by Doug Worgul
A.B. didn’t say anything. Raymond looked over at him. He was holding the tip of his cigarette out the window.
“So, Ray. Was that Lorenzo guy faking it? And what is the Holy Ghost, anyway? That sounds spooky to me.”
“The Holy Ghost is another name for the Holy Spirit,” Raymond answered. “God sends the Holy Spirit to us to comfort us, or to inspire us, or to help us understand things we can’t figure out on our own.
“And I don’t know about Lorenzo. Maybe he’s faking. But nobody’s ever pushed him on it. It’s probably just his way of expressing himself. He just lets the music take control. I know it looks foolish, but that’s just Lorenzo. We all do foolish things. And where else is Lorenzo going to be Lorenzo if not in church?”
*
When A.B. got home, his mother was watching TV, drinking a quart of beer out of a paper bag.
“Where you been?” she asked.
“I had to work late,” said A.B. He sat down on the couch opposite his mother.
“Ma, how come we never go to church?” A.B. asked.
“What do you mean?” His mother sounded annoyed.
“Why don’t we go to church?”
“Well, we went sometimes when you was little. You was baptized an’ all.”
She didn’t look up from the TV.
“I was baptized?”
“Yes. We’re Catholics. All Catholic babies are baptized.”
“What do you mean we’re Catholics? You never told me we’re Catholics.”
“Well, we are.”
“Then how come we never talk about God or the Holy Ghost or Jesus? I’ve never heard you talk about God.”
A.B.’s mother took a long swig of beer.
“Well, goddamnit, I’m tryin’ to watch my program.”
A.B. went to his room and opened his window and lay down on his bed. A September night breeze blew in. He felt like he should be angry with his mother, but he wasn’t. The breeze was cool and comfortable.
25
Romantic Facts of Musketeers
Ferguson Glen’s Pulitzer-nominated novel, Traverse, has slipped below the surface of public and critical memory. Out-of-print for years, it’s now found only at church used-book sales or in the libraries of mainline denominational colleges and seminaries. It remains, however, the principal achievement of Ferguson’s career, and he welcomes any opportunity to remind himself and others, that, at one time, he was capable of producing work that mattered.
One such opportunity was a conference hosted by DePaul University in Chicago titled Our Back Pages: Themes of Race in the American Literature of the Sixties: A Study in Black and White. Ferguson was invited to deliver a reading from Traverse, and to discuss the public and critical response to the book at the time of its publication. He was also asked to sit on a panel of authors and academics which was to analyze the role of literature in the Civil Rights Movement.
Ferguson spends little time preparing for such events. After nearly forty years of readings, he has virtually every word of Traverse memorized, and knows on which page nearly every passage is printed. For Ferguson, readings are not readings as much as they are performances. He does, however, prior to these performances, devote considerable time deliberating on the matter of his clerical collar. The main consideration being its potential impact on women who may be in attendance.
Sometimes, on some women, the collar has something of an aphrodisiac effect. In these instances, the affected women are clearly intrigued by the notion that a man with Ferguson’s intelligence, grace, and wit would devote those gifts to the service of God. Often these same women seem deeply curious about what it would take to seduce such a man. They wonder if the sight and scent of their bodies might capture and corrupt the soul of this man of God. Frequently, however, if Ferguson reciprocates the interest, it turns out that much of this spiritual and sexual curiosity is, in fact, academic. Nevertheless, in certain settings, the collar does seem to increase his chances of spending the evening in the company of a woman.
In other settings, on other women, the collar has a chilling effect. In these instances, the mere sight of a man in a clerical collar seems to arouse latent religious guilt, fear, and resentment, and, after a polite interval of stilted chit-chat, the effected women excuse themselves from Ferguson’s presence, increasing his chances that he will spend the evening alone.
Though Ferguson has never been able to ascertain which conditions produce which results with which women, he decided to go collarless to the conference in Chicago.
The conference was attended by about one hundred academics. Most appeared to have read and fondly remembered Traverse, and the questions and observations during the discussion were informed and intelligent. Ferguson was pleased.
