by J. R. Mabry
“What’s Kether?” Kat asked.
“It’s the highest sephirah,” Brian answered. “Ideally, we’d work up to that, doing a lot of intensive spiritual and psychological work along the way to prepare you for it. Mr. Reckless here just jumped from the first grade to graduate school without any preparation. He’s lucky he didn’t completely fry his crown chakra.”
Charlie looked around at them with wonder. He pointed at Susan. “You have big boobies.”
Susan raised one eyebrow at Brian.
Charlie pointed at Kat. “You have teeny boobies.”
“Hey!” Kat protested.
“Okay,” Brian said testily, “I think we’ve established that some actual damage was done.”
“No kidding,” Susan said, wrapping her sweater more tightly around her bosoms.
“He’s lost some impulse control, that’s for sure.”
Charlie’s finger pointed at Brian next. “You are sooooo gay.”
22
RICHARD WAS SURPRISED that Bishop Clem Parkison was able to see him so quickly. He had only left a message about an hour previously, and now he was in the order’s dilapidated Geo, turning left from Telegraph Avenue onto the 24 on-ramp toward Walnut Creek.
You hate this guy, said the voice in his head. And now you’re going to kiss his ass?
“I don’t hate him,” Richard said, gunning the motor to get up to speed, merging carefully. “I just…intensely dislike him.”
He’s a prick, Duunel said.
“How do you know? Have you ever even met the guy?”
No, but I have access to all of your memories—and believe me, if it were possible for my kind to be traumatized—
“Fuck you,” Richard laughed. “So, you’ve seen everything I’ve seen on this guy. And you concur?”
Prick. No doubt about it.
“How unusual for us to be on the same page,” Richard smiled.
Au contraire, mon ami—
“I am soooo not your ami.”
We both loved breakfast this morning. Smoked salmon on a toasted garlic bagel with espresso and beer.
“Breakfast of champions,” Richard agreed. “See, but what I don’t understand is why you’re not fighting this effort to get a new bishop.”
What do you mean?
“Well, as it is, we’re powerless against your kind. No bishop, no power. No power, no casting out Hades-Americans.”
Oh, I like that, Duunel said. I’m a Hades-American. We can hire lobbyists now.
“So, why aren’t you fighting me tooth and nail?”
What does it matter? Duunel said. Any setback would be temporary. You’ll eventually hook up with the Enemy’s power source again—it’s just a matter of time. I’m kind of a go-with-the-flow guy. I’m just enjoying tormenting you in the moment.
“You certainly have that down.”
And the food is good. Better than that nasty stuff they were feeding Old Man Dane, Duunel said, referring to his last host, an aging man who had not been fit for solid food.
Richard thought about Bishop Parkison. From his blog perusings, he had gleaned that Parkison had not openly opposed the order at the last Old Catholic Synod of the Americas meeting. But then again, he had not supported them, as Bishop Tom had. Hell, Bishop Tom had championed them. Richard felt a wave of grief over his friend’s death. With effort, he refocused his thoughts on Parkison.
He was an insurance salesman—an Allstate agent—with an office in a trendy Contra Costa high rise. At first, Richard was surprised that Parkison kept office hours on a Saturday, but then he realized that it made sense—working people did a lot of their shopping on Saturday, after all. Parkison had an eleven o’clock opening in his schedule, and Richard was just going to make it. He gunned the engine again, looking at the clock.
When he finally parked and breezed into the office building, he was already two minutes late. His black Anglican cassock always garnered stares, but he was in too much of a hurry to notice. He fairly danced in place waiting for the elevator, and when he entered the office, he was apologetic.
“Fr. Richard Kinney here to see Bish—er, Mr. Parkison, please. So sorry I’m late.”
The receptionist looked him over curiously. Then recognition dawned. “Oh yeah,” she whispered conspiratorially. “I know about his…other life.”
“Other life?” Richard asked.
“His Catholic stuff, you know,” she nodded as if it were a fetish or an illness that shouldn’t be public knowledge.
“Of course,” Richard said, feigning complicity.
