As I’m climbing out of my car, Eddie’s white front door unexpectedly opens back and out toddles Fike Birdsong — a human I do not want to see, and giving an unhappy twist to the words a sight for sore eyes. Fike’s dented old Cherokee, I now see at the house side of the driveway, where I hadn’t noticed it but should’ve.
Fike is a minister-minus-portfolio; an eager-beaver balls-of-his-feet Alabama Princetonian and Theological Institute grad, who’s always popping up when you don’t want him to, and who nobody in his right mind would trust with a congregation of goats. Fike’s lurked around Haddam for years, doing the morning devotional on WHAD, filling in at Newark airport as a “Delta chaplain” (plane-crash duties), and officiating at funerals and weddings where nobody has any beliefs but wants a church send-off anyway. He’s also an egregious Romney-Ryan supporter (his car bears their sticker), and since the election behaves as if “Mitt” actually won, only the rest of us are too stupid to know it.
Fike’s also a preposterous in-line skater. I often see him whizzing down Seminary Street in an electric green zoom helmet, dick-packer tights way too small for his bulgy dimensions, and orange-and-black Princeton knee pads. He’s been married multiple times, has kids scattered all over, lives in a dismal little bachelor rental in Penns Neck, and always acts as if he and I are old friends. Which we’re not. Fike never ventures near spiritual matters with me, preferring to steer as near as possible to right-wing politics, where his heart is, and which he may believe we share. You know people in a town this size, whether you know them or not. I’m certain Fike’s never come closer to a “godly experience” than a duck has to driving a school bus. He is a typical southerner in this way. Seeing him here makes me want to jump in my car and speed away.
“Our old friend’s not doin’ real good in there, Frank. I’m sorry to say it.” Fike begins nodding in his world-weary way before we’re close enough to converse, given the hushed tones he considers appropriate. Fike knows I’m a southerner and enjoys putting it on, as if it makes me feel at ease. It doesn’t. “He’s sorely sufferin’. I tried to render myself available to hear his confession. But he’s standing firm there.” Fike, of course, is not a Catholic. He’s Pleistocene C-of-C’er, but wouldn’t let that get in the way. There’s a creepy tone to everything he says — a flicker in the fleshy, twitchy corners of his mouth signals it: all this spirituality bidnus is really pretty goddamn funny, only I and you are the only ones who understand it: God. Death. Grief. Salvation. A hoot when you really think about it. Fike’s morning devotionals all have this tickle-your-funny-bone, cloyingly Christian pseudo-irreverence calculated to paint God Almighty as just one of the boys. “It’s not always gay being gay.” (I listen in if I’m up at six, just to piss myself off.) “How close is square one to cloud nine?” “Don’t make me come down there!” (One of his few indistinct references to the deity.) “It’s a slippery slope to the moral high ground.” I’m sure Fike thinks these make people like him and be more apt to let him perform non-denominational grave-side services. Ultimately, though, Fike’s no more sincere about god than an All-State agent.
“How do you happen to be here, Fike,” I say, disguising my distaste with the semblance of curiosity. Fike’s barely medium stature, wears black horn-rims, a cheap black suit, has his hair side-parted in an ear-lowering brush cut, and carries a black ministerial briefcase containing, I’m sure, the shabby tricks of his trade — holy water vial, a few stale hosts, an aspergillum, an assortment of crosses, a maniple, an exorcist kit, plus a value-pak of spearmint and a copy of Men’s Health. Just for today, he’s also wearing a one-faith-fits-all purple priest’s collar camouflaging whatever mischief he’s up to here.
“Frank, you might know, I’ve been Eddie’s spiritual adviser for some time. At his invitation.” Fike elevates visibly on the balls of his feet, as if what he’s said has made him taller.
“Why does Eddie need a spiritual adviser?”
“That’s a question you have to ask your self, Frank.” Fike’s mouth-corners twitch with seamy significance. He’s gotten fatter since I last saw him. His round cheeks are pink and unsatisfyingly glowing, as if he’s pinched himself just before stepping outside.
“I won’t be asking myself that, Fike. I watch a good bit of TV now. That’s enough.”
“I see your good wife over in Mantoloking, Frank. I perform some counseling over there. She’s doing sovereign work, I can promise you. A lot of grief’s left unexpressed after the storm. You probably know that.”
“So she tells me.” If Fike says my name one more time I may grab him by his idiot collar and drag him to the ground. Much more than I dislike Fike, he embarrasses me. Though I’m aware embarrassment owes to the fear that some quality in him is identical to some quality in me that I like. The appearance of tolerance. I’m sure Eddie only keeps Fike around for laughs.
A pair of big black crows up in Eddie’s giant elephant-skin copper beech begins cawing noisily down at us. Out on Hoving Road I hear the grumble of the TRASH-8-8-8 truck the Boro now outsources our garbage to. Service here is better than where I live. I again hear the bells Eddie heard — gong, gonging, Joy to the world, the Lord is come.. .
“Tell me something, Fike.” I say this because I can’t not. “What the hell’s wrong with just grieving by yourself? When my son died, I managed my own grief.” Misery, I’ve learned, doesn’t really love company, just like nature doesn’t abhor a vacuum. Nature, in fact, accommodates vacuums pretty well.
“Frank, do you know Horace Mann?” Fike’s pink tongue tip makes a roguish tour of his lips. He’s not going to answer me. I don’t really want him to, anyway.
“Not personally. No.”
“Well. Horace Mann, Frank, said — or wrote — I was just reading his biography last night, trying to write a Christmas devotional with some meat on its bones. Horace Mann said, ‘Unless you’ve done something for humanity, you should be afraid to die.’ I thought that was interesting. Doing something for humanity.” Fike crosses his chubby arms over his fat briefcase and hugs it like a life preserver, then makes his mouth into a little peachy pucker as if he’s waiting for what I might say next. Fike’s fingers are slender and pretty like a girl’s and have trimmed, pink, well-tended nails. He is a rare breed of asshole.
The big crows caw at us again where we stand on the damp pea gravel. Each of us, I’m sure, wants the other to go away.
“I’ll think about that, Fike. Thanks.”
“You know, Frank. When I think about Governor Romney versus this President we currently have — which I do a lot — I think I know which of them fears death the most. As I’m sure you do.” Fike nods. His moist mouth corners flicker up then down then up. He’s registering, he believes, a delicious little victory. I look at the bumper of my Sonata to see if I still have my Obama sticker. I mostly do. I started scraping it off after Thanksgiving then forgot. Fike, the little pastoral weasel, has observed it — which is why he brings up “this President.” It is his only religion. Politics and dough. God’s just the day job.