The Bridge

by D Keith Mano

  “To myself, of course. The Lord God has good ears.” Xavier Paul yawned. “You forget, I have been both sheep and shepherd for twenty years.”

  “Too much of yourself.” Priest spat; Xavier Paul laughed.

  “Don’t you like me, Priest?”

  “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust anybody. The world is full of stinking corpses. I don’t like the dark. I want to see where you are.”

  “I’m not going to attack you.”

  “You might rape me.”

  “That’s not particularly funny.”

  “I don’t think you ever had a woman. I think you’re queer.”

  “That will be enough.”

  “I think you—”

  “Shut up. Priest.”

  It was a command. Spare, effective; just stated. A light blow struck by some terrific, inertial weight. Priest was apprehensive. Spite opened his mouth, but he was awed and did not answer. He could not trade strengths: a shriek alone would have matched that rich assurance. Secondary rain from the roof slackened. Priest sat behind the steering wheel, forearms wrapped in a breast stroke around it. He was furious: thwarted, impressed. Xavier Paul lifted his legs up/onto the front seat back. Priest pumped the accelerator. He broke the gearshift. He heard the old man’s stomach gush and whirr. They did not speak for half an hour. Xavier Paul lit the pipe again, smoked, tapped it out. Reluctantly Priest spoke first.

  “You called me a beast. You hurt my feelings.”

  “It was meant as a compliment.” Xavier Paul yawned. “We’ve been civilized to death. We need the beast’s seed now. You’re a new man. Priest. Too bad you’ll be dead.”

  “It was the way you said it.” Priest sulked. “I didn’t like that.”

  “Fair enough. Will you accept my apology?”

  “I was mad. I wouldn’t have said what I said—about queers and women—but you made me angry.”

  “Right. Why don’t we drop the subject?”

  “Look. You don’t have to be so cold. We’re friends. I want to be a friend. I’m a nice guy, but you shouldn’t say things like that. I have a bad temper.”

  “I said, let’s drop it.”

  “Damn you.” Priest rose, palms on the car ceiling. He pushed off, twisting, backward. He dove. His shoulder struck Xavier Paul’s shoulder. He heard the rear door-handle click. It opened.

  “What is it?” Xavier Paul had shifted toward the door. “What do you want back here?”

  “Are you getting out?” The door shut. The quick, defensive reaction had embarrassed Xavier Paul. “Are you afraid?”

  “Your movements are very sudden. You’ve hurt me once already. I find your exuberance dangerous.”

  “No. You think I’m going to kill you. Huh? Is that it?”

  “You’ve become very interested in killing. Like a new toy, isn’t it?”

  “Mmmm.” Priest leaned back. They sat side to side, feet up. Then Priest put a testing on Xavier Paul’s left biceps. “When I broke that guardsman’s teeth, he was afraid. He was scared to death. There was nothing he could do, all screwed up like a woman getting laid. E-diet cramps. I had him. You should have seen die fear in his eyes.”

  “Don’t enjoy it, Priest. Don’t make it a habit.”

  “Why not? It’s fun.” His hand probed into the crook of Xavier Paul’s elbow.

  “Think you can take me?” The hand left furtively. “I’m a pretty old man.”

  “Sure. Even with my ankle hke it is. Even if you’re the biggest son of a bitch I ever saw. I’m strong.”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You poor fool. Strong? You’re a child. A sniveling infant.” Xavier Paul began to laugh. “A lot could be done with you. But it’s too late for that.” Xavier Paul laughed again: a whinny, nasal and harsh. “Stop it.” The sound was sourceless. It disconcerted Priest. Xavier Paul laughed.

  “Stop it.” Priest sat up, tried to cover the mouth with his palm. He couldn’t find it. “Light a match.”

  “Why?”

  “Now. Light it.” Priest was frenzied. “Light it.”

  “I have only a few.”

  “Light it.” Priest’s hands stumbled, searching across Xavier Paul’s lap. “Now. Now.”

  “Why?”

  “Light it!” Priest shouted. “I want to see your face.”

