by Andrew Biss
“Yes, he does,” the man affirmed, with a warm smile.
I jumped back, panicked, and let out an involuntary scream.
“He knows everything. It’s all preordained.”
“Who…who are you?” I demanded, simultaneously feeling terror and something close to outrage.
“I’m Monsignor Dave, Valentine,” he said, his voice calm and oddly soothing. “I’m your spiritual guide.”
“I…I wasn’t aware that I had one. Or needed one.”
“Oh, but you do. We all do. How else could you find your way to Him?”
“Him?”
“Our Lord in Heaven.”
“Oh, him.”
“There is no other.”
As I started to become more accustomed to the Monsignor’s unexpected presence, as well as the fact that his torso had just sprung up from inside the sink, I also began to feel more irritated at his soft-spoken sermonising. I decided to stand my ground.
“I don’t believe in organised religion,” I said, indifferently. “I never have. It’s how I was brought up.”
“I know. You’re lost.”
“No, I’m not. Well, I mean, I’m not exactly sure where I am right now, but…”
“You’ve lost faith. I can tell,” he gently intoned, his smile so overly benign and sympathetic that it made me feel quite uncomfortable, reminding me, as it did, of my mother’s warnings to me when I was younger of kind men with stiff crotches.
“But I have no faith,” I insisted. “Well, I have faith, lots of it – too much sometimes – just not in organised religion.”
“That’s why I’m here – to lead you back.”
“Back where? I was never there.”
“Then it’s high time you had an introduction. Allow me to show you the way,” he declared, his arms outstretched wide with their pasty white hands beckoning me forward, like some sort of ecclesiastical Jack-in-the-box.
“Look, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not about to climb into a grimy kitchen sink to meet anyone – god-like or otherwise. Furthermore, I find it mildly offensive that someone can pop out of a kitchen appliance and attempt to influence my theological belief system.”
“Plumbing.”
“Excuse me?”
“I appeared from the plumbing, not an appliance. Perhaps I am mistaken. If so I apologise. But I believe it is correct to say that I appeared from a piece of plumbing apparatus, not a kitchen appliance.”
“Yes, but it’s…there, you see? You’re already attempting to blur the lines.”
“What lines, Valentine?” he said, reassuringly. “God knows no lines. He knows no borders. His church is a broad church – all are welcome.”
“All?” I said, knowing that the conversation was probably not about to take a turn for the better.
“Each and every blessed one of you.”
“No they’re not.”
“Of course they are – His embrace is limitless.”
“But they’re not. The whole set-up is exclusionary.”
Monsignor Dave cleared his throat uncomfortably and spoke in a slightly less benevolent tone than he had thus far. “Look, if He says they are then they are.”
“Then what about the Ten Commandments?”
“What about them?” he said with a warm laugh, attempting to regain some of his previous composure. “Surely you don’t dispute them? They are the fundamental tenets that all good people live by.”
“Of course I dispute them. My parents gave me a thorough debunking of the whole canard.”
“And you imagine your parents to be more learned than He?” he snarled, ominously, before catching himself again and quickly replacing his sneer with a warm smile. “Valentine, Valentine, what have they done to you? Come, follow me,” his bony white fingers beckoning me once more. But it was too late for the Monsignor – my high horse was saddled and ready to ride.
“Let’s see…it’s been a while but I think I can recall them all,” I said, fearlessly, focusing my mind as hard as I could on those rather boring religious education lessons my parents had insisted on giving me. “One: ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me.’ Well, I may not have any other gods but I don’t have him either, so this totalitarian approach of his leaves me out right from the get-go. Two: ‘Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image…something, something, something…for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God’ – as if we hadn’t already guessed – ‘visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children’ – now I ask you, is that fair? – ‘unto the third and fourth generation of them that hates me and showing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments.’ In other words, adore me and do as I say or suffer the consequences. I’d hardly call that an embrace, would you? I mean, my God, if you took out the Biblical lingo that could just as easily be an edict from the president of North Korea.”
The Monsignor shuffled uncomfortably, as much as one can when lodged inside of a kitchen sink. “Valentine, you’re surely not trying to equate the words of–”
“Three: ‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.’ I think I just did – so that’s me out again.”
“He will forgive you, Valentine, no matter what you–”
“Four: ‘Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy…’ and something about not doing any work. But don’t the clergy get paid for what they do? Maybe not a fortune, but it’s still a wage for services rendered, and unless I’m very much mistaken, Sunday is your busiest day.”
“It’s the Lord’s work. It’s not the same, my child. You have so much to–”
I pressed on, undaunted. “Five: ‘Honour thy father and thy mother.’ Well, who could argue with that? Unless, of course, you were abused or abandoned by them – or worse. For those that were that’s probably hard to do I would think, meaning yet another segment goes by the wayside. Still, all in all, the basic premise can’t really be faulted, I suppose.”
