What the Hand: A Novel About the End of the World and Beyond

by Stockwell, Todd

  And this was true to an extent. Many so-called Christians and believers could be extremely judgmental and just as hypocritical, if not more so, than nonbelievers. It was Jesus who first called out the religious leaders (Pharisees) of his day for this very thing. It was Jesus who said, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone” and “Before you can remove the splinter in your neighbor’s eye, remove the branch from your own.”

  I would often hear coming out of various religions this person or that person wouldn’t make it into heaven. The Baptists would say the Catholics wouldn’t make it, the Catholics would say the Protestants wouldn’t make it, the Protestants would say the Jews wouldn’t make it, the Jews would say the Muslims wouldn’t make it, the Muslims would say the infidels wouldn’t make it, they’d all say this or that sinner wouldn’t make it, and on and on. The truth was that no one but God knew the names written in the Book of Life, and no one but God would sit in judgment.

  ***

  The Stouts were gracious, and after we ate they invited me to spend the night by the fire. I accepted, but it was still early, so I told them I wanted to take off for a bit to explore the city.

  I didn’t know exactly who or what I was looking for, but I’d heard there were a lot of famous people in Tent City, so I thought I might find somebody I recognized from history or television or the movies or whatever. I guess it was kind of silly searching for celebrities in paradise, but I’m a silly man.

  There were a lot of people out, but it was hard to tell who anybody was because most of them had their heads down. There was a lot of contemplating going on in Tent City. Besides, a thick bank of clouds had drifted in, blocking the moonlight, making my shallow hunt even more difficult.

  I had just about given up when I spotted Calvin Harper, of all people, the slick reverend whom I’d seen many times on television back on the Old Earth. Even in his new body, I had little trouble recognizing the smooth-talking Harper. Now I would have preferred George Washington or even George Carlin for that matter, but Harper was an interesting character and pretty well known in my time.

  Good old Cal would show up anytime there was an issue concerning black people, especially if he felt his people had been slighted in any way, or if there was any chance he might get on television. Harper came along at the tail end of the Civil Rights Movement. An effective speaker, he was able to shine a light on some of the injustices his people were facing. However, he got so good at defending the rights of black people that he could defend them even when they didn’t need defending.

  Bigotry and prejudice didn’t go away after the Civil Rights era, and things moved much too slowly in that department for a long time. Still, things moved. After all, the first black president had been elected, which did take a white majority vote. If you were to ask people of different races how they were getting along in the years before the Rapture, they would tell you better than ever. But every time Harper got on the television with that fast talk of his, he seemed to get everybody riled up over stuff that had nothing to do with race or bigotry or prejudice, whatsoever, and by the time he was done, everyone was on different sides again. I guess he had become so used to his shtick he couldn’t help himself anymore.

  ***

  Anyway, I had nothing against the man; I had nothing against any man—I just thought it was kind of neat to be meeting someone so well known on the Old Earth. “Mr. Harper, right?”

  He seemed surprised. “Yes.”

  “I recognized you from television. I just wanted to say hello,” I said.

  “You’re not from around here, are you, son?” he asked. “People don’t talk to one another much around here.” Gone were most traces of the slick, speed talking Harper I’d remembered from television.

  “No, I live in a shack a few days from here. We don’t talk much there either,” I answered. “I’m heading to New Jerusalem.”

  “Looking for something, are you?” he said.

  “Yeah, I guess I am,” I said.

  “Have a seat.” He pointed to a shaved log on the other side of his fire pit. “I don’t have any food; I don’t eat much.”

  “That’s okay—I ate,” I said and sat down. “I figured you for the suburbs, at least, Mr. Harper.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I guess I got a little carried away.” Another great thing about the New Kingdom was that nobody defended their actions from the Old Earth.

  “No one ever had to guess what side of an issue you’d end up on,” I said. “But hey, you were consistent anyway.”

  “I could have really made a difference….I missed the boat…. Heck, I missed the dang ocean.”

