Larry & the Dog People

by J. Paul Henderson

  Talmai Oshkeroff smiled when Larry acknowledged him, completely unaware that it was Larry MacCabe and not Lavi Maccabee addressing him. He’d never met Dr Maccabee and neither had he seen his photograph. No one had. Dr Maccabee was notoriously camera shy, fearing that likenesses diminished the soul, and the only existing photograph of him had been taken on his eighteenth birthday, a gangling youth staring at the floor. On this basis there was no reason to believe that Larry wasn’t the grown-up version of this man, and certainly his name tag suggested that he was. And although now no longer attached to the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Oshkeroff, prior to his rise to political importance, had been on the janitorial staff of that institution and this was well known in Sicarii circles; it was a badge he wore with pride. Similarly, Dr Maccabee’s unannounced arrival at Masada wasn’t to be unexpected. Despite their willingness to book his flights and accommodation, Dr Maccabee had insisted on making his own arrangements and told them only the day he’d meet them at the Party offices. A surprise visit had always been on the cards.

  ‘If I’d been walking alone at night in the first century,’ Larry started his address, ‘the last people I’d have wanted to bump into were the Sicarii. There’s no telling what those rascals might have done to me. Come to think of it, if I’d been attending a rally in broad daylight I’d have probably been no better off.’

  Talmai smiled at the joke. Dr Maccabee’s odd and sometimes impenetrable sense of humour was well known, and Talmai waited for the expected spin that would turn the statement on its head and put the Sicarii in their true light. It proved a long wait.

  Although controversy in everyday life made Larry uneasy, academic controversy never did. It had been his lifeblood for too many years, and there’d been no cause for sensitivity in his professional life. Truth was uncontrollable and unassailable and the chips had to fall where they may, irrespective of consequence. And, just as he hadn’t shied from sharing the academic truth of Native Americans with Delores, neither did he now shy from sharing the truth about the Sicarii with Talmai Oshkeroff and the other members of the audience.

  The Sicarii, Larry continued, had originated in Galilee and were considered an extremist splinter of the Zealots. They were named for the small dagger they carried, the sica, and their worldview was narrow, fundamental and humourless. Although some looked on them as liberators, most viewed them as sadistic thugs and terrorists of the worst kind; cowardly assassins who mingled in crowds and stabbed from behind. And their victims, unlike those of the Zealots, had tended to be Jewish rather than Roman: moderate leaders and those they accused of apostasy and collaborationism. They kidnapped for ransom, robbed the houses of the wealthy, raided Jewish villages and killed women and children.

  ‘In short,’ Larry concluded, ‘the Sicarii were little better than the Taliban or ISIL. This kind of extremism…’

  Talmai Oshkeroff could contain himself no longer. His agitation had grown increasingly during Larry’s presentation and it was now time to bring it to a halt. He stood and shouted at Larry: ‘Sorcerer! Betrayer! These are not the words of a Fourth Philosopher. They are the words of the Devil. Uncover yourself and reveal your true name, for you, sir, are not Dr Lavi Maccabee!’

  Larry was taken aback by the vehemence of Oshkeroff’s words. Until this moment he’d thought his talk had gone rather well, especially as it had been unscripted, and he’d been expecting a round of applause from the audience and a slap on the back from Amah when he stepped from the stage. And who was this Dr Lavi Maccabee he was accused of not being?

  ‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Mr Oshkeroff. My name is Professor Larry MacCabe. I’m not Dr Lavi Maccabee and nor have I ever claimed to be him. It’s others who say that I am.’

  This was too much for Oshkeroff’s ears. The man was talking like the charlatan from the New Testament: not claiming to be the Son of God but allowing others to make the claim for him. ‘Take him!’ he ordered his bodyguards. ‘And remind this imposter that it’s not the Garden of Gethsemane he’s being dragged from – it’s Masada!’

  Larry remained in custody for twenty days.

  ‘There’s been a misunderstanding, Larry, an unfortunate misunderstanding, but one that has consequences for us all. You are here for your own good and for the stability of Israel.’

