“Tell me,” Patricia said, “does God eat with chopsticks when Buddha has Him over for dinner?”
Rachel added, “If the Hindu were, say, on the fence about the whole matter, would God still be an old, bearded man, just with eight arms instead of two? And would He have one of those red ruby thingamajigs in his forehead?” She leaned into the table and whispered, “And, most importantly, do you think He’d be throwing the old bone to Shiva?”
Chris was mad. “Look,” he said, “these gods aren’t our puppets anymore. They have their own hierarchies now, political agendas, favorite snack foods. We can’t keep a curfew on them anymore. They’ve grown up, but we haven’t even reached species puberty yet. Things were fine when it was only cherubs and St. Peter and the burning pits of hell. But now things are changing. They’re changing. Old time religion’s still okay with us, but it’s become ancient history for them. And that’s because they’re naturally evolving. Mankind stopped a long time ago.” His fist struck the table. “I mean, like, we still burn incense and candles, confess our sins to purge our souls! We’re still reading from the same dumbass scripts, performing the same rituals that our ancestors performed in the same costumes with the same convictions that the gods will look down at the sacrificial altar and be appeased and spare our lives until the next full moon. Sure, the Pope’s garb is more lustrous now because it’s sheared from genetically enhanced sheep and stitched in high-tech robotic factories—but it’s still a vestment.” He glanced accusingly at Juanita. “By any other name, a rosary is still a rosary is still a rosary.”
He took a badly needed breath, then, “Hey, we should all be way beyond that now. But we’re not.”
Juanita threw down her napkin and rose from her chair. “I think God has a special place for you—a big toilet so you can relieve yourself of all that nonsense you have packed inside!”
She tipped her nose to the ceiling and huffed into the kitchen.
Chris’s shoulders bounced with quiet chuckles. “You Catholics crack me up.”
“You go, girlfriend!” hollered the face in the window.
Without looking back, Chris pointed over his shoulder at the face. “The really sad part is, he’s me,” he said to Kathy, who was snickering into her glass of milk.
“So, who do we pray to now?” Joan said, looking perturbed that the Almighty would have the nerve to just up and bail out on them like that.
“Ourselves,” Chris said decidedly. “We’re our own gods. Always have been.”
“That’ll look good on my résumé,” Patricia said. “Can type, operate DOS or MAC, answer phones, and forgive anyone their sins.”
“There’s just one thing, babe,” Chris warned. “You won’t have to worry about employment if they’re able to, like, reverse the process.”
“Reverse what process?” Kathy said, as if Chris had finally hit upon something unfamiliar to her.
“I think he means the tables are going to turn,” said Duncan. “Our gods are going to do the opposite to us of what we did to them. We thought them into reality, now they’re going to think us back into Chris’s ‘Ball of Clay.’” He looked at Chris. “Right?”
“Very perceptive, dude,” Chris said, squinting. “That’s quite a leap you just took. But, yeah, I think that would be the natural order of things. More or less.”
“Whoa, back up,” Patricia said. “Our own thoughts are going to ‘think’ us away?”
“No way they’ll get rid of us entirely,” Chris said. “Our souls will become the cattle of their collective unconscious, penned there and experimented upon. See, they’ve already become fruitful. Now it’s time to multiply.”
“Are you making this crap up as you go?” Rachel said.
“I’m serious,” he continued. “The collective unconscious still has its limits. I mean, given that the human mind cannot grasp the full ramifications of eternity, just to mention one, then the scopes of a man-made heaven and hell—including their populations—aren’t likely to reach very far.”
Patricia yawned. “So.”
“Sooo, if you were the devil and, after having just evolved into a free-thinking supreme being aching to pick a fight, discover that your minions are far too low in number to gain, like, a military advantage over your enemy, then wouldn’t you want to get on the stick and figure out a way to multiply your troops, and fast?”
“If this being, this ‘Shadow,’ is as powerful as you say,” said Patricia, “then why couldn’t he just whip up all the legions he needs?”
