Stories (2011) (39 page)

I can feel the urge rising up in me again. The urge to give
someone that tremendous double-edged surge of life and death.

It's like they say about sex. Once you get it, you got to
have it on a regular basis. But it isn't sex I want. It's something like it,
only sweeter.

I'll wrap this up. I'm tired. Thinking that I'll have to
wake Janet and take the edge off my need, imagine that she and I are going to
do more than fornicate; that she wants to take that special plunge and that she
wants me to shove her.

But she doesn't want that. I'd know. I have to find that in
my dreams, when I nestle down into the happy depths of the primitive brain.

At least until I find someone like the Phone Woman, again,
that is. Someone with whom I can commit the finest of adultery.

And until that search proves fruitful and I have something
special to report, dear diary, I say, good night.

Dear Hawk:

Your letter stating that you can't believe I'm not a
Baptist, due to the fact my morals and yours are so similar, astonishes me. How
can you think only Baptists are good people and lead happy lives? You've known
me longer than that, even if most of our contact has been through letters and
phone calls.

Well, I might ask you the same in reverse. How can you
accept such a silly pagan religion? And if you must consider a religion, why
not look back to your heritage, instead of taking on a Hebrew mythology.

And how in the world can you believe being a Baptist makes
you happier than others?

I'm quite happy, thank you. I mean I have my ups and downs,
but from your cards and letters, our occasional phone calls, so do you. Don't
we all?

In answering your question about why I don't believe more
fully, I might add that I've been a student, if not a scholar, of religions all
my life, and I find nothing to recommend the Baptist over any other religion,
no matter what the origin. Only the Aztec and their nasty custom of human
sacrifice could be worse, and I'll tell you, though it's off the subject, I
think the old Chief of this country is crazy as hell to sell them the makings
for a nuclear reactor. I don't care what sort of diplomatic gesture it was meant
to be. Those heart-cutters get up here on us and it's the last powwow, buddy.
With just sticks and stones, practically, they ran the Spaniards off, so I sure
don't want to see them with the ability to make the big shitty boom machine, if
you know what I mean? They're tougher than us, I admit it. I say let's let our
technology be our muscle, and not let those mean pyramid builders have an
equalizer, because with their attitude about war and sacrifice, they're going
to be a whole hell of a lot more equal than we are.

But that's off the point, as usual.

On to why I'm not a Baptist. Well, first off, let's keep
this simple. Consult history text if you don't believe me, though that won't
keep you from twisting them around to suit you, or from picking just those that
say what you want them to say (I remember our argument before on the civil war
with the Japs, and I've got to add, though I shouldn't bring it up again, how
you can side at all with those bastards after what they've done to our people
on the West Coast is beyond me), so perhaps my asking you to examine historical
text isn't sound advice on my part, and you're sure to take it as an insult.

But history does show, Hawk, that John the Baptist was not
the only religious nut running around at that time, and it was only fate that
gave him the honor (a dubious one in my book) of becoming the
"Messiah." I mean a dramatic death like decapitation and having the
head put on a silver (does the text actually say silver, I can't remember and
am too lazy to check?) platter, and then the fact that the execution was
performed at the bidding of a dance-hall floozy of the time, and the head
presented to her as a gift, does have a certain element of showboating, and
that's just the sort of thing people latch onto. High drama.

It always occurs to me that Jesus of Nazareth, mentioned
briefly in your so-called "Holy Book," and I believe he was a cousin
or something to John if memory serves me, was as likely a candidate for
martyrdom as John. Except for fate, he might well have been the one your
congregation worships.

He, however, in spite of his many similarities to John, had
the misfortune to suffer less than a martyr's death. He was hit and killed by a
runaway donkey cart and knocked up on the curbing with his, how was it put in
the book. . . ? Can't remember, but something like "with his flanks
exposed." Words to that effect.

I believe it was Jesus' inglorious death, more than anything
else, that jockeyed him to a lowly position in the race toward Messiahism (did
I make that word up?). He certainly had all the goods John did. Nice
fanaticism, pie in the sky, promises of an afterlife, etc. But it seems to be
in our natures to prefer bloody, dramatic demises such as decapitation, to a
relatively minor death by a runaway donkey cart, the latter casualty being all
the more jinxed by the fact that he ended up draped over some curb with his ass
exposed, his little deep, brown eye winking at the world.

If we were more open-minded, a religion might have formed
where Jesus was worshipped, and instead of the little
bleeding-head-on-a-platter medallions many of your congregation wear, they
might be adorning themselves with little buttocks with donkey cart tracks
across them.

Just a thought. Don't get mad.

The other thing you mention is the Platter of Turin. And I
admit to you that it is indeed mysterious and fascinating. But I've never seen
nor read anything that convinces me that whatever is making itself manifest on
the platter -- and I also admit it does look like a head with a bleeding stump
-- is in fact, the likeness of John the Baptist. And even if it is his
likeness, and somehow the trauma of his death caused it to be forever captured
in the platter, that still does not mean he is the Messiah.

Consider the statue of Custer at the site of The Battle Of
The Little Big Horn. Many have reported (and I believe it has been filmed) that
it bleeds from the mouth, nose, ears and mouth from time to time. To some, this
was interpreted to mean that Custer was a Saint and that the statue could cure
illnesses. I know from our letters in the past that you hardly believe Custer a
Saint, quite the contrary.

What I'm saying is this: there are many mysteries in the
world, Hawk, and there are many interpretations. You need only choose a mystery
and an interpretation to suit you.

