A Reluctant Messiah

by Edward Nicholls

  Michael was momentarily caught in his own thoughts. "Shit, I always thought I had a grip."

  "You had a tough time, you nearly died, that changes a lot of priorities."

  "Did Cheryl give any indication that she wanted to speak to me...to maybe get things back together?"

  "No, she didn't. She's hurt; she's hurt badly. You have a lot of mountains to climb. Half the world still thinks you're a god. It'd take some doing, but if ever I'd seen something worth working for, that lady is it."

  "Yeah, she is. She is."

  "Just between you and me, a feeling more than anything else. I think she'll be with you forever."

  "I hope you're right. I really hope you're right."

  "Give her a call, Michael."

  "I'll give her a call."

  Chapter 20

  Three sleepless nights should have had Michael dragging about, but for reasons even his own keen logic couldn't discern, he was elated. An overpowering weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was a man, plain and simple, fitted with all the flaws and shortcomings, recipient of the glorious defeats and quiet victories of humankind. Godlike in many ways, but in the ways of all humans, capable of building and resigned to growth, despite temporary periods of seeming stagnation. Living daily the slow and steady quest for the always-elusive state of perfection. Missing a step, losing a beat, stumbling and sometimes falling, only to regain the somewhat wobbled walk of life, to breathe the sharp, crisp sweetness of that transcendent stillness. The stillness that whispers rather than shout: you have found me. Yes, I am different than you suspected. Not the brash cry of a triumphal parade, but the fullness in the pit of your stomach, indeed, the core of your being. That knowledge that can only be felt, learned but never taught, won but never given freely. The struggle was easing.

  The sun burst through a smoky-gray cloud and seemed to balance itself on the steeple top as Michael climbed the steps to the Church of the Immaculate Conception. His gait was springy and buoyant, his thoughts calm and calculating, a time for plans and action but first for prayers for forgiveness and requests for guidance.

  The morning masses had long since been over and the few parishioners that remained, crowned with dull colored babushkas and blessed with unshakable faith, talked silently to their Wise Friend.

  Michael walked the long aisle, genuflected and knelt in the first pew, clasping his hands in the attitude of prayer. A single line of a memorized prayer from his youth was enough to tell him that this was not the way. He slid to the wooden bench, folded his hands in his lap and stumbled over his own words. A recalcitrant child trying desperately to explain his actions to a kind and forgiving Father.

  Time passed quickly and suddenly a hand on his shoulder broke his concentration and he stared blankly at the patch of white collar surrounded by black.

  "Hello, Michael, working on your speech? He has all the right words you know," the priest whispered, his eyes darting to the ceiling.

  Mike forced a smiled. "Oh hello, Father. Yeah, something like that."

  "I couldn't help noticing you, you seem a little troubled. Would you like to talk?"

  "Ah, yes, Father, I think I'd like that."

  "We could use the sacristy, unless you prefer the confessional."

  “No, the sacristy's just fine."

  "Good, I'm Father Laurence, follow me please."

  *****

  "I'd offer you something to drink but all we have is altar wine and I'm afraid it's all been spoken for." Father Laurence smiled.

  "That's okay." Mike was feeling better and better, he smiled too. "I don't know, Father, sometimes it all seems so useless, does any of us really win, and if so, is it worth the fight? It seems like such a waste of time?"

  "We do the wasting, Michael. Time is an illusion, something a clock measures; it couldn't waste itself even if it wanted to. It's a continuous flow that presents us with opportunities. It's up to us to use these opportunities or to waste them. They're there; as sure as you're sitting here, each and every day they come. Most of us close our eyes to them; they don't hide from us. They're there in plain sight. We look the other way, or worse, call them problems, nuisances, something we flick away like a pesky insect. Leave me alone, we shout, let me get on with things! Get on with what? Dealing with them is getting on with it, avoiding them is not. God gave us this beautiful earth for a reason. The world is one big schoolhouse; we're here to learn. The problems are our teachers. We have to press on and learn from each experience, even the bad ones can show us some good if we look hard enough."

