Skinny Legs and All Skinny Legs and All Skinny Legs and All

  The family was unimpressed. And a trifle concerned. But as each fresh larger-than-life rendering of bean can, dining implement, or rumpled sock—Why in the world . . . ?—was revealed, Spoon, upon her mantel perch, could barely refrain from leaping into the room and dancing herself all around.

  Verlin locked in again on the flying footballs discernible among the flashes, pops, and flickers of the tiny, tinny, black-and-white portable that, at his urging, Buddy had consented to fetch to the Ansonia. It was a close game, a bowl game, and to watch it on the magnificent screen at the I & I, to watch it unveiled by this spray of electric blue eel spit, might possibly have been worth the risk to life and limb. Were it the Super Bowl, there was no question but that he’d chance it. Christmas is Christmas, Verlin thought, but the Super Bowl is something, by golly, a man can sink his fangs in.

  When Patsy began to clear the dishes, Ellen Cherry arose to assist her. She froze in her tracks, however, when the preacher walked up to the canvases still facing the wall and made to turn one of them around.

  “No, Uncle Buddy! Don’t!”

  Too late. He reversed the painting and stepped back a pace or two to regard it. Fortunately, it proved not to be one of those studies of Boomer in which his glorified penis hung like an upside down ice-cream cone (sometimes a scoop of raspberry, sometimes a dip of grape), but, rather, her very last painting, the portrait with the redundancy of tongues.

  “My, my,” said Buddy. “What have we here? Uh-huh. If this don’t broach the Satanic, I’ll eat my hat.”

  “Bud,” said Patsy, “you just had dinner.”

  “Cute remarks ain’t gonna get you through Saint Peter’s radar, Patsy Charles, and they don’t cut ice with me, neither. Instead of tryin’ to lighten the air with your smart-ass brand of humor, better you should join me in contemplatin’ why your daughter, who looks so much like you, right down to the Jezebel goo on your eyelids, why your daughter has gone and depicted her husband, the man who she’s united with in the holy sight of God, as some kinda demon. Yea, as the very Beast!”

  “I thought the Beast was a woman,” said Ellen Cherry.

  “Bud, it’s Christmas,” said Verlin.

  “Oh, let him rant,” said Patsy. “He’ll give himself a case of heartburn that’ll have him praying for mercy.”

  “Patsy, now . . .”

  “Besides, I find the subject interesting. Bud, as you surely are aware, it was Mr. Boomer Petway who went off and left my Ellen Cherry.”

  “Frankly, I’m not surprised.”

  “And he’s over there in Is-ra-el, as you call it. Now, let us put aside, for the moment, the possibility that a woman who’s been deserted, deceived—”

  “Mama!”

  “—and had her poor heart broken, might be inclined to portray the rascal in an unflattering manner. I want to put that aside and ask you a theological question. You said that Ellen Cherry and Boomer were eternally united. Now, I’m wondering, what if ol’ Boomer was to get himself killed over there in Is-ra-el? Wouldn’t it be permissible, in God’s sight and your own, for Ellen Cherry to then take herself another husband?”

  “Last thing I’d want,” muttered Ellen Cherry.

  “Bud?”

  Suspicious, Buddy was slow to reply. He thought it might be a trick question. “I can’t see what you’re aimin’ at, but, yes, it’s perfectly righteous for a widow-woman to remarry.”

  “Well, then, when that widow-woman dies and goes to heaven, who does she bed down with there, hubby number one or hubby number two?”

  Verlin, who’d turned from the game to shush Patsy, stopped in mid-shush. By golly, that was an interesting question.

  “People do not ’bed down’ in heaven,” said Buddy, with a slather of contempt.

  “No? They don’t? Folks don’t never get to recline and rest in heaven? An ol’ widow-woman is expected to be on her feet twenty-four hours a day?”

  “You weren’t talkin’ ’bout rest.”

  “I wasn’t? What was I talking ’bout, Bud?”

  “Patsy, dad blast it!” swore Verlin. “Let him be. Forget that fool picture, Bud, and watch this drive. Washington’s getting ready to score.”

  “All right,” said Patsy. “I’m sorry. I guess that’s not the kinda question a serious theologian would want to waste his brains on. It was silly. I mean, first off, Boomer is not gonna get killed in Jerusalem.” She paused. And smiled so sweetly that the resident roaches, already in a state of high excitement due to the aroma of pies and candied yams, peered out from the plumbing to see where such sweetness was coming from. “Unless you get him killed,” she said.