  The man speaking these words was Ori Zingel, the only man in the room not wearing a military uniform. He was a government official, there to explain Larry’s confinement and to apologise for his new circumstances. He introduced himself only as Ori and addressed Larry by his familiar name.

  ‘But I’ve done nothing wrong, Ori,’ Larry protested. ‘I was asked to give a speech and I gave one. I didn’t break any laws.’

  ‘Unfortunately you did, Larry. You denied the truth of Masada as defined by the Party of the Sicarii and this, I’m afraid, is now a punishable offence. If you were an Israeli citizen you would be tried and imprisoned; that you’re an American citizen complicates matters.’

  ‘And that was going to be my next point,’ Larry said. ‘I can’t see the government of the United States being happy about my detention. I’ve paid taxes my whole life and some of that money has gone to support your country. Does the American Embassy know I’m here?’

  ‘No, and it’s better that they don’t. The matter will be resolved quietly and in a matter of twenty days. After that time you will be deported from Israel and there will be no record of your stay.’

  ‘Twenty days! But I’m expected home on Friday. Moses will be wondering where I’ve got to.’

  ‘Is Moses your friend?’ Ori asked.

  ‘Yes, he’s my dog.’

  ‘You call your dog Moses? You’ve named your dog after Israel’s greatest Prophet?’

  ‘Well, no, not me personally. He was already called that when he came to live with me. He used to be called Israel – after the country.’

  Ori folded his arms and smiled. ‘Maybe the Sicarii were right about you after all, Larry. It appears you have little regard for either our religion or our nation.’

  ‘Oh, but I do, Ori. I have the highest regard for Israel. And I have no less respect for Judaism than I do for any other desert religion.’

  ‘And what exactly do you mean by desert religion, Larry?’

  ‘It’s just a theory of mine. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Ori, but I’m America’s leading authority on the Desert Land Act of 1877 – one of the most momentous pieces of legislation to have ever been passed into law – and because of my research I’ve spent more time in desert areas than most other people. Deserts intrigue me – they always have. They have a tranquillity that emanates spirituality and I can well understand why three of the world’s greatest religions were born in hot countries rather than more temperate climes. But – and I hope you won’t be offended by this – I’ve always supposed that Judaism, Christianity and Islam came into being only because there was no good irrigation system in place at the time. As I say, it’s just a theory, but doesn’t it strike you as odd that the only religion to have emerged in the United States – Mormonism – is headquartered in Utah, another desert area? Which reminds me: I’m supposed to give a lecture on the Desert Land Act in Jerusalem next Wednesday. Will you be able to arrange transport?’

  Ori shook his head. ‘The university is no longer expecting you, Larry.’

  Larry was more disappointed by this news than anything that had happened since he’d been hauled from the top of Masada the previous day. Then he’d been detained in a windowless room in the eastern complex for four hours and later transported by car to a house in Jaffa, high on a hill and overlooking the Port and the Mediterranean Sea. Here he’d been treated with courtesy and served dinner, but then locked in a well-appointed room on the third floor where he’d stayed until escorted downstairs and introduced to Ori that morning, a man who wore a dark business suit and spoke impeccable English and who was now telling him th
at he wouldn’t be giving his presentation on the Desert Land Act after all – his sole reason for being in Israel!

  Ori motioned for the other men to leave the room and waited while the door closed behind them before continuing his conversation.

  ‘Believe me, Larry: missing the symposium is a small price to pay. The Party of the Sicarii has been told you are in custody and will be tried on 22 October. We need them to believe this. If you are seen by them in Jerusalem, which is a distinct possibility, it will be obvious that you are not in custody and will in all probability not be brought to trial – which, of course, you won’t. By then you will be home in America playing with your dog and telling him of your adventures.

