Godless

by Pete Hautman

  * * *

  BUT FEW HUMANS HEARD THE WORDS OF THE OCEAN—TO MOST IT WAS NOTHING MORE THAN THE CRASHING OF DISTANT WAVES, THE MURMUR OF A SLOW CREEK, THE MUTED STATIC OF RAINDROPS FALLING UPON WET EARTH. ONLY A FEW, KEEN OF EAR AND PURE OF SOUL, HEARD THE WORDS OF THE OCEAN.

  * * *

  15

  You don’t believe any of this, do you? Do you really think that I think the St. Andrew Valley water tower is the all-powerful, all-seeing ruler of all-that-is? Let me ask you something. Do you think every single person sitting in, say, your local church (or temple or mosque or coven or whatever the hell it is your parents drag you to) believes everything they hear? What about the guy who goes to church on Sunday but cheats on his taxes. That’s a sin, right? If he truly believed in God, would he sin?

  But that doesn’t mean the tax cheat isn’t religious. Religious is a whole different kettle of fish, as my grandmother would say. I’m religious. And I’m serious. Serious as a heart attack (Grandma again). Chutengodianism is important to me. But that doesn’t mean I think that a big steel tank propped up on a few I-beams is omnipotent. I might be a religious zealot, but I’m not crazy.

  So, you ask, how can Jason Bock be serious about a religion that worships a false god?

  Are you kidding?

  You ever watch a football game and get totally into it? Why? It’s not a real battle. It’s just a game somebody made up. So how can you take it seriously? Or, you ever see a movie that made your heart about jump out of your chest? Or one that made you cry? Why? It wasn’t real. You ever look at a photo of food that made your mouth water? Why? You can’t eat the picture.

  Ah, you say, but the food that the picture shows is real. Is it really? Maybe that tasty-looking apple is made of wax. Maybe that loaf of bread is plastic. Maybe the football game is fixed. Maybe the movie is nothing but computer-generated pixels. So it’s not as if the picture shows you reality. What you see is somebody’s idea of reality.

  Same thing with water towers and God. I don’t have to be a believer to be serious about my religion.

  Like any serious Kahuna, I want a well-organized and contented congregation, so I call an official meeting for noon on Tuesday the Sabbath. And like a lying politician, I tell everybody something different to get them there.

  Dan is easy. I just tell him it’s an official meeting: Be there. Dan was brought up to respect authority figures. I tell Magda that we are planning an ascent of the tower, and I promise to buy Henry a Magnum Brainblaster. As for Shin, all I have to do is tell him that the Ten-legged One has ordered us to gather.

  I do not expect things to go all that smoothly. Dan and Shin don’t yet know that Henry Stagg is our High Priest. I’m not too worried about Dan, but Shin might freak out when he hears. I decide to treat Henry’s induction into the church as a done deal, which it is, and not open it to discussion.

  It’s a brutally hot day; Wigglesworth’s is crowded and noisy with people sucking down a variety of icy beverages. I find the First Keeper, the First Acolyte, and the High Priestess sitting in the big back booth. Magda is chatting away. She has Dan and Shin hypnotized; they’re mooning at her like two dogs looking at a bag of treats. I slide in next to her.

  “Where’s the High Priest?” I ask.

  “Haven’t seen him,” Magda says.

  Shin and Dan give me puzzled looks.

  “I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” I say.

  Dan says, “What High Priest?”

  “Henry.”

  “Henry Stagg?”

  I nod.

  “Since when?” asks Shin.

  “Since the day before yesterday.”

  Nobody says anything.

  I say, “He showed me how to climb the Ten-legged One. I had to make him High Priest.”

  Shin is giving me a stricken look, but I won’t meet his eyes.

  I say, “He’s not such a bad guy.”

  Shin says, “He hates me.”

  “No he doesn’t.”

  “He’s evil,” says Shin.

  Magda says, “Maybe if we were all nicer to him, he’d change.”

  “I don’t think you can change a guy like Henry,” Dan says.