I could sense the Monsignor’s grip on civility beginning to wane again. “Valentine, it’s a principle, a guideline. Its intent isn’t–”
“It’s a command, isn’t it? Six: ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Fairly low on the list for one of the biggies, I always thought, but still, there it is and if you’re one of our brave soldiers ordered into the field of battle then you’re likely to be dead in the water either way. And that’s a shame really, since they’re only doing what they were told by leaders who claim to have a moral imperative driven by their faith in the Lord.”
“They…He…sometimes sacrifice manifests itself in ways that we cannot fully comprehend in this existence. Pope Pius XII himself said during World War II…he said…uh…I’m sure he said something…give me a second, it’ll come to me…”
“Seven: ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ A nice idea but an awful lot do it anyway, from what I’m told, so yet another chunk of the populous heads south – including some of your biggest financial contributors, according to my mother.”
“Valentine, Valentine, listen to me,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Listen to the Lord. He is the only one that can determine–”
“No! No, I’m sorry but you’ve really got my hackles up and I intend to finish. Eight: ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Again, who can fault the principle, but even if it’s only taking a paper clip home from the office, many do it, often without even realising it. And a command is a command.”
A rigid and distinct animosity had now crept into the Monsignor’s tone. “The definition of stealing in this instance isn’t necessarily given to mean–”
“Nine: ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour.’ Amen to that. The woman next door is always accusing my mother of being a witch, and while I admit she may be a little unusual she most certainly is not a witch…she just likes to express her opinions, however unpopular. Dissidence is not heresy. And lastly, Ten: ‘Thou shalt not covet.’ Now that’s just plain silly. Our entire culture and economy is based solidly around the idea
of coveting – it wouldn’t work if we didn’t. The latest model car or computer, the newest gadget that’ll be the envy of your friends – our whole system hinges upon the idea of everyone wanting what they don’t have. So when you add it all up you’re left with…well, a lot of empty seats in church and a rather lively fire raging down below.”
At this point the Monsignor had finally lost control and spat his words at me loudly and venomously. “How dare you! How dare you distort and pervert the words of the Lord as a means to support your twisted way of thinking!”
“Why ever not? Everyone else does – especially people like you. And I’m as good as everyone else.”
“No you’re not!” he hissed. “You’re nothing. Nothing but a rogue element. You have no place in the house of the Lord. You will be expelled and sent to the fires of hell for all eternity. Unless you can find repentance in your heart for this pagan deviancy you will be damned for evermore. The choice is simple – either you are with the Lord or you are against him!”
Just then Mrs. Anna appeared, looking almost as alarmed by the sight of the Monsignor as I’d first been. Steeling herself, she marched belligerently across the room to one of the many closets and emerged holding a long-handled broomstick. I, on the other hand, had not yet dismounted my righteous steed.
“Look, it’s not that I’m against your Lord, I just don’t believe he actually exists – or existed. For heaven’s sake, I still believe in Father Christmas. I know he’s not real but it still comforts me to think that he sneaks in once a year while I’m asleep and leaves behind a few surprises for me.”
Struggling to pull himself up out of the sink, the Monsignor’s voice became loud and booming. “You dare to compare some mythological, white-bearded old man with–”
“With Father Christmas? Yes, I do. Furthermore, I believe in him not because of any faith or religion or scientific fact, but simply because it makes me feel good. And if believing in your Lord brings you a similar comfort then I’m pleased for you. Just don’t try foisting him on me, that’s all.”
“Sinner! Killer! Faithless heathen!” he venomously screamed. “Bringer of destruction! You will be called to account. You will face the wrath of–”
Just then, Mrs. Anna rushed towards the sink and began striking at the Monsignor with the broom. “All right, that’s enough! Out! Out of here!” she commanded.
The Monsignor shielded himself with his arms, his seething condemnations continuing to spew forth. “Doomed! You’re all doomed! Especially you, faggot woman!”
Mrs. Anna continued her attack with the broom with an aim and expertise that suggested to me that this was not the first time such a scene had played itself out in her kitchen. “Away!” she barked. “Back down! Down, I say! Get back down there!”
Even as he began his retreat down into the sink, the Monsignor persisted with his rabid rant. “He’s watching you! He hates you! You’ll burn! You’ll see!”
“Out! Out!” cried Mrs. Anna, her blows now raining down on top of the Monsignor’s head with increasing vigour.
Almost out of sight, the Monsignor made one final attempt at making us see the error of our ways. “Burn! Rot! Rot in hell!” he gurgled, as his bruised and battered pate disappeared back into the decrepit plumbing system.
“Down! Be gone!” Mrs. Anna continued, presumably for reassurance more than anything else, before delivering one final, decisive whack of her broom. “Out!” she proclaimed, triumphantly.
I sat down in one of the chairs and held my head in my hands, attempting to make sense of the events that had just transpired. I looked up at Mrs. Anna in search of an explanation, but she seemed unaware of my presence. She was leaning up against the sink, catching her breath and wiping beads of sweat from her furrowed brow.