“He could,” Chris said, “and probably already has. But remember, these supreme beings are mankind’s personifications of Good and Evil. And sharing that heritage has ensured that both have evolved at the same pace. Two superpowers in a cold war, each confined to the same limitation, man’s inability to grasp the bigger picture.” He thought for a moment, then said, “It would be M.A.D.: Mutual Assured Destruction.”
Duncan said, “But if you’re the bad, bloodthirsty devil, then a stalemate’s the last thing you’ll want.”
“Is there an echo in here?” Chris said. “That’s what I just said.”
“So then,” Duncan said, “it’s safe to assume that, given the family tree, these super-‘tulpas’ are governed by a similar evolutionary process to our own, right?”
“In some ways, yes,” said Chris, a descrying smile beginning to form.
“Then it goes to reason that one will eventually create—before the other—a weapon of mass destruction.”
“Just a matter of time,” Chris agreed.
Reflexively, Duncan glanced at Kathy, then looked down at his plate. “Natural order of things.”
“Bombs away!” Chris said, grinning like a hyena. “So let it be written, so let it be done.”
“You do make this crap up as you go,” Rachel moaned.
“It’s all made up,” he said, spreading out his arms. “This reality is just another product of our imaginations.”
“You really believe you’re an expert on minds, don’t you?” Patricia said.
“When it comes to the human psyche, I’m the best,” he said. “I’ve probably entered Wonderland more times than any man alive.”
“Give me an example,” Patricia said, her coddling eyes slowly widening. “Just one little instance of what it’s like inside Ms. February’s head. Or did you make it that far north?”
Ignoring the jab, Chris thought for a moment, then offered, “Patty, have you ever, like, tried explaining to someone what watermelon tastes like?”
She just stared at him.
“Without comparing it to itself, it’s nearly impossible. Well, that’s what it’s like trying to explain to someone what the psyche is like. The only people who can truly appreciate that flavor are those who’ve actually taken a bite. Like me.” He looked at Kathy. “And you.”
Kathy nodded proudly. “And me.”
Rachel glared at the girl. “Oh? And whose mind have you been eating?”
“Amy’s,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Duh!”
“Where do you get your info, Chris?” Patricia said. “The Psychic Hotline?”
Chris leaned forward. “Babe, I am the Psychic Hotline,” he reminded. “Or, have you already forgotten our visit this afternoon?”
Patricia looked away; an uncomfortable smile.
“Personally,” Rachel said, “I think someone’s ridin’ the psilocybin.” She made a gun with her hand and pushed her finger point-blank against Chris’s temple. “Alright! Hand over all the ’shrooms!”
Chris shook his head, disgusted. “Look at yourselves,” he said. “After everything you’ve seen so far, you still have the nerve to laugh. See how conditioned you all are? Even when it’s right in front of your noses you can’t accept it because it ain’t the status quo. I mean, how many little girls do you know who can go IMAX on a picture window?” He pointed to the face in the glass: “And do you really think that every household in America has one of those? Just the sight of that alone should have
all of you rethinking everything you’ve been taught. You’re all brainwashed! Have been since day one.”
Red-faced and ready to explode with laughter, Patricia said, “Speaking of brainwashing, when was the last time yours had a bath?”
“Very funny,” Chris said with a smile.
Patricia broke out laughing. Just as she did, Rachel joined her.
“Okay, laugh it up,” Chris said. “But I’m telling you, the mind is an incredible place, solely or collectively. It’s not just one universe but untold billions, each as boundless as the one we’re spinning through.” He looked at Patricia. “And babe, they’re all interlinked.”
Patricia brought her harsh laughter down to a sort of percolator chuckle, then drew her own weapon, aiming it at Chris. “Say ‘babe’ one more time, surfer dude, and I’ll put a subway through your universe.”
Rachel looked at Patricia, and they both cracked up again.
“Christ, it’s Cagney and Lacy.” Chris threw his napkin on his plate. “I mean, what is with you chicks? ‘Babe’ is a—”
“Bang!”