  “Well, I think he has potential,” says Magda.

  I shrug. “Whatever—he’s a Chutengodian now.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Dan says in a low voice.

  We all turn to see Henry approaching. He is wearing his usual jeans and boots, and a T-shirt from a rock band called Suicidal Tendencies. He stops a few feet away and looks us over suspiciously.

  “This is it?” he says. “I thought you guys’d be dressed up in robes or something.”

  “We’re quite informal,” I say.

  “Is this everybody? I thought there’d be more.”

  “We’re still seeking new members.”

  “What about Mitch and Marsh?” Henry says. “I bet they’d join up. Bobby too.”

  “Those guys?” Dan makes a sour face.

  “I’m not sure they’d fit in,” I say.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Henry asks.

  “They’re morons,” Shin says. “In case you hadn’t noticed.”

  Henry turns on Shin, his face tight. For a moment I’m afraid he’s going to go Neanderthal, and I tense up, ready to jump between them. But Henry freezes, then his knotted face loosens into a grin.

  “Since when does being a moron disqualify a guy from worshipping a water tower?” he asks.

  “When the church elders say so,” I say.

  “Isn’t that antimoron?”

  “I’m afraid it is. Chutengodians discriminate against morons, terrorists, and intelligent fish.”

  “Who are the church elders?”

  “You’re looking at them.”

  Henry shrugs and slides into the booth next to Dan. “Whatever,” he says. “I just hope we don’t get in trouble for fish discrimination.”

  I’m surprised by how different Henry seems. This is not the sadistic, dangerous Henry who punched me in the face. It is not the serious, bookish Henry who talks about sci-fi novels. It is not the confident, tower-scaling Henry. This Henry is outnumbered, a little suspicious, and he wants us to like him.

  Shin is still giving him a weird stare. Henry notices, but chooses to ignore it.

  “Okay,” I say. “We’re here today to talk about tonight’s Midnight Mass…. What is it, Magda?”

  “If it’s at midnight, wouldn’t it actually be tomorrow’s Midnight Mass?” Magda is giving me an innocent, supposedly confused look. Because she is sitting next to me, her face is only about twelve inches from mine.

  I say, “What I meant was, the Midnight Mass that is to take place at midnight during the period of darkness which will begin tonight and last until tomorrow morning.”

  “That’s what I thought,” she says, grinning.

  “We’re talking about tonight, though, right?” says Dan.

  “Yes,” I say. “At midnight. The next midnight there is.”

  “Tonight,” says Henry.

  “That’s right. The High Priestess was making a technical point.”

  “We’re going up tonight then,” says Henry. “All five of us.”

  “That’s right.”

  Henry looks at Magda. “You going up too?”

  Magda raises her eyebrows, making her big eyes even bigger. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Not me. I just never met a girl that could climb.”

  “You have now.”

  “What about Schinner?” Henry says, looking at me. “He doesn’t look like he could climb on a bus, let alone a water tower.”

  Shin opens his mouth.

  “We’re all going up,” I say, intercepting whatever was about to come out of Shin’s mouth.

  Henry laughs. “Whatever you say, Your Holiness.”

  “Please, I prefer to be addressed as ‘Your Kahunaness.’”

  “Okay, Kahunaness. I’ll be there at midnight. Anybody wants to come up is welcom
e.”

  “What are we going to do once we get up there?” Magda asks.

  “Midnight Mass,” I say. “Henry, our High Priest, is going to lead us in worship of the Ten-legged One.”

  “I am?”

  “Sure. That’s what High Priests do.”

  “Not this High Priest.”

  “It’s really easy, Henry. You just talk. Like, ‘Blessed are the climbers: for theirs is the kingdom of water. Blessed are those who reek: for they shall be cleansed. Blessed are they who thirst: for they shall drink the water of life….’ Like that.”

  Not exactly the Sermon on the Mount, but they seem impressed. Except for Shin, who is still busy sending thought daggers in Henry’s direction.

  “That sounded pretty good. Blasphemous, but good,” says Magda. “I think you should lead the mass, Jason.”

