A Reluctant Messiah

by Edward Nicholls

Only Ray was buzzing from the liquor but both were laughing now.

  "Why you ol' scam artist you. I love it."

  "No. No, Ray, it's not like that at all. I didn't know, and that's the honest-to-God truth." Michael's brow furrowed and his face creased into a frown. "It was a freak accident. I believed it just as much as you and everyone else. More. I believed it."

  "Sorry, Saint...ah Mike. I didn't mean...I mean...that was a little thoughtless of me."

  Mike reached into his pocket for a cigarette but the pack was empty. He crumpled it and tossed it into the unlit fireplace.

  "Not thoughtless at all, an honest reaction. I'm gonna have to get use to that feeling right quick." He flipped open a wooden humidor on the mantle, confident that Sister Lucy had done her usual fine job of attending to his basic needs. She had, and he lit one.

  "That's one of the reasons I wanted to see you. You were always a little different from the others, you know, more open."

  "Hell, I was the only other guy around, except for Brother Timothy.... I guess you saw that in the papers about him, the suicide."

  "Yeah. Yeah, I saw it."

  "I guess, I don't know? Did I seem all that different?" His brow knitted with the question.

  "Well, let's say honest. You always said what was on your mind. Always polite, of course, but you spoke your piece."

  "Polite. Shit, I'd seen some of the reaming you'd done. Especially Brother Timothy. I wasn't about to walk myself into any of that."

  "Yeah. I guess not. Well anyway, your reaction. I needed to see it. It'll hit me in waves, a million times over. I figured I'd start with a ripple. A friendly, honest ripple."

  Ray poured himself another drink. "So you're gonna spill the beans."

  "What choice do I have?"

  "Choice? You've got plenty of choices. One being: mix up another batch of that shampoo and do a fuckin' rain dance."

  "Come on. For Pete's sake, I've been living a lie. You expect me to keep it up forever. Besides, people know, everyone should know. I'm going through with that talk to the General Assembly that's scheduled for tomorrow. I haven't given much thought to it but I'm gonna try and call a press conference after it and lay it on the line."

  "The press. Rough stuff, Mike, they'll draw blood. Why not just phone it in? Deep-throat-it to Woodward or Bernstein."

  "Nah. Gotta be this way, I don't know why. I guess I figure I owe it to the people that believed in me."

  "Can I help? You want me to ride with ya, to New York?"

  "Thanks, but I'll need you here. I'm taking the Archangel...alone. The final voyage, some think-time. A couple of friends are gonna meet me in New York at the hotel. Cheryl...I don't think I ever mentioned her to you —"

  "I've heard the name, more than once. A lot more than once. But not from you."

  "Huh?"

  "The girls, they'd ask me about her all the time. It seems you have a habit of calling her name in your sleep."

  "Ho boy!"

  "Yeah. I told 'em she was your guardian angel, I said it with a straight face too. Not bad, huh?"

  Mike laughed. "Ya know, Ray, you're the saint. And about Cheryl? You could be right, you just could be right."

  Mike explained his plans for the disbursement of Church funds to Brother Raymond. The Church and all affiliated corporations were to be dissolved. Ray was to seek legal guidance from Coveport and M.O.S., if necessary, but was given full power of attorney. The guidelines were simple: enough for the ashram members to rejoin the living, the balance for a hodgepodge of children's charities. The Archangel was to be put on the block on arrival at Kennedy Airport. All real estate, save for the surrounding estate, given as a gift to Raymond for loyal services rendered, was to be liquidated to establish various college scholarships. Mike tossed a few belongings into a ditty bag and Ray met him at the door.

  "My only set, my friend." Mike's slapped the keys to the estate into Raymond's hand.

  "I'll take care of it for you, I promise."

  "I know you will. I'll be in touch. If anyone other than Cheryl or a Mr. Ageton should call, please tell them you haven't seen me."

  "I will, I will."

  "Goodbye, my friend." Mike embraced him, and then kissed on the cheek.

  "Breathe blue, Saint Michael. I am humble in your presence."

  Ray started for the mountain of paperwork as the telephone rang.

