Chapter 24
Fiacre bent over and plucked a Japanese beetle off a squash vine. He studied it for a moment and, noting the skeletal leaves of the squash plant, thought about how seriously Popillia Japonica had gone about his work. It was serious in the way that all animals, cows, snakes, grizzly bears and platypuses are serious; they work and root and chew but fail at poetry writing and religion making; they lack the sense of humor required to start religions or to form governments.
It is human kind’s lack of seriousness that allows them to escape their animal natures. Fiacre’s main reason for appearing in this book, this dreadful post modern mishmash, is his sense of humor, that and the occasional gush of sentiment for the silly seriousness of the people who are appearing in it with him.
He squashed the beetle between his forefinger and thumb. “Another dusky Hindu bites the dust,” he said, laughing.
Brooke West, who was going into the back door of the church, looked up at the sound. He was startled a bit by the sound and observed Fiacre’s disreputable appearance, in semi-consternation. No doubt, he thought, the bum in shorts and the ‘Jesus is Coming, Look Busy’ T-shirt was a friend of John Heartbreak’s. Who else but John would permit access to the garden to such seediness?
As Brooke entered the back of the church, Elvis left through the front door, and Fiacre paused in squishing to think of John’s and the Warrior Queen Sloan’s whereabouts. As an expert in time and travel Fiacre was pretty near certain that they had just made the right turn off Highway 86N and onto the road leading to the main eveningside Compound. He clearly saw the Eveningside sign to the left of the van as John and Dr. Sharon Sloan irrevocably tootled past it, and toward their rendezvous with destiny.
Fiacre knew the conclusion of their rendezvous, but he was uncertain about how John and the Warrior Queen would cause it. All he knew for sure was that, somewhere during the coming Fandango, she would say, “Elementary, my dear Heartbreak” in response to one of John’s queries. It was moments like that that made being in the book worthwhile.
He squashed another beetle and thought about the Reverend Jake Cooker. The two events are not unrelated, he thought. How like Popillia Japonica is Little Jimmy, he thought. “For Christ’s Sake,” he said out loud. “You’re 70 years old and you’re still munching away at the Rumor of God. You’re buying and selling the Rumor like corn futures! May the Rumor have mercy on your soul for your seriousness!”
Fiacre meant that sentence—the one just above—to be a prayer for Little Jimmy’s soul, for the repose of his soul when repose was the inevitable fact. Like Chesterton’s Father Brown, Fiacre knew that the great victory was not in discovering the murderer, but in helping the murder discover his sin, and repent of it. Fiacre’s mission for Heartbreak and Sloan was fulfillment of that prayer.
If they were successful, Jimmy would stop munching, start acting his age, and take occasional husbandly advantage of Lulu who, not to put too fine a point on it, was a considerable step up from Tomi Raye in the looks department. He would know that God is not a Rumor, that old age is not a rumor, and finally understand that enough is enough. “Get a life, Jake,” Fiacre prayed. “Beat your time shares into ploughs and plant a garden. Get a life. Relax.”
God is not a rumor to John, but he often lacks the playfulness and overindulges in seriousness. Hopefully (yes, I know it’s a silly adverb so, okay: ‘with hope’), Sloan’s Fandango will result in not just Cooker’s redemption but an increase in John’s silliness quotient. He is peevish much of the time and a victim of Catholic Orthodoxy most of the time. John could lighten up and, with hope (happy now?) Sloan is the lamp.
Among John’s peeves are patriots who have not been to war, church services—especially on Wednesday nights—that resemble television variety shows, angry middle-aged women with Indian Guides, tight pants, small slices of pie, Richard Lugar’s wet mouth, Appalachian American’s with poor lawn hygiene, Administrative Overhead, corn subsidies, people who say ‘it smells like money’, authors who have never read a book, Country Music radio stations, modern dance, waiting rooms, raisin shortages, public service unions, Liza Minnelli, illiterates and felons on college football teams, Olympic snowboarding, cats, lap dogs, lap cats, weak coffee, Administrators—male and female—nicknamed ‘Mother Tucker’ by subordinates, the culture of France, substitutes for cream, linguists masquerading as philosophers, bending over, modern dentistry…
…and then there was the whole Catholic thing he had to muddle through. Last week in Sunday school, for example, Loretta Tanner led a discussion of James’ Letter. Among Catholics, James’ Letter is the most important ‘how-to’ source for engaging the Christian life. It is also among the simplest of the books and the least abstract: ‘If you are in trouble, brothers, pray. If you are happy, sing a psalm.’ Pretty straight stuff, right? And easy for the mostly non-bible reading Catholic to follow.
Naturally, the criminally insane Martin Luther named James’ Letter a ‘straw epistle’, and condemned it for its focus on good works rather than on faith. This got up Catholic noses and caused them to say things like, “Well, I guess we’ll just stop feeding the poor and close our hospitals! We’ll roll around on the floor, high five each other in pseudo Urdu, and sing trashy Country Western music instead!”
John was a little nervous when Loretta announced that James was that Sunday’s lesson. He hoped that folks would note the value of what James had to say, even if he was a little light on the whole faith deal—and they did. In fact, the outcome of the lesson was that all Christians have work to do, regardless of age, health, sexual preference, and nationality, and that such work is often a reliable sign of the genuineness of the worker’s faith. John was certainly relieved that he wouldn’t have to point out that Luther was a drunken anti-Semite and lickspittle to German Aristocracy.
Fiacre had to laugh at John’s nervousness. Although Luther really was a certified jerk, he was small potatoes in the scheme—God’s scheme—of things, and hardly worth all the trouble people had decided he was worth. A church, ‘the church’, is not God, a fact that Fiacre had learned over the past thirteen centuries, and which God certainly Knew from the beginning. Finally, the trouble people made over it was part of human kind’s charm, and yeast for all the songs, poems, pictures, architecture, and hot thoughts about Sophia Loren they were given to. No, John needed to lighten up, re-peeve and de-peeve, and work a little less. He needed more faith that things would work out just fine.
The Warrior Queen Sloan AKA Sharon Sloan AKA Dr. Sloan also known as the artist and scholar formerly known as AKAASFKA Sharon Sloan felt a pulse of anticipation as they left Highway 86N and turned onto Eveningside Drive. Little Jake Cooker, high heels and all, and the new Tomi Raye, Lulu Cooker, were minutes away. The roof top of Eveningside Compound peaked over a ridge just east and ahead of them and within it, the lair of Pastor Cooker himself. She hoped that they would arrive after the taping of the Jake Cooker Show so they could accost him without interference from the crowd.
John hoped for exactly the opposite (of course he did, the contrary fool). He had only observed Pastor Cooker on the television and was looking forward to hearing him in person. It was possible, he told himself, that Cooker was sincere in his beliefs and was not the villainous, unrepentant self-excusing sociopath and ex-con that Normal Christians were sure that he was. What if Jake was an honest God Broker and had only answered yet another call, a post prison call—from the Lord. Had God said to him “Go you, Jacob, to Branson, Missouri, that Graveyard of the Country Western Has Been, dine at the $3.99 All You Can Eat Country Buffet, and grid your loins to preach the Time Share Gospel!”
Well. Why not?
Sharon glanced at John. His bovine like expression gave no indication of readiness for the battle ahead. She found this rather disturbing.
