“‘Twa-as Grace tha-a-at taught my-y heart to-o fear,
A-and Grace my-y-y fear re-elieved;
Ha-ow pre-ecio-ou-ous did tha-at Grace a-appear,
Thee-e haour I–I-I first be-elieved!”
And there are sighs as they sing and soft amens and she knows Ben is watching her, but her eyes will not open. She can hear Wanda Cravens sniffling, thinking of how Lee used to sing that song in his sweet tender tenor, and Clara crying softly in a kind of faint almost, on account of it was Ely’s favorite hymn. And now, at the chorus, they all join in, filling the room with their harmony, though it is she and Ben Wosznik who lead them. Even Mr. Miller and the little Bruno girl sing, and finally the Nortons. It is beautiful. It is the most beautiful moment in Betty Wilson’s life …
“Ama-azi-i-ing Grace, ha-ow sweet the-e saound,
Tha-at saved a-a-a wretch la-ike me!
I–I wu-unce wa-a-as lost, bu-ut naow I am faound,
Wa-as blind, bu-u-ut naow I–I see!”
The hotelkeeper Mr. Fisher and the Chamber of Commerce secretary Mr. Elliott whuff into the hotel coffeeshop through the lobby door Monday morning, the sixteenth, and there discover the city editor finishing his morning coffee.
“Hello, Tiger!” greets the Chamber secretary with a clap to the trenchcoated shoulders. “Say, what do you know about Ralph Himebaugh?”
“What do you mean?” The editor stands, hands a dollar across the counter. Doris the waitress fumbles with his change, drops a quarter into the dishwater.
“Well, I don’t know, the guy’s been kinda peculiar lately. Promises to work with me on the industrial brochure and we set up dates and he doesn’t show up. When I call him up at home, he always puts me off and hangs up. Now, that’s not like old Ralphie.”
The editor shrugs, while the waitress fishes in the dishwater. “Beats me, Elliott. Why don’t you—?”
“Aw, shit now, Miller!” rattles the old hotelman, pink jowls folded into a kind of grin. “What we wanna know is has that old sonuvabitch got hisself mixed up somehow with this troop of religious monkeys over at that wop miner’s house?”
“How should I know?” The editor smiles innocently. “Why don’t you just ask Ralph the next time you get him on the phone, Jim?” The waitress comes up with a bottlecap.
“That might embarrass him,” the Chamber secretary says. “I don’t want to get him teed off at us or nothing. We’re just, you know, curious. That’s all.” Wide greeter’s grin.
“Listen, Doris, goddamn it! Just give me another quarter!”
“You won’t tell, hunh?”
The editor pulls out his cigarette pack, finds it empty, crumples it, tosses it in the pecan jug, bringing an indignant glower to the hotel-man’s face. “What makes you think I even know anything about those—?”
“Well, for one thing,” growls the hotelman with a smirk, “you got a Chevy with a license ending in 7241.”
The editor laughs. “Okay, I admit, I’ve been trying to see what’s going on over there, but they’re pretty secretive. I—”
“Listen, Tiger,” the Chamber man butts in, grinning as always. “Will you tell me I’m wrong? I say Ralphie is one of them. Do you say he’s not?”
“Why should I tell you anything?”
“Okay, that’s good enough by me. He’s in it.”
The old hotelman cackles.
The editor shrugs, reaches over the counter, and appropriates a pack of cigarettes from the display there. “Keep the quarter, Doris,” he says. “Tip from your boss.”
“The hell you say!” grumbles the hotelman, and goes behind the counter to help fish for the coin.
In his office, the editor discovers in the morning mail further messages from the lady Black Hand …
The Mayor of West Condon, upon being asked why, when the moment of the Judgment arrived, he was discovered by the Angel of Death masturbating in his own bathtub, replied that the Chief of Police was using the official one at City Hall. Although there was general laughter, the face of the Divine Judge remained utterly immobile. I, too, have a sense of humor, He said when the laughter had subsided, and, in demonstration of it, He forthwith dispatched all who had laughed to hell and sent the Mayor to heaven, thereby depriving him forever of his audience.
• • •
The Pope, justifiably fearing the worst, slipped away from the proceedings and approached the Gate with his own set of keys, forged through the centuries. Yes, they worked! Just as his predecessors had always claimed! St. Peter seemed to be on the nod, so the Pope shut the Gate quietly behind him, signed the register, and tiptoed on down the path. Hee hee hee! Everything was just as he’d thought it would be, everything! Except, of course, for the strange peculiarity of St. Peter’s three heads.
• • •
A famous lawyer was brought before the Divine Court and accused of sodomy. When asked what he had to say to that, he stammered in apparent incredulity that he was not guilty. Of course, replied his Judge, but if you were guilty, then what would you say? Thus challenged, the lawyer delivered an eloquent and moving defense, no doubt the greatest performance of his career, and it was not without effect. Under all precepts of orthodoxy, his Judge said leaning toward him, you would have condemned yourself to eternal perdition with this address. So enchanting was it, however, we might yet offer you one final path to salvation….
“Hello, Ralph! Ted Cavanaugh here. How’s it going?”
“Oh. Hello, Ted. Fine, fine. Yourself?”
Loose chuckle. “You’re sure a hard fellow to find these days!” The five blacked-in squares form an X of sorts. This X is converted to a diamond by adding four new squares: top, bottom, and two sides.
“Yes. I’ve been … busy. Eh, how’s the wife?”
“Wonderful, Ralph. Matter of fact, she was just remarking at dinner yesterday that it had been a long time since we’d had you over.” More casual laughter. “I think she sees herself as a kind of patron saint to all bachelors.” The four new squares touch the four outside blacked-in squares at two corners each: that is, a sort of checkerboard pattern is emerging. “What do you say to tomorrow night?”
“That’s very kind, Ted. But I’ve, uh, been a little under the weather. Flu. I wouldn’t make a very good guest, I’m afraid.”
“Oh? Sorry to hear that! Listen then, how about next—?”
“Ted … maybe you’d better, eh, let me call you.”
Four crosses, eight diagonals: thirty-two new small triangles. The banker frowns. “Ralph … Ralph, you know how much we all think of you here. We’d hate … believe me, it’s simply out of personal concern that I bring it up … but we’d hate to hear that you, that you got mixed up somehow — Ralph? Ralph?” In the uppermost square of the diamond, half the triangles have been blacked in with vertical strokes.
Reluctantly, smelling warmly of winter hay and afterbirth, vitamin D and hogsweat, Womwom the guardian of holy places, no less than the living reincarnation of Noah, and compassionate apostle of Kwan-yin, drives back toward West Condon, returning from outlying calls. There is an unwanted commitment there of which the country frees him. Not that nature is beautiful, certainly he has never thought so, only that, as pure process, it absorbs all catastrophes, relaxes him when the paradox of his own ego terrorizes him. Unlike Elan, he has never succeeded in neutralizing it. What does he want? He doesn’t even know. But the point is, out here in the country, he doesn’t care.