  He fed the script into the mouthpiece: "Breathe blue, Maryland estate," he said.

  "Yes, Stephen Collinsworth, calling for Michael Flagg," a woman's voice chimed.

  "I'm sorry, I haven't seen him in days."

  Mike gave three short bursts of the car horn and Ray caught the wave of his hand through a clear patch in the stained-glass window as he laid the phone in its cradle and wished him good luck.

  Chapter 22

  The decanted Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1880 sat untouched, cradled in its sterling silver womb, the ice almost completely returned to its former state. Mike twisted a paper clip in his hands until the metal was fatigued and it snapped in two as he reviewed the notes to the speech that lay in his lap. He wanted it to be brief, hit and run, but wondered if he'd babble on, trying to explain things he himself didn't understand. Surely the press conference later this evening would be riddled with unanswerable questions and he settled on, "I really don't know" as a replacement for the catchall "no comment." He hoped people would understand but doubted it. Peri agreed to explain the scientific principle behind the occurrence but he would have to fend for himself in answering the more difficult whys. He was grateful that Cheryl had agreed to be there too, for moral support, and fumbled over some clever but unusable opening lines as he heard the knock on the door.

  "Hi."

  "Hello, Michael, you wanted to see me."

  "Yeah, com'on in.... would you like some wine? The management sent it up gratis but I'm just not in the mood."

  "No thanks. What can I do for you?"

  "Pretty formal, aren't we —"

  "Look, cut the bullshit, Michael. I told you I'd be here, so I’m here. What can I do for you?"

  Mike paused, searching for the words. "I'm sorry.... I guess that's really what I wanted to say. I know I hurt you badly, and I don't expect you to understand what I did or why I did it because I don't understand a lot of it myself. I am truly sorry for the pain that I caused you. I hurt a lot of people and I'm sure that the retribution process is going to start as soon as the press conference is over tonight. I have a lot of making up to do and I...you're not making this easy for me Cher...can't you say something?"

  "If you expect me to throw my arms around you and tell you that all is forgiven and everything is all right, you can forget it. It's going to take a long time, if ever, for this pain inside of me to stop and a snap of your fingers just won't do it. But life goes on, and I've convinced myself of the fact that it will work out, for me, at least."

  "I see."

  "No, I don't think you do see, Michael. Life isn't some kind of game. When you break the rules you can't just glue the pieces back together and expect everything to work like new. You break it, you bought it."

  "We did have some good times though, didn't we?"

  "Yeah we did, but that was a lifetime ago. I feel for you, Michael, I really do. I still care for you very much, I probably always will. I can't forget what we shared. If you had asked me at any time during the three years, eight months and four days that we spent together to marry you, you would have gotten me, hook, line and sinker. You had me on a silver platter and I don't think you even realized it. It's dues paying time, Michael."

  "Is there any chance of us, you know, trying to make a new start? I'd settle for one in a million."

  "That's about where it stands, one in the million, and I'm being generous. No promises."

  "Seein' anybody now?"

  "Yeah, I'm dating. Seeing a few guys, nothing heavy... yet."

  "You think if sometime I give you a call —"

  "Oh. Can the blessed Saint Mic
hael fit little ol' me into his busy schedule?"

  "Cher!"

  "You had it coming."

  "Yeah," he dropped his head. "I guess I did."

  "Gimme a call, no promises though. I'll be waiting in the lobby for the limo."

  "By the way, your dress.... It's my favorite."

  "Really? This old thing, I'd forgotten. Goodbye, Michael."

  Cheryl saved her smile until she turned toward the door. Life is a game, and love is its prize. She had hurt him, she knew that, and they were almost even. Her game plan was working.

  *****

  Peri was rarely bashful when it came to Rothschild of any year and now was no exception. He shook the goblet in his hand in small circles, held it up to the light, sniffed it and his whole body smiled as he put it to his lips.

  "Marvelous, simply marvelous. You really should try some of this," he finally let out as he refilled the glass.

  "I think I need something stronger than wine. Maybe I should call room service for a quart of Scotch...or maybe a bag of dope.... Anyway I can get out of this?"