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know! What I wanna know, what Boomer’s little wife here has every right to know, is what kinda monkey business you fixin’ to get that ol’ boy involved in over there?”

  Buddy tugged at the knot in his tie. He looked around the apartment. All eyes were on him, including his cousin’s. Washington would have to cross the goal line without Verlin Charles.

  THIS IS THE ROOM of the wolfmother wallpaper. The room where the giant moth beat its papery scales against the jeweled lampshade. The room where Jezebel beat her kohl-encrusted lashes against the window glass. Where the pinwheel beat her dizzy children for confusing the north wind with Santa Claus.

  Few inanimate objects believed in Saint Nick. And who besides they were in a better position to know? Should an old fatso in a red suit free-fall down the chimney in the middle of the night, the family and its pets might sleep through it, but every object in the parlor would a witness be. Certainly, the objects that occupied the cathedral basement hadn’t swallowed the Santa story, no matter how often the merchants had told it. They were up and about early on Christmas morning, but not to look for treats or consumer goods. Rather, they were curious to see if Turn Around Norman would report to his station on the holiday.

  To their surprise, he did appear. And although Fifth Avenue was deserted, except for the occasional wino or homeless lunatic, he remained there throughout the day, like a hive of hard rubber turning on an axis of bees. Never had the objects seen him turn with greater delicacy, greater intensity. Extending and contracting himself impossibly, like butter that melts and then congeals, like musical butter, a butter pat with harmonica stops, making the trip from skillet to refrigerator and back again several times a second. He stepped out of time, as if time were a pair of pants. He folded time over the back of a chair and paraded around it, trouserless and unashamed, sniffing at the rose that never fades. He turned like a radioactive worm in amber, like a bushel of phosphorescent plankton turning in the colon of a constipated sea serpent.

  Had they hands, the objects would have applauded. “That there’s good stuff,” Dirty Sock proclaimed, and the rest of them concurred.

  They conjectured that it might have been the peace and quiet that inspired this extraordinary display, that allowed Turn Around Norman to transcend his limits and turn as they had never seen him turn before, turn more slowly, yet with more fire. Without the squeeze of crowds, the jibes of detractors, the mad mephitic mafficking of traffic, perhaps he was both more focused and less restrained. Then, they noticed something else. On that day, for the first time, Norman was working without a donation box.

  “It’s Christmas,” said Can o’ Beans. “It’s Christmas, so he’s performing for free.”

  “Yes,” put in Conch Shell. “It is as if this performance is a gift the fellow is offering. Although to whom he is offering it we cannot know.”

  “I only wish Miss Charles were here to enjoy it,” the bean can said.

  “I wish to hell Miz Charles was here, too,” said Dirty Sock. “Maybe the wild-haired bimbo wouldda brought Spoonzie back.”

  As one, their thoughts all switched to Spoon. Where and how was Spoon spending this Christmas Day? If any inanimate object did believe in Santa Claus, it probably was Spoon.

  Spoon was thinking of them, as well. It seemed that in or
der to justify why he had encouraged Boomer to linger in Jerusalem, why he’d handed him a “secret assignment,” Buddy found it necessary to go into a long spiel about the Dome of the Rock. “So that’s what the Temple Mount is like these days,” said Spoon to a completely bewildered ashtray. “Just wait until I inform my friends.”

  “Y’all know what the Dome of the Rock is?” Buddy asked.

  Patsy rotated her curls in the negative direction.

  “A covered stadium on Gibraltar,” ventured Verlin. “Where they play the Mediterranean Super Bowl.”

  “I’ve heard Mr. Hadee speak of it,” said Ellen Cherry. “Must be connected in some way with Jerusalem.”

  “Well, yes indeedy, it’s the blessed centerpiece of Jerusalem,” Buddy informed them. “It’s up there on the Temple Mount, where the Hebrew temples of Solomon and Herod stood, where our young Lord Jesus outfoxed the rabbis, and so forth. In the seventh century, your wily A-rab was running the show in that part of the world, and he built a very expensive mosque on the ruins of Herod’s Temple, built two mosques, actually, and the biggest one, the one all covered with beautiful blue tiles and sportin’ a bodacious big golden dome, he called the Dome of the Rock. It’s the first blessed thing a body lays eyes on when he gets near Jerusalem.