  “That’s fine with me,” Henry says.

  “I thought you wanted to be High Priest.”

  “You made me High Priest. I never said I’d run your religious service.”

  Shin suddenly slides out of the booth, his lips working silently, his eyes glistening. He moves quickly toward the door in his jerky, high-elbowed gait.

  “See ya tonight, Schinner,” Henry calls after him. He turns back to us. “What’s his problem?”

  “Is he okay?” Magda asks.

  “He’ll be all right,” I say, hoping it’s true.

  “He’s one weird dude,” Henry says. “Look how he walks. Like he’s trying to hold a golfball between his butt cheeks.”

  Dan and I laugh, but Magda doesn’t think it’s funny.

  “You guys are mean,” she says.

  Maybe she’s right. I shouldn’t have laughed. I don’t blame Shin for being angry. I should have talked to him before making Henry a Chutengodian.

  “You think we should go after him?” Dan says.

  “Better not,” I say. I hate having to explain and defend Shin’s behavior. “I’ll talk to him later.” We need a change of subject. I slam my fist on the table. “Right now, I thirst! Brainblasters for everybody!”

  “You buying?” says Dan.

  “This round is on the CTG,” I say. “The church coffers will provide!”

  “The church has money?” Magda says.

  “We will as soon as we take up a collection.” I take off my baseball cap and set it upside down on the table. “Who’s going to be the first to make a contribution?”

  Nobody says anything for a couple of seconds, then Henry makes a suggestion.

  “You are,” he says.

  I was afraid of that. I put my cap back on my head and trudge up to the counter to buy the drinks.

  The responsibilities of a religious leader are many and varied.

  And expensive.

  * * *

  AND THEY LOOKED UP AND THEY SAW THE GREAT SILVER BELLY, FAT AND WET, AND THEY FELL DOWN UPON THEIR KNEES ON THE MOIST EARTH AND THEY BOWED DOWN BEFORE IT AND THEY NAMED IT THE TEN-LEGGED GOD.

  * * *

  16

  I’m knocking on Shin’s window. I know he’s in there, but his blinds are closed and he’s not answering.

  It’s supposed to hit 100 degrees this afternoon. Feels like it’s there already. The sun is cooking my back and I’m oozing sweat from every pore. I walk around the house to the front door and press the bell thirty or forty times, hoping to irritate him into answering. No luck. I try the doorknob. It’s unlocked. I let myself in, out of the heat.

  Ah, air conditioning! How did people survive without it? I stand in the Schinners’ living room holding my arms out, letting my body cool and looking around at the books. Books everywhere. Shin’s parents both teach at Harker College, twenty-five miles away. They are insane for books. Every possible square foot of wall space is taken up by bookshelves, every shelf stacked two or three deep with volumes of every shape, size, and description. It feels like being in a library where there is no librarian, and nobody throws anything out—not ever.

  After I cool off a degree or two, I make my way to the back bedroom, where I find Shin lying flat on his back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. There is a nasty smell in the room, a cross between dead fish and gym socks.

  “Hey,” I say. “What reeks?”

  “You,” he replies.

  I sit down on the foot of his bed.

  “I’m sorry. I should have talked to you.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “There is no Chutengodian hell,” I say, hoping to get a grin out of him.

  No sale. He won’t even look at me.

  “Look, Shin, I had to let Henry in the church. He wouldn’t tell me how to climb the tower unless I let him join.” Was that actually true? Maybe not. Another holy lie for the greater good.

  “You didn’t have to make him High Priest.”

  “It’s just a title. You heard him—he doesn’t even want the job.”

  Shin says nothing.

  “You’re coming up with us tonight, aren’t you?”

  “He’s not even serious,” Shin says, sitting up and wrapping his arms around his knees. “It’s just a joke to him.”

  “What do you expect? I mean, it is kind of a joke.”

  “You better hope he doesn’t hear you say that.”

  “Who? Henry?”