At the reception afterward, Ferguson was immediately ambushed by Colin Zimmerman, a fossilized, semi-retired liberal activist professor from the political science department at Loyola University Chicago. Zimmerman cornered Ferguson between the wet bar and a ficus tree, making escape impossible.
In the mid-Sixties, Zimmerman was a minor advisor to the SDS and SNCC. However, as those organizations’ tactics became increasingly violent, his pacifism put him at odds with their leaders and he fell out of favor with the militant Left. By then his association with those radical groups had made him an anathema to mainstream liberals. Shunned by Left, Right and Center, Zimmerman found himself politically homeless. He has spent the years since reliving his few glory days, desperately and futilely trying to rehabilitate his reputation.
Zimmerman’s primary career revival strategy was to write an authoritative history of the trial of the Chicago Seven. Critics were unanimous in their disdain for the book. The New York Times Book Review said “Zimmerman suffocates this vibrant period in contemporary American history under the weight of his bloodless, ponderous, and pedantic prose . . .”
The New York Review of Books used the word “putresce” in describing Zimmerman’s writing. No one who read that particular review, including Ferguson, remembered any other word in it except the word “putresce.”
After twenty-five minutes of one-sided conversation, Ferguson concluded that the word “putresce” also applied to Zimmerman’s breath, wafts of which gusted up into Ferguson’s face every time Zimmerman used a word beginning with W or H.
While Zimmerman held forth on his premise that John Froines and Lee Weiner were the true heart and soul of the Chicago Seven, and that Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin were publicity whores, Ferguson speculated on the possible causes of Zimmerman’s pungent breath. After deciding on gingivitis, Ferguson turned his attention to the outgrowths of stiff bristles erupting from Zimmerman’s ears and nose. Meanwhile Zimmerman shifted his monologue in the direction of Tom Hayden’s marriage to Jane Fonda.
For Ferguson, the one benefit of the situation was his proximity to the bar. The bartender, a pimply graduate student, sympathized with Ferguson’s predicament and kept him well-supplied with bourbon. As Zimmerman started in on a critique of Judge Julius Hoffman’s judicial career, an attractive woman approached the bar. She was in her mid-fifties, and had medium-length medium-brown and gray hair, bright green eyes and a green silk blouse with the top three buttons unbuttoned.
“I’ll have some of that, if you don’t mind,” she said, indicating the bottle of bourbon in the bartender’s hand. “No ice, please.”
She glanced over at Ferguson and surmised his plight. Drink in hand, she approached Zimmerman.
“Colin, go bore somebody else,” she said, shooing him away like stray dog. “You’ve tormented poor Father Glen long enough.”
Zimmerman looked at her blankly, and for a moment it appeared as if he might say something in his defense, but apparently thought better of it, and walked away.
“I’ll have my accountant cut you a check in the morning,” said Ferguson to his rescuer. “Thank you, thank you, thank
you.”
He extended his hand and introduced himself. “Ferguson Glen,” he said.
“Martha Garcia,” said the woman, shaking Ferguson’s hand. “Zimmerman and I are colleagues at Loyola. I teach twentieth century American history.”
Ferguson smiled. “Ah. A historian. Perhaps you could help me better understand the historical and cultural significance of Tom Hayden’s marriage to Jane Fonda. I’ve always been curious about it.”
Martha Garcia pretended to choke on her bourbon.
“Oh, my,” she laughed. “I am so sorry. If I’d known that Zimmerman was subjecting you to his Chicago Seven tirade, I would have intervened much sooner.”
“Actually, you were just in time,” said Ferguson. “A minute or two later and I’d have passed out.”
Martha wrinkled her nose. “Gingivitis,” she said, shuddering.
They both laughed. Then both were quiet. Then, self-consciously, both laughed again.
“I came over mostly to tell you that Traverse changed my life,” said Martha. “I’ve always hoped that someday I’d meet you so I could tell you that.”
Ferguson smiled vaguely. “Thank you,” he said. “It changed my life, too. Though maybe not for the better.”