  “There. Satisfied?” The igniting flash stayed on Priest’s retinas. It starred his glance. “Well? What do you see?” Priest fingered the broken nose: a hutch of lumps. He parted Xavier Paul’s beard, as though combing for vermin. He nodded. “Do you mind? I’d rather not bum my fingers.” Xavier Paul blew the match out.

  “I’m going crazy.” Priest slapped the side of his own head: it was an uncompromising blow. Xavier Paul winced. “You know…I thought you were just a voice. I thought you weren’t there. And sometimes I think Mary is here. And she isn’t.”

  “Can’t you tell from the stink?” Xavier Paul snorted. “God knows, you certainly baptized me with piss.”

  “Baptized?”

  “Not that you smell too fragrant at the moment. My urine is more delicate. A kind of perfume.” Xavier Paul pushed Priest back. *Tou can stop leaning on me, thanks. Now that your identity crisis is over.”

  “Do you use special water?”

  “For my piss?” Xavier Paul laughed. “It’s not the waterit’s the excellent processing system.”

  “No. No.

  To baptize.”

  “Oh.” Xavier Paul frowned. “Ordinary water is all right. If I bless it.”

  “We have water here.” Priest rolled the window down. He swept one palm over the vinyl roof, rubbed the palm on Xavier Paul's cheek. “See.”

  “Yes-”

  “Baptize me.”

  “Why? Because you’ve got nothing else to do this evening”? Because you’re bored? You just told me, didn’t you, that you can’t believe in God?”

  “I never said that. I never said I didn’t believe in God. I said it about the other world. I believe in God.”

  “You do? You’ve thought about it a lot?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. When? When was the last time you thought about God?”

  “I—” Priest held his breath. He stalled. “Don’t pressure me. Don’t try to confuse me with words.”

  “I’m not. Do you believe in God?” Priest paused. “Well?”

  “Mary does.” Xavier Paul heard Priest’s knuckles crack, a toy being wound. “She talks about God, when we’re in the woods. About God’s world; the things He made. I never said no.

  “That’s rather a lukewarm commitment, isn’t it?”

  “But…I never had someone to tell me about Jesus Christ. How was I supposed to know? Was I supposed to guess about it?”

  “That’s true. Yes.” Xavier Paul was tempted: the final conversion, significance given to his slack ministry. Yet he knew Priest’s cynicism. “Well…perhaps tomorrow.”

  “I want it now.”

  “You want.” Xavier Paul became indignant. “You want. I’m tired of you wanting. I want to get some sleep.”

  Priest said nothing. His left hand traced the pistol’s outline through rubber. This was a reflex already: Xavier Paul knew it comforted Priest. He prayed nonsensically, in patched formulas: his own sort of reflex. Something chattered beyond the window; the sound proliferated. A flock of bats exited through the roof. Priest’s tongue prepared his lips. He said,

  “Please.”

  “Please what?”

  “Baptize me.”

  “Please? Are you being polite? Please pass the salt?”

  “I’m asking you nice.”

  Xavier Paul smiled at the darkness. “I appreciate that. I know it must be difficult for you. But—” Xavier Paul covered Priest’s hand with his own hand. “Listen to me. This is the most important thing I know. I have very little to look back on, less to hope for. This has been my comfort and peace for seventy years. Now—two days from my death—now I don’t want to make my
life seem cheap.”

  “I’m a beast, that’s what you mean. You don’t give the blood and the meat to a beast.”

  “Blood and meat?” Xavier had heard saliva in Priest’s words. “This is my faith we’re talking about. Not a menu. Not an act of cannibalism.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s wine. Just a sip, not blood. And bread—not even real bread—thin wafers. Like pieces of paper. They have no taste. They stick in your throat.”

  “Uh-huh.” He didn’t think Priest believed him.

  “Let me ask one question. Try to answer me honestly.” He inhaled; he wanted sleep. “Jesus Christ was the Son of God; I told you that. He was sent to earth. He became man. He preached and performed wonderful miracles. He was put to death by men. His death was necessary; by his death, his sacrifice, our sins are forgiven. He rose again from the dead. This—the bare bones of it—this is what Christians believe. I explain it badly. But…my question is, can you believe in Jesus Christ? In some part, if not wholly.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Xavier Paul sighed. He remembered Priest’s teeth. His brother, a monk, had once said, “I hunger for Jesus.” But had anyone, he thought, ever hungered for Jesus as Priest hungered? “Can I ask another question?”