Well, got to cut this short. Got to get dressed. There's a
meeting tonight. They're having another public execution, and it's about time.
Bunch of niggers are going to be crucified along Caddo Street and I don't want
to miss that. Those stupid black bastards thinking they're good as us makes me
ill. I've had my hood and robes starched special for the occasion, and I'm
actually getting to light one of the pitch-covered niggers placed at the end to
provide light. I also get to lead the local Scout troops in a song. I'm
excited.

Oh, almost forgot. If you haven't read about it, we finally
got that troublemaker Martin Luther King, and he's the main feature tonight. I
know from your letters that you have a sort of begrudging respect for him, and
I must admit his guerrilla activities conducted with only twenty-two men
throughout the South have been brilliant for his kind. But after tonight he'll
plague the South no more.

As I said, wish you could be here, but I know you've got a
big pow-wow going up there and I wish I could see it. Like to see your tribe
strip the skin off those White Eyes slow and easy. They're worse than our
niggers, and I'm only glad the last of them (far as we know) have been
eliminated down here.

Another thing just hit me about this Baptist business, and
I'll go ahead and get it off my chest. Here we are getting rid of the whites
and the niggers, and you and some others have adopted their silly religion. I
admit that our own is pretty damned dumb (Great Heap Big Spirit, Ugh), but
doesn't that kind of thing, accepting their religion, give the lowlifes a sort
of existence through us? Think about it.

Guess while I'm bad mouthing them, might as well admit I'm
against the trend that wants to drop all of their ways, as some of them would
just be too difficult to adopt. This two moons and two suns bit is just
ridiculous. With automobiles that method is no longer correct. What used to be
a two day trip is now only a matter of hours. And this switch over from their
language to ours, the use of Cherokee writing for all tribes, is going to be a
pain. I mean we'll all be speaking our tribal languages, translating the
writing to Cherokee and when we all get together how are we going to converse?
Which language will we pick? Cherokee for writing, because of their good
alphabet, makes sense, but which will be the superior tribal language, and
how's it going to go down with folks when one is chosen over all the others?

Oh, to hell with it. This old gal is going to have to get to
stepping or she isn't going to have time to get dressed and moving.

Best to you,

Running Fox

The lighthouse was grey and brutually weathered, kissed each
morning by a cold, salt spray. Perched there among the rocks and sand, it
seemed a last, weak sentinel against an encroaching sea; a relentless, pounding
surf that had slowly swallowed up the shoreline and deposited it in the all-consuming
belly of the ocean.

Once the lighthouse had been bright-colored, candy-striped
like a barber's pole, with a high beacon light and a horn that honked out to
the ships on the sea. No more. The lighthouse director, the last of a long line
of sea watchers, had cashed in the job ten years back when the need died, but
the lighthouse was now his and he lived there alone, bunked down nightly to the
tune of the wind and the raging sea.

Below he had renovated the bottom of the tower and built
rooms, and one of these he had locked away from all persons, from all eyes but
his own.

I came there fresh from college to write my novel, dreams of
being the new Norman Mailer dancing in my head. I rented in with him, as he
needed a boarder to help him pay for the place, for he no longer worked and his
pension was as meager as stale bread.

High up in the top was where we lived, a bamboo partition
drawn between our cots each night, giving us some semblance of privacy, and
dark curtains were pulled round the thick, foggy windows that traveled the
tower completely around.

By day the curtains were drawn and the partition was pulled
and I sat at my typewriter, and he, Howard Machen, sat with his book and his
pipe, swelled the room full of grey smoke the thickness of his beard. Sometimes
he rose and went below, but he was always quiet and never disturbed my work.

It was a pleasant life. Agreeable to both of us. Mornings we
had coffee outside on the little railed walkway and had a word or two as well,
then I went to my work and he to his book, and at dinner we had food and talk
and brandies; sometimes one, sometimes two, depending on mood and the content
of our chatter.

We sometimes spoke of the lighthouse and he told me of the
old days, of how he had shone that light out many times on the sea. Out like a
great, bright fishing line to snag the ships and guide them in; let them follow
the light in the manner that Theseus followed Ariadne's thread.

"Was fine," he'd say. "That pretty old light
flashing out there. Best job I had in all my born days. Just couldn't leave her
when she shut down, so I bought her."

"It is beautiful up here, but lonely at times."

"I have my company."

I took that as a compliment, and we tossed off another
brandy. Any idea of my writing later I cast aside. I had done four good pages
and was content to spit the rest of the day away in talk and dreams.

"You say this was your best job," I said as a way
of conversation. "What did you do before this?"

He lifted his head and looked at me over the briar and its
smoke. His eyes squinted against the tinge of the tobacco. "A good many
things. I was born in Wales. Moved to Ireland with my family, was brought up
there, and went to work there. Learned the carpentry trade from my father.
Later I was a tailor. I've also been a mason -- note the rooms I built below
with my own two hands -- and I've been a boat builder and a ventriloquist in a
magician's show."

"A ventriloquist?"

"Correct," he said, and his voice danced around
"me and seemed not to come from where he sat.

"Hey, that's good."

"Not so good really. I was never good, just sort of
fell into it. I'm worse now. No practice, but I've no urge to take it up
again."

"I've an interest in such things."

"Have you now?"

"Yes."

"Ever tried a bit of voice throwing?"

"No. But it interests me. The magic stuff interests me
more. You said you worked in a magician's show?"

"That I did. I was the lead-up act."

"Learn any of the magic tricks, being an insider and
all?"

"That I did, but that's not something I'm interested
in," he said flatly.

"Was the magician you worked for good?"

"Damn good, m'boy. But his wife was better."

"His wife?"

"Marilyn was her name. A beautiful woman." He
winked at me. "Claimed to be a witch."

"You don't say?"

"I do, I do. Said her father was a witch and she learned
it and inherited it from him."

"Her father?"

"That's right. Not just women can be witches. Men
too."