by D Keith Mano
So I took Connie and Berry and Norm over to the Empire
Diner for breakfast. For some reason or other Berry and Connie
don’t get along—a woman thing. I tried to eat, but I was swallowing more air than food. As a result I became painfully flatulent—nerves—and spent most of the meal trying to relieve myself discreetly. Norm and Connie kept a skeptical eye on me:
maybe they expected a bullet hole to appear in the middle of my
forehead. Berry, by contrast, finished her French toast and half
of mine. With her hand on the inside of my thigh. I love that. I
love a woman who puts her hand on the inside of my thigh.
“ We did it,” she said, as I pulled up in front of her door.
“ Leonard was a low-life. He was gonna get us all in trouble.”
Then she kissed me—and I couldn’t respond, I felt like a straw
thing. My mind was in its spin cycle. “ You’re tired,” Berry
said. “ You’ve got the world on your shoulders and you’re tired.”
It was sweet. If fucking Leonard dares to touch Ber-ry . . .
God, did he touch Rita? And Tony? Is he a psychotic killer?
And, great, I just noticed my Phone-Mate is flashing.
Ethel wants to see me tomorrow—as soon as I get up. This
will not be fun.
And who will I hire to replace Leonard?
I ’d rather have a parish in Iraq.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 13
2 p.m.
Well, I ’m surprised, it didn’t go all that badly. I think Ethel
respects me for what I did. On the other hand, maybe I ’m kidding myself. Ethel’s a pragmatist. And quick on her feet. “ Nat-
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urally, Mike . . . without Leonard . . . ” Well, naturally she’s
more dependent on me than ever. So I ’ve made things harder
for myself. No way can I leave now without training a replacement first. (Pearl has nominated her cousin’s nephew, Bert Weiner. I ’m to meet him this evening.) I feel cornered. Then I try to empathize with what’s going on inside Ethel, inside those
kids. Any minute they expect to identify Tony in some morgue
body-drawer. There is a feeling of grim anticipation around.
And Leonard, I fear, is capable of anything.
I told Ethel I ’d be taking tomorrow afternoon off: I ’ve FI
NALLY made an appointment at Diocese House to see old
Bishop Plunk—no doubt the Christian reference startled her.
I ’ve been here, let’s see, almost three weeks. What Ethel doesn’t
want is for Jesus to call me now. So, at that point—she’s a sly
one—she said:
“ I hear you were banging that poor kid, Bubbles.” Just to
remind Father Mike of his general unworthiness.
“ No, Ethel,” I said. “ You hear wrong. Even if Pearl told
you she saw Bubbles naked in my apartment—”
“ Naked? Was she?” said Ethel. “ Pearl didn’t tell me anything.” Was Ethel lying? “ Actually the girl herself said something t’me on Monday night—she was a little unstable, wasn’t she?”
“ To put it mildly. Likeable, really good. But, yes, strange—
and desperate.”
“ A topless dancer.”
“ A topless dancer.”
“ But sexy, from what I saw. And you resisted that. You’re a
strong man, Tony. You amaze m e.”
“ Try not t’caU me Tony, Ethel. The kids get mixed up as it
is.”
“ Damn. Did I?”
“ And I ’m not strong. It just so happens I wasn’t attracted
t’Bubbles. Thank God. She was pregnant when she died.”
“ Oh, damn.” And Ethel burst into tears. “ I hate this busin ess-all the time you see people who have, you know, no roots.
No self-esteem. And, you know, you watch them kill themselves. And they have all this money, but no common sense.
And they’re just, you know, female children.” She got very
emotional then: she started drumming fists on her thighs. It was
the first time Ethel’s let her guard down. So I jumped in with:
“ Maybe you should sell The Car, Ethel.”
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D. Keith Mano
“ Oh, I ’ve thought about it. Believe me, I have. But it would
mean, you know, I was giving up on any hope of seeing Tony
again. We need time t’build The Car up. Profits are way off.
Leonard is gone now. And where d ’you find a buyer, Mike? The
liquor license is in both our names, thank God, Tony and mine,
but you can’t sell a liquor license—if I push the panic bar and
sell now, providing I could even dredge up someone with a
license—it’s too much. I ’d have to sell the house. I ’m trapped.’’
“ U h,” I said. “ Linese spoke t’me a coupla nights ago. He
said he’d be interested in The Car, if you—”
“ Fuck Linese,” Ethel said.
“ H e’s not a savory character—”
“ Fuck him again,” Ethel said. “ You think he hasn’t wanted
this? To see us down. So his greasy joints can pick up the slack.”
4 4 J
“ Daniels and that other stupid cop, they won’t listen t’me.
Why? Because Linese has family connections and the whole
fuckin’ precinct’s on the take, that’s why. ’ ’
“ You think Linese—”
Later.
I broke off writing because Berry knocked. She stood there in
cutoff jeans and a midriff blouse with no bra. Boy, the male
mechanism is a terrific reflex. See. Drool. Want. I had been
tired and distracted and depressed and then, ding-dong. I was
Mr. Deep-Voice Smoothy. Berry sees this and finds it amusing.