  Priest shifted uneasily. “Yes.”

  “Are you sorry for your sins?”

  “Sins?”

  “Sins. Things you’ve done wrong,”

  “I told you. I told you. I know the word. But what are my sins?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think you’re perfect?”

  “What is perfect?” Priest edged away. He was becoming bored, yet he wanted this thing, baptism. He wanted to make Xavier Paul surrender it. “I’m as good as any man. I don’t see other men who are better.”

  “I’m not talking about other people. You killed two men, Priest.”

  “You said it wasn’t wrong,” Priest whined. They had argued this once already. “You said it was self-defense.”

  “Yes.” Xavier Paul considered. “But you’re glad you did it. You would do it again. You enjoyed it.”

  “That’s wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s always wrong to enjoy anything, isn’t it? That’s what they say.”

  “I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about God. To God you’re a proud, savage man. You have no penitence.”

  “So?”

  “So—this you must understand. That you, Dominick Priest, are nothing. That your life is nothing. That before God your existence is meaningless. Meaningless, except that God sent His Son to die for you. You have sinned. You sin now.”

  “You don’t sin, huh?”

  “I do. I do. I know what I am.” Xavier Paul became defensive; then he was infuriated. He found Priest’s shoulder, shook the man by it. “Don’t you tell me what I am. You aren’t smart enough to know. You couldn’t know in a million years.”

  Priest removed the hand gently. “I don’t have a million years.”

  “No. No, you don’t.”

  “So what can I do?” Priest was crafty: he had begun to understand the game. “Don’t you want another Christian? Who will baptize me if you won’t?”

  “No one will.” Xavier Paul hugged his own chest. “You could do it. But you don’t want to share. You want to be the last one.”

  “Do I?” Xavier Paul rubbed his forehead. “Do I?” he asked under his breath.

  “I don’t see. These things you tell me—my life has no meaning. Didn’t you say that? Priest, in God’s eyes your life is nothing. A rabbit’s track in the spring snow.” His voice rasped: an articulate sob. In one day he had learned intonations, vocal devices. “But I know that. How could I not know it? Since I was bom they’ve told me that. I don’t know about your God, but when I killed a bee with my hands because it was stinging me to death—then they told me I didn’t deserve to live. If that’s what a Christian is—nothing…then we’re all Christians here. And the mosquito is our God.” He touched Xavier Paul’s knee. “But you were the first man wlio told me to live. I thought you were diflFerent. Now—now, I’m not sure. I think the mosquito is your God, too.”

  “No. That’s not true.”

  “You asked me if I liked you. Remember? I know why you asked.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t like me. You wanted to ask it before I did. I know. I can feel it in my hair.”

  “In your hair?” Xavier Paul laughed: but Priest’s judgment had been accurate and he was troubled.

  “In my hair. Like when you rub a cat’s back and the sparks come out.”

  “I see.” Xavier Paul fondled his pipe. “You’re right. I’ll be honest. I can’t like you—not until you stop frightening me. Instead I have a sort of reluctant admiration. Because of the fear. Look…you’ve got it wrong. I’ve explained it badly. You’re nothing before God. That’s easy enough to figure out. God is supreme if he is God. But you. Priest—I, Xavier Paul—we’re each a special and personal creation. Beasts and fishes, but man alone was made in God’s image. You bow to no one, flesh or graven image. And life is His gift. You don’t throw it away,”

  “No? Not even if they come to kill you?”

  “Not even. Not even then.”

  “I see.” Priest tried whistling, but he had forgotten the mechanism.

  “I am very taken with you, Priest.” Xavier Paul was embarrassed. “Like is not a word we use for tigers. And you are a tiger.

  “Will you put the water on me? Please?” Xavier Paul started: there were feminine tones now in Priest’s voice, pleading, sensual. It was grotesque.

  “I haven’t done this in years. I don’t remember all the words. I have a prayer book somewhere, but I can’t read it in the dark.”

  “That doesn’t matter. That’s not a good reason.”