She made a quick phone inquiry then said to Richard, “You can go right in.”
“Thank you,” Richard said and opened the door to Parkison’s office.
Bishop Parkison was at his desk when Richard walked in, head down, going over some papers. He did not look up.
Richard stood and waited. Two minutes passed. Richard shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another.
Prick, Duunel said in his head. You should kill him.
“I’m not going to kill him,” Richard mumbled under his breath.
“I know you’re there,” said Parkison, still not looking up. “You’ll have to wait until I finish this up.”
There’s a baseball bat in the corner, Duunel said helpfully.
Finally, Parkison looked up and took off his glasses. He pinched at the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his chair. “What do you want?” he said.
I want you to rip your anus in an elephant gangbang, Duunel said. Richard ignored him. “I’m sure you heard about Bishop Tom.”
Parkison pursed his lips. “Very sad,” he said. “Tampons, wasn’t it?”
“I think it was a Prius,” Richard said with a grim smile. “Anyway, we’re having a memorial service for him at the friary. You’re most welcome to join us.”
Parkison gave a quick shake of his head. “We’ll have a Deanery Mass in his honor. You can come to that.”
Richard said nothing.
Interesting little power struggle, Duunel noted. What do you have planned for an encore?
“May I have a seat?” Richard asked.
Parkison nodded. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” Richard sat on the edge of the seat. “I’ll come right to the point—”
“I wish you would.”
Say ‘You’re a prick,’ Duunel suggested.
“Bishop Tom was our link to the apostolic succession. Without him, we’re…well, we’re cut off from the power we need to do our work.”
“You mean casting out demons.”
“Yes.”
Parkison swung his chair slightly from side to side. His face looked like he’d been eating unripe persimmons. “I don’t believe in demons,” he said.
Oh, this guy’s not so bad after all, Duunel cooed. We like him now.
“I can understand your position,” Richard said diplomatically. “A lot of people agree with you. And yet people consistently express a need for a deliverance ministry, and by and large, people are happy with our work. I believe what we bring to the church is valuable, even if it is not well understood.”
“Hmph,” Parkison said. “So why are you talking to me?”
“Well, you’re one of the few Old Catholic bishops in the East Bay. We’re not asking for permanent shelter—we’re simply hoping you can take us under your authority temporarily, until we can find a permanent bishop.”
“How could I possibly support a ministry that I don’t believe in?” he asked. He began to pick at his eyebrow.
“Uh…I suppose you could have faith that we’re doing something good,” Richard suggested.
“Faith?”
“Yes, faith.”
I don’t understand that word myself, Duunel commented.
Parkison picked at his eyebrow some more. “I’ll consider it on one condition. If you are under my authority, you are also in my service.”
“We’d be happy to serve your diocese whenever they need deliverance—”
“Forget that. Once a week you can have…what’s her name, the fat one’s wife? Busty girl…” He looked up, trying to remember.
“Are you talking about Susan Melanchthon, Dylan’s wife?” Richard put his hands on his hips, hoping he wasn’t hearing what he was hearing.
“Yes, that’s her. Blonde woman. Once a week, she can come to my house in Lafayette and give it a good cleaning. And the fat one can come with her and cut my lawn.”
Richard’s mouth was open.
Your mouth is open, Duunel told him.
Richard shut his mouth but couldn’t find words. “Are you kidding me?”
“Why would I kid you?” Parkison said. Richard could see that he was serious. “No need for you to come, or the little gay one, or the tall stringy one with weird hair.”
You could still kill him, Duunel said helpfully. Bat in the corner.
“Bishop, that’s appallingly offensive.”
“How so? It’s a barter. Service for service. Sounds like a bargain to me.”
“Is there any way you might reconsider that…condition?”
“There is not.”
“Well then, sir, I thank you for your time.” Richard stuck out his hand, but Parkison ignored him.
“I’ll send you an invoice for the time,” Parkison said and turned back to his papers.