  “At least you tried to do something good with your life…all I ever did was fool around,” I said.

  He smiled. “You fooled around and I played the fool.”

  I chuckled.

  “I’m lucky to be here,” he went on. “I don’t even remember when it stopped being about helping people and started being about helping myself. As people came together, there was less of a need for my services. My job was derision based on division. I pushed for integration and equality, but I never let anyone embrace it fully—not on my watch. I kept pushing and pushing. If we got equality in some area, I took it and demanded more. If we got respect, I wanted retribution. If we got love, I wanted their guilt. If they came with color blindness, I made them see again.”

  ***

  He stood during his monologue, and for a moment I pictured him in front of the cameras again, a few pounds heavier, gesturing to dramatize the hyperbolic plights he once championed, but there was none of that. And his voice carried not indignant rhetoric, but reflection, humility, and the great sadness of lost opportunity.

  “I do remember looking in the mirror one morning,” he continued, “and I knew what I’d become, but I turned away in an instant and never looked back.”

  We sat together in silence a long while. Finally, I offered, “You know what I’m doing out here?”

  “What are you doing, young man?”

  “I’m stalking famous people.”

  He laughed at that. “Well, you shouldn’t have any trouble…you got half of Hollywood living here, and President Nixon’s tent is just down the road.”

  ***

  Richard Milhous Nixon had to resign his presidency after being linked to the burglary of the Democratic Committee Headquarters at the Watergate Hotel in Washington. He had rubber-stamped the plan by some of his cabinet henchmen, who were after information helpful to his reelection campaign. Only the henchmen’s burglars were caught, and the whole thing was traced back to the White House.

  There had always been political corruption in the U.S, government, but outright criminal theft condoned by a sitting president was a new low. The Office of the Presidency was never seen in the same light again, trust between the American people and its government forever tainted.

  Why did Nixon do it? He believed in his own greatness, his superiority, the righteousness of his vision at all cost, and he lost control of his senses. Of course, the demons didn’t help. Power was the last gratifying vice of the wealthy, and it was there the demons most flourished, for at a certain pinnacle of supremacy, muted by self-aggrandizement, the conscience goes silent.

  How did Nixon make it into paradise? He learned to laugh at himself. It didn’t happen overnight. After his public disgrace, he defended his actions to anyone who would listen, believing his superiority somehow made it all right. He attempted to rebuild his reputation by becoming a respected elder statesman. To some degree he succeeded, but the stain of Watergate was too great.

  Still, he held to the belief he would be vindicated. This was because the demons kept right on telling him how great he was. They encouraged him to write books, imparting his wisdom to an inferior world in need of his great insight.

  One of these books was to be a further testament of his greatest achievement. Nixon was the first U.S. president to visit communist China, opening vital relations with that ardent Cold War enemy.


  While doing research for the book, he decided to get in touch with his main liaison, Zhang Wei, an affable Chinese government worker who worked closely with Nixon and his interpreter during the 1972 visit. It was a difficult task, but after months of failed attempts, one of Nixon’s assistants managed to get the illusive Zhang Wei on the telephone with the aging former president:

  Nixon: Is this Mr. Yang?

  Zhang Wei: Yes…Zhang Wei…Zhang Wei…Mr. President Man.

  Nixon: You’re a tough man to find, Yang.

  Zhang Wei: No…they not let me answer phone for long time, Mr. President Man.

  Nixon: You remember me, don’t you, Mr. Yang?

  Zhang Wei: Of course, Mr. President Man, I show you China. You were very big deal.

  Nixon: Well, all right, Yang…I just wanted to get some information. I’m writing a book about my trip there…and…ah…there are a few details I’ve forgotten. I thought you might be able to help.

  Zhang Wei: I thought you dead, Mr. President Man.

  Nixon: Oh no…I’m not dead…not yet, anyway.

  Zhang Wei: Not yet…ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…you do bad, Mr. President Man, very bad…I thought they kill you…ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.

  Nixon: No, Yang…I just resigned…that’s all.