  Xavier Paul sighed. “It’s a poor reason. Anyway I have no choice. If you understood my faith, you would guess that. I don’t dare not baptize you. Not now, not with so little time left. You’ll make a dinner of Christ, I know that. Suck the marrow from his bones, string your bow with his sinews. You’ll never be a Christian. There isn’t a chance in ten thousand…But I have no choice.”

  “Then do it.”

  “Come here.”

  “Watch—my neck.” Xavier Paul’s left arm had scythed, a half circle in the darkness. It captured Priest’s nape, settled there, forefinger and thumb each pinching flat an earlobe. He brought the unco-operative head down/against his ribs. Priest gasped. Xavier Paul adjusted the head, as though Priest’s face gave light, and he was scanning the car floor by it. Priest began to squirm. Xavier Paul found nerve complexes in tlie neck, caused pain. Priest howled. “Be still.”

  “I can’t breathe. You’re hurting me.”

  “Shut up.” Xavier Paul hummed. “I’m trying to remember how it goes. You have no godparents, Priest. This is a lousy business.”

  “What?”

  “Shut up. Lord forgive me.” He smacked his lips, then made Priest’s vertebrae crackle. He intoned. “Has this child been baptized already?”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “Shut up, I said.”

  “Hey. Owww. Stop.” Xavier Paul used the soft bottom of his fist. He pounded Priest’s cranium above the neck, where it rose in a straight, undifferentiated plane.

  “Shut up. I’m giving you the greatest gift there is. I don’t like it, but I’m doing it.” Priest groaned; he was afraid to resist. Xavier Paul hit him methodically. Priest skullcapped his head with one hand. “Great. Big. Stupid. Donkey. Ignorant. Undeserving. Dumb. Wretched.” Xavier Paul wheezed. “Lord God, forgive us both. We are fools, apt inheritors of a dead world that was once Thy glory and Thy joy. Give this man the sacraments of baptism and unction, for he will surely die soon. Make the words I speak of some meaning. Lend eflBcacy to this act. Forgive me: I do this under extreme duress. Lord. You know my unwillingness. Yet, if it is Thy wil
l, let this cup pass from me.” He was silent. Priest examined his scalp. “Do you, Priest—do you, Dominick Priest, promise to obey Gods will and his commandments?” Xavier Paul waited. “Say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you wish to be baptized?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you promise to renounce the devil and all his works? The sins of the flesh.”

  “I don’t—” Xavier Paul punched him, knuckles out now, above one ear. “Yes. Yes. Do you have to hit me?”

  “It’s part of the ceremony. Shut up.” Xavier Paul hesitated. “Merciful God. Grant that this child, this man, be regenerate in Thee. As Christ died and rose again, so let him die and rise again. Grant him new life. Grant that he may have power and strength to triumph over the world, the flesh, and the devil. Through Jesus Christ our Lord.” Xavier Paul lifted his right hand. Fingers dabbed in a small gutter above the car window. “I baptize you in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost.” Priest whimpered. Xavier Paul had used the sharp edge of his fingernail. “We receive this man into Christ’s flock and do sign him with the sign of the cross, in token that hereafter he shall not be ashamed to confess the faith of Christ and…and to continue Christ’s faithful servant and soldier to his life’s end. Amen.”

  Xavier Paul unyoked him. Priest clapped palms over his forehead. The sign was scored there in cruciform dents. He bled slighdy. Xavier Paul’s body had become slack beside him. Circulation returned: an inner, spangling light danced across the perfect darkness. Priest sat, hands in his lap. After several moments he said,

  “Is that it?”

  ”Yes. God forgive me. You’re a Christian.”

  “Light another match.”

  “Are you scared again?”

  “No. Light another match.” Priest took the match, coddled its flame with a curving palm. He climbed over the front seat back. The rearview mirror swiveled down in its socket. Priest held the match under his chin: saw left profile, right profile. Xavier Paul shook his head; he smelled hair searing. The flame went out.

  “You won’t look any different.”

  “No?” Priest massaged his neck. “My head still hurts. You mean they did that to little children?” Xavier Paul said nothing. “Can I eat the meat and blood now?”