Godless

by Pete Hautman

  For the next two days things are very tense at Bock Penitentiary. The prisoner, sentenced to solitary confinement, is surly and unrepentant. The guards are suspicious and quick to mete out punishment.

  On Thursday they force the prisoner to accept correctional therapy. He is delivered from Bock Penitentiary to the Church of the Good Shepherd Brainwashing Facility by armored vehicle. The transport route takes them past the St. Andrew Valley water tower. The prisoner looks up at the great bulging tank and notices graffiti spray-painted in bright red on its side. He looks closer and sees that the marks are words. He reads:

  DON’T BE A WUSS

  “Uh-oh,” says the prisoner.

  “What’s that?” asks the male guard. “Did you say something, Jason?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s nothing.”

  Just Al: Jason? You haven’t had much to say this evening.

  Me: Sorry. What are we talking about?

  Just Al: We were discussing the church’s position on abortion.

  Me: What about it?

  Brianna: There’s a Life Teen rally in Fairview next Saturday. A bunch of us are going.

  Just Al: We’ve arranged to use three school buses, so there’s plenty of room for everybody.

  Me: Sorry, not interested.

  Brianna: You wouldn’t be, Jason. You probably think all babies should be killed.

  Me: I can think of at least one who wouldn’t have been missed.

  Just Al: Come on now. Let’s keep things civil.

  Brianna: He thinks he can say anything he wants.

  Me: It’s called freedom of speech.

  Just Al: Speaking of freedom of speech, let’s talk a bit about the vandalism that occurred last night. I’m talking about the graffiti on the water tower.

  Brianna: I think it’s totally stupid.

  Tracy: I heard it was a cult.

  Magda: It’s not a cult. Just some kids messing around.

  Tracy: How do you know?

  Magda: I just do.

  Just Al: The question is, why isn’t spray-painting a message on public property protected by free speech?

  Brianna: Because it’s public property.

  Just Al: But we can have a pro-life rally on public property, and that is protected. How are the two things different?

  Me: One is a waste of paint; the other is a waste of time.

  Brianna: Jason, you are so lame.

  I look over at Magda, but she won’t meet my eyes. The meeting goes on. I have nothing more to say on any subject. Why should I get myself in more trouble? Ten hours later (or so it seems), Just Al finally releases us.

  “Hey, Magda,” I say as we push our chairs back to the side of the room. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

  “I have to go, Jason. My mom’s outside waiting for me.”

  “Can’t you get out sometime? How about we meet at Wigglesworth’s?”

  “Jason, I can’t. I’ll get in trouble.”

  “You got out to see Henry.”

  “That was different. He was hurt.”

  “He said you’ve become a Choot.”

  “A what?”

  “A Protestant.”

  “Look, Jason, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t care. I don’t care about your water tower, or being High Priestess, or any of that. Things at home aren’t so good right now. I can’t afford to mess up.”

  “How about if I come over to your house then?”

  “Somebody would see you.”

  “I’ll call you then, sometime when your parents aren’t home.”

  “I’m not allowed to talk on the phone.”

  “So what? Neither am I!”

  She gives me a pained look. “Jason, I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

  “How about—”

  “I have to go,” she says, and she does.

  * * *

  AND AS THE SUN ROSE AND TOUCHED THE HEADS OF THE TOWERING AVATARS, THE PRAGMATISTS DID LOOK UP IN FEAR AND AWE, AND A GREAT CRY OF HOLY TERROR AROSE, AND WAS HEARD IN EVERY LAND.

  * * *

  27

  The next morning, with my father at work and my mother off shopping, I make the mistake of answering the doorbell. The Gestapo are on the front steps, scouring the neighborhood for Chutengodians. Officer Gerry Kramer and his Gestapo sidekick (Officer Firfth, according to the brass plate above his badge) give me that bland I-know-you’re-lying-you-Chutengodianscum look.

  “Good morning, Jason,” Kramer says. “We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “I’m not supposed to have guests.” Bock, Jason Bock. Prisoner number 7238659.

