Joe's Liver

by Di Filippo, Paul

  Eventually the bus is emptied, and Kirsten and Ardy are left alone in the dusk.

  “I suppose we should see to Father Jim,” says Kirsten, and moves toward the trailer.

  Following, Ardy seeks to dispel the solemnity with a bit of trivia inspired by the presence of the nearby monument.

  “Are you aware of who is buried in Grant’s Tomb?”

  “Are you teasing me?”

  “Why, no, of course not. I was simply hoping to share an esoteric fact with you, to promote camaraderie.”

  “Well, okay … I’ll bite. Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb?”

  “General Grant — and Missus Grant.”

  Somehow, through a quirk of circumstance or delivery, this innocent fact emerges sounding extremely salacious, at least to Ardy’s ears, and he instantly regrets it. Luckily, Kirsten seems not to take it amiss.

  “Why, that’s very interesting. I never knew that. You must be extremely well educated, Ardy.”

  “I am an autodidact, Kirsten, and my knowledge has great gaps, but I do pride myself on a certain fund of factual information.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “Thank you.”

  The conversation winds down as they approach the van and begin to remember Father Jim.

  Stepping inside, they find the ex-priest lying in a contorted position, his cross caught on a chair-bracket and threatening to choke him with the attached chain.

  “Oh my God, help me, Ardy, we’ve got to get him free.… Okay, there, that’s better. Listen, I’ll get him undressed down to his skivvies and into bed while you make us a cup of instant coffee. Then we’ll sit and talk a while. Oh, and turn up the heater — it’s freezing in here.”

  Ardy does as instructed, careful to keep his back toward Kirsten as she strips Father Jim’s mock-clerical suit off. There is the sound of something unfolding mechanically. Then Kirsten says, “Ardy, give me a hand, please?”

  Father Jim is still on the floor, but now wears only cross, T-shirt, Jockey shorts, and black socks. Together Ardy and Kirsten lift him into the convertible bed and cover him up.

  “There, now we can relax a little before hitting the sack. Is that coffee ready? I’m dying for a cup!”

  Ardy arranges coffee, cream and sugar at the table. He and Kirsten sit on opposite sides of the narrow Formica-topped table. Beneath it their knees are touching, but there is no way around the semi-erogenous contact, unless they are to sit side by side, in which case considerably more surface-area would be exposed to accidental brushes.

  “Ah, that tastes good. So, tell me a little more about life in your Chiapas village, Ardy. Did the PRI really forcibly relocate many of your people? Hasn’t NAFTA made everything worse?”

  The questions take Ardy aback. It was so pleasant communicating with Kirsten on a personal level, free from political rhetoric. The way she has already readjusted her mental gestalt to accommodate his new identity is fresh evidence of a neurotic fixation and psychological plasticity not altogether healthy. Perhaps he can divert the conversation back into more sociable channels.…

  After satisfying Kirsten’s curiosity with a few outrageous untruths in keeping with his role as Sub-subcommander ToStito, Ardy succeeds in doing precisely that. The female half of The Ethical Circus begins talking about herself.

  It appears that Kirsten led a fairly conventional life in Lincoln, Nebraska, until Father Jim and the burning issues he represented entered her awareness. (At this stage in his career, the lapsed cleric was still preaching solo, without living audio-visual aids.) Born into a strict Lutheran family, Kirsten was naturally predisposed to Father Jim’s rescue and education mission, and quickly abandoned her family and her job as a medical secretary to follow the preacher.

  “A stenographer who also performs surgery?”

  “Oh, Ardy, please. Now, where was I?”

  Subsequent to Father Jim’s epiphany and the formation of the caravan, Kirsten’s life fell into a pattern of selfless abnegation, as she functioned as driver, fund-raiser, flat-tire-changer, scheduler, cook, nursemaid, dishwasher, gaspump-girl, mechanic, accountant, speech ghost-writer, and Gal Friday. Luckily her training as medical secretary stood her in good stead, having equipped her to handle a multitude of tasks simultaneously.

  “My goodness, Kirsten, you certainly put forth the lion’s share of effort in this crusade. Exactly what does Father Jim do?”