Unsure of what he meant, she continued. “Seriously, Traverse made me see everything differently. It provided me with a metaphor for my life. I began to look at my whole life as a journey, like in the book, a cross-country train trip. And when I began to see the things in my life, my family, my religion, my country as I would if I were viewing it all from the window of a train, well, it changed me. It helped me understand that the journey and who you’re traveling with is really what our stories are all about.”
Ferguson remembered that Bijou had once told him that she was glad that they would be going on their journey together.
“That is very gratifying. I’ll admit though that when I wrote it I didn’t even really understand the story as fully as it can be understood.”
He sighed. “Turns out I only had the one story in me.”
Martha reached out and put her hand on Ferguson’s arm. “When it’s a story as timeless and universal as yours, I’d say one’s enough.”
Ferguson finished his bourbon.
“I was too young to appreciate the responsibility a writer has to his readers. Too young, really, to recognize the nature of my calling, as a writer. The story was a gift, and I didn’t comprehend the nature of the gift. That came to me later. Too late.”
Martha finished her bourbon. “‘Ah, but I was so much older then. I’m younger than that now.’”
Ferguson laughed. She was smart, funny, and pretty, and seemed to have a sense of him.
“Ms. Garcia, I’m wondering if you’d like to go get some dinner.”
Martha smiled somewhat tentatively. “That would be wonderful. I’m here with Brad Schissler. Maybe you’ve met him already. He’s on the faculty here at DePaul. I’m sure he’d be delighted if you’d join us for dinner.”
Ferguson felt his eyes wanting to close.
“You know, Martha, it would be hard enough for me to try to maintain intelligent, droll conversation with one professor over the course of a dinner. I’m quite sure two would leave me utterly exhausted. Perhaps another time.”
Martha’s face showed regret and understanding. “Of course. Brad will be disappointed.”
Ferguson forced a laugh. “Maybe, ol’ Zimmerman needs some company,” he said. “I wouldn’t have to talk at all.”
They said good-bye. Ferguson went outside. It was cold. He thought, If I smoked, this would be a good time for a cigarette.
A few of the conference attendees came outside. They greeted Ferguson and complimented him on his reading and commentary. Ferguson thanked them and they chatted about the facilities at DePaul University, the weather, and the White Sox. After a minute of this, Ferguson realized he was bored and hungry.
“Where’s good to eat around here?” he asked.
“Depends on what you’re hungry for,” said a short heavyset man with smudged glasses and a stained necktie. “There’s Nookies, which is Greek food. Then there’s Butera, which is Italian. Butera is awesome. Then there’s Café Bernard, which is classic French. And Tilli’s which is kind of eclectic. They’re all good. And they’re all pretty close.”
“There’s Robinson’s,” said a woman who reminded Ferguson of Bea Arthur. “If you like barbecue.”
Ferguson was quick to reply. “I do like barbecue. I’m from Kansas City after all. How far is Robinson’s?”
“About a half-mile,” said Bea Arthur. “Just go south on Sheffield, here, about 3 blocks. Then east on Armitage, about six blocks. Best ribs in Chicago.”
Ferguson thanked the group for their recommendations and set out in the direction of Robinson’s. At about the corner of Sheffield and Armitage, it occurred to him that he had never before said I’m from Kansas City to anyone. Not even to himself.
The sign out front said ROBINSON’S NO.1 RIBS RESTAURANT. Ferguson had to admit they were good ribs—maybe No.3 on his list of favorite ribs, with LaVerne’s being second. He ordered beans with the ribs, and liked those better than LaVerne’s. Plus he had fries.
*
At his hotel, he stood at the elevator; not moving as the doors opened, closed, and opened again. Then, instead of going up to his room, he crossed the lobby to the lounge where he sat down at small round table. When the waitress came he ordered a double bourbon, neat.