  Shin gives me a red-eyed look. “Not Henry. What do I care what Henry thinks? I’m talking about the Ten-legged One.”

  “Oh.” Is he kidding? Once again, I’m not sure. Shin starts rocking back and forth. I hate it when he does that.

  I stand up, looking around for a change of subject, and see his gastropodarium. “So, how are your slimers doing?” I peer into the glass tank. “Your little pond is all dried up.” My nose wrinkles at the fetid odor. “So this is what reeks!”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  None of the snails are moving. I reach in and nudge one. It tips over on its side.

  “I think they’re dead.”

  “They’re not dead,” Shin says. “They’re estivating.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s what pods do when things get bad. They pull into their shells and cover the opening with a cap of dried mucus. And wait. They can survive for months, waiting for rain.” Shin grips his knees with his thin fingers and leans forward, his eyes shimmering. “Wouldn’t that be great?”

  “You want me to give them some water?”

  “Leave ’em alone.”

  “I think some of them are dead, Shin.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You don’t care if they die?”

  He shrugs.

  I feel bad for the snails. Shin is their god, and he has abandoned them. “I think you should come up with us tonight,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “Henry was right about one thing. There’s no way I can climb that leg.”

  “You won’t have to.”

  “Oh? You going to build me an elevator?”

  “I’m gonna build us a stairway to heaven.”

  My mother has decided I have a hearing problem.

  “I’ve been calling you for five minutes, Jason!”

  “I was in the garage, Mom. Gimme a break.”

  “What were you doing in the garage? My God, you’re dripping sweat! Aren’t you feeling well?”

  “It’s one hundred and twenty degrees out there, Mom. Anybody would sweat.”

  “What on earth were you doing?”

  “Working on a project.”

  “What project?”

  “It’s a religious thing, Mom.”

  “Oh! Something for your TPO group?”

  “Something like that. What did you want?”

  “To tell you I’ve made an appointment for you at the clinic.”

  “What for?”

  “Your annual blood screening.”

  “Mom, I just had a blood test. I’m not even sick.”

  “I know that dear, but we don’t want to take any chances now, do we?”

  After a lifetime of this, I’ve l
earned not to bother arguing. It’s easier to give up a few tubes of blood.

  I am in my bedroom at my desk working on a drawing of Magda, Goddess of Love, when my dad knocks on my door.

  “Anybody home?”

  I shove the Goddess of Love under some other papers.

  “C’mon in.”

  He pushes open the door and looks around my room with a nervous frown, as if he’s afraid he might find a python curled up on the bed, or a pound of heroin, or a dead body.

  When none of the above appear, he smiles. “How’s it going, Jay?”

  “Okay, “I say.

  He sits down on the edge of my unmade bed. “Mom tells me you’ve been working on some sort of project for church.”

  “Oh. Well, I was, but it didn’t work out.”

  “What were you making? Maybe I can help.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  We look at each other for a long time, maybe two seconds.

  “So!” my father claps his hands on his knees. “How’s it going with the TPO?”

  “I go to the meetings. Some of the kids are all right.”

  “I hear you talk about quite a number of different things.”

  “We talk about whatever,” I say, wondering where this is going.

  “I bet you kids come up with some pretty wild stuff.”

  “Not really.”

  “When I was your age, I had some pretty strange ideas.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “When I was in college I questioned my faith,” he says, shaking his head as if such a thing were almost too bizarre to be believed.

  I wonder what would happen if I told him I was a Chutengodian. He’d probably send me to a Catholic military academy, or have me committed. An alarming thought occurs to me.

  “Have you been talking to Just Al?” I ask.

  He looks puzzled.

  “I mean, Al Anderson,” I say.

  “Oh. Actually, I did run into Al this morning over at Good Shepherd.”

  I say, “You know, we have a pact at the TPO meetings. Everything we say in those meetings is private, just like what you say in the confessional. What did Al tell you?”

  My father shifts his feet and licks his lips the way he does when he wishes he were somewhere else. “Nothing. He was just saying that you kids have a lot of strange ideas, that’s all.”