On The 7th Day

  “Yes dear.”

  “And don’t forget to grab a couple of bottles of vodka on your way out. The baby is really parched”

  The Agents watched their master with a mixture of fear and heartbreak. The man who had once gotten entire countries to claim dominance and moral superiority over the world was now a shell of himself. They marked one last defeated shrug of his shoulders and a subdued squeak of, “Yes dear.”

  *****

  Father Jeffrey was busy extinguishing the candles that lined the small altar of Saint Margarita of Cascia at the back end of the church. He thought of the busywork he found for himself as a sort of gift from God, especially since Monsignor Linkletter was waiting for him to join him for dinner in the rectory.

  It wasn’t that Father Jeffrey didn’t enjoy the company and wisdom of the elder bishop. It was more the queasy feeling in his gut he would get while watching the eighty year old man shout out the answers to Wheel of Fortune puzzles while spoonfuls of pureed beets dribbled down his chin.

  As he blew out the final votive he noticed a woman sitting at the end of a pew in the middle of the chapel. He opined that God had sent yet another reason he would be conveniently late for supper.

  As he approached he observed, from the motion of her long mane of golden brown curls to be crying. He tried to keep the creaking of the floorboards to a minimum as he neared the distraught woman, trying not to interrupt her solemn talk with God.

  He slid into the pew behind the woman and sat quietly, attempting to find an opening where he could console her. He sat silently, listening to her crying, which became more and more hysteric the tighter her hold on the rosary beads she clenched in her palm became. He reached over the back of the pew and touched he shoulder, hesitantly patting her back as it heaved up and down with the motion of her sobbing.

  “Is there anything I can do to help you ease your pain?”

  “What makes you think I need consoling?” said the woman, still staring straight ahead.

  “Your uncontrollable weeping is somewhat of a give-away. I’m a priest; I’m very learned in the ways of emotional despair. It was one of the first classes I took at seminary.”

  “Is that a joke?”

  “A bad one, yes. I’m afraid that humor wasn’t a prerequisite for the job.”

  Father Jeffrey was a fresh-faced priest, a young man in his mid twenties fresh out of the seminary. St. Margarita’s was his first assignment, and he was finding that the act of dealing one on one with the laic public was proving much more difficult than he had originally expected.

  He had been a shy kid and as he grew older he had been left with two options: One, go into the priesthood, which had been great for his self-confidence, as most priests aren’t that judgmental when it comes to being silent.

  His second option was leaving everything behind and becoming a hermit. An occupation that he had dreamt about through much of his teenage years as he laid awake in his bed on Saturday nights staring at his stacks of comic books that lined his bedroom.

  The hermit life was sounding better with each passing day that he fought hard with his crippling shyness, and with the fact that there were no openings at the moment for those priests wanting to accept a vow of silence.

  He followed the woman’s stare to the giant, and a bit gaudy, platinum and gold-leaf covered cross that centered the apse. “Magnificent, isn’t it? It was brought over here from Spain in the early eighteenth century. I always like to think that it’s a testament to how much of the world is made of one people with a common goal.”

  “It’s attractive,” said the woman, fighting back her tears.

  “Would you like to talk about anything that’s troubling you?”

  “What makes you think anything is troubling me?”

  “Well, for one, you’re crying.”

  “I’m not crying, father,” Juliet turned around to face Father Jeffrey, her face red and tears streaming down her face, “I’m laughing.”

  “Oh,” said Father Jeffrey rather relieved at the proposition of not having to console someone in distress, “Would you like to fill me in on the joke? I like a good joke.”

  “Really?”

  “No, but I thought I should say it any way.”

  “Have you ever had one of those weeks where everything you believe is totally destroyed and the world gets so much smaller?”

  “I’ve had quite a few of those.”

  “Well, I’m having an absolute doozy of one.” A manic grin overtook her face. “I don’t even know why I’m here; I’m not even catholic.”

