Bodies and Souls

by John Rechy

  Lisa thought of Maria.

  Now he smiled the incongruous little-boy smile. “That explain just about all of it—like I promised?”

  “And how do we figure in it, Orin, me and Lisa—with that Sister Woman?” Jesse asked firmly.

  “Clear,” Orin said simply. “Sister Woman said there would be four angels, four rebellious angels.”

  There it was again—the same illogical logic with which he delivered his lessons to them—allowing him to assert his fantastic reality to include them. And he had been able to lead them into the park, that deep night, led them to— … the fourth rebellious angel he had chosen, Lisa understood.

  “Got to fulfill our side of it,” Orin said, “so she'll have to fulfill hers. She wrote us back, lots of times. We read her letters, studied them, listened to every word in her sermons, me and the old woman did; and we understood… . The old woman would say, ‘Orin, you mind now—can't let her have excuses. No excuses. Got to fulfill our side.’”

  Our side. Jesse heard the sweet words. “Our side,” he beamed aloud. Then with sudden anger he realized that Orin was including the man in the park! “What makes you so damn sure we'll go along with you, Orin—wherever the hell you're going?” His rage shocked him, and he glanced at Lisa for support.

  “Don't have to,” Orin answered easily. “Never did. Only if you want to. You decide. Don't have to do a thing a-tall.”

  His shabby life till now; transformed. Jesse felt rejected by Orin's easy answer; his own question sounded mean, and it had left him abandoned. He felt frightened, a sense of loss. “I guess there's nothing wrong in wanting to know why that man in the park is so important to you—to us,” Jesse ordered his words carefully.

  “Thought I did,” Orin said. “Gotta be four lost angels.”

  Why four? Lisa wondered. Did he know?

  “Talked to him, before I could even approach him, and— …”

  “The mornings you were gone?” Jesse tried not to sulk.

  “Yes. Told him about you; he had to see you to trust me,” Orin continued, as if their questions, not his statements, might be strange.

  That hot, hypnotized night in the park—when he pushed the stone in signal. “And you went looking for him?” Lisa asked; said.

  “Found him,” Orin said. “Drew conclusions, studied it all from those news reports.”

  The same way he studied intricate structures, patterns. Lisa remembered him that afternoon at the Observatory, staring through the telescope, and then those boys set off firecrackers, like bullets.

  “Half-looking, half had-to-happen,” Orin said, “'cause that's how things ‘just happen.’ Like I met you. Guess, yeah, I was looking.”

  Choosing us carefully, finding us. Like him—the man in the park. But why four! Why did that woman insist on four?

  Jesse felt awed by coincidence which isn't.

  “And if she can wash away the old woman's sins, she can wash away all our tears. All the guilt,” Orin sighed. “All the horror we ran away from.”

  All the horror, Jesse James thought.

  Guilt, Lisa heard. Horror. What if Sister Woman did give him what he wanted? What was the real test?

  “And I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the earth,” Orin recited last-night's echoed words. “These are they who come out of great tribulation and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb, but they shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of water, and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.”

  Jesse surrendered tension and anger. Four angels, he thought. Orin knew. “Got to be four,” he said aloud.

  Lisa looked fearfully at Orin and Jesse.

  “Now we have to go to the park,” Orin said. “Okay?”

  Jesse nodded easily.

  They would go with or without her, Lisa knew. And she would go with them. She loved them, and they loved her—and she—they—had to face what was out there, had to know what seemed and what was. That was the only possibility of pushing away the darkness looming over Orin—perhaps now over Jesse. “Yes,” she said.

  “Knew you'd see it,” Orin said happily.

  In the white desert, when Orin had stopped to pick him up, with Lisa so pretty already in the car—Jesse remembered the Cadillac like an apparition in the wavy unreality of sun and heat—as far back as then, Orin was collecting his “evidence,” “fulfilling” his side! Yes!—he had rejected many others along the long highways, the many coffee shops and motels—choosing, searching for, him and Lisa! And so his determination to find and approach the man in the park made sense. Now Jesse did not feel threatened by that. He felt special!