  "It's just so tough sometimes."

  "That it is, Michael, that it is. It's an uphill climb all the way, but what joy would we have if it were easy? The things given to us free of charge are never held in esteem. We take them for granted, ignore them. They become commonplace and boring, of little or no value. If the full moon appeared once but every fifty years, it would be an awesome spectacle. We have it each and every month and rarely do we observe its beauty."

  "Why does God allow so much confusion? People look for guidance and the guides are lost themselves. We're taught to respect and admire policemen and politicians, and then we learn that some are as corrupt as the criminals.” Mike leaned forward on his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. “Nuns are leaving the convents, priests the seminaries. Murder is wrong but not under the guise of capital punishment. In the confusion, we look for the panacea, anything will do. The magic that will make everything okay. The problem is that we start to worship the process instead of the results. If a sugar pill takes away the pain of arthritis, why do we see it as a sham? It works. But it's the absence of pain that's to be commended, not the pill. The feeling, not the cause. Why do we find it necessary to search for this magic? We seek out gurus and mentors that know little more than we do. Is it fear? The thought of an empty eternity? I'd like to think that there were a few atheists in the foxholes, Father, because if fear is our only motivation for believing, then I don't think the Almighty needs our belief."

  Father Laurence stood and paused a few seconds, gathering his thoughts. "God accepts the results, Michael. If we lead a good life because we fear eternal damnation, it's the acts He accepts not the fear, the results not the pill. He wants our love but He understands the difficulty in loving a Being we can't see or touch. This is why each of us has a piece of Him in us. If we look at each other in these terms, then we can’t help but love one another, to treat each person as a child of God."

  "A difficult thing to remember on a day-to-day basis considering what's thrown at us," Mike said.

  "A constant battle.... A constant battle."

  “Thanks for letting me chew your ear, Father. I think I should be going."

  "I heard about your speech on the radio. Good luck."

  "Thank you." Mike stood and shook the priest's hand. "I'll let myself out. And, Father, if you think of it, will you remember me in your prayers today?"

  "You're already on my list.”

  Mike turned to walk away.

  “Breathe blue, Michael." Father Laurence flashed a wide grin.

  Mike spun back around “Huh?"

  "I attended one of your lectures a month or so ago. We all deal in sugar pills. Sometimes they're all we have, but the good results are always more important than the process. May God bless you, Michael.” The priest sliced his hand through the air in the sign of the cross.

  "I think He already has.... Oh, not this," Mike smiled, remembering his halo. "Definitely not this."

  Chapter 21

  Mike questioned his own judgment on the choice of locations as he sidestepped some rotting garbage on the stairwell and headed up the abandoned tenement steps.

  The kitchen was the least cluttered room and he looked around for something reasonably clean to sit on. A rat scampered by. Mike winced, then swung his foot out booting it across the room where it slammed into the stove, flaking white enamel chips to the stained linoleum floor. It scurried away. He upturned a three-legged wooden stool wi
th the toe of his shoe, sat and waited.

  Garbage.

  *****

  "Michael," Collinsworth nodded and stepped into the room. "I was a little surprised to get your call."

  "I’ll bet you were."

  "Some place you picked. What can I do for you?"

  "It's what I'm gonna do for you. Are you aware that the mystery of my halo has been solved?"

  "No. No, I wasn't. Our people still haven't come up with anything as far as I know."

  "Your people are assholes, Mr. Collinsworth. They don't even know how to kill somebody anymore. You know what I'm saying...kill somebody?"

  "Well, no. I —"

  "Cut the bullshit Stevie-oh-boy. You know damn well what I'm talkin' about. You won't get another chance with me."

  "Okay, so you know. But what's to stop me from taking that chance myself, right here." He reached for his strapped pistol. "This is a pretty secluded spot you picked."

