James Morrow - Towing Jehovah

A loaded bedpan, Thomas Ockham concluded, was a hopeless commodity. No fantasy could redeem it. Every time he bore one across the Maracaibo’ s sick bay, he started out pretending it was a chalice, a ciborium, or the Holy Grail itself, but by the time he reached the bathroom he was carrying a bowl of turds. And so it happened that, when Tullio Di Luca demanded an emergency meeting to discuss the fate of the Corpus Dei, the priest was more than happy to forsake his duties and head for the elevator.

The Valparaíso group — Van Horne, Rafferty, Haycox, O’Connor, Bliss — was already in the wardroom when Thomas arrived, lined up along the far side of the table. Rafferty lit a Marlboro. O’Connor popped a cough drop. Dark concentric circles scored the captain’s cheeks, as if his eyes were pebbles tossed into water. Gradually the Maracaibo’s staff filed in — Di Luca leading, then First Mate Orso Peche, Chief Engineer Vince Mangione, Communications Officer Gonzalo Cornejo, and Vatican Physician Giuseppe Carminati — each man looking more miserable and homesick than the one before him. Mick Katsakos, Thomas surmised, was up on the bridge, keeping the Gulf tanker a safe distance from the foundering Valparaíso.

“In my brief association with your father, I came to admire his seamanship and courage,” said Di Luca, assuming the head of the table. “Your grief must be overwhelming.”

“Not yet,” grunted Van Horne. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Wincing at the captain’s candor, Thomas seated himself beside Lianne Bliss and glanced through the nearest porthole. The Val’s deck island still towered above the choppy Norwegian Sea: the Rasputin of supertankers, he decided. Shoot her, poison her, bludgeon her, and still she clung to life.

Why had God died?

Why?

“The Vatican has a proposition for you,” said Di Luca to Van Horne. “We are not certain why you absconded last week, but the Holy Father, a most generous man, is prepared to ignore your insubordination if you will take over the Maracaibo, subsequently doing as Rome wishes.”

“History’s ahead of you, Eminence,” the captain replied. “Before he passed away, Dad bequeathed me this ship.”

“He didn’t have that right.”

“I can’t agree to follow Rome’s orders till I know what they are.

“Step one: assume command. In the interests of efficiency” — Di Luca swept his arm along the line of Maracaibo personnel — “these men have all agreed to defer to your own officers. Step two: pilot us to the motion-picture prop. Mr. Peche, do you still have it on your radar screen?”

“Aye.”

“Step three: anoint the prop fore to aft.”

“Anoint it?” said Van Horne.

“With Arabian crude oil,” Di Luca explained. “Step four: set the prop on fire. Step five: transport us back to Palermo.”

“On fire?” wailed Rafferty.

“What the fuck?” moaned O’Connor.

“No way,” hissed Haycox.

“Ah, now we’re talking!” cried Bliss, pointing her crystal pendant toward Van Horne. “Hear that, sir? You’re supposed to burn the thing!”

“You said you were hauling formaldehyde, not Arabian crude,” Thomas protested.

Di Luca grinned feebly. “We’re hauling oil,” he admitted.

“You have your orders, Captain,” said Bliss. “Now follow them.”

“You know perfectly well the body’s meant to be entombed at Kvitoya,” Thomas reminded the cardinal. “You heard Gabriel’s wishes in person.”

Di Luca pressed his palms to his bosom and smoothed his waterproof cassock. “Professor Ockham, need I make the embarrassingly obvious point that Rome’s liaison on this mission is no longer you but myself?”

Thomas grew suddenly aware of his own blood. He felt his plasma heating up. “Don’t underestimate your man, Eminence. Don’t expect this Jesuit to lie down and die.”

Leaning toward Van Horne, Di Luca picked up a glass ashtray, holding it out like Christ offering the first stone to the mob. “The problem, Captain, is that Kvitoya provides no deterrents to intrusion. Only a cremation can guarantee that, in the years to come, the corpse won’t be exhumed and defiled.”

“What does it matter if a movie prop gets defiled?” asked Peche.

“The angels seemed to think Kvitoya would be just fine,” said Thomas. “So do I.”

“Please be quiet,” said Di Luca.

“Angels?” said Mangione.

“I won’t be quiet,” said Thomas.

Di Luca gave the ashtray a sudden twist, making it spin like a compass needle gone berserk. “Sir, is it not true that, once our Creator’s death became common knowledge aboard the Valparaíso, a severe ethical breakdown occurred?”

“Whose death?” said Peche.

“Yes, but thanks to the meat, we’re past that now,” said Van Horne.

“Meat?” said Di Luca.

“When we fed the crew Quarter Pounders with Cheese, they regained their moral bearings.”

“Quarter Pounders?”

“You don’t want to know,” said Rafferty.

“According to Father Ockham’s fax of July twenty-eighth, there were thefts, attempted rapes, vandalism, quite possibly a murder.” The cardinal arrested the whirling ashtray. “Now, sir, project such anarchy onto the planet at large, and you have chaos beyond comprehension.”

“There’s another way to look at it,” said Van Horne. “Consider: our trip to the Gibraltar Sea was amazingly intense. We saw the corpse all the time, smelled it around the clock, killed its predators on every watch. Naturally the thing took hold of us. The whole world’s never going to enter into such a close relationship with God.”

“God?” said Mangione.

“The body must be obliterated,” said Di Luca.

Thomas slammed his palm against the table. “Oh, come on, Tullio. Let’s be honest, okay? Your heart was never in this project. If your OMNIVAC hadn’t predicted a few surviving neurons, you’d have wanted a cremation straight away. But now the brain’s beyond salvation, which means all your careers might be beyond salvation too, should the news ever get out. To which I say, ‘Too bad, gentlemen. Swallow your pill. The Chair of Peter was never a tenure-track position.’ ”

“Father Thomas, I want you to leave this meeting,” growled Di Luca. “Right now.”

“Go fry an egg,” said the priest. “From the Church’s perspective this corpse might be a white elephant, but for Captain Van Horne and myself it’s a sacred trust!”

“Get out!”

“No!”

The cardinal grew suddenly mute, absorbed in rapping the ashtray against the table, a steady, frustrated thonk-thonk-thonk.

“It’s not a movie prop, is it?” said Peche.

“Not remotely,” said O’Connor.

“Good God.”

“Exactly,” said Haycox.

Van Horne directed a wide, hostile smile toward Di Luca. “Step one: we steam over to our cargo. Step two: we lash Him to our stern. Step three: we restart the tow.” He shifted his stare to Peche. “Assuming there are no objections…”

A sudden joy took hold of Thomas. How wonderful to be fighting, for once, on the same side as Van Horne.

“My mind’s confused,” asserted Peche, “but my heart, it knows how unforgivable it would be to burn this body.”

Cornejo muttered, “If it’s really what you say it is … if it’s really, really that …”

“Who are we to go against angels?” said Mangione.

The captain reached into the pocket of his shirt, drawing out Raphael’s angel feather and pointing it toward the first mate.

“Marbles, I want you to place our radio shack under armed guard. Any attempt by Monsignor Di Luca to enter should be resisted. While we’re at it, let’s be sure to blackball Sparks here and her buddy Dr. Fowler.”