Stephen King - Needful Things

One of the deacons was Don Hemphill. He was both taller and heavier than the combative priest. “I’ll discuss it with you if you want,” he said. “I’ll wipe the walk with your Pope-loving, bogtrotting ass.”

Two of the other deacons, who knew Don was capable of just that, had restrained him in the nick of time… but after that, the rumble was on.

Until this October, it had been mostly sub rosa-ethnic Jokes and malicious chatter in the ladies’ and men’s groups of the two churches, schoolyard taunting between children of the two factions, and, most of all, rhetorical grenades tossed from pulpit to pulpit on Sundays, that day of peace when, history teaches, most wars actually start. Every now and then there were ugly incidents-eggs were thrown at the Parish Hall during a Baptist Youth Fellowship dance, and once a rock was winged through the living-room window of the rectory-but it had been mostly a war of words.

Like all wars, it had had both its heated moments and its lulls, but a steadily deepening anger had run through it since the day the Daughters of Isabella announced their plans for Casino Nite. By the time Rev. Rose received the infamous “Babtist Rat-Fuck” card, it was probably too late to avoid a confrontation of some sort; the over-the-top crudity of the message only seemed to guarantee that when the confrontation came, it would be a wowser. The kindling had been laid; all that remained was for someone to strike a match and light the bonfire.

If anyone had fatally underestimated the volatility of the situation, it was Father Brigham. He had known his Baptist counterpart would not like the idea of Casino Nite, but he did not understand how deeply the concept of church-supported gaming enraged and offended the Baptist preacher. He did not know that Steamboat Willie’s father had been a compulsive gambler who had abandoned the family on many occasions when the gambling fever took him, or that the man had finally shot himself in the back room of a dancehall after a losing night at craps. And the unlovely truth about Father Brigham was this: it probably would not have made any difference to him even if he had known.

Rev. Rose mobilized his forces. The Baptists began with a No Casino Nite letter-writing campaign to the Castle Rock Call (Wanda Hemphill, Don’s wife, wrote most of them herself), and followed up the letters with the DICE AND THE DEVIL posters. Betsy Vigue, Casino Nite Chairwoman and Grand Regeant of the local Daughters of Isabella chapter, organized the counterattack. For the previous three weeks, the Call had expanded to sixteen pages to handle the resulting debate (except it was more a shouting-match than a reasonable airing of different views). More posters went up; they were just as quickly torn down again. An editorial urging temperance on both sides was ignored.

Some of the partisans were having fun; it was sort of neat to be caught up in such a teapot tempest. But as the end drew near, Steamboat Willie was not having fun, and neither was Father Brigham.

“I loathe that self-righteous little piece of shit!” Brigham burst out at a surprised Albert Gendron on the day Albert brought him the infamous “LISTEN UP YOU MACKEREL-SNAPPER” letter which Albert had found taped to the door of his dental office.

“Imagine that whore’s son accusing good Baptists of such a thing!”

Rev. Rose had spat at an equally surprised Norman Harper and Don Hemphill. That had been on Columbus Day, following a call from Father Brigham. Brigham had tried to read the mackerelsnapper letter to Rev.

Rose; Rev. Rose had (quite properly, in the view of his deacons) refused to listen.

Norman Harper, a man who outweighed Albert Gendron by twenty pounds and stood nearly as tall, was made uneasy by the shrill, almost hysterical quality of Rose’s voice, but he didn’t say so. “I’ll tell you what it is,” he rumbled. “Old Father Bog-Trotter’s gotten a little nervous about that card you got at the parsonage, Bill, that’s all.

He’s realized that was going too far. He figures if he says one of his buddy-boys got a letter full of the same kind of filth, it’ll spread the blame around.”

“Well, it won’t work!” Rose’s voice was shriller than ever. “No one in my congregation would be a party to such filth! No one!”

His voice splintered on the last word. His hands opened and closed convulsively. Norman and Don exchanged a quick, uneasy glance.

They had discussed just this sort of behavior, which was becoming more and more common in Rev. Rose, on several occasions over the last few weeks. The Casino Nite business was tearing Bill apart.

The two men were afraid he might actually have a nervous breakdown before the situation was finally resolved.

“Don’t you fret,” Don said soothingly. “We know the truth of the thing, Bill.”

“Yes!” Rev. Rose cried, fixing the two men with a trembling, liquid gaze. “Yes, you know-you two. And I-I know! But what about the rest of this town-uh? Do they know?”

Neither Norman nor Don could answer this.

“I hope someone rides the lying idol-worshipper out on a rail!”

William Rose cried, clenching his fists and shaking them impotently.

“On a rail! I would pay to see that! I would pay handsomely!”

Later on Monday, Father Brigham had phoned around, asking those interested in “the current atmosphere of religious repression in Castle Rock” to drop by the rectory for a brief meeting that evening. So many people showed up that the meeting had to be moved to the Knights of Columbus Hall next door.

Brigham began by speaking of the letter Albert Gendron had found on his door-the letter purporting to be from The Concerned Baptist Men of Castle Rock-and then recounted his unrewarding telephone conversation with Rev. Rose. When he told the assembled group that Rose claimed to have received his own obscene note, a note which purported to be from The Concerned Catholic Men of Castle Rock, there was a rumble from the crowd… shocked at first, then angry.

“The man’s a damned liar!” someone called from the back of the room.

Father Brigham seemed to nod and shake his head at the same time.

“Perhaps, Sam, but that’s not the real issue. He is quite madI think that is the issue.”

Thoughtful, worried silence greeted this, but Father Brigham felt a sense of almost palpable relief, just the same. Quite mad.- it was the first time he had spoken the words aloud, although they had been circling in his mind for at least three years.

“I don’t want to be stopped by a religious nut,” Father Brigham went on. “Our Casino Nite is harmless and wholesome, no matter what the Reverend Steamboat Willie may think about it. But I feel, since he has grown increasingly strident and increasingly less stable, that we should take a vote. If you are in favor of cancelling Casino Nite-of bowing to this pressure in the name of safety-you should say so.”

The vote to hold Casino Nite just as planned had been unanimous.

Father Brigham nodded, pleased. Then he looked at Betsy Vigue.

“You’re going to have a planning session tomorrow night, aren’t you, Betsy?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then may I suggest,” Father Brigham said, “that we men meet here, at the K of C Hall, at just the same time.”

Albert Gendron, a ponderous man who was both slow to anger and slow to recover from anger, got up slowly and stood to his full height.

Necks craned to follow his rise. “Are you suggesting those Baptist clunks might try to bother the ladies, Father?”

“No, no, not at all,” Father Brigham soothed. “But I think it might be wise if we discussed some plans to ensure that Casino Nite itself goes smoothly-”

“Guards?” someone else asked enthusiastically.

“Guards, Father?”