  “You’re holding the rosaries.” He said gesturing to the worn and sweaty beads.

  “Oh yeah, I found them on the seat. Tell me father, do you believe in heaven and hell and god and the devil and all that stuff?” she paused, remembering her schoolgirl days. Nuns slapping her knuckles with a ruler, when she would question the existence of an unseen deity who was much more concerned with what every single person did on a daily basis than any omnipotent being should be concerned with. “Of course you do. But do you really believe in all that junk?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” he smiled a smiled that people try to use when faced with a situation that they’re not versed enough to deal with. “And I don’t consider any of that junk. There’s a lot of craziness out there in the world and sometimes it doesn’t always make sense.

  ‘Some people refuse to believe in God because they can’t see him. But I say we see him every day in flowers and the sun and in the goodness of the others around us. It’s much easier to believe in the devil because of what sometimes seems to a world on the edge of corruption and destruction. But I haven’t met anyone who’s met the devil, either.”

  “I have.”

  “Well it may seem that way sometimes, but--”

  Her eyes became a veiled window into her soul. He thought he could literally see her very essence peering back at him from behind her eyes. It was perhaps the single most distressing thing Father Jeffrey had ever seen. And he’d seen Monsignor Linkletter naked. “No. I really have. He’s impregnated my boss with the antichrist and in about three to four days she’ll give birth and the world will turned to smoldering pile of rubble.”

  “Did the brothers at St. Patrick’s put you up to this?” he whispered, “You can tell me.”

  “Listen padre.” She inched closer to him, making him even more uncomfortable. “I’m not making this up and I’m not crazy and you’re not on Candid Camera. The world is about to end and there’s nothing you or I can do about it.”

  “And this is troubling you?” He tried as hard as he could not to sound patronizing to the young woman who was putting her trust in him. It was just that he saw three Rapture addicts a week and it was getting to the point of saturation.

  “No. Why would you say that?”

  “Well-- the world ending, the antichrist, your boss? These things sound like they’d be a bit troubling to anyone.”

  “Oh no, I’ve been promised a very nice seat at the head table.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I just wanted to see what all the fuss about before the world is reduced to an ashy pile of embers in a great blaze of fire and brimstone.” Juliet rose out of her seat and gave the church a three hundred and sixty degree scan.

  She looked down at Father Jeffrey, who didn’t quite know what to make of the young woman. “I was expecting more,” she paused, patted him on the shoulder and stared at the decorative opulence of the cathedral “grandeur. Oh well.” Juliet walked past the silent priest and out of the church, throwing the doors wide in a display of stagy flurry of over dramatics.

  Father Jeffrey sat and stared at the cross, then gave each of the mosaics and frescos that lined the walls a well studied glance. He had always been in wonder of churches and their beauty and couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t find them more than adequate in the realm of awe-inspiring grandeur.

  “I wonder how hard it is to get a nice hermit jo
b.”

  ****

  The room was dark, except for the faint blue glow of the muted television that was tuned to the local news. Ketty perused the boxed graphics over the anchors shoulders for any sign of the nearing apocalypse. She dabbed a cloth do catch the beads of sweat that trickled down Barnaby’s brow. With her other hand she reached behind her to knead out a stubborn knot that had formed in the back of her neck over the past two days.

  “Barnaby?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  She paused, then spoke very gingerly, “When am I going to die?”

  “I don’t know-- three, four days? Dammit Ketty, I’m an Agent of Death, not a doctor. But to answer your query- whenever that damn woman shoots out her demon spawn.”

  “But what if we save the world like you keep insisting we’re going to do. If that happens when am I going to die?”

  “I don’t know.” His eyes still closed as he secretly begged him to stop talking and allow him to suffer in silence.

  “You’re death, of course you know.”

  “No, I don’t. It’s not like I have each person’s death certificate floating around in my head. What do you take me for? The Kreskin of the underworld?”

  “I just assumed; since you knew about the end of existence and all.”