“Bang!”
Kathy, who’d been packing her own heat, aimed and fired. “Pow!”
“—term of endearment.” He stared at Kathy, hurt. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“You’re psychic, you figure it out,” she said, then blew smoke from her finger.
Patricia said, “Chris, I think your Yin has been cheating on your Yang and has caught a bad case of the clap.”
Chris rose from the table. “Look, I know how weird it all sounds, but if any one of you can prove to me that God exists independently from us, then I’ll stand corrected. Until then, all theories are open for debate, just as they always have been.”
“What about you?” said Rachel to Chris. “Do you have any proof? Just a smidgen?”
Nearing the kitchen doors, Chris said, “If you’re all really thinking about hopping a plane to Seattle, then you’d better get to the airport now. Like I said, come sunrise, nobody’s going anywhere except to hell, and I’ll be saying I told you so all the way down.” Then he turned to Rachel. “And all that proof you’re looking for will be right out front, aerating the lawn, along with all the neighbors.”
As Chris disappeared into the kitchen, the saloon doors swinging wildly behind him, he shouted out lastly, “We’re not the dreamer anymore, but the dream.”
11.
Eli snatched the phone halfway through the fourth ring.
“Yes?” he answered, winded.
“Forgive the intrusion, Father,” said Mr. Gamble, “but are you, perchance, viewing the media’s live coverage of the events at St. Patrick’s Church?”
Eli’s heart jumped. “I’m afraid I’m busy with other things at the moment.”
He was perplexed as to why Gamble was using the phone to initiate contact. Highly unusual. In fact, it had never been done before.
“Well,” Gamble sighed, “it appears that someone has torched the old place. I’m afraid, my dear fellow, that your dreams of eventually turning it into a bed and breakfast are all but quashed.”
“It’s—it’s on fire?”
“Lustfully.”
“You cocksucker!” Eli shouted. “Why did you burn my church?”
“Watch your mouth,” Gamble growled. “I’ve done you a favor. Your so-called masterpiece was becoming a distraction for you and everyone else. Besides, you’re in possession of the seventh angel now. You don’t need to carry this facade any further. Once you dispose of her—and let’s not forget about Katherine Bently!—then you’ll be free of all this nonsense.”
Eli panted into the phone. He stood and glanced out the dining room window, in the direction of the church, four miles distant. And there it was—a faint, gray smudge on the horizon. His heart was beating so loudly in his ears that he actually withdrew the receiver a few inches from his head, fearing Gamble might hear and think him a sissy.
“You should come on down, Eli,” Gamble shouted as the siren of an emergency vehicle heralded its arrival. “That busty redheaded thing from Channel Four, Sheila Livingston I think is her name, is waving that microphone in front of her mouth like it’s a hard dick. Wow! I don’t know what’s hotter right now—her or the St. Christopher medal pooling on Deacon Flannery’s neck!”
“Samuel’s inside the church?” Eli said.
“Oh, you should have been here, Father. It was some of my best material yet. I’m telling you, I’m seriously thinking about trying my luck at show biz.”
Eli wanted—needed—to hang up. “I’ve work to do—”
“Work, work, work,” Gamble lamented. “Listen, why don’t you whittle down a couple of olive branches, grab a bag of those great big marshmallows, and we’ll sing some songs, tell some ghost stories. What’da’ya say?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Momma’s boy,” Gamble taunted. There was a short burst of static, then he said, “Sorry about the connection, Father. It’s this damned cellular phone. It’s geared more for long distance calling, if you know what I mean. Looong distance. The phone was free, but the monthly charges are killing me. Ten cents a minute my ass!”
Gritting his teeth, Eli said, “Now that the confessional is no longer an option, where will we meet?”
“Once your chores are finished, you’ll finally get to meet me face-to-face. Are you excited?”
Eli hesitated, then said, “Yes, I’m...I’m looking forward to it.”