  ‘Both you and I, Larry, are the victims of proportional representation, a form of democracy that makes for strange bedfellows. We sleep in a different room from Talmai Oshkeroff, but we have to change his sheets and make him feel comfortable. He has a strange bee in his bonnet – understandable when you consider he’s spent his life mopping piss and wiping shit from toilet seats – but it’s a bee, unfortunately, that we have to accommodate. The government needs his support and the support of his party if we are to extend the draft to the Haredim – people who have stranger bees in their bonnets than even the Sicarii. Do you know who I mean when I refer to the Haredim?’

  ‘Yes, they’re the ultra-Orthodox Jews.’

  ‘They are, and the government has decided that it’s time for them to pull their weight. The Haredim are a financial burden on the State of Israel. They are happy to take its financial assistance but unwilling to contribute to society or even recognise the State that allows them their lifestyle of prayer and study. Currently they are exempted from military service, but on 19 October this inequality will end. And when that vote has been taken and the Sicarii have cast their votes on the side of the government you will be free to leave the country.’

  ‘But won’t Mr Oshkeroff be unhappy when he learns I’ve returned to America?’

  ‘He would if he thought that to be true, Larry, but Talmai will never know the truth. For his future support for the government it’s important that he doesn’t. Of course, we could simply blame your President – he has few friends here – but we don’t want to risk escalating an internal matter into an international situation. No, Talmai must believe that you neither came from nor returned to the United States. You will be a mystery man, a manifestation that appeared and disappeared and a man without footprints. The ancient Sicarii claimed powers of clairvoyance, telepathy and levitation and I doubt their modern-day counterparts are any less susceptible to such strangeness…’

  Ori returned the following day and brought Larry his belongings from the King David Hotel. He gave him books on Israel to read and suggested he pass the time by playing chess with Haim and Jaron, the two soldiers there to guard his privacy.

  ‘It’s not ideal, Larry – just a deal – so try and make the best of it.’

  And so Larry did. He played chess with Haim and Jaron and lost every game. He looked out of the window and down on the Port, watched as old men cast lines and fishing boats came and went. He read about Jerusalem and made a list of all the things he’d wanted to do but now never would: walk the walls of the Old City, climb Temple Mount, explore Hezekiah’s Tunnel and visit the tortoises in the Biblical Zoo. He thought of Wayne and Moses and wondered how many jars of jam Wayne had made; thought of Volta Park and Laura and the friends he met there every Saturday and hoped that the animal blessing on the Day of St Francis had gone to plan and that Repo was of old. Time, however, passed slowly…

  On Wednesday, 21 October, Larry was taken from Jaffa to Ben Gurion Airport. He was sixty-seven years of age, had failed to deliver his paper on the Desert Land Act and, for the second time in his life, was about to be arrested.

  ‘Not again, Larry,’ Helen would have sighed.

  10

  Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch…

  If Wayne Trout’s life had taken a turn for the worse at birth, lumbered as he’d been with a neurological condition most others were spared, it was as nothing compared to the somersaults it suffered after Kevin became a Christian.

  It was on a Sunday in the spring of 1999 when Kevin came face to face with Christ. He and Wayne had been kicking their heels that day, aimlessly wandering the streets of Charles Town in the hope of witnessing a traffic accident. They’d stopped to explore a building site on Samuel Street, and it was here that Kevin spotted a can of glue. He’d been sniffing solvents for two years, and despite its questionable legality had always assumed it to be his inalienable right – the pursuit of happiness as laid down by the Declaration of Independence.

  This particular glue, however, was of industrial strength and far stronger than anything he’d previously inhaled – the equivalent of a person downing a fifth of bourbon after having only sipped beer – and his mind and body were taken by assault. Instantly he knew there was something wrong – something definitely wrong – and he articulated his feelings to Wayne as best he could: ‘Out! Out! Out! Out!’ he repeated over and again while stamping his right foot on the ground. ‘Out! Out! Out! Out!’

  Wayne had been around Kevin when he’d sniffed glue before, but then his friend had just acted goofy. Now he was acting something else – something definitely else – and he encouraged Kevin to go to the hospital.

