She also realized that this choice of furnishings gave the Reverend Everything a tacit psychological advantage over all his guests. He could get out of his chair with ease and, if he so chose, come over to the sofa/quicksand pit and loom over a captive audience. Peez didn't care for the idea of being helpless—she'd already experienced the reality of it too many times, in too many different situations, including but not limited to social, financial, and childhood. She began hauling herself towards the armrest, bent on seizing hold of it and hauling herself free of the cushiony morass.
Her exertions were not lost on the Reverend Everything. "My dear, aren't you comfortable?" he asked as if he really cared.
"Actually, I'm a little too comfortable," she said. She flashed him a charming smile. It packed nowhere near the power and versatility of his own toothy weapon of choice, but it was pretty good for a beginner. "I'd hate to doze off in the middle of our conversation, but who could blame me? This is such a lovely couch."
"Comfort is a wonderful thing, isn't it?" Reverend Everything winked at her. "But it can be a snare, too. That's one principle I learned a long time ago, back when I was just starting out. People need rituals. They give us a sense of continuity, security, and dependability in a world that often offers us none of the above. On the other hand, if you do the same thing in the same way for too long, it's more than likely you'll stop paying attention to the meaning behind what you're doing and just switch to autopilot. That's why I keep changing the format of worship services—to say nothing of the decor—for my followers. Is that what's bothering you? All the, well, showmanship, for want of a better word?"
"Oh, I can think of a much better word," Peez replied. "How about phoniness? Or superficiality? That's a good one! I can swallow a certain amount of snake oil, Reverend, but I think I've finally reached my limit. It was different when I was just doing long- distance administration work, pushing buttons, crunching numbers, filling out forms. Ever since I've hit the road and seen some of Mother's clients face to face, I've learned some hard truths that make it impossible for me to go on without getting disgusted with myself."
"As well as with us?" The Reverend Everything raised one ashy brow. "But what have you really seen of us, Ms. Godz? The flash, the spangles, the dolphins, yes, but what about the truth? Did you try to catch up to any of my congregation, to talk to them, to ask them about why they come here instead of some other house of worship?"
"That's pretty obvious," Peez said confidently. "You're the only one who gives them a show."
The Reverend Everything chuckled. "Remind me to take you on a tour of several churches I could name. No, Ms. Godz: If a show was all they wanted, they could get that elsewhere. For most of them, their lives are a show, their careers are all lighting tricks and special effects. What they come for here is something with a little more substance, something enduring, something that will last longer than their most recent hairstyle, or lift-and-tuck, or collagen injection, or producer's promise."
"Faith?" Peez still sounded dubious, but there was something about the Reverend Everything's tone and expression that was convincing. Either he really meant what he was saying or he was putting on a show so convincing that he'd even persuaded himself to believe it was true.
"If you like." He laid his hands on the desktop. "We spend our lives in the pursuit of what we call solid things, practical things: a big house, a fast car, a spouse who matches the drapes. We don't realize that these are the things we can lose most easily. The truth is, while some people say that keeping in touch with our spiritual side is frivolous, it's actually one of the most necessary things in our lives."
He stood up and came around the desk to loom over Peez where she slumped, engulfed in the sofa. Offering her a helping hand, he pulled her to her feet and said: "I provide the fulfillment of a human need, Ms. Godz. You might not appreciate the glitzy package it comes in, but the contents are solid. A bowl of soup, a plate of sushi, a granola bar, a slab of roast beef, a slice of smoked salmon rolled into the shape of a rose, all of these can satisfy a person's hunger. What does the outer semblance matter, as long as he is fed? Will you be the one to tell him that his choice must follow only one approved form? Would you rather have him go hungry?"
Peez shook her head. "No, of course not, but—"
"My dear, I am the chef, but E. Godz, Inc. is the catering service. Without you, my work would never be so simple nor so effective. Many Seekers would find themselves starving, unaware that they dwell in the midst of plenty. Your mother understood this. She didn't start E. Godz, Inc. just for the money. Mind you, she never complained about the money, but still ...
"It would be easy for me to let you go, to allow you to back out of the competition for control of the company. But I see great things in you, great possibilities. If you don't believe in my way of bringing spiritual sustenance to my followers, that's fine, but the only valid reason for you to quit is if you don't believe in yourself." He clasped one of Peez's hands between both of his and pressed it to his heart. "Is that it, Ms. Godz? Is that going to be your ... final answer?"
* * *
In the airport, waiting for the flight to Arizona, Teddy Tumtum said, "I know you don't think of the Reverend Everything as a big fake any more, but that doesn't make up for describing him as a"—the bear shuddered involuntarily—"game show host. Just because he chose to express himself that way doesn't mean—"
"It wasn't what he said," Peez replied. "It was the way he insisted that I accept some lovely parting gifts." She held up a large cardboard box, shook it gently, and asked, "So how do you use a Flashmatic Abscercizer anyway?"
"I don't know," said the bear, studying the fine print on the side of the box. "But it says that the hamster's not included."
Chapter Twelve
It was raining in Seattle when Dov arrived. Luckily he was able to find a place selling hot coffee to take the chill off before he made his way to Martin Agparak's studio.
"Give me a small coffee, light and sweet," he told the girl staffing the tiny kiosk on the corner of Martin's block.
"What kind?"
"Regular. I could use the caffeine." He shifted his umbrella slightly and gave her one of his pocket-pack-tissue smiles: clean, cheap, disposable, and plenty more where that came from.
"Single, double, or triple?"
"What?"
"Caffeine. Or you want that espresso?" To his surprise, she did not pronounce it "ex- presso."
"Um, okay, sure, espresso, why not? Single," he clarified.
"What kind?" she asked again.
"I told you, a single espresso, light and— Oh, wait, if it's espresso I don't want it light, but I still want it—"
"Beans. What kind of beans do you want? This is just a little stand so we don't have the selection you'd find in one of our shops. If it turns out that we don't stock your favorite, I'm sorry. Anyway, we do have Sumatran, Brazilian, Columbian, Nicaraguan, Costa Rican, Ecuadorean, Madagascar, Jamaican ..."
Dov felt as if he were trapped on an endless voyage through the now-defunct Small World ride at DisneyWorld, only with all of the happy, prancing international puppets high on caffeine and armed to the eyebrows with coffee grinders. The girl was still rattling off the options when he cut in and said, "What would you recommend?"
"Oh, the Jamaican, definitely."
"Fine. I'll have that."
"What kind?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"From what part of the island? I mean, obviously you want the highlands, but do you prefer the northern, southern, eastern, or western face of the mountains?"