The Trinity

by David LaBounty

  Crowley knows little about sports, and frustrated, he politely takes his leave of whatever pub he is in. On to the next pub, on to the next village.

  After about a dozen such trips spread over a month of Sundays and the occasional weeknight, Crowley gives up. He had been hoping for a Scottish member for his Trinity, and perhaps to expand his little group. He realizes he will not find members for his Trinity amongst the Scottish. He will have to settle for Hinckley and whoever the gods put in his path.

  He does maintain periodic contact with Hinckley, calling him at work once a week, saying hello, asking him if he’s made any friends.

  “One, maybe. My roommate,” Hinckley tells him. “We went drinking, got along okay. We’ll go again. I think he may feel the way we do, but I’m not sure. I didn’t want to ask him too much and I didn’t want to tell him too much, not yet. I have to be careful, especially about the Lee thing, you know. That can’t get out.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Chris, Chris something, starts with an ‘F’. New here, from Detroit.”

  “Fairbanks?” Crowley asks.

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  Crowley recognizes the name belonging to the young man who attended his Mass a few weeks prior, the young man who checked in with him. He was taken by the young man, and he remembers the giddy feeling. That feeling returns upon the memory of Chris’s face.

  “Excellent,” Crowley says. “Excellent.”

  Crowley’s appetite for battle is whetted by a visit in his office one Sunday morning late in March. A young, white female seaman, obviously several months pregnant, arrives in his office with a young, black male seaman who appears to be her boyfriend. Crowley notes there are no rings on either of their hands.

  The girl does the talking.

  “We want you to baptize the baby,” she says, “when it comes, this summer.”

  Crowley is sickened, but he doesn’t show it. He keeps his constant smug grin throughout the conversation. Another dilution of the white race, he thinks. Another mongrel, another cursed child.

  “Sure,” he says, and asks if they are married.

  Embarrassed, the girl softly answers no and looks down at the floor. “We want you to marry us, too—soon, as soon as possible.”

  “How old are you?” he asks.

  “Eighteen,” she says, “but he’s twenty.” The young man nods, looking at the floor, too uncomfortable asking a priest for a favor, fearing that the priest will judge him harshly for having intercourse outside of marriage.

  Crowley could care less about that, and would expect no less of him. He feels he deliberately stalked the girl, a white girl, as part of his instinctive drive to conquer the white race and to improve his own.

  “Well, I can marry you, but we have to do pre-marriage counseling, you know, things the Church requires, but you don’t have time for that.” Crowley points to her stomach. “So we can bypass all that and you can be married when you like.”

  The girl is confused but smiles and thanks Crowley. He invites them to his office during the week to set a date.

  “How long have you been in Lutherkirk?” Crowley asks as they rise to leave. He prepares to put on his robe for Mass.

  “Six months, both of us,” the girl says.

  He says nothing as the two walk away. He sees them in the pews during Mass. He watches them sit listlessly during the entire service, neither one paying attention during his homily. He speaks about being true to your beliefs and not being hypocritical.

  The sight of the mixed couple sickens him, and he follows his own advice. The battle must be resumed; the enemy has quickened its pace. Scotland must be liberated, and if Scotland can be liberated, the rest of the white world will see Scotland’s example and the other whites will follow suit and arm themselves and repatriate the lesser races to their ancestral homelands. They will return to the impoverished Africa, the crowded Asia, and the miserable Eastern Europe.

  That night he has a dream, a wine induced dream. He is met by the god he recognizes as Odin, his image occupying the entire sky above the base as it might appear on a sunny spring afternoon. He recognizes the long white beard, the thin and narrow and wizened face, the tall and wide brimmed hat pulled far enough down to cover his missing eye, his one remaining eye shining brighter than the sun.