  “I’m not surprised,” Kramer says with a near-smile. “That was some stunt you pulled last week.”

  I shrug, admitting to nothing. I may be doomt, bot zee reseeztance wee I live on!

  “I suppose you’ve noticed the graffiti on the tower?”

  “I saw it.” Oui.

  “Did you put it there?”

  “No.” Non.

  Firfth says, “We know all about your little water tower cult.” Chutengodian scum!

  “It’s not a cult,” I say. “And it wasn’t me who painted the tower. I just noticed it yesterday.” I am eenocent!

  “Do you know what it’s going to cost the city to get up there and clean it up?” Firfth says, getting a little pink around the eyes.

  I resort to silence, terrified that I will be called upon to pronounce the name “Firfth.”

  Gerry Kramer says, “Jason, you and Henry and Dan Grant and Magda Price were caught up there two weeks ago. And we know that Peter Schinner is a member of your little … organization. Two nights ago, one of you was up there with a can of spray paint. We know it wasn’t Henry.” His eyes drill into me.

  Your theenkeen eez flawed, mon Capitan. Eet wuz not I who destroyed zee bridge, and eefen eef I knew who zee geelty party wuz, you woood not lairn eet from me! Of course, I know it was Henry’s stooges—the Choots—who spraypainted the Ten-legged One. But I’m not going to rat them out.

  “Maybe it was some kids from Fairview,” I suggest.

  Gerry Kramer shakes his head, smiling but unamused. “Jason, you must know we’ll find out who did it sooner or later. Do yourself a favor.”

  “Look, I didn’t do it, okay? Last time I was up there I nearly drowned, and Henry got all busted up, and they’re making us pay for replacing all the water, and I’m grounded for the rest of my natural life. Believe me, the view wasn’t worth it. I’m not the mad graffiti climber you take me for.”

  Kramer’s expression changes somewhat. He almost believes me.

  I say, “I’m telling you the truth. I’ve climbed my last water tower.”

  Maybe my mother is right. Maybe I really do have sleeping sickness. After the Gestapo leave I lie down and sleep the rest of the day away, waking up every now and then to stare at the ceiling. There are eighty-six holes in each ceiling tile.

  Shortly before dinner, I pick up The Seven Storey Mountain, one of the books my father dumped on me. It’s a particularly thick one. I skip over the preface and the introduction and am able to read about ten pages before my brain starts sputtering. I skip to the end of the book to see how it turns out, but it’s more of the same. To prevent brain meltdown, I slam the book shut. How am I supposed to write a report about an unreadable book? What is there to say?

  After dinner I sit down and attempt to write a book report on the book I have just not read.

  Book Report

  The Seven Storey Mountain

  This is a book by a man named Thomas Merton about himself. The book, when you start reading it, is likely to cause a cerebral event of a painful nature due to its complicated use of the English language and subject matter. There may be a mountain in it, and the mountain may have seven stories, but I couldn’t swear to it. In the end, nothing much has changed really except for the fact that he is still a Catholic and you are done reading. I would recommend this book to anyone because it feels so good to be done with it. />
  I do not think my father will be amused. I crumple the page and file it under Trash.

  I take one more stab at my reading assignment—this time I read more about Teen Jesus: His Life and Times. I actually get about twenty pages into it before the brain freeze hits.

  I have nothing in common with this kid. I’m not interested in woodworking, I don’t have a beard, and my mom’s not a virgin, as far as I know.

  I set the book aside and devote the next few hours to feeling sorry for myself. This has not been my greatest summer ever. I founded a religion, sure, but look what’s come of it. Henry Stagg has perverted Chutengodianism to his own dark purposes. Dan has disappeared like the frightened, backstabbing rat he is. Magda won’t talk to me. Shin has spun off into some strange Shinnish reality. And me, I’m sitting in my room surrounded by unreadable propaganda and bored out of my skull.

  Time …

  I count the holes in yet another ceiling tile. I come up with eighty-six, again! Apparently, all the ceiling tiles have exactly the same number of holes. Remarkable. Maybe there is a god after all!

