The Shoe on the Roof

  ELI: Who? You’re asking me who? Dammit, man! Do I have to spell it out for you? The CIA. The FBI. The scribes. The voices on the TV. The Samaritans, the good ones and the bad, all of ’em! They’ve been co-opted. They’re secretly working for the Pharisees. Only thing is, they’re in disguise.

  THOMAS: Disguise?

  ELI: Flesh masks, which are provided by the Sadducees, who are really—ha!—agents of the Pharaoh. Don’t you get it? We must have chaos within us to give birth to a dancing star!

  THOMAS: Um . . .

  THE MAGICIAN: Makes sense to me.

  Sebastian nods. It makes sense to him, too.

  ELI: Y’see, the Sadducees and the Pharisees, they’re in cahoots, the whole lot of ’em. Frauds! They can look or not look, they can send messages through the telephone wires or rend their robes, doesn’t matter, because they are insignificant next to me. I refuse to be tricked into dancing for the Pharaoh and his Jezebel whores, not when the Sadducees and their surrogates are still roaming the woods with the sins of the father burning their flesh. That’s why tinfoil is only shiny on one side! Think about it.

  Eli sits back, convinced he has won whatever argument he thinks they were having.

  The magician is staring at Eli, at Eli’s blind eye.

  THE MAGICIAN: I have a question for Eli.

  THOMAS: (to Eli) Is that okay? Can he ask you a question?

  ELI: As long as it’s not about my eye. Is it about my eye?

  THE MAGICIAN: It’s about your eye.

  THOMAS: (cutting in) As I understand it, Mr. Wasser attempted to, um, to remove his own . . . I’m not sure why, exactly. Was it an “eye for an eye” sort of thing?

  ELI: It was Matty’s fault. He told me to.

  THOMAS: Matty? Who’s Matty?

  ELI: Matt. I call him Matty. His name’s Matthew. He’s in the Bible. (turns the pages) Here.

  THOMAS: (reading) Matthew 5:29. “If your right eye offends thee, pluck it out and cast it away.” . . . But—but he was speaking metaphorically, surely.

  ELI: Can never be too sure. (looking around the room as though searching for invisible foes) Fornicators! Sons of whores! They’re listening. They’re in the air ducts and the wall sockets. I can hear you! I CAN HEAR YOU! (suddenly stopping) Smoke break?

  THOMAS: (sighs) Fine.

  Twenty minutes later.

  THOMAS: You are Jesus Christ, correct?

  Eli nods.

  THOMAS: (referring to Eli’s file) But it says here, you’re from Connecticut. My understanding is that Jesus was born in Bethlehem.

  ELI: That’s right. Connecticut. In the Holy Land.

  THOMAS: Connecticut isn’t in the Holy Land.

  ELI: Yes it is.

  THOMAS: No. It isn’t.

  ELI: It is.

  THOMAS: It’s not. It’s really not.

  ELI: That’s just your opinion.

  THOMAS: No, it’s not an opinion. It’s a fact. Connecticut is not in the Holy Land.

  ELI: Ha! I can prove it. The Son of God is from the Holy Land, yes? I am the Son of God. I was born in Connecticut. Therefore—ha!—Connecticut is in the Holy Land! Check yer Bible.

  He crosses his arms, triumphant.

  THOMAS: Listen to me, Eli. Connecticut is not in the Bible.

  ELI: Yes it is.

  THOMAS: No it’s not. If you can find Connecticut in the Bible, I’ll dance naked in the park. But I gotta say, the case you’re making—that you’re the Messiah—it’s not holding up.

  Thomas turns his attention to the magician.

  THOMAS: Now. Our third and final Jesus . . .

  THE MAGICIAN: I have a question. (He flips over the heavy SDM:III manual.) It says here, on the back cover, “This comprehensive manual is known as the gospel of mental health professionals.”

  THOMAS: And?

  THE MAGICIAN: Your father wrote this manual.

  THOMAS: He oversaw the project, yes.

  THE MAGICIAN: Your father wrote your Bible?

  THOMAS: Well, so did yours. Now then, Mr. . . ? (He stares at the magician.) You’re not going to give me your name, are you?

