by Rob Summers
Chapter 14 Religious Backflip
Dignity was left standing in the middle of the hall on the same spot where his press conference had halted. With slow purposefulness he leaned forward and spat out the last of the mint. He straightened. The lines of his face firmed. He would kill Obscurity, of course, and he would do it now. He looked about the hall for a murder weapon, but none came to hand, so he sat down and coughed instead
Gradually, he calmed down. The thought came to him that at least his long, frustrating campaign was finally over. He was no longer in the hands of hurried and unsympathetic strangers. He need never worry about publication again. He could go back to normal, be happy with small things, relax and enjoy life.
Honesty came in from the back of the house. The plain, little woman was laughing into a telephone. “Oh, give me a break! I’m afraid you’re as blurred as usual, dear. Here, I’ll let him tell you.” She offered Dignity the phone. “It’s Confusion. She claims you’re on standby as a guest on Hypocrisy’s TV show. She says—”
“Heg-oah?” Dignity squeaked into the phone.
“Mr. Dignity?”
“Ungh-huh.”
“I’m so glad we got hold of you. This is Miss Confusion, Pastor Hypocrisy’s secretary, and I’m calling for the ‘Religious Backflip’ program. One of today’s guests has failed to show up, so that’s created an opening. We have you listed on standby, Mr. Dignity. If you could get here in fifteen minutes—”
“Ull bi thurr!”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Dignity?”
Coughing repeatedly, Dignity handed the phone back to Honesty and gestured to her emphatically.
“He says he’ll be there,” Honesty said. “But Confusion, do you really want a guest who talks as if he’s swallowed a hairbrush?”
“I don’t see why that would create any problem,” said Confusion.
“No?” said Honesty with a wicked squint. “But then you also couldn’t see a whale if it swallowed you, could you dear?” She looked up at Dignity. “She hung up. You’re not really going are you?”
Dignity seized Honesty by the arm and hauled her after him.
“Yui rife mi!”
“Drive you? Because you can’t stop coughing? And what happens when we get there? Do you want me to talk for you too?”
At WHIP they entered the empty green room and looked at the television monitor showing them the progress of the live show. On the screen Hypocrisy was chatting with Mr. Optimism, a frequent guest. Ten minutes later he was doing the same, so they appeared to have arrived in plenty of time, Confusion’s ‘fifteen minutes’ notwithstanding.
Soon a middle aged woman came in and sat down beside Dignity. She introduced herself as the author Mrs. D’Ego and the next guest on the program. Honesty pointed out that, on the contrary, Dignity was next, having been called in because someone else had failed to show up.
“But that would be me,” said Mrs. D’Ego. “I’m late, but I called that Confusion woman and told her I’d be here in time for the last slot.”
“I’m afraid she never gets anything straight,” explained Honesty.
“Urk!” added Dignity.
“You go right ahead,” said Honesty to the lady author. “We’re having a communication problem anyway.”
“Not at all,” said Mrs. D’Ego. “I’ve been on this show a dozen times, and I’m positively tired of it. Besides, I always like to encourage young authors. You go right ahead, and I’ll just get on home and have some lunch. Do you know I haven’t had a bit of lunch yet?”
“Thank you,” said Honesty.
“Not at all, I’m glad to help. Who is your publisher, by the way?”
Honesty glanced at Dignity. “We’re still working on that.”
“An unpublished work!” Mrs. D’Ego said, as if it were as rare as an undiscovered pyramid. She began to rummage in her purse. “My publisher is Cross Eyes. They specialize in Christian books.” She found a card and handed it to Honesty.
Honesty read aloud the motto, “‘With our right eye on the Cross and our left eye on the world.’” She smiled. “Sounds a little unfocused.”
“It just means they leave nothing to chance,” said Mrs. D’Ego. “Their phone and address is at the bottom. Tell Editor Blindazabat that I recommend your book.”
“Even though you haven’t read it?” said Honesty.
Mrs. D’Ego was unfazed behind her mother-of-pearl glasses. “Oh, if it comes to that, anyone can read a book. Don’t think I haven’t, darlin’. Give me your address and I’ll stop by some time and talk with you.”
Although Honesty could see no point in mere talk, she scribbled Grace House’s phone and address on the back of the same card D’Ego had just given her and handed it back. The lady author happily stuffed it back into the bag.
The director now called for Mrs. D’Ego, who cheerfully informed him that the standby guest would take her place. So after little microphones were attached to them, Dignity and Honesty were guided onto the small set. They stopped in front of a couch where sat Mr. Optimism. Pastor Hypocrisy was seated at a large, gleaming desk, behind which were the City flag and the Christian flag. Farther back were thick curtains parted to reveal a phony window view of the City’s downtown. Peppy music provided a background as Hypocrisy leaped up and hugged the newcomers warmly. He kissed Honesty on the cheek.
When everyone sat down and the applause died out, Pastor Hypocrisy continued to chuckle as if over some private joke. He consulted a paper in front of him.
“So glad you could be with us again, Swella. Mrs. Swella D’Ego has been a frequent guest on this show, is a close personal friend of mine, and has written a new book called Don’t Sweat the Obvious Stuff, in which she provides obvious answers to some of life’s less pressing problems. Isn’t that so, Swella?”
Honesty laughed harshly. “Wrong author, Pastor. This is Dignity, he’s no friend of yours, and he wrote The Pride Story.”
Hypocrisy managed to smile, nod, and turn purple at the same time. His recovery was surprisingly quick.
“Dignity, Dignity,” he said warmly. “A new name, a new book. It’s been too long, hasn’t it? Why don’t you show us a copy of your book and tell us what it’s about?”
Dignity had again forgotten to bring a copy. “Uh firkt tuh prig uht,” he said. “Zoh zurry.”