Her visit, shall we say, was mischievous. I protested too much:
I really had to get back to The Car, interview Bert, blah-blah.
“ I know,” she says. “ You’ve got too much on your mind.
That’s why I cam e.”
So for die first time in my life, I had a quickie.
Berry just leaned over the edge of my mattress and slipped
her shorts down. (Oi. Gotta get a lockbox for this journal.) Berry
has beautiful, slim-long, hard buttocks, brown with the outline
of her VERY brief bikini bathing suit bottom. Makes me think
I ’m having sex through the clothes or something.
And WHAT WAS I GOING TO DO? Huh? Say no? Why?
I ’ve already made love to Berry. Jesus said you’re cooked if you
even lust after a woman in your heart. So why not baste the
roast? Oh, it was good. Because it was offered so innocently,
lovingly.
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Oh, shit, shut up you hypocrite. You fucked her. Neither of
you was innocent. And, in the middle of it,
Kay called.
Yes Kay, with her remote-sensing device, which detects
whenever I ’m having pleasure—Kay, ¿hat solvent of hard-ons—
Kay spoke on the Phone-Mate. Which interested Berry not a
little. Kay said,
“ Hi. Just being a nuisance again. Just wanted to say I missed
you. Mike? I do miss you. And, guess what, my geraniums won
best in show. Exciting, huh? Well, give a call whenever. Can’t
wait to see you again. Bye . . . ”
All at once I was Silly Putty inside Berry. Not for long, mind
you, but long enough. Berry was gracious about it. She didn’t
begrudge me my pleasure, but afterward she said, “ Geraniums?”
“
They’re flowers.”
“ I know, Mike. I ’m a topless dancer but I ’ve heard of geraniums. This is your girl back home? She sounds pretty. ’ ’
“Sounds pretty?”
“ Not a knockout, but pretty. And very nice.”
“ Uh, look,” I said. I am really a scumbag. I really am. “ Uh,
look—being a priest is a little like running a topless bar. People
get crushes on you for the wrong reasons.”
“ And she’s got a crush on you, like Bubbles, like me?”
“ Not like you.”
“ I ’m different, huh?”
“ Yes.”
“ Say you care for me, Mike. I know priests don’t marry
topless dancers. But say you care for m e.”
That was easy. So I did. Then I put my tongue inside her
navel and saw the light brown hairs against the browner skin,
across the taut drum of her stomach. And for a moment it was
the whole wide world.
5 a.m.
A stupid, perplexing night. I hired Bert and probably I shouldn’t
have hired Bert—who knows? But Freddy quit on me—said he
was too scared to work at The Car anymore—and Leonard,
apparently, is telling every bouncer in the Tri-State area to steer
clear of me because something is “ coming down” on that fuck,
Mike Wilson. Great news. DISMEMBERED MAN WAS EPIS
COPAL PRIEST. Head found in Plaza Fountain.
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D. Keith Mono
Joe Solomon perked me up. Joe Solomon is a mensch—he
went out of his way to congratulate me for sacking L. He also
told me—much to my relief—that the narcotics men believed
my story. Something to the effect that, oh, I was too stupid to
be telling a lie. I take praise where I can get it these days.
Then in came Bert. There was a big crowd, and it was a crowd
made up of groups, which is always the primal ooze of violence.
Six Italians. Three Greek waiters from Astoria. The inevitable
four or five Latinos. And all of these ethnic groups appear to
hate Brazilians. I have Chinga on one shift and Arugula (can
that be her real name?) on the other shift. Both Brazilians, both
are earning more than any Wop-Greek-Latino in the room. Both
of whom want what’s in your pants, i.e. your wallet and nothing
else. (Both Virgos, too. Pearl has this theory that most topless
dancers and whores are Virgos. Virgos apparently are women
who like to use their sexuality for power and money, but don’t
really like sex. I must say in our informal poll five out of 12
dancers were Virgos. You see what I ’m reduced to: four years
of college, and I ’m asking people what their sign is. And I ’m
nervous about seeing Plunk tomorrow.)
Anyway, back to Bert. The Italians and Greeks and Latinos
are calling Chinga and Arugula wetback and whore and piece
of fried placenta. I ’ve already once asked for a little gentlemanly
restraint. Raven has just shortchanged a Greek. By accident
maybe. In other words, I ’m expecting a riot and need help.
So, first off, Bert looks good to me. He’s big and he’s worked
in security somewhere. Also, Leonard hasn’t gotten to him.
And, of course, he’s Pearl’s cousin’s nephew.
But I realize in no time that Bert is ineffably clumsy: TWICE
in our first half hour together he steps on my foot. And I mean
he clomps. Not only does he clomp—Bert doesn’t even notice
he’s standing on your instep. You have to tell him. And you
better do this quickly because Bert weighs many stone. Most of
this weight is in his upper arms, which hang down like giant
dewlaps. He is not attractive. He looks like a Minus-Zero Mos-
tel, without the comic timing.