  THE MAGICIAN: You have my name.

  THOMAS: Your real name.

  THE MAGICIAN: You have my real name.

  THOMAS: If not your name, your age, then? Thirty-eight? Thirty-nine?

  THE MAGICIAN: Something like that. I’ve lost count.

  THOMAS: And you’re Christ?

  THE MAGICIAN: I am.

  THOMAS: So these other two, are they Christ as well?

  THE MAGICIAN: They believe they are.

  THOMAS: But are they?

  THE MAGICIAN: It’s better you ask them that question directly.

  THOMAS: I did.

  THE MAGICIAN: Then you have your answer.

  THOMAS: I’m confused. You’re in your late thirties, Sebastian is in his twenties, Eli is in his fifties. But as I understand it, Jesus died when he was thirty-three.

  THE MAGICIAN: Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated.

  THOMAS: I see. (referring to the Bible in front of them) But it says here that you died and ascended to Heaven. You left. It’s one of the few things that all four gospels agree on.

  THE MAGICIAN: You shouldn’t believe everything you read in books.

  —END OF TRANSCRIPT—

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THOMAS TURNED OFF THE recorder, looked at the magician.

  “Okay. Here’s what I know. You’re homeless, living on the street. And you play three-card monte down at the station.”

  “What you say is not false. But it is misinformed. Am I without employment? Yes. But consider the lilies. Solomon in his finest robes was never so beautifully arrayed as the lilies of the field. Yet they neither toil nor worry. Wasn’t Christ himself often without a home? The Son of God has nowhere to rest his weary head. Do I play cards? Yes. Do I perform miracles? When I want to. Am I the eternal spirit reborn? Without a doubt. I have existed since the first moment. I existed when the world was first called into being.”

  “You were there, at the birth of creation?”

  “I was there on the first day, yes. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God. Through him, all things were made. And through me, all things are made.”

  Eli was becoming agitated. “He’s crazy. I’m God. Not him. He’s trying to trick us!” His voice grew louder, more insistent. “I am the Lord of Creation! I made the world and everything in it!”

  “Did you make me?” Thomas asked.

  “Are you in the world?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then OF COURSE I FUCKING MADE YOU!”

  The magician leaned forward, held Eli’s fists between his hands until they opened up. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” said the magician.

  But Eli remained agitated. “I made the world, goddammit! I made the sun and the moon, I made TVs and baboons. I made upside-down trees and fuse boxes, I made stars and cellophane. I even made Ginsu knives!” Voice dropping: “I made those on the second day of creation.”

  Sebastian spoke, his voice so soft they almost missed it.

  “We are all of us empty,” he said.

  Thomas wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Empty?”

  “Tin men. Small gods. Our chests have been scooped out. They have been replaced with clockwork hearts and old rags.”

  Sebastian didn’t say anything else. Instead, he collapsed back into himself.

  “Tin!?” Eli roared. “I am NOT made of tin! I am Christ Everlasting, and I come to rain fire, not as a lamb—but a lion!” He was so angry he was shaking. “I’m God, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Of course you are. No one is saying otherwise,” said the magician.

  “I am,” said Thomas, exasperated. “I’m saying otherwise. We’re not here to act as each other’s enablers. Listen. There can’t be two Christs—three Christs, sorry. I forgot about Sebastian.” He addressed the magician. “You claim that you’re Jesus.”

  “I don’t ??
?make the claim.’ I am Jesus.”

  “What about Eli? Is he lying?”

  “No.”

  “So you think Eli is Jesus as well?”

  “I do.”

  “Ha!” said Eli. “See? He admits it! I am God.”

  “God?” said Thomas. “By what proof?”

  “By his own word,” said the magician. “His testimony is proof. His words are proof.”

  “That’s not proof!” said Thomas. “A double-blind, variable-controlled trial—that’s proof. A feeling is not proof.”

  Sebastian, in a whisper: “A feeling is proof that you feel.”

  Eli leapt at this. “See? Even he agrees with me! Why are you so dense?”

  Thomas, still exasperated: “That’s a tautology. It’s like— It’s like saying a thought is a proof of what you think. Or a belief is proof of what you believe.”