  “This here Dome of the Rock is the third most sacred place in the Islamic religion. Why? Because ol’ Mohammed swore up and down that God took him for a horseback ride to heaven from the Temple Mount. Rode him around for a spell, introduced him to Moses and Jesus, then dropped him off agin right where he started. How’s that for a fish story?

  “Well, you can burn your A-rab for a fool, but you won’t git no ashes. Mohammed’s whopper gave the Moslems claim to the Temple Mount as a place of major importance in their own religion, cuttin’ in on the legitimate claims of your Christian and your Jew, and his followers went on to build these ritzy mosques up there. Jerusalem’s back in Jewish hands at last, but your A-rab is sittin’ tight on the Temple Mount, and he’s got the Jew and the Christian by the balls. Pardon me, ladies. Pardon me, please.”

  “But what’s all the fuss about the Arabs having it?” asked Patsy.

  “Yeah,” said Verlin. “I can’t figure out what all that’s got to do with us Christians. Or how you, and now Boomer, fit into it.”

  Ellen Cherry was silent. She leaned back on the sofa, rubbed her full tummy, and thought, Middle East. Rugs. Boomer. Rugs. Boomerrugs.

  “Prophecy!” It was a saxophone honk of the most forceful urgency. “Prophecy!” A wild, primitive, blue-rimmed blare such as might have issued from the gullet of a marsh stork whose eggs were threatened by predators. “Don’t you know your prophecy? To know God’s prophetic word is to know the future. The Bible is better than a crystal ball. God’s tole us ever’thing that’s to come to pass. Verlin, you’ve read your Scriptures.”

  “All right, I have. But I don’t recall any mention of this Dome of the Rock. . . .”

  “Well, of course, the Scriptures don’t mention it by name. The blamed thing wasn’t built yet when the Scriptures was written.”

  “But, Bud,” said Patsy, “you just said that God told us everything that was to happen.”

  The sax emitted a disgusted grunt. “Not by name. God didn’t mention things by name. Modern names of things didn’t mean diddly-squat to the prophets of old. They went by description, which is more lasting and accurate than names. And this is what they conveyed to us concerning the subject in question. Listen up.”

  “I hope this is leading to Boomer Petway,” said Patsy.

  “Amen,” said Ellen Cherry, which, for better or for worse, was the only religious word she’d uttered all Christmas.

  “First,” said Buddy, “the first stage of God’s program is that your Jew would return to Israel.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Is-ra-el. After the Romans destroyed Herod’s Temple, the Jews scattered like buckshot, lit out for here, there, and ever’where, this ghetto and that med school, but Jehovah promised that someday they’d regroup and git their milk and honey back, and, now, for a fact, they got it. Second stage was that Jerusalem would once agin be a Jewish city. Well, sure as shootin’, in nineteen hundred and sixty-seven, that come to pass, prophecy fulfilled. The third and final stage is that the Temple shall be rebuilt. That’s next in line. Then—bingo! Armageddon and Redemption.”

  “So, why don’t they just rebuild the thing?” asked Patsy.

  “How can they rebuild it when the dad-gummed Dome of the Rock is sittin’ smack dab on their building site? That’s the problem, children. Our Lord can’t come back till the Third Temple is built, and the Temple can’t be built as long as the Dome of the Rock is there. Are you catchin’ on?”

  “Well, if the Lord said it would get rebuilt, it’ll get rebuilt.”

  “Dang right it will, Patsy. We’re gonna make sure of that.”

  “How?”

  “By levelin’ them A-rab mosques and recapturin’ the Temple Mount.”

  “You’re planning to destroy the Dome of the Rock? You and your buddies?”

  “Me and my yeshivas. Yes, you might say that.”

  “So that the Messiah will come?”

  “After the Temple is rebuilt, he’ll have to come.”

  “Hold on just one minute, Bud. Sounds to me like you’re trying to force the Messiah’s hand. To force the Second Coming into happening.”

  The Reverend Buddy Winkler shrugged. He picked a crumb of pie crust from the table and consigned it to the snap and grind of golden choppers, one less midnight snack to which the roaches might look forward. “How long we supposed to wait?” he asked.

  “Why, we’re supposed to wait until the Lord is good and ready, that’s how long.”

