“The plumed serpent from a Walmart lawn-and-garden sale,” Tony said.
“The Brazilian has brought Burning Man to Little Falls,” Cricket said.
A young couple had a made a fire on the tree lawn and were roasting potatoes on a stick, prompting Tony to say:
“Almost Leave it to Beaver. But today’s Eddie Haskell could pop into existence with a charming shit-eating grin and plastic explosives tied to his chest.”
“I’ve spotted ‘Eddie.’ He’s on the steps between those two giant bikers.” It was Anton, bumming a smoke off a younger biker, who lit his cigarette. Anton spotted Cricket and made his way through the crowd to where she and Tony stood eating potatoes.
“Ah, enjoying a gift from the people,” Anton sneered. “The Brazilian would be proud. She wants to see you.”
“Let’s go,” Cricket said, leading the way.
“I’m going, too,” Tony said.
“No you’re not.” She swung around to face her friend. “You’re not on the guest list. Grab a few kids and get a jam going—tuba man.”
Cricket noticed that the tuba thing confused Anton, who momentarily dropped the sneer, leaving him vulnerable, until he drew on some unknown strength and produced an even uglier lip curl.
49
Beautiful Bodies
Cricket found Sister Marie in the library, unharmed, seated in a tall-back chair by the window, facing the courtyard. Sister rose and embraced her friend. Two good-looking middle-aged ruffians guarded the only exit, and the Brazilian came sweeping in wearing a white Roman toga. Cricket’s guns and ankle knife had been taken away at the entrance, and Anton had slithered off in another direction without a word. The Brazilian had plenty to say.
“Sister was a bad girl today.”
“I drew my weapon,” Sister Marie said, head down. “The Brazilian wasn’t even armed.”
Cricket stared down her nemesis. “I would have shot you in the face.”
“We’re not talking about you, Ms. Hastings.” The Brazilian addressed Sister: “Nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. I was able to walk right up and take it from your trembling little hand because you’re Christian to the core and very predictable, unlike missy over here.”
The Brazilian gave a carefree shrug.
“No matter, I must say things are working out so well on so many levels, I believe I have to thank Sister Marie for her prayers and you, Emily Cricket, for your hate. Hate and love, it does draw us all together. Oh, how do you like my new way of addressing you? I feel like I’m not really taking you seriously simply calling you Cricket. I can empathize, though. Many moons ago I was Mary Smith—a cruel joke—before some cute young thing at Burning Man christened me the Brazilian. Now Sister and I had a discussion about this very thing—so much in a name—though it was a one-sided conversation, as you can imagine. But our little Sister is a very good listener. She could probably repeat verbatim everything I said.”
She hungrily eyed Sister Marie. “I sure want you in our organization. Brilliant, deep thinker, and no tattoos. Again, I’ll say, I’m impressed that neither of you succumbed to the temptation. Sister, you could have fallen for the old program: ‘Let’s get hip with the kiddies.’ A lame attitude that deserves the firing squad. And you, Emily Cricket, the peer pressure, since grade school had to be fierce. Watching your closest friends holding out until a night of booze and drugs crushes all resistance and very bad decisions start to be made. A cheap, tribal form of individuality. Power, beauty, and brains don’t need artificial markings. On occasion, I’ve tried to tell a few of my troops with a modicum of intelligence—and only a few tattoos—that body paint, piercings, mutilations are no longer necessary. I’ll say it again: The three of us as a new trinity for a new world.”
Cricket wanted to strangle her, stomp her out of existence, but this was timeout, mid-morning tea with the she-devil and her beautiful and dangerous young friends from Vanity Fair. For now, Cricket lowered her hate to a radioactive glare and remained seated next to Sister Marie.