  Zhang Wei: You resign…ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…no one resign here…ha ha-ha-ha.

  Nixon: No…ah…I’m just fine, Yang…anyway…I wanted to ask you a few…

  Zhang Wei: Just fine…ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…just fine…ha-ha-ha.

  Nixon: Yes, yes, Yang…I just need to ask you…

  Zhang Wei: You very bad…ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…President Man…very bad…ha-ha-ha.

  Nixon: Please, Yang…I need to ask you some….

  Zhang Wei: I going now…you bad man…ha-ha-ha-ha-ha…I cannot talk long…bad man…ha-ha-ha-ha.

  (Click.)

  Nixon was a little stunned. He sat awhile, contemplating Zhang Wei and his silly laugh. He walked over to a mirror. Zhang’s laughter and words, still ringing in his head, moved to his lips. “Bad man…ha…ha…ha-ha-ha-ha,” he cackled again and again, staring at his long upturned nose and close-set eyes, the pronounced features, the easy highlight of so many political cartoons, of which he was now reminded....

  Those cartoons used to make him angry, but now, for some reason, he laughed. It was the first time he had taken a hard look himself. What an idiot I’ve been. The thought made him laugh harder. The demons began to flee. This kind of laughter burned their ears. This was the laughter of revelation, of self-deprecation, the birth of humility, of enlightenment.

  People close to Nixon noticed a change. He was more relaxed. He was kinder. He had made his peace with God. He scrapped his current book projects and began writing not for himself and his image, but to help others, to help the country.

  ***

  I said my goodbyes to Calvin Harper. Tent City became darker as the clouds thickened in the night sky. It wasn’t a good night to hunt for celebrities. I didn’t feel like it anymore anyway. I thought about Harper and the Stouts, the people of Tent City, and still had no idea why I lived in a shack and they lived here. So, why had I come to Tent City? I could only think of one reason: to feel better about myself.

  ***

  The Stouts were sleeping when I returned, but they left a blanket for me by the fire, so I lay there awhile, staring at the faint glow of New Jerusalem in the distance and thinking about the great city. I wondered what the following day would hold for me. I had been drawn to Tent City, but my experiences here weren’t anything earth-shattering. Maybe this journey to New Jerusalem was just giving me bits and pieces of what I needed, and it would take years or centuries or eons to find what I was looking for. Who was I kidding? I knew what I wanted—probably what most people wanted—something they could never have: a chance to give back what they stole.

  27

  Yelling woke me up. It was raining and the Stouts were shouting for me to come into their tent. I thought about it for a second, thanked them for the offer and their hospitality, and declined. I shouted back that I wanted to get an early start toward the city, and I would come back and visit. They said they understood and that I would be welcome anytime. I waved goodbye.

  ***

  The high-waisted trousers and long sleeved white cotton shirt, soaked and hanging from my body, were more popular in the 1930s than in my time on the Old Earth. William had been impressed and couldn’t wait to discard his woolen garb for a similar change of clothes. I chose them because I remembered the style from films I’d seen of the Great Depression years. I appreciated the conservative look of that era, and the way everyone seemed to be dressed up even in the worst of circumstances. These clothes, often worn with necktie, suit-coat, and dress shoes, remained fashionable for the next three decades, until the late sixties, when from there began a mostly hideous parade of apparel that should never have been repeated: leisure suits, bell-bottoms, platform shoes, pajama-pants, stone washed jeans, backwards baseball caps away from the ball field, and anything made by Ed Hardy. Still, similar styles could be found here in paradise anyway. Unfortunately, Godliness didn’t account for poor taste.

  ***

  Even drenched, I wasn’t uncomfortable. The new bodies wouldn’t allow it. My wet clothes did, however, prevent me from hitching another ride. I didn’t want to mess up anybody’s vehicle or anything. So I walked again, only slightly disappointed I wouldn’t arrive in the great city until after dark.

