She refused.
"When it's my turn to have the Thursday-night poker game, the
guys don't like it," he said another time. "No one wants to have Jesus
Christ looking at them while He tries to fill a flush or draw to an
inside straight."
"Maybe they feel uncomfortable because they know gambling's
the Devil's work," 'Becka said.
Joe, who was a good poker player, bridled. "then it was the
Devil's work that bought you your hair dryer and that garnet ring you
like so well," he said. "better take 'em back for refunds and give the
money to the Salvation Army. Wait, I think I got the receipts in my
den."
She allowed as how Joe could turn the 3-D picture of Jesus
around to face the wall on the one Thursday night a month that he
had his dirty-talking, beer-swilling friends in to play poker ... but
that was all.
And now she knew the real reason he wanted to get rid of that
picture. He must have had an idea all along that that picture was a
magic picture. Oh ... she supposed sacred was a better word, magic
was for pagans headhunters and Catholics and people like that
but the came almost to one and the same, didn't they? All along Joe
must have sensed that picture was special, that it would be the means
by which his sin would be found out.
Oh, she supposed she must have had some idea of what all his
recent preoccupation had meant, must have known there was a reason
why he was never after her at night anymore. But the truth was, that
had been a relief sex was just as her mother had told her it would
be, nasty and brutish, sometimes painful and always humiliating.
Had she also smelled perfume on his collar from time to time? If so,
she had ignored that, too, and she might have gone on ignoring it
indefinitely if the picture of Jesus on the Sony hadn't begun to speak
on July 7th. She realized now that she had ignored a third factor, as
well; at about the same time the pawings had stopped the perfume
smells had begun, old Charlie Estabrooke had retired and a woman
named Nancy Voss had come up from the Falmouth post office to
take his place. She guessed that the Voss woman (whom, 'Becka had
now come to think of simply as The Hussy) was perhaps five years
older than her and Joe, which would make her around fifty, but she
was a trim, well-kept and handsome fifty. 'Becka herself had put on a
little weight during her marriage, going from one hundred and
twenty-six to a hundred and ninety-three, most of that since Byron,
their only chick and child, had flown from the nest.
She could have gone on ignoring it, and perhaps what would
even have been for the best. If The Hussey really enjoyed the
animalism of sexual congress, with its gruntings and thrustings and
that final squirt of sticky stuff that smelled faintly like codfish and
looked like cheap dish detergent, then it only proved that The Hussy
was little more than an animal herself and of course it freed 'Becka
of a tiresome, if ever more occasional, obligation. But when the
picture of Jesus spoke up, telling her exactly what was going on, it
became impossible to ignore. She knew that something would have to
be done.
The picture first spoke at just past three in the afternoon on
Thursday. This was eight days after shooting herself in the head and
about four days after her resolution to forget it was a hole and not
just a mark had begun to take effect. 'Becka was coming back into
the living room from the kitchen with a little snack (half a coffeecake
and a beer stein filled with Kool-Aid) to watch General Hospital. She
no longer really believed that Luke would ever find Laura, but she
could not quite find it in her heart to completely give up hope.
She was bending down to turn on the Zenith when Jesus said,
"'Becka, Joe is putting the boots to that Hussey down at the pee-oh
just about every lunch hour and sometimes after punching out time in
the afternoon. Once he was so randy he drove it to her while he was
supposed to be helping her sort the mail. And do you know what?
She never even said 'At least wait until I get the first-class into the
boxes.' "
'Becka screamed and spilled her Kool-Aid down the front of the
TV. It was a wonder, she thought later, when she was able to think at
all, that the picture tube didn't blow. Her coffeecake went on the rug.
"And that's not all," Jesus told her. He walked halfway across
the picture, His robe fluttering around His ankles, and sat down on a
rock that jutted out of the ground. He held His staff between his
knees and looked at her grimly. "There's a lot going on in Haven.
Why, you wouldn't believe the half of it."
'Becka screamed again and fell on her knees. One of them
landed squarely on her coffeecake and squirted raspberry filling into
the face of Ozzie Nelson, who had crept into the living room to see
what was going on. "My Lord! My Lord!" 'Becka shrieked. Ozzie
ran, hissing, for the kitchen, where he crawled under the stove with
red goo dripping from his whiskers. He stayed under there the rest of
the day.
"Well, none of the Paulsons was ever any good," Jesus said. A
sheep wandered towards Him and He whacked it away, using His
staff with an absentminded impatience that reminded 'Becka, even in
her current frozen state, of her long-dead father. The sheep went,
rippling slightly through the 3-D effect. It disappeared from the
picture, actual seeming to curve as it went off the edge ... but that
was just an optical illusion, she felt sure. "No good at all, "Jesus went
on. "Joe's granddad was a whoremaster of the purest sense, as you
well know, 'Becka. Spent his whole life pecker-led. And when he
came up here, do you know what we said? 'No room!' that's what we
said." Jesus leaned forward, still holding His staff. "'Go see Mr.
Splitfoot down below,' we said. 'You'll find your haven-home, all
right. But you may find you new landlord a hard taskmaster,' we
said." Incredibly, Jesus winked at her ... and that was when 'Becka
fled, shrieking, from the house.
She stopped in the backyard, panting, her hair, a mousy blond
that was really not much of any color at all, hanging in her face. Her
heart was beating so fast in her chest that it frightened her. No one
had heard her shriekings and carryings-on, thank the Lord; she and
Joe lived far out on the Nista Road, and their nearest neighbors were
the Brodskys were half a mile away. If anyone had heard her, they
would have thought there was a crazywoman down at Joe and 'Becka
Paulson's.
Well there is a crazywoman at the Paulsons', isn't there? she
thought. If you really think that picture of Jesus started to talk to you,
why, you really must be crazy. Daddy'd beat you three shades of blue
for thinking such a thing one shade for lying, another shade for
believing the lie, and a third for raising your voice. 'Becka, you are
crazy. Pictures don't talk.
No ... and it didn't, another voice spoke up suddenly. That
voice came out of your own head, 'Becka. I don't know how it could
be ... how you could know such things ... but that's what happened.
Maybe it had something to do with what happened to you last week,
or maybe not, but you made that picture of Jesus talk your own self.
It didn't really no more than that little rubber Topo Gigio mouse on
the Ed Sullivan Show.
But somehow the idea that it might have something to do with
that ... that
(hole)
other thing was scarier than the idea that the picture itself had
spoken, because that was the sort of thing they sometimes had on