23
TERRY CHECKED his phone to be sure he was at the right place. He had forgotten how time-consuming making pastoral visits could be, but on public transit it was doubly so. He straightened his hair and made sure his cassock was straight before knocking on the door of the modest ranch house.
The door swung open, and a friendly face soon appeared. “You must be the rental father!” an old woman exclaimed in what sounded like a Cockney accent. She shook his hand furiously.
“Something like that, yes,” said Terry. “Are you Mrs. Brickle?”
“I was Mrs. Brickle, but Mr. Brickle died,” she smiled naughtily. “But you’re sure handsome.” The woman was dressed in a velveteen track suit and adorned with a bright pink scarf. She was wearing way too much makeup—Terry could see it caked up in her wrinkles. A large peacock feather stood straight up over her head, its quill stuck in the bun of her hair, evoking images of Egyptian deities in Terry’s imagination.
“I’m sorry,” Terry said, “about Mr. Brickle.”
“Oh, don’t be, it was ages ago, and he was an old fart anyway. Come in, and have some tea!”
Terry entered a house that was in every way a pre-war English cottage. Terry wasn’t surprised that some of his visits were with British expats since Reverend Oberlin was British himself. He was charmed by the décor.
Terry settled himself in an overstuffed chair and waited as Mrs. Brickle set the tea service in front of him. He noted with a sinking feeling in his stomach that the cups on the tray were either extremely stained or unwashed altogether. He shifted in his chair nervously and felt a bead of sweat break out on his forehead.
“Will you take milk, dear?” Mrs. Brickle asked, poised with the creamer.
Terry had to stop himself from recoiling as he noticed the clumps in the milk. “No, thank you. Just some sugar, please.”
“Oh, I forget. You Yanks don’t put milk in your tea.” She spooned some sugar into Terry’s cup and poured the tea in. With a smile that made her whole wrinkled face bunch up like an elastic hair band, she handed him the cup and saucer.
Terry looked at the cup suspiciously. Lord, honor the sacrifices of thy servant, Terry prayed silently as he took a cautious sip of the tea. It tasted sweet, hot, and good. He relaxed a little.
Just then, Terry noticed an enormous cat on the chair near his own, sitting stock still. It was white with fur radiating out in all directions. Its eyes did not move.
“Father, I’d like you to meet Captain Fluffy. He’s the naughtiest kitty in the room, and that’s saying something,” she said, glowering at the cat playfully.
Terry looked around, and despite his best efforts, could not discover any other cats in the room.
“It’s good that you’re here, Father. Captain Fluffy has a confession to make, don’t you, Captain? Don’t be shy, dear, Father looks very congenial.”
Terry looked at the cat. It did not move. Not sure what to say, Terry took another sip of his tea. Something he could not identify rose to the surface in it. He swallowed and put the cup and saucer down on the side table.
“Captain Fluffy has been going to the Berkeley Farmer’s Market and picking pockets, haven’t you, Captain?”
Terry shifted his eyes, thinking that if he did not look directly at the cat, it might move. It didn’t. “Um…that’s definitely bad,” Terry said, trying to sound normal. “How do you know…Captain Fluffy…has been picking pockets?”
“I caught him in the act!” she exclaimed, her eyes growing wide. “One paw in a man’s coat pocket, and when the man noticed, he scampered away!”
Terry looked again at the cat. It was large, for a cat, but didn’t stand knee high. “How did…how did Captain Fluffy reach the man’s pocket? Was the man lying on the ground?”
“Don’t be daft!” the woman laughed, waving a hand at him. “Don’t underestimate Captain Fluffy—he is one resourceful puss!”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” Terry said. He looked at the tea tray again, at a little plate of English digestive biscuits. He picked one up, but as several ants climbed onto his finger, he set it back down again.
“I was shocked, I tell you!” she said, leaning forward. “A common thief, living under my own roof; can you believe it?”
Terry wanted to say yes, but he refrained.
“So, I confronted him with it, and he made a paltry excuse about the National Health Service, and I told him to go right to bed.” She leaned back, tsk-tsking. “Oh!” She leaned forward again. “And then you’ll never believe what I found in his room!” She leaped up and ran out of the room.