  Odin does not speak to Crowley in this dream, but this god of war, this god of death, this god of poetry and wisdom, draws Crowley a picture in the clouds. He draws an image of the Star of David with his long and crooked finger, and then blows it away with a mighty breath. He then draws a picture of a cross, and over the cross, he draws another picture of the Star of David. With a breath, he lights both on fire, and they burn slowly as the clouds turn to smoke and the entire sky turns black save Odin’s one eye, shining above all.

  Crowley gets the message.

  He awakes in a sweat. Odin is the Norse god of warriors and kings, not of the common man, and this reaffirms Crowley’s sense of self-importance. Odin doesn’t appear to just anyone. He has been chosen by this call from Valhalla, and he knows he is blessed and what he believes in is right. The Jews must be dealt with; they too must be driven from Scotland, and then the rest of the West will follow Scotland’s example. The blacks are far inferior to the Jews, he thinks, and if the Jews go, the blacks will leave of their own accord. The blacks do the Jews’ bidding, do the grueling tasks to upset the good white sense of security.

  The cross signifies something else, something he has believed for the longest time but never seriously until Odin reminded him: Christianity is a fictitious religion started by the Jews to ensure their grip on Israel, to remain the chosen people in a competing religion that they somehow knew would grip Europe. Jews wrote the Bible, they created Jesus and St. Paul, they created the Beatitudes, they created the cross. Lies, all lies. Odin told him so. His heart has long felt this, but now he is sure.

  This confirmed belief angers him. He has spent a good chunk of his life in service of this myth, of this false religion led by a figure who has never existed. He is glad he has found the one true religion that belongs to his race.

  He lies awake in bed, thinking of a course of action. His gun is gone, and this cripples him somewhat.

  An idea forms in his brain and his mouth draws slowly into a smile. There is a way to deal with the Jews. He can picture it clearly.

  Hinckley needs to bring Fairbanks into the picture—and soon. He will help Brad in that endeavor.

  He realizes that he has just over two years of duty remaining in Scotland, and precious little time to waste.

  Chris and Hinckley do not become the closest of friends, yet Hinckley’s overture of friendship has made Chris feel more comfortable in the room. They do occasionally dine in the galley together when their schedules coincide.

  As they eat, Chris can’t help but be aware of the loathsome glances cast in Hinckley’s direction. The less disparaging looks are given by the lower enlisted and even more hateful are the stares from the chiefs and officers. They look at Chris, too, and assume he must be trouble for dining with such a pathetic creature as Hinckley.

  Chris is conscious of those stares. They make him feel awkward, but he would rather feel awkward this way, dining with a friend, instead of eating alone.

  A few weeks after the night out in Brechin, they venture to Aberdeen in search of American fast-food restaurants, in search of pubs, in search of beer.

  There is still some daylight as they summon a taxi and venture north with the sun receding in the west and the moon starting its ascent in a relatively clear but leaden sky over the North Sea. Chris stares out the window and is quite glad to be seeing things again, to be venturing outside of the base, which is like a stifling and miniature America, save the British cars, the direction of the traffic, and the lack of rock and roll stations, which Chris is starting to miss. That may be the only thing of America that he misses; there is no other memory tugging at his heart.

  Chris hadn’t seen the
center of Aberdeen, its elegant downtown a mixture of low and old granite buildings intermixed with modern semi-high rises along the River Dee.

  The people, too, look different, different than they did that evening in Brechin. Chris can’t pinpoint the difference, but there is a certain provincial air in the countryside and the villages surrounding the base that is neutralized by the oil-wealthy city of Aberdeen.

  Chris and Hinckley eat pizza at a Pizza Hut and expect the pizza to taste as it would at home, but it doesn’t. It is more bland, less doughy, and disappointing. They proceed to a pub, a more modern one frequented by younger, more affluent Scots, and Chris and Hinckley are even more out of place than they were in Brechin.

  After a pint, Hinckley starts rattling about race. Chris had almost forgotten their conversation from a few weeks prior; on base, Hinckley had never brought the subject up again, not even in the privacy of their room. They talked mostly about trivial things, Hinckley asking Chris which sports teams he follows and what his favorite sport is.