  ‘No, no hospitals and no doctors, man. I’ll ride it out in a church. Out! Out! Out! Out!’

  ‘But what if you don’t?’ Wayne asked. ‘What if you get worse? What am I supposed to do then?’

  ‘Then you can take me to the hospital, but don’t tell them I’ve been sniffing glue. Tell them I’ve been overcome by the Holy Spirit or something. And make sure they put that on my admission slip and my parents see it. Out! Out! Out! Out!’

  And then he started to scream.

  Sunday evening services were about to start in the town, but Wayne was reluctant to take Kevin to his own church. His foster parents had already warned him about hanging around with the Trull boy and he didn’t want them seeing Kevin in this shape. Instead – and once Kevin had stopped screaming – he took him to the Zion Episcopal Church, two streets down from the building site, and helped him into an empty back pew.

  Halfway through the service something happened, something that Kevin would later describe as the Holy Spirit entering his body. The toxins tormenting his mind dissolved as suddenly as they’d appeared and an air of calm descended over him. When it came to the point in the service when the minister asked if any in the congregation would like to commit themselves to Christ, Kevin was the first to his feet.

  Kevin’s life changed forever that day, and by default so too did Wayne’s. Rather than loaf around the neighbourhood annoying people and harming himself, Kevin became a model citizen. He took a part-time job and, apart from the money he spent having the tattoo of a skull lasered from his forearm, gave the proceeds to the church. But for Kevin this still wasn’t enough. His conversion to Christianity had been recent and he pursued his calling with a zealousness that put Wayne’s longer-standing and quieter faith in the shade.

  ‘We have to do something more, Wayne. We have to get the message out to people that Christ is alive and living among us. We have to reach as many men, women and children as we can. But how? How can we do this?’

  Wayne thought it over. ‘We could always write something on one of them interstate bridges. Thousands of people would see it wrote there, and they’d think about what they’d see’d for the rest of their journey.’

  Kevin liked the idea.

  Once dark had fallen, Kevin drove Wayne to one of the bridges that spanned the I81 and parked in a quiet area. The message they’d agreed to write was CHRIST IS ALIVE. It was agreed that Kevin would write the first two words – he was an experienced graffiti artist and had already tagged his moniker to most of the public buildings in the area – and Wayne the third. It was important to
Kevin that their accomplishment be a team effort and for Wayne to share in the glory. While one leaned over the parapet and wrote the letters, the other would hold him by the legs.

  Kevin completed his part of the exercise and Wayne hauled him up.

  ‘Okay, Wayne, it’s up to you now. Remember what I told you? You’re writing upside down and backwards to the way you normally write, so you always have to have the mirror image in mind. Got it?’

  Kevin carefully lowered Wayne over the side of the bridge, and as each letter was completed moved him to the left. It was on the last of these moves that Wayne dropped the paintbrush. There was the sound of a car braking and Wayne shouted for Kevin to haul him up.

  ‘Let’s move, Kevin! There’s someone down there. We can finish up tomorrow.’

  Kevin agreed. ‘How far did you get?’

  ‘One letter short,’ Wayne said.

  ‘The “E”?’

  ‘No, the “A”,’ Wayne replied.

  Kevin puzzled over Wayne’s answer for a moment but thought nothing more about it until the following morning when news of the interstate pile-up reached the school.

  Twenty-seven cars had been involved in the accident and there had been nine fatalities. The southbound carriageway was closed for seven hours that day while the damaged cars and offending graffiti were removed. Television news crews and reporters from across the country descended on the eastern panhandle and all asked the same questions: Had the Devil visited West Virginia that night? Was this small and unassuming part of the nation truly its evil centre?

  The police investigation was long and exhaustive but ultimately unsuccessful. Although the offending paintbrush had been recovered, the fingerprints on it didn’t match any on file, and despite the offer of a reward leading to the apprehension of those responsible, no one was arrested. The last word on the subject came from the local coroner who ruled that the deaths of the nine motorists had been caused by dangerous writing.