  It was late dusk when they reached the park. Vast parts of it were dark, shaded deep gray; others were still splashed by windy sunlight. They walked and ran into the heart of the greenness until they reached the naked rocks on which they stood that first time. Orin dashed halfway along the blackened burnt patch and toward the green mass. “It's Orin! And Lisa! And Jesse!” His voice mixed with the sounds of the wind.

  The verdure remained sealed. Orin bolted across the bare stretch and plunged into the cove.

  Perspiration melting like ice, Jesse gasped.

  Lisa dashed against the ripping wind and toward the greeness that had swallowed Orin.

  Inside the tangled enclosure of the cove—a shell of dried twigs, branches, vines, leaves—like the inside of a cave, the size of a room—inside, Lisa faced Orin—alone. Then Jesse was with them.

  The enclosure was littered with empty cans of food, opened bottles, papers, a soiled sleeping bag, spilled iodine, a portion of a bandage. Sheltered from the wind, the cove contained a quivering stillness.

  “He's gone,” Orin said. There was amazement in his voice. “Said he wouldn't leave—he promised!” His voice veered toward franticness.

  A part of the dangerous unreality had fled, Lisa thought gratefully.

  In a carefully cleared space, a rifle lay.

  “He did have a rifle.” Orin's voice was puzzled. “He lied, said he didn't!” He frowned deeply.

  Jesse leaned over the weapon. “Its an M-16,” he identified it. “Godamighty, you realize what he could've done with that? Could've sprayed the park in a second with— … Safety's on, though.” He secured it doubly.

  “He didn't want to hurt anyone,” Lisa said adamantly.

  Orin touched the rifle. Kneeling by it, he studied it, as if amazed by its simple complexity. Then he rolled it carefully in the green sleeping bag.

  “Leave it, Orin,” Lisa's strong voice said. “It's dangerous.”

  “Not with the safety,” Jesse was proud of his knowledgeability.

  “Can't leave it,” Orin said urgently. “Gotta take it away,'cause now they're looking for where he was. If they find this, it'll be bad, real bad.” He lowered his head. “And I have to tell Sister Woman I have proof there were four rebellious angels,” he said. His voice slid toward panic. “Gotta have my side of the proof.”

  When they moved out of the cove, Lisa looked back at the sorrowing pines over the enclosure.

  After Jesse and Lisa were in the car, Orin placed the wrapped rifle in the trunk.

  “Drive out on the other side, Orin,” Lisa said quietly, firmly, “Like on the first day we came here, remember?”

  Jesse remembered, easily. Would it—could it—happen, finally? The mounting sensuality this morning— …

  This side of the park was shaded purple. Light fell only in dusty slanted sheets. “Here,” Lisa said.

  It was the place where Jesse had almost challenged Orin in those moments of demanding sexuality that distant afternoon.

  Orin parked on an isle of dirt off the main road. They got out.

  This day's sensuality, released by Orin this morning with his nakedness and theirs—Lisa would use it. Eager—anxious—Jesse would help. She pointed to the trail, the path. They moved throu
gh it. Before the cove, Orin waited. For a moment, he looked puzzled—young, lost, innocent.

  Lisa reached out and took his hand, leading him in—and pulling him away from the screaming ghost she felt sure his life had become a ritual to. Orin stared at her with eyes whose color melted into liquid blue.

  Lisa's fingers slid down Orin's cheek, to the edge of his shoulder. She reached for his hand and placed it on the bare flesh over her low blouse. Answering her nod, Jesse's hand quickly coaxed the blouse lower, exposing a portion of one breast. His fingers touched the nipple. He thought, Its happening!

  Orin's body trembled. He turned away. But Lisa held him, gently. His head lowered. “Help me!” Orin whispered. Lisa placed her lips on his. Jesse's hand cupped her exposed breast. Closing his eyes, Orin touched the other one, still covered. The blouse slipped down easily. Orin's tense hand—but not his lips—pulled away. Then his hand returned to the naked flesh. Jesse released Lisa's skirt, her panties, revealing the tinted softness between her legs, sequined in spurts of vagrant light. Then he connected his lips to hers on Orin's.

  Lisa opened Orin's shirt. The two bare torsos pressed against hers, hands gliding. The three faces joined in moist lips, tasting flesh, perspiration—and Orin's tears?