  “He does plenty! He’s the one who gets up in front of the congregations and wrings their hearts with all the things he’s seen and gets them to contribute to our cause. Without him, there’d be no reason to go on!”

  “That seems an equitable statement of the situation.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re finally seeing the inner reality of things. You can’t very well continue on with us if you don’t believe in what we’re doing.”

  “That brings up a question, Kirsten. Exactly what are your planss? I did mention back in New London that Pleasantville was my ultimate goal.…”

  “Oh, Father Jim says that there are so many sympathetic liberal people and churches in New York that we can stay here for months yet.”

  “Months … KirSten, I —”

  “Oh, Ardy, let’s quit talking, I’m utterly beat.”

  Kirsten rises from the table and begins to unfold the second convertible bed.

  “This is where I sleep. I’m afraid you’ll have to rough it on the floor with some of these cushions and a blanket, Ardy.”

  “But Kirsten …”

  “No, don’t say it, Ardy, I just can’t. I’m saving myself for Father Jim — that is, if he’ll ever have me.”

  “I understand, Kirsten. Like the Sisters of Eternal Recurrence, you are one of the brides of Christ.”

  The cushion catches Ardy upside the head and knocks him backwards. A blanket follows, draping him like a tarp over a beached boat.

  The next day sees Ardy take up his duties as a full-fledged member of The Ethical Circus. Arising with groaning bones from the hard floor of the trailer, he is greeted by a sunnily vivacious Father Jim and an intensely zealous Kirsten.

  “Ardy, my boy, how did you sleep?”

  “In the exact position into which I was catapulted. I was afraid to make any move that might have been misinterpreted as sexual harassment.”

  Kirsten favors Ardy with an ethically superior glare that warns him not to mention anything they discussed last night. He abides by this unspoken injunction, and Kirsten returns to repairing the shoulder seam of one of Father Jims black turtlenecks, her deft Midwestern fingers nimbly plying needle and thread.

  Fortunately Father Jim — who seems to have been listening to offstage otherworldly voices rather than to Ardy’s — detects nothing strange in Ardy’s reply, and plows on with his speech.

  “Good, good, I’m glad you’re completely rested, because we have a big day ahead of us, and I envision a large role for you.”

  “Father Jim, my last appearance before an audience resulted in havoc.…”

  “Nonsense! Son, humility in excess, like any virtue, can become a vice. The Lord has seen fit to place you in my path for a reason, as a tool in my hands, so to speak, and it would be both impious and haughty of me to refuse to use you. And besides, just think of all the good you’re going to help me to accomplish.”

  “That is exactly what the last person said who enlisted my services as a speaker, and his reward was commensurate with his ambitions.…”

  “Wonderful, I’m glad you see it my way. Kirsten, can you whip up a real pitiful, bloody account of a government massacre, then give it to Ardy to study? No problem, right? Great! Ardy, I believe I’ll save you ’til the end of the lecture, so you’ll have a couple of hours to get the speech down. Now, let’s have some breakfast!”

  Ardy eats dutifully, without much appetite. Thoughts of his upcoming ordeal and its possible calamitous endings leave a sour taste in his mouth. He contemplates simply running away. What would Father Jim s reaction be to that? He would undou
btedly raise a hue and cry, and thereafter all loci of mass transportation would quickly be swarming with the minions of justice. As if the authorities are not already sufficiently alert for the shady Thongstrap Dorjam.… Certainly Ardy would be no better off than if he had stayed in New London. No, best to go along with Father Jims plans, at least until a better opportunity presents itself. At least the ex-priests brand of rabble-rousing seems like a more civilized type than Roy’s.…

  Soon Father Jim and Kirsten both disappear, and Ardy is left alone with a newly scribbled-over sheaf of papers to peruse. He can barely keep his attention on the text. Much of it seems to resemble, in tone and generalities, the things he dimly recalls saying about Tibet. He guesses he can wing it well enough, if his nerves remain steady.…

  Light pouring in through a venetian-slatted window glints off a glass neck poking out from behind a couch cushion. Ardy rises to investigate. It is one of Father Jim’s bottles, others of which are probably secreted elsewhere, and it is half full. Uncapping it, Ardy sniffs. As Mister Kip might say, wow.… Ardy has seldom smelled anything quite so potent, even counting the nutmeg-laced rum of his native island. Still, a little swig might be just what he needs to inspire a more relaxed stage presence.…

  When Kirsten comes to fetch Ardy, he is lying with the empty bottle laxly clutched in his hand, humming to music from the vehicles radio.