The Brazilian moved close to the window and nodded solemnly. A single rifle shot followed and Sister jumped, reaching for Cricket. The two clasped each other’s hands and the Brazilian said:
“A traitor. I knew anarchists would be a problem for the obvious reasons of their attraction to chaos. But each group has their internal flaws: bikers have depths of savagery that actually shock me. Gangbangers it’s money, sex, and drugs all the time and really bad music. Now since money isn’t making a comeback anytime soon, and hopefully, will be worthless for a very long time, there are going to be more fights and deaths within their ranks over women and drugs and being the alpha dog.
“But I understand, I get it, all this killing … so extreme, yet easy, flippant, random, the abyss opening and swallowing us all. But that’s not what I want for our little corner of the world. I want order, a new order. And sometimes spilling blood is necessary. I believe it was D.H. Lawrence who said in one of his political novels that a little straightforward bloodshed was much preferable to hypocrisy and being a Sneaky Pete. You know, the creepy way Christians go about their business.”
Cricket stood up. “I’m tired of your sick bullshit and your sick analysis. I’m leaving with Sister.”
Sister said, “Stop it, Cricket. I can’t leave.”
The two thugs came up on either side of Cricket.
The Brazilian looked at Sister Marie. “Tell her.”
Sister started to tremble: “I have two choices. The first is to have relations with her. And if I don’t, the second is to die in the morning.”
“Monster!” Cricket yelled, lunging at the Brazilian and easily restrained by the tag-team wrestlers on either side of her.
“Don’t hurt her,” Sister said, full of authority. “I have your word.”
The Brazilian said, “She’s not to be hurt, ever. That’s easy. I’m madly in love with her. Emily Cricket, I mean really, relax. Sister has decided on the martyr thing. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. I’m tired of hearing about this bride-of-Christ rap all morning long.”
“I’ll do whatever you want,” Cricket said.
“How noble. But that won’t do. You had your chance—free will, remember?”
“You’re insane.” Cricket lunged again, straining against the gorilla hold of the two guards.
“You see, Sister, she’s just going to hurt herself. Emily Cricket Hastings, you don’t get to bargain with that beautiful body and face of yours. That’s too easy. What, spend a night with me, take a shower in the morning, and you and the Nun with a Gun go on your merry way? I don’t think so.”
“Cricket, you should go now,” Sister said, looking down at her folded hands.
“I’m not leaving you.”
The Brazilian stepped in. “Understand, Sister, you could be going home after a few guilty pleasures. You could have had a night with me, experienced some new sensations, and gone free.”
“I know of physical pleasures, you foolish woman,” Sister Marie said, and Cricket stopped struggling and looked in astonishment at her friend and mentor. “I was once in love with a young boy in high school. And although we never consummated the affair, I came to understand the thrill and beauty of the flesh. He made me all dewy. And we did love each other.”
“Dewy?” the Brazilian said, amused. “You should have been a poet—one who gets laid a lot.”
Sister Marie sat down staring at the beautiful garden outside the window where someone had just died. She turned to the Brazilian.
“It’s easy resisting you. You’re a great advertisement for the sadness of promiscuity. For you there is no feeling remaining once sensation has been momentarily quenched. I think it only makes you hungrier for what you’ve lost.”
“That’s a poor analysis,” the Brazilian said, although Cricket had seen her flinch when Sister mentioned the ease of resisting her.
Sister crossed herself.
“Sister, you’ll need more than that to protect yourself from me.”
&n
bsp; “That was for the man outside.”
“What, not praying for me?”
“Always.”
Sister Marie kept her eyes on the Brazilian. “We now can understand through modern-day physics that time and space fold upon each and that Christ’s sacrifice, even the words of the Last Supper, pierce us immediately. No distance. No lapse of time. As Catholics we’ve always believed Communion to be of the present—not a symbolic act, not representing Christ’s death on the cross, his sacrifice, but the event itself. In that moment the experience comes to the worshipper by the best vehicle ever created, faster than light through glass, instantaneous and perfect. That vehicle is love.”
Cricket said, “A supreme moment.”
“What, a couple of tag-team philosophers?” The Brazilian shook her head. “Your faith is so deeply embedded, Sister Marie, it is better that you resist me. A painful death tomorrow puts you on the road to sainthood.”