  “It’s just that we don’t know when everyone is going to die, it’s complicated,” he tried to figure out a gentle way to explain to her the deceased birds and bees. He’d never had to before, and didn’t really know how to now. “And quite frankly, way too much work. We get a list each week of those poor unfortunate souls who must shed their mortal skin to ascend into a beautiful and--” giving a half-hearted attempt at a giggle.

  “I’m sorry; I couldn’t say that with a straight face. But seriously, the reason we knew about the whole everybody out of the gene pool thing was that the list included everyone on it. That usually rings a few bells where I come from.”

  “So what you’re saying is that you have no idea when I’m going to die if we actually do save the world?”

  “That’s pretty much it.”

  “So, basically you’re useless.”

  He struggled to his feet, still woozy and disoriented. The room spun clockwise while his eyes spun to its counter “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  Ketty laughed and slapped him on the back. Having been taken down with a powerful narcotic tends to throw off one’s equilibrium and Ketty did pack a powerful slap on the back. Luckily for him on the way to the floor his head took a nice chip out of the oak coffee and cushioned his fall.

  She sprung up from her position on the couch to check on the man she had just leveled with a small force from her hand. He seemed to be all right as he was prying the wooden protuberance loose from his skull, and then he let out a hearty laugh, or perhaps it was moan of excruciating pain.

  He cried out as a small trickle of blood ran down his face. “This is the worst day of my entire life!”

  “Oh honey please, you’ve only been alive for three days. It gets much worse than this.”

  *****

  A blood red 1967 Ford Mustang convertible raced up the Pacific Coast Highway towards Sacramento. Dana Plough, wearing a white and gold bandana to hold her hair back against the whipping wind, was devouring her third half-pound hamburger of the trip. The Santa Ana winds dropped the temperature to cool fifty six degrees as they pinched her cheeks a rosy shade of pink.

  ‘This was living’, she thought to herself as the mile markers whizzed past the speeding car like green shooting stars. If she had ever learned to drive herself, or the inkling to spend money on a car, she would most definitely get one these babies. It was sweet ride.

  “I think while we’re in Sacramento,” said Satan, “I’ll stop by the governor’s mansion. I did get him elected.”

  “Is there any elected official you didn’t have a hand in appointing to their post?” She said as she licked the remaining ketchup off her fingers and took a sip of diet cola.

  “It’s true. There’s not a democratic election, coup, perestroika, or liberation takeover I haven’t had some sort of minor part in.” he beamed with the pride of a mother watching her daughter spin around like a man woman, knocking the other children to the ground at her first dance recital. “Hell, I even got the Rosenberg’s off scot free.”

  “I hate to burst your bubble buddy, but the Rosenberg’s didn’t get off. They were caught, convicted and given the chair.”

  “Huh? Well, that would explain why Ethel has been so snippy.”

  “Just remember why we’re going to Sacramento in the first place. It’s to make peace with my past, not for some gleeful gloating about getting some doofus elected.” Dana Plough didn’t like gloating, unless she was doing it. It was an unsavory benediction in others. “Oh, pull into that gas station will you? I need to pee.”

  “But, you just peed twenty minutes ago. I don’t understand why you can’t hold it. Normal people hold it all the time.” Yeah, that was mistake. The full bladdered pregnant woman grabbed the wheel and spun the car toward the nearest restroom.

  Satan pulled into Jake’s Gas and Snacks, after reacquiring the wheel and Dana Plough squeezed out of the tiny automobile that was never meant to hold two and a half people. She ran, clutching her stomach as it bounced heavily, with the rhythmic pounding of her legs hitting the ground as she hightailed it across hard pavement in not so sensible but very chic high heeled shoes.

  She threw open the doors and a waft of foul dank air swept out into the night. It was a public restroom that most sane people would never dare set foot in [Like a production of Cats], but a woman with an eight pound hunk of flesh and bone pressing against her bladder didn’t have much choice.