“He has a room?” Terry asked, mostly to himself. He stared at the cat again, willing it to move. It didn’t. He turned his attention to the tea again, hoping to identify whatever might be floating in it. It seemed to be hook-shaped, of biological origin. More than that he could not surmise.
“Here we are!” sang Mrs. Brickle, approaching the sitting room again. Terry snapped back into his former position, hands in his lap, and waited as Mrs. Brickle entered carrying a large wooden box.
“Take a look at these!” she said, setting the box at Terry’s feet. Inside, Terry saw what looked like nearly a hundred billfolds, in leather of every color, as well as nylon and even one wallet that appeared to be made from duct tape. “I was cleaning the other day, and I found this under his bed.” She pointed at Captain Fluffy. “That is one naughty, naughty cat!”
Terry felt a sinking feeling in his gut and only then realized that he was out of his depth. He fished for something to say. He came up empty.
“Well, aren’t you going to say, ‘That’s a pussy who needs to go to confession’? That’s what Pastor Oberlin always says.”
“Um…that’s a pussy that needs to go to confession?” Terry said hesitantly, unsure of what was supposed to happen next.
“Well, confession needs privacy, doesn’t it, dear?” She patted his hand and turned to leave the room. At the doorway to the kitchen she paused and turned back. Pointing a finger at Captain Fluffy, she scolded, “And don’t leave anything out! I’ll not have the wrath of God fall upon this house on account of your like!” Then she flashed Terry a smile and left the room.
Terry panicked, but with an effort of will, mastered himself. He had not done a lot of pastoral visiting, but he had not encountered anything like this. He was beginning to feel wistful for a good, straightforward demonic encounter.
Something about the cat sparked Terry’s curiosity, and he leaned in to inspect Captain Fluffy more closely. Hesitantly, he reached out toward the cat, ready to withdraw it should he hiss or attack. The cat was completely motionless, however, no matter how c
lose his hand got. Finally, he touched the cat, which was cold and hard. Leaning in, Terry used both hands to separate the fur, and saw the telltale marks of an expert taxidermist.
“I’m waiting to hear the penance!” Mrs. Brickle called from the kitchen, where, Terry realized, she must be standing just out of view. “Because I will hold him to it, by God!”
Terry quickly got out his short stole and pulled his Book of Common Prayer from his back pocket. Quickly, he turned to the Rite of Reconciliation. Glancing nervously at the kitchen to make sure Mrs. Brickle was still out of sight, he loudly intoned, “Now there is rejoicing in Heaven; for you were lost, and are found; you were dead”—at this Terry gulped, but plunged ahead—“and are now alive in Christ Jesus our Lord. Abide in peace. The Lord has put away all your sins.”
“Thanks be to God!” called Mrs. Brickle, emerging now from the kitchen. “Thank you, Father Nancy,” she said, giving Terry a kiss on the cheek. Terry struggled not to recoil from the woman’s icy touch. “Pastor gives him confession every time he comes to see us. He’s a dutiful man. He’s very patient with Captain Fluffy, but just between you, me, and the bears, I think that’s because the captain is such a generous donor to the Church.”
“Well, Mrs. Brickle, thank you so much for the tea,” Terry said, removing his short stole and standing up. He put the prayer book back in his pocket.
“So nice of you to come, Father Nancy,” she said.
Terry narrowed his eyes at the “Nancy” bit, but he ignored it. With resolve, he turned toward the door.
“Do be careful, Father. I’ve heard we’ve had a rash of burglaries in this neighborhood. You don’t live in this neighborhood, do you?” she asked.
Terry did, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “I live…a ways, so I’m sure it’s fine,” he said vaguely.
“Goodbye, dear,” Mrs. Brickle said, holding the door for him. “And do come again soon. Captain Fluffy is almost obsessive about the Rite of Reconciliation.”
“Pastor Oberlin is set to return in just a couple of weeks,” Terry said without commitment. “But do call if you have an urgent need.” He handed her his card and walked out of the house with a great sigh of relief.
