“I never heard you sing before.”
“I didn’t feel like it. I stopped.”
“Why did you stop?”
“Because I thought I had to sing.”
“Do you think you’ll sing in the future?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t have to. There is no reason not to. I think I can sing for people if you think it will give them pleasure. Do you?”
“Yes.”
She turned to face him. “Why did you come?”
“What? Oh. I was talking to a man at St. Mark’s and all of a sudden I realized it was almost four o’clock and I wanted to see you.”
“You wanted to see me because you know how I feel at four o’clock in the afternoon?”
“That and more.”
“What is the more?”
“I wanted badly to uh see you.”
“Is that all?”
“Not quite.”
She clapped her hands. “What luck.”
“Luck?”
“That we both want the same, that is, the obverse of the same. The one wanting the other and vice versa. What luck. Imagine.”
“Yes.”
“To rule out a possible misunderstanding, what is it you want?”
“To lie down here by the Grand Crown where it is warm and put my arms around you.”
“What luck. Here we are. Hold me.”
“I am.”
“Oh, I think you have something for me.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Love. I love you,” he said. “I love you now and until the day I die.”
“Oh, hold me. And tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Is what you’re saying part and parcel of what you’re doing?”
“Part and parcel.”
They were lying on the dog’s croker sacks next to the glowing amber lights of the firebox.
“Tell me the single truth, not two or more separate truths, unless separate truths are subtruths of the single truth. Is there one truth or several separate truths?”
“Both.”
“How both?”
“The single truth is I love you. The several subtruths are: I love your dearest heart. I also love your dear ass, which is the loveliest in all of Carolina. I want your ass, it and no other, and you for the rest of my life, you and no other. I also love to see you by firelight. I will always come to see you at four o’clock every afternoon if only to sit with you if it does not please you to make love—”
“It pleases me. How about now?”
“—because I love to sit by you and watch your eyes, which see everything exactly as it is. And to watch the line of your cheek. These are separate truths but are also subtruths of the single truth, I love you.”
“Yes, they are and it is. I have a separate truth.”
“What?”
“I love your mouth. Give it to me.”
“All right.”
When they sat up, he said worriedly: “I forgot to take my acid today. I wonder what my pH is.”
“I don’t know,” she said, “but please ascertain it and maintain at the present level, high or low, whichever the case may be.”
“Right,” he said absently. “Is the dog ready?”
“Sure. I have packed his food. He can stay in the motel, can’t he?”
“Sure.” They looked at the dog. “Let’s go to the car. I’ll drop you and the dog at the motel. Then I have one errand to run. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Very good.”
The dog knew he was to go with them and followed without being called.
12
Father Weatherbee sat behind Jack Curl’s mahogany desk with its collection of Russian ikons and bleeding Mexican crucifixes. Perched nervously on the edge of his chair, he looked like a timid missionary summoned by his bishop. His eyelid, lip, and collar drooped.
“Yes, Mr. Barrett?”
“Father Weatherbee, I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get right to the point.”
“Fine,” said Father Weatherbee, who in fact seemed anxious to get back to the attic and the Seaboard Air Line.
“I intend to be married.”
“Very good! My congratulations!” Father Weatherbee half rose from his chair, perhaps intending to shake hands, then changed his mind, sat down.
“I want you to perform the ceremony.”
“Very good!” Father Weatherbee rose again, sat down. His lip blew a bubble. “Yes, indeed! Well! Father Curl will be back from his ecumenical council next week and I’m sure he’d be pleased to do the ah honors.”
“I want you.”
“Oh dear,” said the old priest, leaning in his chair as if he were figuring how to get past him and out. The bleb blew up again. (Was he afraid of taking on the job just as I am afraid of taking a deposition or passing an act of sale?) “Well, let’s see. Are you a member of St. John’s congregation?” he asked, looking for a way out.
“No, not of St. John’s nor of the Episcopal Church.”
“Oh,” said Father Weatherbee, brightening for the first time, relieved. Here was his loophole. “And your fiancée?”
“No, she’s not a member of this or any church.”
“Ah,” said Father Weatherbee, smiling for the first time, off the hook for sure. “Perhaps the thing to do is for one or both of you to take instruction first, and Father Curl is your man for that.”
“No. I am not a believer and do not wish to enter the church.”
“I see.” The old priest pressed the bleb back and pushed his finger up into his gum. He screwed up one bloodshot eye as if he might yet make sense of this madman. The trouble was catching on to the madness, the madness of the new church, the madness of America, and telling one from the other. “Excuse me, but I don’t seem quite to—”
“The Jews may or may not be a sign,” said Will Barrett earnestly, leaning halfway across the desk. His pH was rising. When his speedy hydrogen ions departed, so did the Jews. Later, Dr. Ellis would write a scientific article on the subject, entitled: “A Correlation of Plasma pH with Certain Religious Delusions in a Case of Hausmann’s Syndrome.”
“How’s that again?” asked Father Weatherbee, cupping an ear. Did he say Jews?
“It may be true that they have not left North Carolina altogether as I had supposed. Yet their numbers are decreasing. In any event, the historical phenomenon of the Jews cannot be accounted for by historical or sociological theory. Accordingly, they may be said to be in some fashion or other a sign. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“The Jews?” repeated Father Weatherbee, turning his other ear.
“My own hunch,” said Will Barrett, hitching his chair even closer to the desk while Father Weatherbee rolled his chair back, “is that the Apostolic Succession involved a laying on of hands, right? This goes back to Christ himself, a Jew, a unique historical phenomenon, as unique as the Jews. Present-day Jews, whether or not they have departed North Carolina for Israel, similarly trace their origins to the same place and to kinsmen of Jesus, right? Modern historians agree there is no scientific explanation for the strange history of the Jews—”
He paused, frowning, wondering where he had gotten such an idea. Who were these “modern historians”? He couldn’t think of a one. “Excuse me, Father, please bear with me a moment.” (Father? Perhaps he didn’t like to be called Father? Reverend? Mister? Sir?) “What I am suggesting is that though I am an unbeliever, it does not follow that your belief, the belief of the church, is untrue, that in fact it may be true, and if it is, the Jews may be the clue. Doesn’t Scripture tell us that salvation comes from the Jews? At any rate, the Jews are the common denominator between us. That is to say, I am not a believer but I believe I am on the track of something. I may also tell you that I have the gift of discerning people and can tell when they know something I don’t know. Accordingly, I am willing to be told whatever it is you seem to know and I will attend carefully to what you say. It is on these grounds that I ask you to perform the ceremony. In fact, I demand it — ha ha — if that is what it takes. You can’t turn down a penitent, can you? We are also willing to take instructions, as long as you recognize I cannot and will not accept all of your dogmas. Unless of course you have the authority to tell me something I don’t know. Do you?” Will Barrett was leaning halfway across the desk.