  ***

  The rain was left to a soft drizzle as I meandered down the gold highway. The road curved, and I hugged the side of a hill to avoid being run over by one of the many vehicles in the increasing traffic gliding toward the city. It wouldn’t have mattered much if I did get hit, as the car would have bounced harmlessly off of my new body. Even so, it would have been a disturbing sight to the many people who were so close to the time on the Old Earth when hideous car wrecks were commonplace.

  ***

  The thing of it was—cars on the Old Earth could have easily been made out of more pliant materials. But just as the oil industry suppressed innovation in engine manufacturing, the steel industry wouldn’t let those friendlier materials anywhere near an automobile. Instead, everyone raced around in their iron battering rams without a care in the world. By the 1980s, about 80,000 people were being mangled in automobiles every year. Still, it didn’t seem to bother people. They continued speeding down the road, eating their cheeseburgers, shaving, plucking their eyebrows, typing their phone messages, smacking their kids, and who knew what else.

  ***

  The rain stopped, and my clothes were nearly dry by the time I began to pass some of the other pedestrians gathering in number as we moved closer to New Jerusalem. Moving beside a small cluster of these fellow travelers, I heard someone call out my name. I turned to see a tall man walking with a boy. He caught up with me.

  “You’re Somerset, right?” said the man.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Private First Class Somerset, right?” he said.

  I didn’t recognize him, so I stopped to find out who he was.

  “It’s me, Vince, remember? I was your roomie at Fort Sill for a while.”

  I still didn’t recognize him. As I mentioned, I was twenty-three and living on my friend’s couch when the Gulf War broke out. Since I wasn’t doing anything else, I thought it might be fun to go over to the Middle East and play army. I was an old man compared to the other recruits, mostly in their late teens. I was like some loser high school graduate, hanging around campus to be popular. It worked. The young recruits looked up to me by default, and I had no shortage of friends and acquaintances, so it was no wonder I couldn’t place him.

  “Fat Kid…don’t you remember, Somerset?” If you didn’t have a nickname, peers in the Army called you by your last name. “I’m Fat Kid. You gave me that name!” He seemed excited about that.

  “Fat Kid!” Now I was excited. This strikingly handsome man with the boy was one of my
Army roommates, the roly-poly kid who used to bug the crap out of me with his whining, snoring, nose picking, and potato chip chomping in bed. “I’m sorry; it’s Rosario, isn’t it? Private Vincent Rosario? I can’t believe it! Man, you look different. How have you been? Is this your son?”

  “I’m good, I’m good. This is Vince Junior,” he said.

  I looked at the boy and back at his father. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you that again. I’m sorry I made up that stupid nickname.”

  Vince Junior laughed and pushed his father a little. Rosario rubbed his son’s head. “He knows all about it. I was a slob. I never even tried to take care of myself, at least not then. And I didn’t mind it, really,” said Vincent.

  “Well, I’m sorry, anyway.”

  “No, the other guys knew me because of it, and it made me laugh.”

  I remembered he took all the teasing really well. Still, this man wasn’t anything like the boy I remembered. That boy was a pain in the behind—not a jerk or anything, just a real pain in the behind. This man was cool and confident. He didn’t have food on his chin or anything.

  I looked at the boy, who was about nine, a small version of his New Kingdom father. “Nice to meet you, young man,” I said.

  “Good to meet you, too, sir,” said Vince Junior.

  “You look just like your father,” I said. I gave Vincent a long look. “Wow, Vincent! It’s so good to see you!”

  “It’s good to see you, too.”

  “Daddy, can I go climb those rocks?” said Vince Junior.

  “Yeah, go ahead,” said Vince.

  ***

  The rocks the boy was referring to were actually a couple of huge boulders that no parent would have allowed a nine-year-old anywhere near on the Old Earth. But this wasn’t the Old Earth. In one huge leap, Vince Junior was straddling the larger of the boulders, a good twenty feet off the ground. From there, the child Evil Knievel jumped back and forth between the two, a gap of six feet, as casually as if he were playing hopscotch. Vincent never even glanced at the boy.