  It’s as if there are two Hinckleys: one a simple boy from Nebraska and one a drunken, hell-bent racist.

  Chris is not a huge sports fan, but he glances at the Detroit teams’ standings in the back of the Stars and Stripes. His favorite sport is baseball, the season still remote, even though spring is about to dawn.

  Hinckley scoffs at Chris’s comments and lauds Nebraska football and, to a lesser degree, Nebraska basketball. He doesn’t care for professional sports, as there are no teams in Omaha. He doesn’t mind watching the Kansas City Royals on the summer nights, but nothing compares to Nebraska football.

  They even occasionally venture to the club during the week, opting to eat there instead of the galley. Hinckley used to go there nightly with Rodgers, drinking until closing time, but not anymore. He had stopped going there altogether after Rodgers’s suicide, too nervous to go there alone, too uncomfortable under the stares and whispers. Now that Chris is his companion, the stares and whispers aren’t as bothersome, and they are starting to subside. Still, no one on the base is especially pleasant towards him.

  Chris is a little too quiet for Hinckley’s liking, so he has been looking forward to the opportunity to travel off base with him and get some beers down his throat, to get him leaning more towards his way.

  Father Crowley has called him. Crowley needs him and Chris, needs them for battle.

  “I want you to bring him out here. Give whatever reason you wish. We have to introduce him slowly; we don’t want him to shy away from us—and we don’t want him to talk about us. Tell him you come here for comfort, as a place to get away from all your problems. Call it Bible study.”

  Hinckley, like Crowley, is growing bored. He doesn’t really like Chris; he prefers his company to be more abrasive, somewhat like himself. But they need a third to make their Trinity complete.

  Hinckley, too, is ready to do battle, to carry the white man’s burden. He misses the company of Crowley and the thrill of war. He misses the flattery that the priest lavishes upon him.

  The night in Aberdeen is uneventful except that they do manage to get drunk in the pub in front of a television screen displaying a soccer match.

  In between comments about the superiority of the white race, Hinckley exclaims that soccer is the most boring sport in the world.

  Chris somewhat agrees, but he admires the zeal the patrons of the pub display in regard to the game. He notices their intense concentration, their boisterous exclamations when a shot on goal is attempted, and their constant, seemingly intelligent observations of the game.

  “All they do is run around the field and try to kick the damn ball,” Hinckley says. “There ain’t no strategy, not like football. Just a bunch of damn little blokes running around trying to kick the ball. Hell, there ain’t no tackling or anything, and these bloke fellers get all worked up over a bunch of men running around in shorts. I hate this country. It’s white, but I hate it.”

  They return to the base as the pub begins to empty. The sky is unusually clear and the northern night is thick with stars. Chris stares straight up while waiting for a taxi to pass by, noticing constellations that he never saw before in the perpetually hazy suburban sky of his youth. Hinckley knows the stars; he saw them so many times over the Nebraska prairie. He thinks Chris is odd, odder than he thought before.

  Chris had ignored Hinckley’s diatribe on race and the inferiority of Scotland. He expected Chris to go along with what he said, to agree with him, to show enthusiasm. All Chris did was stare at the people in the pub, watch the soccer match, drink beer, and smoke cigarettes.

  Brad realizes that he misses Lee, someone apt to follow his lead. But Crowley needs a third and no other candidates have presented themselves, and he noticed that Chris was friendless, not unlike himself.

  A Sunday morning comes, a hangover laden Sunday after Chris’s night in Aberdeen. He manages to rise early, and he awakes to the sound of Brad snoring in his rack, asleep on top of the sheets and still fully clothed. He is curled up in a sort of fetal position, with his back to Chris, and through the darkened room Chris can see the paleness of Brad’s lower back and the top of his fleshy buttocks as his pants sag beneath his waist.