The featured entertainment was Bette Dion, a stout, chesty woman in a spangled peach-colored ball gown and frightening orange hair. Bette’s favored genre was The Big Ballad. At one end of the bar, a pudgy middle-aged man with a goatee and an expensive suit straddled his stool, swizzling an olive around in his martini. At the other end of the bar, a heavily made-up middle-aged woman with a tight blue dress and a centerfold body coddled a Manhattan. In between them, two younger women wearing denim jumpers and convention ID badges on lanyards around their necks fixated on the band, mouthing the words Bette was belting out, “I believe that children are the future . . .”
Ferguson watched as Expensive Suit established eye contact with Blue Dress. Expensive Suit then ambled over to Blue Dress’s end of the bar and whispered something in her ear which resulted in the two of them leaving the lounge together. Ferguson looked for the waitress with the intent of ordering another whiskey, but when Bette arrived at the bridge of yet another anthem, he decided he’d had enough. He left money on the table and exited as Bette was taking it to the next level: “. . . by the others who, got rained on too, and made it through . . .”
It was after eleven when Ferguson got to his room. He took off his suit jacket, tie, shoes and socks and stretched out on the bed, half expecting that he’d fall asleep. He let his mind drift. He pictured things Expensive Suit and Blue Dress might be doing. He wondered if Bette could sing the blues. He wondered who it was that proclaimed Robinson’s ribs No.1 and what it was that made LaVerne’s ribs better. He thought about how much he hated smudged glasses. He pictured Martha’s green eyes and speculated about the contents of her green blouse. He disagreed with Zimmerman about Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin. And he decided that the night wouldn’t have turned out any different if he’d worn his collar. He wasn’t anywhere near asleep.
He got up and looked inside the mini-bar refrigerator. There was the usual Scottish shortbread, Toblerone, honey roasted peanuts, two bottles of Evian, two bottles of Heineken, two bottles of Bud Light, and one miniature bottle each of Chivas, Skyy, Tanqueray, Glenlivet, and Jack Daniels. He opened the Jack Daniels and poured it into a glass, then poured it down his throat. He turned on the television, lay back down on the bed, and flipped through the channels with the remote. There were 16 channels, including HBO. And for $7.94 movies could also be viewed from the premium channels Starz or Xtaseez. The menu screen for Xtaseez made a poin
t of informing customers that only the amount of their movies purchases—and not the names of movies viewed—would be recorded on their hotel bill.
He watched the last ten minutes of American Chopper on the Discovery Channel, and wished he’d tuned in earlier, inasmuch as the crew had been building a Zorro-themed chopper. When he was a boy, he was always Zorro on Halloween.
At midnight he flipped around the circuit again and landed on the History Channel which was featuring a program about the life and times of William “Braveheart” Wallace. The show was an hour long, during which time he ate the Scottish shortbread, Toblerone, and honey roasted peanuts, and drank the two bottles of Evian. After Wallace had been castrated, disemboweled, drawn, and quartered, Ferguson turned off the TV, took off his shirt and trousers, lay back down in his boxers and T-shirt and tried again to sleep. His flight back to Kansas City left at 8:20, which meant he’d need to be at O’Hare at about 7:30, which meant he’d have to be down front to get a cab no later than 6:15. If he fell asleep right now he’d still get a little more than four hours in, leaving time for a quick shower and shave.
He lay there in the dark. He listened to the sounds of traffic down on the street. From a room one floor up, he heard a woman laughing, and then a man urgently asking “Now, baby? Now?” and then a minute or two later he heard the woman gasp “God!” and then in a low voice she said it again. He called room service and asked that a bottle of bourbon be sent to his room. A few minutes later, the whiskey was delivered. He poured some into one of the glasses from the bathroom.
On the Interactive Home Shopping channel, a young man in a golf shirt and pleated khakis was evangelizing about the qualities of a particular model of big screen TV, specifically the advantages of the screen-within-a-screen feature. Watching TV about TV was not Ferguson’s idea of entertainment, or even mindless distraction. He was about to flip on by when he noticed that the young man was wearing a toupee and a poorly fitting one at that. Ferguson found poorly fitting toupees both entertaining and mindlessly distracting, especially when accompanied by bourbon. He put down the remote and settled back to learn more about screen-within-a-screen technology.