  "Sure, you can pack your bags and head for the hills, if that's the route you want to take. Let it leak out on its own."

  "Not exactly the macho way out, is it?

  "Macho huh, I don't think it’s your manhood you have to worry about. There may be some hostility but the majority will probably be embarrassed by their own gullibility. Bite the bullet and face the music." Peri was beginning to get lightheaded.

  "Yeah, with clichés like those in the repertoire, I know I’m not the first person in history to put my head on the chopping block."

  "Indeed. I think you're doing the right thing in confronting this. Builds character, you know. We all get called upon to do things which would be easier, and which we would prefer, to avoid. Do it and get on with your life. The press will no doubt nail you to the wall on this but it's best to be over and done with. Give your speech; go to the press conference, then, if you'd like, take a vacation. Get away. Give them a chance to bloody you up in print while you're gone. This too will pass. It'll be big for a month or two, but the public gets bored quickly. Something else will come along to pique its interest."

  "You're right, of course. It won't pass by itself.... I think I’ll have a glass of that wine now, if you don't mind sharing it."

  "Not at all, not at all. Drink." Peri poured a glass for him. "To a swift end to this madness," Michael raised his glass to tap Peri's.

  "In a few days you'll rise above it. It must be done."

  "Hmmmm."

  "Would you like some help with your speech?" Peri asked.

  "No. No thanks. I jotted down a few things for the press conference, sort of passing out the axes, but I think I'm just gonna wing it for the bigwigs."

  "Well then, if you don't mind being alone for a while, I think I'll take a nap. Recharge the battery. I spoke to Cheryl and the three of us will be riding over together."

  "Good. I think I'd feel incomplete without the two of you."

  "Ring me up when you're ready, Michael."

  "Thank you, Peri, I will."

  Chapter 23

  It is not always best to leave blame and judgment to a higher being. The wheel of retribution turns much too slowly. A life, or lives, snuffed out prematurely, with less thought than the crushing of a cigarette butt — or the tapping of a spent bowl of tobacco ash — cannot go unpunished. Playing God is sometimes within the realm of His lesser beings. A life for a life? A life for many lives? No. Let someone else sing the executioner's song, mete out the punishment. But the wheel needs to spin faster. The wheel needs help to spin faster.

  Mike stared out the tinted window of the stretch limo and marveled at the power and life of New York City. So different from the District, with its squat architecture and somber air, this town was alive, its buildings standing tall — chests out — proud and brilliant in the afternoon sun. Impossible to walk in this town, Mike thought. Crowds prodded to a trot by electrified air. Full of life — alive — except for a few. His thoughts fell calm.

  New York's Finest had cordoned off Third Avenue from East 59th Street, south to East 27th. The Queens Midtown Tunnel was at a standstill and the networks estimated the crowd that lined the cordoned area at three-quarters of a million. Miffed by the high level of secrecy, reporters were scattered to various points around the east and north sides of town. Those not at the Midtown Skyport or the East Side Airline Terminal were assigned to prayer service at St. Patrick's Cathedral or the "Color Festival" in Central Park. Hawkers peddled their wares with their best sellers being helium-filled, multi-colored balloons-by-the-bunch ("Sorry can't split 'em, thirty bucks a dozen") and plastic, "glow-in-the-dark" medallions of Saint Michael, which were cupped in tiny hands. "Hey neat! Look Mom, it really does glow, just like Saint Michael."

  Fireworks were scheduled for later in the evening to coincide with the winding down of the parade sponsored by the towns leading department stores. The mayor officially declared it "Color Day" adding, "Hey, let's have some fun with this one, huh?"

  Michael's limousine cruised south on Seventh Avenue as Cheryl stumbled over a New York Times crossword puzzle and Peri leafed through the latest addition of Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report, stopping at an article that he had forgotten he had written.

  Somewhere between West 16th and West 15th, the Secret Service agent, riding front passenger side, pushed his plastic earphone farther in and listened to the hum. "Continue south until Christopher Street. Will advise on Christopher." He repeated the message to the driver then turned to their companions in the backseat.