  Chris turns away and decides to leave the room and start the day. He showers, gets dressed as neatly as he can in his constant gray jeans, white shirt, and high-top sneakers. He enters the galley as it opens and, despite his queasiness, eats a large breakfast consisting of an omelet with ham and cheese and onions and green peppers, hash browns smothered in ketchup, and a Coke. He dines alone, but as it is Sunday and the galley is nearly empty, this doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t feel as conspicuous.

  He eats slowly and thoughtfully and decides to go to church, to Father Crowley’s nine o’clock Mass. He enjoyed it his previous visit, liked the peacefulness of it, and he thinks Father Crowley must be a very nice man.

  And there must be something more to this life than drinking beer and waiting for a girl to come along.

  He arrives at the chapel a few minutes before nine. He smokes a cigarette outside, shivering because he forgot his coat. Only a handful of people approach the chapel. The pews are even emptier than they were during his previous visit, so empty that the tape recorder playing organ music echoes off the low ceiling. There may be fifteen people in the church. Chris sits in the darkest pew in the back.

  Crowley enters, and at first Chris thinks he looks irritated, but his face brightens as he stands behind the podium that serves as an altar. He sees Chris and smiles, and his gaze doesn’t leave him.

  “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” Crowley begins, and the congregation responds by crossing themselves. Chris does this in imitation.

  The service is brief, a few hymns sung along with the tape recorder, Crowley’s voice rising above the collective voices of the congregation. Chris sings very softly, almost only mouthing the words.

  It is the season of Lent, and that is what Crowley’s homily pertains to. He talks quickly about sacrifice and the importance of giving up the things that interfere with what you believe in. He doesn’t mention Jesus; he doesn’t mention the great sacrifice that is the cornerstone of Lent and the upcoming Easter holiday. He talks vaguely about personal belief and the strength that comes from discipline in that belief. He then dispenses with the Eucharist. After just half an hour, the Mass is over.

  Crowley is waiting by the door as Chris leaves, and he invites him into his office. Uncomfortable for being singled out, Chris obliges.

  Crowley pulls off his robe as he and Chris enter the office. He is dressed casually but neatly underneath, corduroy pants with a burgundy hue, and a yellow long-sleeved collared shirt. He retrieves a burgundy cardigan from the closet after discarding his robe.

  Crowley sits at his desk and indicates the other chair. Chris takes the chair. He looks at everything in the room except for Father Crowley.

  Crowley props his feet up on his desk, and this casual gesture p
uts Chris more at ease.

  He wonders what the priest wants, and he half expects him to say he doesn’t want Chris to attend service unless he’s a serious Catholic.

  “Well, well,” Crowley begins. “I am surprised to see you here—especially twice.”

  Chris shrugs his shoulders.

  “Usually, young single men aren’t exactly the churchgoing type. Do you know what I mean?”

  Again, Chris shrugs his shoulders.

  “If I had to guess, I would say that people like you come to church because they were brought up that way, and they come out of habit or obligation. I know this isn’t the case with you. Or they come because they’re looking for something, some answer to the deep mysteries of life, some alleviation from a kind of pain, or some redemption to soothe a guilty conscience.”

  He pauses, takes a bottle of wine from one of his desk drawers, and pours it into a dirty coffee mug on top of his desk.

  Chris is shocked but also impressed in a way. An officer, a figure of authority, who drinks. Very cool, he thinks, very cool.

  “I always celebrate a Mass that goes off without a hitch with a bit of the blood of Christ. If I had another cup, I would offer you some, but I don’t. If you really want some, you can drink out of the bottle.”

  Chris declines politely with a shake of his head.

  Crowley does not take the wine in celebration. If Chris were able to keep his gaze from the floor or the ceiling, he would see the priest’s hands trembling, and trails of sweat running down his forehead. Chris somehow sends the priest’s heart racing. There is something attractive in the innocent look on Chris’s face, his air of no worldly experience, and this bothers Crowley. He drinks to deny the emotion, to kill the nerves.

  Additionally, he wants Chris as the third member of his Trinity, and he wants him to be sold on his personality unequivocally.