  “Exactly!” said Eli.

  “I think he’s getting it,” said the magician. “Look at it this way, Thomas. Belief is what we assume to be true, yes? We don’t need to daily test that the sun rises in the east or that water runs downhill or that objects fall when you drop them. We start with that assumption. Well, I start with an assumption of God.”

  “But you also claim to be God. So . . . so, you believe in yourself?”

  “Of course,” said the magician. “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Unpopped!” Eli pointed a crooked finger at Thomas’s chest. “That’s what you are! Your heart, it’s like a bag of unpopped popcorn. You’re the hard nuggets at the bottom of the bag that only heated up but didn’t burst!”

  Thomas pushed back his chair, sighed. “Let’s try this again.” He turned to the magician. “You believe that you are Jesus Christ. Correct?”

  “No.”

  “No? You don’t believe you’re Jesus?”

  “I do not.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I don’t ‘believe.’ I know. I am Jesus of Nazareth, son of Joseph and Mary. That is a fact, not an opinion. A fact is what’s true, whether we believe it or not. Rain falls downward and steam rises upward, regardless of whether you believe in gravity or chemistry. And I am Jesus Christ, Son of God, whether you believe in me or not. It’s simply a fact.”

  “And you know the difference between facts and beliefs?”

  “I do. Let me show you.”

  The magician swept his hand across the tabletop, leaving three creased playing cards facedown, weathered and well worn, corners dog-eared and bent.

  Thomas looked at these three cards, then up at the magician. “Let me guess. Find the lady?”

  “Not the lady, the heart.” He flipped over the middle card. It was the ace of hearts.

  “Please follow this card,” he said. “With your eyes.”

  The magician flipped the card back, and it began: a fluid dance, palms moving, over, under, around, again and again, faster and faster until the cards became a blur, and then . . . his hand faltered. One of the cards rose, ever so slightly, and there it was: the ace of hearts. It happened in a blink, and the magician quickly slapped the card down again, but it was too late. Thomas had seen it.

  “Well?” asked the magician.

  Thomas leaned forward, laid a finger on the middle card.

  “You seem very sure,” said the magician.

  “I am.”

  “What shall we wager, then? Your pride? Sebastian’s soul? A cigar for Eli?”

  “Yes!” Eli hollered. “A cigar for me! A good one, too. A Cuban. And I get to smoke it at the kitchen table, don’t have to go outside. Can’t believe God has to go outside when he wants to smoke.”

  “Fair enough,” said Thomas. “A cigar for Eli. And if I win?”

  “If you win,” said the magician, “I will proclaim that I am not Christ and nor is Eli, or Sebastian.”

  Thomas smiled. One Jesus down, two to go. “I accept.” He extended his hand to the magician and they shook on it. “But I’m afraid this is a bet you’re going to lose,” said Thomas. “I saw the card. It lifted up, just a little, but enough for me to see.”

  “So you believe that this card is the ace of hearts?”

  “I saw it.”

  “Well,” said the magician. “There’s what we believe and there’s what we know.” He leaned back. “Please. Be my guest.”

  Thomas flipped the card over. It was the eight of spades. He flipped over the next card and the next. All three were the eight of spades.

  “Ah,” said Thomas, smile tightening. “The parable of the playing cards. I’m assuming you palmed the ace somehow, hid it up your sleeve or something?”

  But then Thomas noticed Sebastian looking past him, staring over Thomas’s shoulder . . . in awe. Thomas followed his gaze, turned to see—

  The ace of hearts.

  Everywhere.

  There were a dozen or more. Sticking out of the books on Thomas’s shelf, tucked into picture frames, hidden in potted plants. There was even one inside the SDM:III manual in front of Thomas, and one in the Bible as well, like bookmarks.

  Thomas felt his chest contract. He must have hidden them during the break, back when we were waiting for Eli to finish his first cigarette. But did the magician even leave the table? Thomas wasn’t sure, couldn’t remember. He must have tucked them in when I wasn’t looking. But how? (That’s the way it begins, with troublesome doubts.)

  Sebastian’s eyes grew wide with wonder.

  “Nice trick,” said Thomas. “Well executed.” But the doubts remained, like a cat underfoot.