Again Cricket struggled against the two men and cried out, not oaths of hatred, but oaths of love for Sister Marie.
“And you die clean,” the Brazilian added. “Sister, I was asking for only a single night, but in a strange way you made the right choice. You see, you’re not my type, and after one night of debauchery, debasing you, I’d be done with you. I’m not like some crazy jihadist that fantasizes torturing and killing an enemy over and over again. Goodness, once is enough for me, whether it’s inflicting death or humiliation. Or death coupled with humiliation,” she quickly said, eying Sister Marie. “Besides, I like variety, diversity, change.” Her biggest smile yet revealed her beautiful teeth all the way back to her molars.
“I’m pleased that I’m not your type,” Sister Marie answered.
The Brazilian strode up to the chair and towered over Sister Marie, a belligerent prosecutor. “If you would have lain with me, you would have suffered two excruciating problems the rest of your life: as the bride of Christ, your betrayal would stay fresh until your natural death and, against all reason, you’d continue to desire me and I would have nothing to do with you.”
Cricket could see that Sister Marie was unfazed by the Brazilian’s commentary. But she was exhausted and perhaps the monster could sow doubt.
“Sister, are you not a sinner?”
“Of course, we’re all sinners.”
“Then as a sinner, if you succumbed to temptation once, you’re likely to do it again.”
“Stop, Sister,” Cricket pleaded. “She’s playing with you.”
“Sister’s a big girl,” the Brazilian said. “As a fallen creature it is very likely that you would debase yourself in ways you can’t imagine. An old nun falling in love—”
“With an old cougar,” Sister shot back.
“Clever, Sister Marie. Maybe it’s me who will miss you, years from now. Again, I’ll say for the soundness of your soul, you made the right decision. Thank you for letting me bend your ear.” She went to the bookshelf, pulled a book out, smiled at the cover, and quickly put it back.
“You should know that neither you, nor Saint Andrew’s, will be defiled tonight. I’ve even instructed my guards out front to tell the kiddies to remain very quiet. Only you and Cricket will stay in the church overnight to pray, meditate, talk about your lives. After all, tonight it’s still a Catholic church with a fabulous history. Tomorrow it’ll be something else; a new age will have arrived.”
She turned and walked out. Cricket and Sister Marie were escorted to the church.
50
Many Blessings
All the drumming and chanting had ceased beyond the walls of Saint Andrew’s. The rows of candles for devotion were lit near the alcove of the saint, and the large candles across the altar made gold the white altar cloth. The large cross was partly visible and the battered body of the man who hung from it.
“The cavalry is coming, Sister. I know it is.”
“I’ll pray for our rescue, but I have to also prepare for not being rescued.”
“I’m not letting anything happen to you. Right now I need to examine every inch of this place to get us out of here.”
Cricket quickly discovered that each door leading outside was guarded by linebacker-size guys in ponytails staring at her with their arms folded. Three men were stationed inside the vestibule to keep the women from going into the basement of the church to hide or escape. The door from the sacristy to the rectory, now the Brazilian’s quarters, was locked.
Rosary in hand, Sister Marie stood outside the first pew gazing at the life-size cross.
“Cricket, you’re going to need not only your strength but His as well.”
“You’ve been his bride for a long time and have served Him very well. I think he owes you big-time,” Cricket said, scouting the altar, checking behind the ambo, tapping on the wall behind Saint Andrew, searching for something to turn into a weapon or the means to escape.
“Cricket, this isn’t a board game with a Get out of Jail Free card. Life is expansive because of our liberty, a liberty that is God-given. And that includes not only our liberty and free will, but the Brazilian’s and the men guarding us.”
Cricket ran past Sister and glanced at the baptismal font still filled with holy water. She again took to the altar, now checking the wood floor, getting on her hands and knees searching, even knocking, expecting, wishing for a hollow note to sound.
“My goodness, Cricket, this isn’t The Blues Brothers with a trapdoor behind the drummer.”