“Good heavens, that was…a little out of the ordinary,” I understated.
“I’m sorry,” she said, in a tone that struck me as a little defensive. “This place is old – these things happen.”
“He just popped out…out of nowhere,” I explained.
“They come from below. I think it’s the moisture, the dampness that attracts them. They’ve no place here, but still they come. I’m sorry.”
“Mrs. Anna, I don’t wish to sound…well, ungrateful or disrespectful, but I must say thus far this establishment has fallen far short of my admittedly limited expectations.”
“Look mister – whoever you are – you’re not so far from that life and not so very far from the next so count yourself lucky and stop complaining. I’m stuck here – stuck in the middle. If things crawl out of the sink or from under the baseboards I do what I can to eradicate them, but it’s not easy. They’re persistent. I offer you a place to stay in a moment of transition and I try to make it as comfortable as possible. But just you remember, this is temporary. For all I know I’ll be here for evermore.”
“Perhaps I will be, too,” I contested. “None of us know what lies ahead. Perhaps I will end my days here. And if that’s so, with all due respect, I would hope to see some significant changes adopted in the day-to-day running of this operation.”
“You? Hah!” she chided. “You’ll be gone before you know it. You all are eventually…almost all. But I’ll still be here, so don’t suppose to tell me what or what not to do. I do my best.”
“How do you know how long I’ll stay here? As long as I continue to pay my rent on time there’s nothing to say I won’t be here for years to come…presuming the standards improve a little.”
“Of course you won’t. You’ll be gone.”
“You don’t know that,” I said, rather childishly.
“Yes, I do,” she replied, equally childishly but far more confidently.
“How? How could you possibly?”
“It’s always the same with you people – here today, gone tomorrow.”
“What people?” I demanded, somewhat incensed at the idea of being lumped into some generic, faceless subdivision of humanity.
Mrs. Anna folded her arms and looked at me as if I were a half-wit. “Who do you think?” she said, with a slight roll of her eyes. “The dead, of course.”
Just as she said it, a loud, deep, heavy sigh of relief seemed to echo its way around the house.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Diana Ross
Being described as dull and boring by Hank was difficult enough to take, but Mrs. Anna’s assessment of me as dead was simply unacceptable. True, I may not have the most electrifying personality in the world, and I would certainly never describe myself as particularly perky or bubbly, but I’d always considered myself as someone possessing a certain low-key charm with an understated, almost indefinable animal magnetism. Clearly this was not a view shared by all.
“Mrs. Anna,” I said, firmly. “I don’t think that’s entirely fair of you and I resent being described in such a way.”
“Oh, so sorry. Perhaps your sensitive soul prefers it if I say ‘the dearly deceased,’” she said, with mocking concern.
“What are you talking about?”
“What – your penny hasn’t dropped the other foot yet?”
“What penny? You’re not making any sense. You’re talking rubbish.”
“Look, you don’t exist anymore – is that plain enough? You’re dead…like the doornail.”
“I most certainly am not,” I said, with a nervous laugh.
“You say you’re not, I say you are. Either way you’re dead,” she shrugged.
“Of course I’m not dead. Are you mad?”
“Or at least, dead in relation to the idea of what you thought you were when you were alive,” she added.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“It means it’s all relative in a cosmic sense…more or less. Anyway, that’s what I’m supposed to tell you, according to the guidebook.”
What guidebook? Why was she suddenly talking nonsense to me? I considered the possibility that she was simply having a bad day, and on such occasions found some sort of unhe
althy gratification in tormenting her guests with insults and gibberish. However, I wasn’t about to take the bait.
“Mrs. Anna, look at me…I am very much alive. Here I am. I’m living proof of me. I just…am,” I said, calmly.
“No offence,” she jeered, “but have you looked in the mirror lately?
“That’s another thing I meant to bring to your attention. There aren’t any – not even in the bathroom.”
“So, then pinch yourself.”
“What?”
“Pinch yourself. Remind yourself of who you are.”
This was getting sillier by the minute. “No,” I said, flatly.
“Why not?”
Her confident insistence was beginning to get to me. She spoke with an air of tired authority that gave me the distinct feeling that whatever I said was already irrelevant in her eyes. However, rather than confess to the unease that had begun to sneak up behind me, I decided to give her the best excuse I could come up with as to precisely why I should not pinch myself. “Because…it hurts,” I said, utterly lamely.
“Ah, but such a small pain for such a big affirmation,” she said, with just the slightest hint of a smile – the type that a gambler might have when laying down a winning card.
“I don’t need to,” I whinged, sounding more pathetic with each utterance that stumbled unconvincingly from my lips.
“Don’t need to or afraid to?”
“Don’t need to. I’m alive. Look at me – I’m here now.”
“Are you?”