  “Oh, Ardy, how could you!”

  “Miss Dahl, I felt the need of a little Dutch courage.…”

  “As if I didn’t have enough problems with Father Jim’s drinking … Come on, get up, you’ve still got to go on, Father Jim’s given you a big build-up.”

  “Miss Dahl, I’m afraid I misjudged my capacity for rough spirits.…”

  “You don’t do this all the time …?”

  “By no means!”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that.” Kristen claps a military-style cap on Ardy’s head. “Come on now, watch the steps.…”

  When Ardy is next clearly aware of his surroundings, he finds himself in a windowless hall, possibly a basement room, filled with spectators in folding chairs. On a dais sit the massed unsmiling forms of Ardy’s fellow Indians. Father Jim stands behind a podium. With the instant recognition of a brother in alcohol, Father Jim sizes up Ardy’s stumbling walk for what it is, and launches into an inspired improvisation.

  “And now, fellow Christians, I want to present to you one of the leaders of the Zapatista revolt. This poor lad has been beaten so badly that he has suffered brain damage and subsequent loss of motor control. Still he will try to recount his pathetic yet rousing tale in his own handicapped way.…”

  Ardy gets up behind the vacated podium and, clutching its sides for support, somehow gets through a slurred reading of his prepared speech. Since no one is close enough to smell his breath, his appearance is taken as a sign of his advertised disabilities and inspires much heartfelt snuffling among the audience, male and female alike.

  Much later, in the van, Ardy cradles his throbbing head in his hands. Father Jim’s voice drives spikes of ice into each ear.

  “An excellent fiscal harvest! My God, I’ve never seen such generosity! Everyone wanted to shake my hand and press a little extra into it, all toward the cause of preventing any more cases like Ardy. My boy, that was a marvelous performance. Such pathos! Ardy, if we can count on you appearing so pitiful each time we speak, we’ll soon double our receipts.”

  Ardy only moans.

  “You know, I believe our success today calls for a drink.…”

  As Ardy kneels to vomit, half his legs stick embarrassingly out of the tiny trailer toilet-stall.

  Thus begins Ardy’s full-time service with The Ethical Circus. In the following weeks he is trotted around from church to church to deliver a variety of nonsectarian sermons on the horrors of a land he has never seen. After that first awful experience, Ardy never again touches anything stronger than coffee before going onstage. Reassured by the lack of the rioting which he feared, he manages to play his part with enough perfunctory skill to satisfy both Father Jim and the various audiences. Soon the whole affair takes on the boredom of any job, and Ardy starts to feel like he has never done anything else in his life.

  The thing that irks him the most as the days mount up — besides failing to reach Pleasantville, of course — is that he has yet to see anything of the fabulous city he temporarily dwells in. Driven from one lecture-hall to another, his days and nights filled with the pressures of soliciting charitable donations from citizens eager to meet a genuine political refugee, Ardy is unable to take in any of the common tourist sights. The Empire State Building is but a spire hastily glimpsed; the Statue of Liberty but a postcard seen in a rack. Ardy has no free time of his own, what with performing for donors and sponsors and helping Kirsten minister to the tame Indians.

  Not that it is unpleasant to work side by side with Kirsten. Within her limited sphere, she is a charming woman, pleasant to talk to and possessed of a fund of anecdotes utterly alien to Ardy’s own experiences.

  “Your family farms how many acres?”

  “Two thousand.”

  “But that’s a quarter of the whole Spice Island.…”

  Ever since that first morning in the city, when Ardy held his tongue in front of Father Jim, Kirsten has not hesitated to entrust him with her confidences, obviously long bottled-up. Perhaps additional sympathy was roused in her bosom by his drunken suffering and subsequent noble return to teetotalism. Whatever the reason for her openness with Ardy, Kirsten continues to confide to him her innermost thoughts, especially those on two subjects: United States foreign policy, and her unrequited love for Father Jim.