  Eli whispered, “I believe you owe me a cigar.”

  Thomas nodded. “I believe I do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE HOMELESS SHELTER WAS more crowded than ever. A tattered exodus, fleeing the devil in Tent City, had fanned out across Boston and many of them had ended up here, tended to by a small band of volunteers and one very tired nun.

  “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  Thomas gave her a pat on the shoulder. “You say that every time.”

  “It’s true every time.”

  “Repeating something doesn’t make it true, Frances. You should know that. And anyway, when a cat presents a dead mouse to someone as a gift, it’s supposed to be a sign of love.”

  “Sure it is. So what brings you down here?” They were in her office, a glorified storage room crowded with boxes. Thomas cleared a space for himself across from her desk (he assumed there was a desk under there somewhere) as Frances spooned some Nescafé into a styrofoam cup. She added hot water from an electric kettle, plopped in a lump of chalky powder, stirred it together.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  He peered into her cup. “I don’t think it is, actually.”

  “Suit yourself. And before I forget, if I give you a list of medicines, do you think you could get them for me?”

  “What, like some common pusher?”

  “Consider them samples,” she said. “Our stocks are running low. We need expectorants, antibiotics. We can always use bandages and gauze, too. The university will have more than they can use.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” It wasn’t the first time he’d plundered the school’s stockrooms for Frances. “And if you need antipsychotic medications, too, let me know. We have all kinds of trial prescriptions—”

  “Antibiotics, not antipsychotics.”

  “Okay, but if you change your mind, the offer stands.”

  “You have access to general stock as well?”

  “I do.”

  “Can you get me inhalers, laxatives, maybe some Maalox? A new thermoscan if you can snag one. And condoms. Lots of condoms.”

  “I’d have to dig into my personal stash for that last one, but sure, I’ll see what I can do.” Thomas slipped his hand into his overcoat pocket, retrieved his phone. “I have a question.”

  “This isn’t about a girl again, is it? You really should consider getting advice on your love life from someone who hasn’t taken a vow of celibacy.” r />
  “Not a girl. A magician.” He held up his phone. “Do you know this man?”

  She looked closely. “I do. He lives down the street, across from the church. Comes in from time to time. Asks for wine—and bread.”

  Thomas laughed.

  “We serve him grape juice instead. He said that’s okay, it’ll transubstantiate when he drinks it. He’s very gracious. Helps out with the other patrons sometimes. Hasn’t been in lately.”

  “You don’t know his name, his background?”

  “Not really. He’s clearly educated, though. Articulate. Not sure what demons he’s wrestling with.” She swirled her cup, finished it off, down to the dregs. “Why do you ask?”

  “He’s living with me.”

  “With you?”

  “As a houseguest. I’m trying to help him shed his delusions. Spirituality, God, all that nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” (What other way could he mean it?) “What I’m trying to say is, he’s tormented and he needs help.”

  “We’re all tormented, Tommy. It’s just a matter of degree. He believes he’s Jesus. Well, there’s Jesus in all of us, isn’t there?”

  “But people with confused identities, insidious delusions, can’t function in society, their lives don’t mesh with reality. They’re alienated. And I’m trying to”—he almost said “save”—“help them. Without surgery, without pharmaceuticals.”

  “Well, that’s a start.” She placed her empty cup to one side. “Can I tell you a story? A parable of sorts.”

  “Sure, I always enjoy a good parable. They’re like Aesop’s fables, but without that annoying explicit moral tacked on at the end. So long as it’s not the one about the Prodigal Son. I’m sick of that one. Heard it so many times, I know it by heart. Stupid kid never should have come home in the first place.” Some might say your entire childhood was a parable, Tommy. It was something Frances had said to him years before, in passing, but it still stung: the idea that his life was only ever meant as a lesson for others, that his entire existence was a morality tale.

  “Here goes,” she said. And she told him the story of the shoe on the roof.

  “It happened at the Harborview hospital in Seattle. I knew one of the doctors,” she said. “He was there when they retrieved the shoe. He’s still rattled by what happened. Science can only take us so far, Tommy. There will always be something just out of reach. Something elusive. We might as well call it God.”