  Jesse lowered his hands. He turned Lisa's body more fully toward Orin's. Orin pulled back. Lisa touched the cool moisture on his face, soothing it, the other hand opening his pants. His cock, like Jesse's, was full and hard.

  His arms enveloping the two bodies—and theirs his—the three mouths connected. Orin thrust into Lisa, and with a sigh of joy released from a sob of sorrow, he came—and Lisa felt the long, long orgasm. Jesse replaced him, his “Ah!” echoing Orin's and extending Lisa's, which had united the two. The three bodies held each other.

  Then they separated slowly. They adjusted their clothes. Orin's head was bowed as he buttoned his pants, his shirt. Lisa and Jesse waited anxiously for his look. Orin turned away from them. Out of his wallet, he pulled a small paper, perhaps a photograph. He laid it on a rock near the opening of the cove. The wind carried away what he had placed there, as weightless as a soul. Turning, he smiled at them.

  He had released a photograph, a constant presence, Lisa felt certain; and, along with the disappeared, mysterious man in the cove, that strange woman who beckoned nightly?—would he release her now? Yes, Lisa told herself. Yes!

  As they descended in the car, an eerie smoky veil advanced on the darkened city.

  They stopped to buy food. Outside the motel, they could taste ashes.

  The closeness extended as they ate together at the familiar table. There was a shy embarrassment, but there was also a gentle, secure connection.

  Then Orin looked at his watch.

  No! Lisa saw him touch the television. Only for the news, she insisted. Only for the news!

  Kenneth Manning's voice was excited: “… —estimated at least a week, more, living on canned food in the park. He gave himself up early this morning—or just wandered out into the area of the Observatory.”

  The picture on the screen showed the wrenched face of a man whose eyes were as colorless as the sweat that glistened on his cheeks, jaws, his exposed, skinny chest. He was wearing ripped combat clothes. His hands were handcuffed behind him. Police were leading him toward a black squad car.

  The voice of another announcer, a man, was filling in the details. “Though unarmed when apprehended, the Viet Nam veteran who had escaped the hospital apparently thought he was back in combat in the jungle. We tried to get a statement.” Several microphones were thrust before the terrified man ogled by eyes and cameras. The man's mouth opened. Screamed words spewed out: “People burning!” The police pushed him behind the blurred windows of their car, erasing the terrified face.

  Now Eleanor Cavendish, in the studio, said, “We have a tape of Dr. Frederick Krug in his home in Beverly Hills. Dr. Krug is an authority on Viet Nam veterans who experience what are called ‘flashbacks’ and believe— …”

  “I'm glad you took the rifle, Orin!” Lisa said fiercely. The image of the terrified veteran, handcuffed, remained. “Now they can't connect it to him.”

  On the screen, a man in his sixties, his head shaved totally, spoke authoritatively. “This is not an uncommon syndrome with soldiers. Even when they know they have fought justly, any criticism of war sets into motion a whole syndrome of unjustified guilt, not for the official killing, no matter how regrettable, but, more, for childhood guilts evoked— …”

  Angrily, Orin turned off the sound.

  “He wasn't going to use that rifle or he would have!” Lisa said.

  “They'll take him back to the hospital,” Jesse said sadly.

  “But he'll run away again!” Lisa said.

  “No,” Orin said. “They won't let him.”

  The picture on the television screen had changed. It showed a building of astonishing architecture—slabs of silver plastic, dissected triangles, elaborate designs of angular geometry, all like a magnified, twisted snowflake. The camera pulled back on the enormous building to reveal rows and rows of pews, and, elevated and separated from them, a huge transparently silver platform behind which a radiance of plastic slabs burst into a giant fan.

  Orin raised the sound: “… —thousands, a capacity sponsors believe will be exceeded tomorrow when one of the country's foremost evangelists and so-called faith-healers—known only as Sister Woman—will hold what is being billed as a ‘Gathering of Souls in the Silver Chapel on the Hill.’ The chapel was completed earlier this year at a cost of eighteen million dollars. Joining Sister Woman will be other major figures in the evangelical movement, now arriving from all over the country. The giant crusade will open tomorrow, and its sponsors predict countless miracles, cures, and spiritual manifestations known as ‘slayings in the Spirit.’ … Well, finally, folks!”—Eleanor Cavendish wiped her brow in emphasis—"it looks as if we may—may—be in for some relief from the Santa Ana heat, at last. Unfortunately, the winds have already fanned two major fires, threatening to link into one.” The camera exposed a semicircle of fire like a blazing, broken crown.

