancy—not with malice, but at the self-conscious displays of a younger sister. The room was suddenly a blur of colors and faces. She felt sick to her stomach, which she wanted to believe had something to do with her head mem. Through it all she continued to recognize the other saints around her, representatives of great athletes, actresses, warriors and technicians, rock stars and businessmen. She knew she didn't belong.

  Leslie tried to concentrate on her nausea, as if scrutinizing it would prove the head mem guided her. It had to be responsible for getting her through this practice, even if she was too distracted to recognize its motion inside her. Already she'd seen a heightened awareness of social fencing, as when she had pretended not to recognize the coordinator. And her vocabulary seemed so much greater now; had she ever known such words as ‘emulate’ and ‘myriad’ and ‘syncretic’ even existed? She decided she didn't know enough about her new programming.

  When the practice was finished, Leslie followed the others backstage, where she shrank even further inside herself to avoid the stage crews surrounding her in a chaos of activity. The coordinator gestured her and nine other saints into one of the bright dressing rooms, where Leslie found a make-up-stained couch to sink into. This was a part of the Congregation of Saints she had never seen before, for vision was not allowed backstage.

  You are so alone, she told herself. So. Alone. Tom didn't understand. None of these sanctified demigods had any idea of what a fiction she was as she sat among them. She wished she had Gun in her hands. Gun would know what to say to make her feel like a human being. Right now she was nothing. Not a security guard, not yet a saint. The only thing that made her alive right now was a little knot of growing tissues inside her uterus, and it was against Washington's design, a sin. Her mind kept returning to the idea that, against all logic, meeting Roger tomorrow afternoon would make things different. Did she really want to hear terrible truths about this man's brother, to assuage her uneasiness about killing him that was part guilt, part pride? And there was something else, something she allowed herself to only half realize. The Sons of Man were outlaws. If she and her fetus wanted to survive together, where better than among outlaws to find a way to save them?

  "Leslie, right? Are you okay?"

  Leslie turned. A young woman, large green eyes staring curiously, slid onto the couch beside her. Leslie shifted to give her room. “You looked sad,” the woman said. Her skin was smooth, white and pink, and her long hair was corn silk.

  "No. It's. I mean...” Leslie looked away. This woman was everything Leslie couldn't be. Leslie had seen her on the vision many times. She was a rock singer who had written an opera about teenaged patriots. sainthood had come after her fifth platinum album. Her name was Bree. Now she was seen on vision ads for a new pharmaceutical company specializing in its own line of antidepressants.

  "Here,” Bree said. “It's just a little stage fright. That's all.” She reached down and Leslie let her grasp her hand. “It's completely natural!” The woman's eyes brightened as if she were a mechanical eye. As grateful as Leslie wanted to be for her interest, she could not help feeling even more miserable.

  * * * *

  It could have been a different building she entered when it was finally time to step on stage with the other saints and cross to their honored seats in the front row. Leslie and all the saints were dressed in red, white and blue robes. The Speaker of the House had finished singing his version of ‘America', and introduced the Pageant of Saints. Leslie was the last in the line. She entered the stage to blinding light and an oceanic roar of applause. This was not the dim, empty cavern they had practiced in. This room was tense with sweat and glowing eyes in the darkness just beyond brightly burning suns. The lighting was hot against her face and, blinking, she stumbled to her seat.

  A rock band began to overpower the roar of the crowd with drums and bass and a barrage of growling rap phrases. They were set up on the far left of the stage. As they bellowed to the end of their number, Father Washington appeared far above rear center stage in a glass elevator. Leslie thought earlier that the crowd could not get any louder, but as the elevator slid downward she had to cup her hands over her ears. The floor shook. Father Washington waved his hand gracefully and his smile was almost inhuman it was so perfect. He was wearing his Papal Business Suit of Green Camouflage, cut squarely, accenting his broad, straight shoulders.

  When he reached the stage, the band had finished. Washington raised both hands to still the crowd, and it was as if Leslie had already forgotten what silence was. Nature itself ceased. Then The Speaker of the House spoke into his wireless microphone: “Ladies and Gentlemen, The President of the United States,” and left the stage.