I soon realize what half the problem is—half the problem is
that Bert can’t see. Beyond, oh, three feet, Bert is just estimating
the world—in the most general terms. Maybe that’s you out there,
maybe it isn’t. Ooops, it was a wall. Bert is strong and willing—
but to be of any use I ’ll have to launch him in the right direction
like a torpedo. Still, presence is important. Bert’s presence qui-
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eted things down. A topless bar is not a topless bar without at
least one big fat man. Squatting there like a household god.
I was glad to have him. All night long I watched the door,
expecting Leonard or a Molotov cocktail to come bouncing in.
Berry is here with me tonight. Taking a shower as I write.
I ’ve given her one drawer of my bureau. They say that’s very
significant in a relationship.
I must call Kay.
THURSDAY, JULY 14
5:30 p.m .
I ’ll write this down, but I really don’t believe it. Maybe it wasn’t
me—-maybe it was some dream, maybe an astral projection of
Mike Wilson—that flew out to Diocese House. And flew—oh,
flew—back. I sit here half terrified, half convulsed by giggles—
which is probably a short-form definition of madness.
Don’t worry, Mike. It’ll be over soon. They’re closing in on
you.
So, I took the LIRR out to Diocese House. (Somehow I didn’t
think driving up in a 1990 Lincoln that still smells of vomit was,
well, canonical.) And I wore my monkey suit for the first time
in weeks. It gave me an odd sensation. Singled out again. One
man—he probably thought I was Catholic, Episcopalians just
don’t inspire anger, we’re too harmless—one man walked up
and spat on my shined shoe.
“ Would you care t’try again?” I said. Tim the other shoe.
“ Free the Irish,” he said. And walked off. But then, while I
was waiting to change trains on the Jamaica platform, this Rastafarian—drunk on male hormones or something more expensive—started shouting and then yelling A-men! to his own shouts. Such high energy comes to Nebraska only in tornado
season. And, suddenly, nervous women on the platform started
gathering around me. Around my collar, that is. I had an instant
congregation. They were taking sanctuary in my presence. Most
of them looked Jewish. And I remembered my favorite saying
of Jesus’s: “ Oh, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, which killest the proph-
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D. Keith Mono
ets, and stonest them that are sent unto thee: how often would I
have gathered thy children together, as a hen doth gather her
brood under her wings, and ye would not!”
Which made me susceptible to tears. Since I was early, I
strolled the grounds of Diocese House for fifteen minutes or so.
The landscaping is exquisite. Say what you will about our dying
sect, we have good taste.
The roses were in their prime. And the topiary work—which
must cost a tycoon’s tithe to maintain—was m agnificent So Anglican. Not much had changed since I was last there (as a convention delegate) seven or eight years ago. They’ve added one unfortunate m odem sculpture called “ Jesus Bearing the
Cross” —which, to be frank, makes Jesus-plus-cross look like a
helicopter gunship. But otherwise, beautiful. And silent enough
to hear a sparrow’s fall. In so many ways the priest’s vocation is
still attractive.
But I couldn’t fully relish it—because I ’ve chosen to become
an outcast. (I kept ducking behind bushes, lest I bump into
someone I know.) And in time—displacing my guilt—I got into
the anger and pride place. What-right-do-they-have-to-judge-
me? W ho-says-what-I ’m -doing-is-wrong? Jesus-ate-with-
sinners. And so forth. Because I was all pumped up for a big
wad of lying.
Old Plunk, of course, is a sweetheart. Bit of a nance, as my
father used to say. But good-hearted and trusting and easy to
con. Easy, but you feel like Judas doing it. Worse, he remembered me.
“ You’re MacFeeley’s project, aren’t you?”
Nice way to put it—I guess that’s what I was. A project. The
sinner turned into a man of God. The young boy who went from
lust to piety. We talked about Father Mac for a while. (Mac, if
he were alive, would be a contemporary of Plunk’s.) And then
I told Plunk this seamless garment of half-truth and high invention: Yes, my brother was missing. Nieces to support. My only family. Learning to make ravioli and fettucine Alfredo in the
kitchen. A full-time job.
“ W ell,” said Plunk, combing his eyebrows—great gypsy-
moth things they are—“ You know how I feel about worker
priests. I think they’re a good thing. We need priests who are
grounded in reality. And w e’ve got too many damn priests and
too few churches anyhow. But you must miss the eucharist.”
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No, no—not me. I told him I was worshipping here and there.
Altar-shopping.
“ Of course,” he said. “ I mean, you must miss celebrating
the eucharist. Like an athlete, you get out of shape.”
Yes, I said. Oh, yes. Totally unprepared for what was coming.
“ Now, let’s see.” He opened his pocket calendar. “ Hmm.
Oh, yes—that’ll do nicely. Sunday the 24th. Week from this
coming Sunday. I ’m making an episcopal visit at St. Lebbeus’s
in Bayside—nice, liberal congregation. And the rector, Larry
Lapham, will be in Aspen. We’ll concelebrate, you and me,
would that be nice?”
Oh, nice.
“ You do the sermon—I ’ll do a homily. That’ll save me digging through the trunk for something t’say. ” He leaned forward and whispered, “ Took an old sermon out of the file yesterday—