  Orin stood with his back angled to the screen.

  “Tonight she's got to give us proof,” he said.

  And Lisa knew that what had occurred in the park was not an ending to the ritual, which must now unwind, fully.

  Orin shifted channels.

  Jesse looked in panic at Lisa. What would happen now!

  Lisa remembered the two gentle heads that had leaned on her shoulders in the cove, in the park.

  The blazing cross appeared on the screen. On her throne-backed golden chair, Sister Woman sat alone, robed in white satin woven through with golden veins of thread. Not even her private breeze intruded. On her lap, her hands were slain birds to be resurrected. The camera framed the delicate white features of her face, as still as a photograph. Tears gleamed, tiny pieces of melting ice on her dark lids.

  Orin sat on the edge of the bed. Jesse and Lisa flanked him.

  “Please,” Orin pled to the figure on the screen. “Please say: ‘I am here.’ Say it, say it! ‘I am here.’ Say it, Sister Woman, please.” He seemed to want his words to penetrate the screen, the woman's mind. His exhortation assumed the rhythm of prayer. “And then I'll know she's speaking through you, just like she said she would, if you really did what you claim, and all you have to say is, ‘I am here,’ that's all the proof I need, she told me—and I'll hear her through you and I'll know she's saved. And me.”

  Say it for him, Lisa pled silently. Jesse's hand was cold on hers.

  Sister Woman's red mouth opened. It formed four slow whispers: “Awesome. Wondrous. Glorious. Terrifying.” She began tonight's sermon. “Awesome, wondrous, glorious, terrifying are— …”

  Sister Woman: “Slain in the Spirit”

  “… —the fireworks of God!” The voice that had begun as a whisper soared to an exalted shout.

  Palms out, fingers trembling, hands rose before her—men and women a
ttempting to touch the radiance of her power. Young, old, they sat before her in arcs of ascending rows.

  From her golden throne elevated by three concentric steps before the truncated cyclorama of sky, Sister Woman faced the television studio. Cameras on dollies swiveled to point at her like guns she commanded. Wires tangled in confused black and white veins. Microphones floated, lights on racks rose and drifted, a controlled constellation. Behind cameras, men advanced, retreated, adjusted angles.

  Sister Woman's icy tears thawed. Her hands continued their deep slumber. “There are no accidents in heaven. In the divine order of things all is perfect, and God's perfect design is called ‘salvation.’ There is no substitute. The world began with fire when the flaming light of God ordered the chaos of night and the spirit poured forth resurrection. As it began, so will it end—in scorching flames of— …” She hurled the word, a bolt of judgment: “… —fire!” Her hands thrust out in sudden life, the satin sleeves sliced like merciless blades. In the filtered key light kept on her throughout so that she assumed an aura of ageless immutability, her long hair gleamed like white gold on pale, pale shoulders. For this sermon, her private breeze was stilled.

  Nightly in incantatory tones and with configurations of her hands, Sister Woman mesmerized her vast following. They waited in early-forming lines outside the religious television station she ruled.

  Now her voice hummed. “On the eve of this spring's Gathering of Souls at the Holy Silver Chapel on the Hill, in the season of renewal, let us speak of revelation— …” The soft chant broke violently. “… —and warn of … doom!” Her long pause extended the brutal threat, hinting of irrevocable finality. “And offer proof!”

  Already her words carried an additional power! The Lord had armed her doubly against Satan. Tonight she would speak not only to her congregation in the studio and beyond, but to that doubting man who wanted special proof. Though he did not know what that youngman looked like, Brother Man tried to search the mass of faces in the studio, because, yes, it was possible that he might be out there, this moment, to receive his proof—and she would give it to him!—and if he was not here now, later perhaps, drawn by her magnetizing power—even before the Gathering of Souls! But refracted cylinders of colored lights obscured Brother Man's vision. He saw only the roaming shadows of hired guards. Even as pure a woman as she, was not immune to violence. And that youngman Orin— … The urgency of his calls. No!—he pulled his thoughts away from those she had rejected.