  … passes …

  I close my eyes and watch the patterns that appear on the back of my eyelids. A honeycomb pattern morphs into a pulsing, jumping asterisk. Am I seeing the structure of the universe, or the random firing of synapses?

  … slowly …

  At 1:13 A.M., still wide-awake, still bored, I am staring out the window through the rain at the red light atop the Ten-legged One. Every time it blinks my thoughts shift.

  Flash.

  Thunder in the distance. We’re going to have a storm.

  Flash.

  The whole thing started with Henry.

  Flash.

  But I didn’t have to get Shin involved.

  Flash.

  Magda went to see Henry but she won’t see me.

  Flash.

  I hope Shin is okay. I should’ve known he’d take it too far.

  Flash.

  It’s all my fault. Bringing Chutengodianism to Shin was like giving a can of gasoline to a pyromaniac.

  Flash.

  Henry is like Martin Luther, breaking away from Rome.

  Flash.

  Magda hates me.

  Flash.

  I should go off into the desert for forty days. Isn’t that what Jesus did? Or was that Moses? I’ll pack a bag and leave St. Andrew Valley for a few months. Become a religious exile. Get a job. See if anybody misses me. I have about two hundred dollars stashed away. That should be enough. Maybe I’ll start a new church in another town with another water tower—the Eightlegged, or the Five-legged One. I’ll start small—just one or two acolytes. We’ll hold services under the tower, not on top of it. We’ll …

  Where’s the light? I look hard out the window, but I see no flashing light …

  Flash.

  There it is. I wonder where it—

  Flash.

  —went. Maybe a momentary electrical failure or something. What was I thinking about? Oh yeah, going off to start a new … where’s the light?

  …

  I see a half flash, then the light is gone.

  …

  Then it returns.

  Flash.

  Somebody is up there. On the tower. Moving around. Blocking the light.

  Flash.

  Probably one of Henry’s stooges, doing something I’ll be blamed for. Some blasphemous, destructive act. Spray-painting more “commanments” probably. But if they’re writing more graffiti, why are they blocking the light on the very top of the tank?

  I see a flicker on the horizon; a few seconds later I hear thunder. The storm is getting closer.

  Maybe it’s terrorists sabotaging the water. Adding anthrax, or arsenic, or something. For the briefest instant I consider calling the cops. I know that’s what I should do, but I also know that I won’t. Whoever’s on the water tower might just be there for the view. Except that they had better not stay there much longer, not with a storm on the way. The tower is the tallest structure for many miles, a lightning magnet.

  Flash.

  Standing up there during a thunderstorm would be suicidal. Even the stooges couldn’t be that stupid.

  Flash.

  If it’s the stooges.

  Flash.

  Who else could it be?

  Flash.

  I do not like what I am thinking.

  …

  The light disappears again.

  …

  I tie on my black Reeboks.

  …

  I don’t want to risk sneaking past my parents’ bedroom, so I climb out my window. It’s not raining yet, but the air feels thick. The rumble of thunder is constant from the west. I run, ninja feet whispering on tarmac.

  * * *

  AND LO, THE AVATARS DID MARCH UPON THE PRAGMATISTS, AND FROM THE SKY CAME A DELUGE SUCH AS EARTH HAD NEVER KNOWN, AND THE PRAGMATISTS WERE SWEPT AWAY ON A GREAT TIDE, AND THE LANDS OF EARTH SANK BENEATH THE WAVES.

  * * *

  28

  By the time I reach the tower the air is still and thick, the way it gets before a big storm. Every few seconds the western horizon is lit up by lightning flashes. I look up at the belly of the tank. Is he still up there?

  There is something leaning against the central column, what I least want to see: a yellow fiberglass extension ladder. The same ladder I saw three days ago leaning against the eaves of Shin’s house.

  He did it. Shin climbed the Ten-legged One. I am both angry and proud.

  The tower is lit by a bright flash. Seconds later the badda-dooom of not-so-distant thunder rolls in. The wind is picking up; I can hear the rustle of leaves in the trees. I cup my hands around my mouth and shout.