  Even as close as she was, Leslie could not see Washington's mike. But his deep voice flowed through the wall speakers like the breath of a great giant.

  "My friends. We have gathered ourselves here for the noble purpose of holding up one of our sisters to the grace of God, to be proclaimed into sainthood for the selfless act of saving Father Washington. And I ask you, what could be more blessed than this? Our sister will join the ranks of the greatest Americans; Saint Iaccoca, who created the car, Saint O'Neil, whose spirit lives on in the mountains of the moon for his great race with the forces of Red Hell. Saint Revere, the messenger of God. The great Fathers of the original Moral Crusade—Saints Falwell and the others. The Great Star of Reagan. Our great savior in the desert, consubstantial with the father, who delivered us from Evil and rebuilt the Towers of Trade. And our own Living Saints, some of whom sit among us here today.

  "I am but flesh and blood, an avatar, the human manifestation of the Spirit of Seventy-Six. But we must all remember there was an original Father Washington, who suffered and died for us all. Our country's Eternal Father, who fasted in the desert, who gave his only cloak at Valley Forge, who overcame temptations symbolized in the Cherry Tree, who had come once before to be crucified on a Jew's swastika of wood.

  "It is that Holy Son of God who walked the earth to create our chosen Union. It is that Holy Spirit now who will bathe our sister in the fire of baptism. It is the light of that Spirit which filled our sister with righteousness when she cooked the terrorist's head with her Gun. The poor, pitiable creature who in his confusion and despair tried to assassinate what can never be killed. Let the rise of Saint Leslie forever be a reminder to the forces of Evil and Godlessness, our Crusade will not end until they have perished from the earth. Let the story of her success—the success of a poor orphan who rose in the ranks of Security, all the way to the Congregation of Saints—let the story of her success remind us all anything is possible, through the graces of Washington, when we hold purity and the love of God in our hearts.

  "Let the House of Representatives stand in awe before Leslie. Let her be a reminder to them grand accomplishments can be performed without bipartisan politics. Let Leslie remind us all of where we come from and who we truly are in this great country!"

  Father Washington approached the steps in front of the stage, bathed even more in the suspended lights above him. As he walked, the wading pool slid toward center stage on a hidden track. It stopped behind Washington almost at the same time that he held out his hand to Leslie. “My child,” he said. “Rise up and be bathed in the Holy Spirit."

  Leslie stood as a spotlight suddenly warmed her. She mounted the steps and took Washington's hand as she'd been
instructed. Her hand felt hot and slippery against his cool dry one. She was vaguely aware of the other saints quietly filing onto the stage to form a semicircle behind the pool. She let Washington lead her to the pool, then stood between it and him, terrified.

  "We hold these truths to be self-evident,” Father Washington said.

  "We hold these truths to be self-evident,” the Congregation of Saints repeated.

  "That all Men are created equal,” Washington said.

  "That all Men are created equal."

  "That they are endowed by God with certain inalienable rights, and among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That it is the right of all men to abolish any government."

  "...abolish any government."

  "That to preserve the sanctity of our country the separation of Church and State is of the highest priority, to ensure our freedom from the mind control of Communism, Atheism, Voodoo, Islam, and other pagan and non-Christian beliefs."

  "...Atheism, Voodoo, Islam, and other pagan and non-Christian beliefs."

  Father Washington paused to look down at Leslie. He nodded his head slightly and she knew he expected her to do something. She reached hesitantly to the loose fabric of her robe. In the sudden pause, she heard the water falling from the Minute Men's mouths. She felt beads of sweat on her temple and rolling down her left side. Washington cleared his throat.

  "This is Leslie,” he finally said. “She came into this world as an infant, innocent and naked.” He cleared his throat again. Then he frowned at her, reached over her shoulders and yanked her robe over her head. It fell softly to the stage behind her. Wearing only her shoes, Leslie forced herself to stand erect. She clasped her hands in front of her groin. Soft hair brushed against the heel of her hand. The air she tried to breath had turned to jelly.