Mark Rogers - The Dead

“Jesus,” Gary said. “I don’t believe you said that.”

Max ignored him. Celia looked at Max as though she were horrified by his suggestion, but couldn’t bring herself to upbraid him because she thought it might be true. Gary was shaken as he studied her face.

“Be that as it may,” she said at last, “Father Teddy-I mean Father Ted-is a priest, and his office deserves respect. You of all people should believe that, Max.”

Max cocked his head, apparently weighing her point. Gary thought it was a good one, but Max finally replied:

“I do respect his office. I’d take communion from him without a second thought. He’s a true priest, a special channel of God’s grace. But I don’t respect his opinions any more than you do. And I don’t respect him. There’s nothing in the dogmas of the Church that says a priest can’t be a son of a bitch. Getting into Torquemada’s face would’ve been obligatory, I think.”

Celia pondered this. “Jesus said anyone who’s angry with his brother will be liable to judgment,” she answered at last.

“Who’s angry?” Max grinned.

“You were. At Father Ted just now.”

“No, Ma. I was furious.”

“He’s no Torquemada in any case.”

“I’d like him better if he were,” Max said. “But as for that quote, it really depends on what manuscript you read. Some versions read ‘angry without good reason.’ And since that reading fits more with common sense, I prefer it. Jesus gets mad in the gospels all the time, anyway. Calls his opponents ‘whited sepulchers’ and ‘knots of vipers.’ Carries a whip and uses it-”

“You know what you are?” Celia demanded, pointing a finger at him in frustration.

“What?”

“A… A Philadelphia lawyer! ” she answered, very seriously.

“So how come I’m not rich?”

She bit her lip, then laughed in spite of herself.

A strange silence followed, as if everyone had suddenly become aware that such levity (if it could be called that) and the argument that had preceded it, were inappropriate, under the circumstances; Gary was amazed that his mother had laughed at all. But he was always surprised at how people behaved after a death in the family, at least the way they behaved in his family, pouring out tears one moment, cracking jokes the next. It always seemed that one’s sense of humor should be completely submerged, that all enjoyment should cease, that normal life should halt entirely. But it was never that way.

“Anyone care for some leftover roast beef?” Celia said presently.

“It’s gone,” Max said.

“You ate it all? ”

“You didn’t tell me not to. There’s a lot of that ham still.”

“Ham’ll be just fine,” Gary said, Linda seconding him with a nod.

“I could cook up some of those steaks, I suppose,” Celia said. “And there are the noodles…”

“Leftovers’ll be just fine, Mom,” Gary said.

“Cooking’ll take my mind off things,” Celia answered.

“I’ll help,” Linda offered.

“No, really, it’ll do me good.”

They went into the kitchen. In the end, Linda helped. And afterward, midway through the dishes, Celia suddenly burst into tears, clutched Linda and hugged her tightly as Gary and Max looked on.

That night Gary had another dream.

He found himself standing naked and alone in a bare stony wasteland, a landscape such as Michelangelo might have painted, all its colors grey or grayish brown, its aridity stretching out endlessly under a vast leaden sky. A cold wind swept him.

He stood in that spot for what might have been a minute or an hour. And all the while, dread grew within him.

You won’t have a chance, whispered a voice in his mind. He’s got the goods on you for sure.

“He?” Gary asked aloud, wondering for the first time what he was so afraid of.

The wind brought a far-off grinding that sounded like huge rusty gears; unbidden, the image of a state trooper flashed into his head.

Guilty conscience? The trooper asked, turning slowly toward him. Haven’t been speeding, have you sonny? You should see what they do to speeders where I come from…

But before Gary could see his face, he realized the cop wasn’t Him ; the image vanished from his mind. The grinding sound faded.

He saw it all, Gary, the whispering voice went on. He knows.

“What is He, Santa Claus?” Gary asked.

God, you’re stupid, said the voice. I’m going to see if I can get out of here . Adios, sucker!

“Like a rat leaving a sinking ship,” Gary said, and laughed. Then the question occurred to him: what sinking ship? What strange little mind-games was he playing with himself?

The hell with that. What was he doing stark naked in a desert lifted straight out of the Sistine Last Judgment?

“Oh, what the fuck,” he said. “It’s just a dream.”

The voice answered faintly: You wish, moron.

The ground moved beneath his left foot. He hopped aside, staring downward.

Dirt bulged. The protrusion collapsed, then swelled again. The brown dome split. Dirty white objects pushed up between the clods. Momentarily Gary realized what they were: bones. Human finger-bones. A skeletal hand was thrusting itself out of the ground, clawing toward the sky.

His first thought was of that old spiritual: Them bones, them bones, them dry bones … Then his mind flashed back to the horror in the funeral-parlor chapel.

Didn’t you just leave this party? He asked himself. But that was a dream. Only a dream. This was-

Real.

He fled, but everywhere those tiny hillocks were rising from the desolation as far as the eye could see. He could hardly run without stepping on them, feeling those bony fingertips jabbing up into his soles; his skin was broken in a dozen places when at last he fell screaming.

Swaying and twisting like plant-stalks in time-lapse photography, two fleshless arms rose from the earth in front of him, up-tilting a slab of slate; the slab toppled inches from his nose, and a skull heaved up into view, death’s face grinning into his.

He could feel bony hands scrabbling round behind him, fumbling at his heels. He got to his feet, trembling violently, ignoring the pain in his soles. All around him, the hillocks had been broken open by the heads and shoulders of the fleshless dead. He was completely surrounded. Soon there was hardly room to stand, let alone run. Earth dropping from their limbs, they climbed out of their graves, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, as if at attention.

The wind grew colder, more vicious, whistling through their ribs and teeth. Dust-devils swirled and danced among the bony ranks; a fringe of black cloud came rolling across the grey sky like ink in water.

Shivering, teeth chattering, Gary stood there alone among the skeletons. But his fear of them receded. Something else was coming now, he could feel it, something beside which they were no threat at all…

It was Him .

White and fierce, light flooded across the landscape of skeletons. Gary and the dead turned.

A mighty glowing throne had appeared, looming like a mountain on the plain; two huge creatures in white metal armor flanked it, bearing what might have been flaming swords. Their bodies were human, but had feet like bulls’ hooves, eagles’ wings, leonine heads. Searching the dead multitude with their stern eyes, turning their heads from side to side, they left eerie after images in Gary’s brain, their countenances shifting blurrily back and forth between man and bull, lion and eagle, as if somehow these beings were all four creatures simultaneously.