“Just remember one thing,” Gamble cautioned. “If and when you walk through that window, you’ll still be mine. You’ll never shed enough cocoons to outshine my wings. Understand?”
“Of course.”
“With all of your restraints gone,” he continued, “it will be tempting to imagine yourself more powerful than you really are. And with your tongue’s brazen demonstration just moments ago, I might be inclined to think that process has already begun.”
“I-I-I—”
“Many before you have felt the heel of my shoe, and you’ll crunch beneath it just as the others who let it go to their heads.”
“Yes, I...understand,” Eli said amidst a thunderous noise.
“Spectacular!” Gamble trumpeted. “The roof just fell in!”
Eli winced. He didn’t have to look out the window to see the surging convoy of embers. The roof was mainly stone, and he believed it would have taken more than a fire to topple it—like a little shove from Gamble, the lousy prick.
A magnificent structure razed. His wondrous masterpiece gone.
Fuck.
“Well,” Eli sighed, “good night, then.”
12.
Patricia smoked at the dining room table as the girl lay on her stomach in front of the television, watching The Brady Bunch. One of the first episodes. The girl’s hands propped up her chin, and she slowly bent her right leg back and forth, as if inviting Patricia to come lay beside her but too shy to turn around and summon her more candidly. Then her leg stopped as she began giggling at Alice, who’d stepped between a bickering Greg and Marcia.
Patricia scowled. If this genie were truly her daughter, she would have sent her to bed hours ago.
But at dinner you were beginning to think—
No. This child was not hers. Her daughter and this girl shared the same likeness, that was all, that was the extent of it. And, the truth be known, she didn’t think the girl in front of the TV looked that much like her Katherine. Her daughter, at the age of ten, had been leaner, her face more angular, her eyes less droopy, her hair a richer and thicker brown.
—was almost convinced that she was—
No. Her daughter had been...prettier. Yes, much prettier; her features definitely more innocent, undefiled.
“Mom?” the girl called rather urgently from the floor.
“Yes?” she answered absently.
Glancing back at Patricia, she said, “Gotcha.”
“Clever,” she said with a smirk, her neck and ears growing warm. “But, p
lease, I’m not your mother.”
“For a second there, you were.”
“A weak moment,” Patricia confessed.
Before turning back to the TV, the girl said, “We can’t have too many more of those, can we?”
No, Patricia thought, I suppose we can’t.
She recommenced staring out the dining room window. With flashlight in hand, Chris continued to pace a tight grid on her front yard. She supposed he was looking to link telepathically with some wayward wraith, or perhaps he’d discovered that her property was over some Indian burial ground and was, like, dude, eager to direct the Great Indian Chief, Me Smokem Plenty, and his empty pipe to the nearest hemp field.
Just then, Chris stopped, bent over, and pointed an ear to the ground. After fifteen seconds or so, he walked a few steps, then directed downward his fleshy radar once more.
Fascinated, she watched him repeat this act half a dozen times.
Whatever he was doing, she decided, it was definitely better entertainment than what cable was presently offering.
“He’s a weird duck, that one,” Patricia said.
“We’re all weird,” said the girl, not bothering to look away from her show. “Every last one of us. It’s just a matter of degree.”
Taken aback, Patricia was awed at this child’s insight. It wasn’t what she said, but the way she said it, with a chilling tone of wisdom.
“I guess that means you think I’m weird, then?” Patricia said.
“Especially you!” Then, barely audible, “At least Grammy never lost hope.”
Patricia was shocked. “Oh, really?”
Finally disconnecting altogether from the TV, she said, “All these years you’ve prayed and prayed to have me back, and now that I’m back, you don’t want to have anything to do with me. Now that’s weird.”
“No,” Patricia started, angrier than she intended, “what’s weird is that you’re still ten years old, young lady. You should’ve been married by now, and maybe pregnant with my grandchild. But no, you show up on my doorstep with the same snotty nose and wearing the same size shoes you were in the day you disappeared!”
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