  “Shiiiiin!”

  My voice is snatched and disintegrated by the wind. Another lightning flash lights up the legs of the tower, crisp and bright, leaving stripy afterimages on my retinas. I count five seconds to the next badda-dooom. Very close now—only about a mile away. I follow the spiral staircase up the column with my eyes, along the first catwalk, up the ladder to the upper catwalk. No Shin in sight.

  He’s not coming down. Either he froze up again or he’s trying to kill himself. Or maybe he thinks the Ten-legged One will protect him. I have no such illusions. The thought of climbing back up those metal stairs during an electrical storm scares the crap out of me. I should call the cops. But it would take them twenty minutes or more to respond, and the storm will be here in full force, and then what would they do?

  Nothing.

  A large raindrop splashes my shoulder, then another.

  I start climbing.

  The wind is coming harder now, bringing with it rain. I climb quickly, my hands sliding along the metal railings, trying to remember everything I know about lightning. If the tower gets hit now, how dead am I? How often is the tower struck? Does it happen with every storm? I don’t know these things, but I do know that this is a very bad place to be right now. By the time I reach the lower catwalk the rain is coming down in sheets. For the moment I am protected beneath the tank, but now I have to follow the catwalk out from the central column to the legs, then up the ladder to the upper catwalk, where I’ll be completely exposed. I pause for a few seconds to catch my breath.

  An intense flash blinds me, followed instantly by an eardrum-ripping thunderclap. I fall to my knees, my eyes crazed with afterimages. Did it hit the tower? No, but it was close. I blink a few times, feeling my heart jumping in my chest like an insane frog.

  “Keep moving,” I say to myself. I follow the catwalk to the ladder. By the time I reach the upper catwalk I am completely drenched. I keep moving around the perimeter, past the spray-painted, four-foot-high letters:

  DON’T BE A WUSS

  The wind is whipping around the tank; raindrops hitting from every direction. I reach the ladder leading to the top of the tower. Don’t be a wuss. I climb up and over the dome of the tower. I see a thin, dark figure standing with his arms wrapped around the blinking red avi
ation light.

  “Shin!” I yell.

  He doesn’t move. His head is tipped back. He is staring straight up into the rain. Sodden X-Men pajamas cling to his scrawny limbs like fur to a wet cat. I grab him by the shoulder and shake.

  “Shin! Are you okay?”

  His head tips toward me; his eyes flutter open. I don’t think he recognizes me.

  “Shin! We have to get down!”

  He sees me now. “Jay?”

  “Yes. Come on. You climbed up here; you can climb down.” I try to pry his hands loose from the light housing. It’s like trying to untie a wet knot.

  “We have to go inside,” he says.

  “We have to go down.”

  “Yes. Down.” He points at the hatch. Lightning flashes and my retinas are branded by the image of a new padlock. And a hacksaw. Shin has been trying to cut through the lock.

  Thunder slams my ears. Too close. My ears are ringing. I smell ozone.

  “Shin, we’re gonna get fried up here.”

  “That’s why we have to get inside.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “We’ll be safe in the water.”

  “No! Damn it, Shin, we have to go down.”

  “It’ll open for you. You’re the Kahuna.”

  “No! We gotta get down, Shin.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “The water is safe.”

  Another lightning flash, and I see his face clearly: pale, goggle-eyed, and frightened—but strangely calm and sane. He says, “We’ll be safe in the water. If lightning strikes the tank the current will travel along the metal superstructure.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nods. I believe him. Shin is a crazy gastropod god, a social disaster, and now a religious maniac—but he knows his science. If he says we’ll be safe in the water, I believe him.

  “When we get out of this,” I say, “I am going to pound you.” I mean it. I’m that mad at him. I grab the hacksaw and saw furiously at the lock, certain that we are about to be incinerated by the next lightning bolt, converted to two huge, four-limbed lumps of charcoal. I wonder if we’ll shatter when we hit the ground.