  "We've got it. Shouldn't be much longer," he said.

  Mike turned to Peri. "Where are we going? Do you know?"

  "No, I don't. I thought maybe you did."

  "No. Not me."

  "Security. Less people that know the location, less chance of a crowd."

  "Good, I can do without the throngs."

  "You holding up okay, my friend?"

  "Yes, sir, I'm doing fine."

  *****

  The location on Bedford Street was a far cry from the General Assembly, but it was crowd-free and Michael gave a sigh of relief. They were whisked from the limo, up a flight of stairs and seated in a small adjoining room, given time to relax and enjoy some refreshments.

  "Should be forty minutes max," a Secret Service agent said. "The others are receiving locale info now."

  Forty minutes. Mike considered wolfing down a six-pack or so to calm his nerves but settled for tonic water with a slice of lime — Cheryl's choice. He was beginning to relax and slumped comfortably in his metal folding chair when he heard the Mayor’s voice.

  "So Michael, stirred but not shaken I trust."

  "Mr. Mayor. Hello, sir."

  "Hope this cloak-and-dagger-drag-you-around-town routine wasn't too much for ya."

  "No, sir. Was that your doing?"

  "Of course. I'm the mayor. Mine and the President's actually. He can’t make it but he sends his regards."

  "Thanks."

  "I was hoping that maybe after this get-together you’d join me for the festivities uptown. It's ‘Color Day’ you know," the Mayor said.

  "Yes, sir...well uh...I'm not sure. Maybe you can help me though. I'd like to give a press conference this evening. I haven't mentioned it to anyone yet. I thought I'd have someone call the local stations and set it up. But maybe you could have —"

  "Consider it done. Do you have somewhere in mind?"

  "Well...no, sir."

  "Fine, then you'll be my guest at Gracie Mansion. Good a place as any, no?"

  "Well...sir, I really don't think this is any cause for a celebration. You'll find out why soon enough. I think it might...be kind of a downer."

  "Nonsense! You're in New York City! Nothing will bring these people down. Consider it done. If you'll excuse me now, I see some friends."

  The assembly was beginning to assemble.

  Mike heard the Mayor's voice trail off. "So, Mig
uel. How's the wife and kids?"

  Mike was about to join his other two-thirds when he saw Stephen Collinsworth step into the room. Mike stopped at the refreshment table, taking a clean glass and opting for straight Scotch this time.

  "Michael." Collinsworth nodded.

  "Steve." Mike returned the nod without offering a handshake.

  "I have your speech. I trust we're still an agreement?" Collinsworth said.

  "Oh, I'll use it, Steve. I'll use it."

  "I didn't have a chance to have it typed, but why don't you give it a quick once over to get the gist. No need to memorize it, just as long as the sentiment's there."

  "No need to brief me on proper speaking techniques. I've spoken before. And have the bullet holes to prove it."

  "Of course."

  “Join us on the dais. You can keep an eye on me.”

  Collinsworth nodded as Mike grabbed the folded sheets from him and made his way back to Cheryl and Peri. He whispered a few requests to Peri and then settled back in his folding chair.

  Lord, I hope I’m doing the right thing.

  *****

  A number of Secret Service agents dotted the crowd as the guests seated themselves. Behind Michael on the platform sat Cheryl, Peri, the Mayor, and Collinsworth separated alternately by five more Secret Service agents. Mike cleared his throat and spoke.

  "Ladies and gentleman. I'm flattered that you requested an opportunity to meet me. I hope to be able to do that on a more personal level later this evening should any of you still feel the desire." There was nervous laughter from the crowd and the whispering din of interpreters. "Considering what I'm about to say, I entertained doubts that many of you will. I have a prepared speech in my hand. However, I did not prepare it myself. I’m not sure….” Mike cleared his throat nervously. “Some of you may know Stephen Collinsworth who is seated behind me here. Most of you probably not, considering his position. However, he is the author of this speech. What’s in it is unimportant because what I have to say is actually more direct." Mike inhaled deeply and stood erect. "I...am a fraud." He exhaled.