Hypocrisy looked to Honesty questioningly.
“He says it’s about $14.95,” she said merrily.
Hypocrisy forced a laugh. “And no doubt a bargain. What else can you tell us?”
“Wull,” Dignity explained desperately, “uht tillz uckbou muh cuhverz—” he coughed several times “—cuhverzin tuh uh Hehfenize . Uh giff ub un Fime Vunglurruh and liffur uh Hehfenli Gink.”
“He says your toupe is on backwards,” Honesty translated, “and that his book is loads better than the lukewarm drivel you regularly promote on this show.”
Hypocrisy hastily passed a hand over his head. “He says that, now does he?”
“Nuh! Dunk lizung tuk ur!” Dignity said, his watery eyes popping. “Muh bug iz juzz a snurry ug ow uh lard ugbou Gog.”
“Gog? You mean God?” put in Mr. Optimism. “What is this babbling? Now son, anyone really godly would not criticize quality Christian programs such as the Pastor’s. So just tell us quite clearly, son, what’s good about your book. Tell us what’s upbeat, what’s positive.”
“Yuz, uh wull!” said Dignity. “Up hup ru-eeders wull zi—”
“That won’t do,” Optimism interrupted. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“Perhaps Dignity needs to recover from his throat problem,” Hypocrisy said. “We can have you back another time.”
Dignity looked desperately at Honesty. “Onsti, tullum!”
Honesty bared her prominent bicuspids in a tight grin. “What Dignity means to say is that he’s such a publicity grubbing bootlicker that he’s even willing to come on your pathetic pr
ogram, Hypocrisy, with its microscopic ratings, and pretend that you’re anything more than Mr. Power’s floppy little hand puppet.”
“I know he means nothing of the sort!” Hypocrisy erupted. “Dignity has always been a good boy. But I think that you both have things to attend to and, yes, I see we’re ready for a commercial break.” He faced a camera. “When we come back, more from Mr. Optimism on his new book Godliness as a Means of Gain.”
When the red lights went off on the cameras, Hypocrisy called for his people to escort Dignity and Honesty off the set. In a very few minutes they were on their way home in Dignity’s car, with Dignity at the wheel.
“I hope you’re not mad at me,” Honesty said.
“I’m just going to leave it alone,” Dignity said. “Oh, I’ve got my voice back!”
“Just too late,” Honesty said happily. “What a shame. And what’s this?” She picked up a copy of The Pride Story from the floor of the car. “It must have slid off the seat.”
Dignity glanced at it. “I’ve had that in the car for several days. I guess I forgot about it.”
“But it’s particularly galling, isn’t it, that you had it with you but didn’t take it into the studio?”
“No, what’s galling is that it’s too soft to use as a murder weapon.”
Honesty grew reflective and said nothing more.
When they arrived at Grace House, Honesty went straight in, but Dignity sat at the wheel, staring and muttering. After some time he saw his next door neighbor Mr. Wag come out of his front door with a rake in his hand and poke about at some remains of autumn leaves in the hedgerow between yards. Dignity got out and approached him with The Pride Story in hand.
“Afternoon, Wag.”
The older man fixed wary blue eyes on him. Wag always looked suspiciously at Dignity, perhaps because he was always suspicious of him.
“What’s up, Pride?”
(Wag had never adjusted to his neighbor’s new name.)
Dignity showed him the book. “My cousin and I have written this, and I just thought I’d give you a copy.” He extended the book toward him. Wag shifted backward, shielding himself with the rake.
“That’s all right, young feller. I don’t do much reading.”
“But I just thought you might want to have it. You don’t have to read it.”
“No, thanks. Give it to someone else, why don’t you? You have a nice day now.” Wag went in.
Dignity entered the house and ascended to the library where he found Reason. She was propped in one of the easy chairs, sipping a soft drink and reading Sonnets From the Portuguese. He sat down across from her.
“So how’d it go?” she asked.
“The press conference? Thanks to Obscurity, it was a disaster. So I did Hypocrisy’s program as a back up guest. That went even worse.”
“We weren’t going to do his program,” she observed.
“No, we weren’t.”
“Because he’s a slime ball.”
“Yeah. Sure is.”
A long silence.
“I have something to say about Obscurity,” said Reason. Dignity did not respond, so she went on. “She belongs here. We may not like her, but she’s one of us. Grace sent her. If we weren’t pushing this book—”
“We’re not. That’s over. I can’t even give it away.”
“Well, as long as we don’t push it, we’ll have no conflict with her. We can even make friends.”
“No, I could never be friends with her.”
“Why not? She was sent here for us. Truth says she’s your lady.”
“My what?”
“Really.”
“Oh, rot.”
“Well, she is. Here—” she pulled some stationery and a pen from a table drawer “—why don’t you write down a few of her good points? Make it a poem about her. I’m sure you can think of some things to say.”
Reason wrote across the top of the paper, ‘In Praise of Obscurity.’ Then she took her book and went out, leaving Dignity in the gloom of the December day. The paper and pen were on the table. He had nothing else to do.
He looked at the title, slowly lifted the pen, and began a Rondeau.
I cannot praise my lady’s constancy
In smearing every lens that’s aimed at me,
Her care to mute my speech and hide my ways
With fogs and hedges. Rather let me praise,
He paused.
If praise I must—
Here he pictured Obscurity in his mind.
—her eye’s serenity.
Her graceful limbs, not her tenacity
That won’t for half a moment let me be,
I praise, and praise her lips; but that she stays
I cannot praise.
The snowfall of her hair, by sorcery
Deeper and colder than a blizzard, she
Has used to charm away the public blaze;
And yet her hair I praise. With long delays
I’m forced to call her fair, yet willingly
I cannot praise.