  “Patsy’s right,” said Verlin. “Doesn’t seem right to be messin’ with Jesus Christ’s timetable. To try to hurry him into something. Doesn’t that trouble you?”

  “Used to. Then I remembered the words, ’God helps them what helps themselves.’ Maybe that’s why Christ has been takin’ so blamed long. He’s been waitin’ and waitin’ for us to git up offen our fat fannies and seize the initiative. After all, the Jew helped hisself to Jerusalem. It wasn’t handed to him on no silver platter. That, as you’re aware, was way back in sixty-seven. Time to git on with it!”

  Verlin shook his head. “I don’t know, Bud . . .”

  “Well, I know. It come to me in a vision. Loud and bright. Right in your own living room. Which is the only reason I’m lettin’ you in on our plans. ’Course, I can’t tell you ever’thing.” He fired a glance at Ellen Cherry. “I shouldn’t be saying nothin’ in front of our little painted-up doll baby here. Not with the company she keeps.”

  “Oh, take a hike, Uncle Bud.”

  “We met that Spike and Abu last night,” said Patsy. “They were right nice gentlemen.”

  “Right nice tools of Satan.”

  Verlin spoke. “They weren’t all that bad, Bud.”

  “Oh, no? Well, lemme tell you . . .”

  “Just shut up about them! You’ve got a hell of a nerve criticizing them and anything they do, you and your screwball schemes. Demolishing a mosque somewhere to make Jesus come back. What a fairy tale! They ought to lock you away before you hurt somebody.”

  “Ellen Cherry, now,” said Verlin.

  “Oh, a lot of folks are gonna git hurt,” said Buddy, grinning. “Make no mistake ’bout that.”

  “And is one of those folks Boomer Petway?” asked Patsy. “You getting him involved in blowing up that Dome of the Rock?”

  “Nobody, I don’t believe, said nothin’ ’bout blowing nothin’ up. And, no, Boomer ain’t gonna git hurt. Unless the Devil hurts him. Which he can’t iffen he’s satisfactorily repentant. I just needed a man in Jerusalem is all. My yeshivas are dedicated, but they’re, you know, not like us. They’re what you might call exotic. Esoteric. We got us good solid Christians in Jerusalem, but I feel they sometimes let themselves git bamboozled by the Jews. I jest needed a man of
my own over there, somebody I could trust, in case I ever have an errand or two to run that I don’t necessarily want none of them others to know about.”

  “So Boomer’s your errand boy?”

  “Boomer ain’t nothin’, Patsy. He ain’t nothin’, and he don’t know nothin’. He’s just there in case the Lord and I have need to him.”

  “You better be careful what you get him into.”

  “Oh, I will. I will.”

  “Why don’t we please change the subject?” Verlin suggested. “The dang game’s in halftime. Here, we got us some presents to unwrap.” From beneath Ellen Cherry’s scraggly but artistically decorated tree, he removed a large package, wrapped in white paper with a green and red holly pattern. “Here, Bud. I do believe Santy left this one for you.”

  “Why, thank you,” said Buddy. “Thank y’all.” He pulled at the green bow. “Lemme see what’s in here.”

  “Hope it fits,” said Verlin.

  “It will,” said Ellen Cherry. “It’s a straitjacket.”

  The minister didn’t respond. Very slowly, very carefully, he loosened the wrapping, exhibiting a bit more patience with his Christmas surprise than he had for the end of the world. Restless, Verlin stole glances at the halftime show, and Patsy sponged a smear of yam from the tabletop. Under the sink, the cockroaches monitored Patsy’s action with exasperation, as if the cockroaches were a needy institution and Patsy one of those coy philanthropists who never give their money away.

  The family gathering dissolved about ten-thirty. Alone, Ellen Cherry’s thoughts returned again and again to Raoul. She had all but decided to invite him up, but when she went to the toilet to take a pee, she discovered that she’d gotten her “dot.”

  Oh, well. She sighed. And while begrudgingly inserting a tampon, sang three complete verses of “Jingle Bells.”

  On the day after Christmas, Verlin and Patsy went to the Museum of Modern Art to have a look at the Airstream turkey. It was Patsy’s idea. “I’ve seen the fool thing for nothin’,” complained Verlin. “Why do I have to pay some Yankee good money to see it again?”