  Michael laughed. "Believe me, I'm quite aware of your fondness for indiscriminate killing. But please don't take me for a fool. I did pick the spot, remember? And there are a few people that know where I am and who I'm with right now. There's a letter too, it'll be mailed in, oh," Mike looked at his watch, "about twenty minutes from now, if I don't stop it. It'll put your butt on a very hot griddle to be sure. You see, I have a friend that has a computer with some very interesting information. Some of it very personal."

  Collinsworth tapped his pipe against the wall and Mike watched as ash and unburned tobacco floated to the floor. "You got my attention," Collinsworth said.

  "I thought so."

  "So that's the big favor you're going to do for me, stop me from being embarrassed?"

  "Embarrassed. The things I know about you and the way you run your operation will embarrass you to death."

  "This friend of yours. Who —"

  Mike shook his head, disgusted, and stood up. "Your choice, your head." He started to walk away.

  "Wait." Collinsworth jammed his thumb into the bowl of his pipe, tightly packing the wad of tobacco.

  "Tick tock, tick tock." Mike tapped his watch crystal.

  "Okay, what's the trade?"

  *****

  Cheryl wrapped the electric cord around the travel iron, placed it in the carry-on bag and snapped the hasps closed. She looked again at the emerald green dress hanging on the back of her bedroom door and gave it a second thought. Not her color — and much too conservative —but it was Michael's favorite; she zipped a plastic garment bag around it and carefully draped it over the luggage bag.

  The flight was not until later this evening but she was never a last minute packer. It would give her time to think. A game plan. She needed a game plan. It's not over till it's over —who was it that said that? Oh yeah, brilliant, Yogi, absolutely brilliant. She smiled, poured a drink and mocked a toast to a hopeful victory.

  Her recent talks with Peri had convinced her that it was not bitterness that she was fighting with, but bitterness she was fighting for. How much she wanted to be bitter, to find a reason for hating him for the pain he had caused her. How often she would dwell on the times that they were together, the times he had wronged her. But the thoughts would always fade and the new thoughts sprung stronger. She fought them off but back they came. Does time really heal? It was an empty feeling. A piece of her was missing.

  She needed a game plan.

  *****

  "It's as simple as that, Mr. Collinsworth. What it comes down to is — my life for yours. I want you off my back. Permanently."

  "That's it? Call off the dogs?"

  "Basically, yes. You see, without going into details about what caused my halo, it's not a permanent affliction. I'll be gone before it does fade though.... Do you have any idea how much money I'm worth?"

  "Millions, I'm sure."

  "Pffffff millions. Hundreds of millions. Perhaps billions by now. I can't seem to stop it from coming in. A curse I suppose I'll have to learn to live with. The bulk of it right now is being transferred to accounts in Switzerland and the Bahamas. I plan to live the rest of my days out very comfortably, very comfortably indeed."

  "So that's it then? We keep each other's secrets secret?"

  "I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life wondering whether you and yours are in line behind me."

  "You'll just disappear?"

  "Oh, that won't be a problem. Money does magic. Mirrors, blue smoke and money. Lots of money. My loyal, huddled masses are a believing bunch. Somehow they'll quietly be told that I've gone. No explanations, just gone.... Tibet? Ascended into heaven perhaps. I'm a god to them. They're believers."

  "And this friend of yours who has this information on me, he can be trusted?"

  "I'm afraid not. Unlike you and I, I don't believe the man can be bought. He'll be taken care of though."

  Collinsworth smiled. "I see. You're learning the game quickly."

  "Survival. That's the only game I’m interested in now, comfortable survival. You see, he knows my secret too."

  "Why not just have me eliminated too. You obviously can afford it."

  "I have a feeling that someday you may come in very handy. Your sphere of influence is quite different than that of my friends."

  "How do I know I can trust you? This could all be a lovely sting."