Cricket raced down the side aisle, stopping halfway before the life-sized statue of the Virgin Mary that filled the alcove. Cricket ran her hands along the wall behind the Virgin, pressing, feeling for weakness, a place to smash through and escape. She examined the base of the statue and then felt the globe at Mary’s feet and the snake whose head was being crushed by the Virgin’s sandaled feet.
At the back of the church she looked at the empty holy water bowls on either side of the doors leading to the vestibule and took a moment to stare down the surly guards.
“You three are the ugliest ushers I’ve ever met.”
They didn’t flinch.
The holy water bowls were also at the two exits at the front of the church. Tear one off the wall and use it to blind or crush a throat.
Cricket flew up the center aisle and grabbed Sister by the shoulders.
“Sister, you have to help, give me ideas. We need to get out of here.”
“There’s no way out,” Sister said with finality. “I’m praying right now for not only strength and your safety, but praising God for all my blessings. I was able to serve him my entire adult life, often through the sick and the dying. The wonderful students I taught through the years.
“I had my moments of doubt as to the path I took, but I never had a morning where I couldn’t roll off the bed onto my knees, say my morning prayers, and find the courage to stand and meet the day. I met your mom and your dad and saw them fall in love, and then got to see you fall in love and get married. I witnessed today’s beautiful morning. The sun rising. So much to praise, so little time.”
Cricket reached for a curl on the side of Sister’s hair and spun it slowly around her finger. Sister brought her close and into her arms.
“All those things the Brazilian said today, about me, how I could be tempted, how I could be fooled, are all true, all possibilities.”
Her head buried in Sister’s shoulder releasing her sadness, Cricket said, “No sister, no, she doesn’t know you. She was just trying to hurt you.”
“You’re right. She doesn’t know me. And worse, she’s forgotten His story.” She looked at the cross. “Her biggest mistake is believing that we are never more than our fears and appetites. Had she debased me, had I fallen, she would see no way out for me, a living hell.”
Sister Marie took out a hankie and wiped Cricket’s wet face.
“She feels nothing other than those passions that she worships. She can’t feel his infinite mercy, even though it is there for her as well.”
Cric
ket viewed the man on the cross. She had raised her head to pray often over her short twenty-two years of existence. She had sent out prayers, all lovesick poems from a girl who lost her mom at a young age only to be made raw again by the loss of her father.
“Bring your pain, all your sorrow, to the foot of the cross.” Sister Marie let go of Cricket and walked into the first pew and sat down. She gave Cricket the most beautiful smile of affection she had ever seen.
Like a bow drawn to its max, concentrating all its energy for the arrow, all of Cricket’s experiences flew from her breast, an arrow of love, and pierced the man on the cross. What she felt in return was staggering. She crossed herself and then heard the water running at the baptismal font. A sound she hadn’t noticed until now.
The water was clear and beautiful and running from a small battery-powered fountain in the middle that agitated the water, creating endless ripples across the font. She went to dip her hand in the holy water and caught sight of something near the opposite edge. She thought she was dreaming. She reached into the water and pulled out a sheathed ankle knife and a holstered automatic, a Glock 42, small and easy to conceal.
“Oh, my,” Sister said, and looked to the large hanging cross, crossed herself, and then kissed the cross on her rosary.
Cricket held the two weapons up and then quickly moved down Sister’s pew, and the two women sat together.
“Cricket, now please, don’t do something rash. Who would do this?”
“I don’t know. But I have to figure out the best time to put the gun and knife into action.”
“Too many guarding us.”
“Yes, you’re right. A few shots, a few dead Brazilian troops, and we’d be gunned down.” Cricket laid a gentle handle on Sister. “Do you hear that?”
Sister shook her head no and then the volume increased. And Sister nodded. “The kids outside are singing some reggae song—lots of drums and acoustic guitars.”
Cricket placed the weapons under the kneeler.
Pulse of the Goddess: American Blackout Book One Page 26