  On this latter subject she waxes particularly eloquent. Kirsten seems a woman of large affections, all unfortunately aimed at someone apparently blind to them. In great detail she recites the things she would do to please Father Jim, if only he would deign to have her. Some figments of Kirsten’s imagination border on the religiously lubricious — such as washing feet — and Ardy is hard-pressed to restrain himself at these times. He wants to say, “Kirsten, you are wasting yourself on this man. He is too spiritual to appreciate your corporeal side. Whereas I, for one, consist entirely of clay, from my feet to the top of my head.”

  But of course, remembering his manners — not to mention the trouble he has gotten into in the past with romantic misunderstandings — he says nothing.

  One night Ardy and Kirsten are alone in the Winnebago. Father Jim is being wined and dined — especially wined — by one set of sympathetic patrons or another. He is not expected back until quite late. The Indians are bedded down in scattered locations across the city that never sleeps.

  Kirsten sits next to Ardy at the little table. The lights are dim. Her thigh touching his arouses certain unchivalrous thoughts.…

  “Ardy, I’ve gotten so much satisfaction out of talking with you lately. Just being able to raise your political consciousness has been thrilling.”

  “I will not deny, Kirsten, that you have caused, and continue to cause, a rise in me.…”

  “Oh, Ardy, kiss me!”

  “Kirsten …”

  Some time later, when all their clothes have been flung haphazardly around the trailer, hanging from the steering wheel and shower-head, Ardy hears a cough in the nightlight-moderated gloom. He desists momentarily from what he is doing.

  “Kirsten, dearest, did you cough?”

  “No, I thought it was you.…”

  “My children, I appreciate your concern, but it was merely a tickle in my throat that a small drink will pacify. Please don’t let me interrupt you.”

  “Father —”

  “ — Jim!”

  “Now, now, remain as you were, my children, don’t mind an old fellow like me. You were engaged in one of Creation’s holiest acts, please continue, I have no interest in — or capacity for — joining you, I’ll just sit right here until you finish.”

  “This is ridiculous, Father Jim. Certainly you can’t
expect Kirsten and I to go on with intimate relations while you watch!”

  “Ardy —”

  “Yes, don’t worry, Kirsten, I am about to verbally trounce this sanctimonious reprobate.”

  “Ardy, if this is what Father Jim wants, we’ll have to do it.”

  “Kirsten, I can’t believe my ears.… Let me go, I’m going to get up.…”

  “No, Ardy, don’t rush to some middle-class judgment, many societies have thought such things absolutely normal.”

  “That might be true, but we’re not living in such a time or place, nor did the holy Sisters bring me up to indulge in such aberrant behavior!”

  “Ardy, if you have any real affection for me, you’ll do what I ask.”

  “The lass is right, Ardy.”

  “Oh God, I don’t know how I get into such things.…”

  “It’s easy, just like this.…”

  “Oh, Kirsten, don’t …!”

  “Ardy, see, it’s so easy.”

  When they are done, Father Jim thoughtfully snaps off the nightlight and is soon burringly asleep.

  In the next week or so, Ardy is kept busier than ever, now that he must remain onstage nearly twenty-four hours a day, vertical or horizontal.

  His performance in both positions appears to be satisfactory to Father Jim. However, this does not prevent the ex-priest from suffering from occasional bouts of melancholy.

  Whenever Father Jim mixes some particularly noxious combination of drinks — say, white wine, scotch, and peppermint schnapps — he becomes a different person. Seeming to lose all confidence in the rightness of his mission and/or his abilities to carry it out, he vents his spleen with endless drunken harangues alternating with sobbing fits. Ardy is forced to act as reluctant interlocutor.

  “Baffles me,” says Father Jim, “Just goddamn baffles me, the ignorant, spineless, heartless, brainless complacency of this goddamn Dubyuh-Bush-worshipping, Helms-ass-licking country!”

  “Father Jim, I have been the recipient of much charity since my arrival in this land.…”