  "You can't, but I don't see that you have much of a choice. Besides, I'm gonna sweeten the pot for you. Name your price for one thing. How much, where, how? Marks, pounds, yen...and a kicker. I'm still scheduled to speak to the members of the General Assembly. It'll be my farewell address, so to speak. Little to their knowledge, of course. I'm not much of a speech writer and I thought maybe I could use your help." Mike leaned against the door jamb, staring into the next room. He paused to study the wall blazoned with graffiti. "It must be pretty boring for you since they kicked you upstairs. No more real meat to chew. This could be a good opportunity for a bit of subtle propaganda. You can be subtle, can't you?"

  "Make that phone call, our time is almost up. And if you try to cross me on this one —"

  "Sometimes you just gotta believe, Mr. Collinsworth. You just gotta believe."

  Mike watched as the Deputy Director moved through the doorway and down the flight of stairs.

  Garbage.

  His game plan was working.

  *****

  Mike took the long way home. The very long way. He drove passed his old apartment. He owned it now, Mrs. Mullen smiling all the way to Florida, or was it Southern California? Someplace sunny he remembered and so generous an offer. He drove passed Cheryl's place and was sure that he saw her — a thousand times in the faces that drove by. Why yellow, he asked when he first saw the new car. Why not? Does stand out though, he said. I'll take that to read outstanding and thank you, she said and smiled. He saw that smiling face behind the wheel of every yellow compact he passed. Could there really be that many yellow cars in the District? Or was his mind playing tricks on him?

  He could have his pick of most any woman now, his for the taking. The grinding, grunting passion of twisted human flesh. The pleasure in the taking. The deed be done, go now and bring on the next. The service of serving. The hollow giving.

  He had touched a soul once; it was soft, but not so holy. There were secrets there, some frightened him at first, but they were friendly in a way. Not there to hurt him, just there. Honest secrets. Holy in their honesty, unashamed, but certainly not feigning pride. He had cried that night after she had fallen asleep and he wished her pleasant dreams. Tears of pity? An emotion-alchemist to wave the healing wand, to draw away the pain and guilt? A tear of prayer for the healing power? Hardly. A thankful tear for an opened soul.

  The gates glided open and Mike's cream-colored Mercedes rolled up the winding drive. Sister Marilyn greeted him at the door, her face strained and pallid, concerned by his three-day absence and the news of Sister Jennifer's death. No explanations were given, none expected. He dismissed his staff. "Go home," he said, b
ut not before being reminded that they were home.

  "Where will we go?" Sister Lucy asked.

  Michael recommended a hotel in Georgetown, a recent acquisition for the corporate portfolio, promising to call ahead and assure accommodations.

  "Sister Lucy, one last thing before you go."

  "Yes, Saint Michael, anything you ask. Anything."

  "Please get in touch with Ray Packwell for me."

  "Brother Raymond?"

  "Yes, of course, Brother Raymond. Tell him I'd like to see him here as soon as possible. He should be at Georgetown, if not, probably Bennings."

  "Thy will be done."

  "And Sister Lucy...?"

  "Yes, Saint Michael?"

  "Thank you...for everything. I am with you now and will be always."

  "Breathe blue, Saint Michael." A smile lit her face.

  "Breathe blue."

  *****

  Ray Packwell called for a cab as soon as he got Mike's message. All of the ashram’s vehicles were in use, most of them absentmindedly scattered and unattended about the tri-state area by Michael himself. He arrived at the estate, Mike paying the driver with two one-hundred-dollar bills, the smallest he had, and the cabbie left without a complaint.

  A coffee table and two of the three sofas that formed a U-shape around the fireplace in the living room were stacked high with legal and letter-sized documents. Mike had lugged them from the office wing of the house and was hunting for cardboard boxes when Ray arrived. He explained the situation punctuating the monologue with a few nerve-calming Scotches for Raymond. Becoming lightheaded, Ray found it easier to be on a first name basis with his sainted master. Mike joined him on the third drink.

  "Are you shitin' me? Shampoo! Are you for real?"

  "Scout's honor. Did wonders for my dandruff too."