  Satan pulled into a space and got out of the car heading into the station to load up on supplies he foresaw Dana Plough needing for the rest of the trip. What should have been a brisk, five hour journey was turning into the longest jaunt in the history of man.

  He walked into the florescent lit cavern of Jake’s and studied the aisles, searching for anything that would appease his passenger. Occasionally he would stop to pull his shoes off the floor, which was covered with some sort of sticky substance that he would just let his imagination deal with. He was reaching for the last bag of bar-b-cue chips that lay under a pile of dust on a shelf when a hand reached in and beat him to it.

  “Hey, I was going for that.”

  “Sorry, I got here first. Besides I’m starved; I haven’t eaten a thing since lunch and it may be only edible thing in this place.”

  “Check the expiration date.”

  “It’s good until December.”

  “What year?”

  “1997? Here take it; my dog wouldn’t even touch those.”

  “Well I’m in luck; a pregnant woman will.”

  “Where you headed friend?”

  “Sacramento, if we ever get there. I swear I’ve never seen anyone have to stop and pee so much. It’s ridiculous.”

  “You’re a good man for doing it. I know she appreciates it, even though she may not say it. I remember when my wife was pregnant with our first. We took a vacation across country in a car. For the next one I went out and bought a motor home, or as I call it the toilet on wheels. I tell you it saved me a lot of headaches.”

  “Say, you look familiar.”

  “You caught me.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t place your face though.”

  “Jonathan Frakes, Actor Jonathan Frakes.”

  “Oh yeah, from the TV.”

  “The one and only. I’m headed down to L.A. for a little business.” Actor Jonathan Frakes beamed with pride every time anyone acknowledged his fame. Then scolded them for not leaving him well enough alone.

  “Movie?” inquired Satan, making the most of speaking with someone who wasn’t interested in talking about how good a hamburger she was cramming down her throat was.

  “Oh no, s
omething much more important, but I really can’t talk about it. You know, top secret stuff and all.” He really wanted to tell him all about it. But he was running late and a three hour sit-down about how he was going to be the savior of the world just wasn’t in the cards.

  “Yeah, I really don’t care that much.” Small talk was starting to get old.

  “Say, do you want an autograph?”

  “I’m all set.” Satan tried to be gentle, well, no, he didn’t.

  “Sorry, I can’t.” Actor Jonathan Frakes had an uncanny ability of not listening to the answer he was asking the question to. [A great trait in Hollywood]. “You know how it is, if I give one then everyone will want one and this place will be a madhouse before you know it.”

  Satan looked around the store. Except for a clerk behind the counter reading a girly magazine and eating a stick of beef jerky it was completely empty. Unless you counted the dozen or so flies that the clerk had attracted and were hovering around him as if they were bi-planes and he was the Empire State Building.

  “I understand- The mobs and all.” He nodded with an understood roll of eyes.

  “Well, thanks for understanding. Hey, maybe we’ll run into each other sometime? I’m doing a signing in San Diego next week; maybe we’ll see each other there.”

  “I wouldn’t count it.”

  Actor Jonathan Frakes slapped him on the back, “Great. See you then.”

  As he stood in the middle of the empty store Satan stared down at the long since expired bag of chips that sported an eroding picture of a little bear wearing a bowtie and top hat on the bag. It had probably been sitting on the shelf since before the gas station had ever opened. He figured what the hell; the world’s going to end soon anyway; why not take a chance.

  He went back to the car where Dana Plough was waiting for him, tightening her bonnet. He gave her the chips and shot her an understanding toothy grin. He would soon curse the decision of that purchase, as he would have to make four more pit stops as the chips exacted their ruthless revenge on Dana Plough’s intestines, and his patience.

  *****

  Michael Ryan hadn’t been particularly religious. He hadn’t been to church since he was twelve, but he was really looking forward to meeting God. He was brought up Episcopalian and after his papers were signed and notarized he got into the line to see the God his parents had prayed to and encouraged with an iron fist to go along with.