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Chapter XXXIII pgs. 213-315
But in those moments before Alex reached the aisle, his father’s image flashed in his mind. And he could feel the words inside his bones. “I’m very disappointed in you.” Alex paused. Remordia, he thought. He wanted God’s peace, and he needed his father’s respect – that and the demi-god life he’d built. Save me from this craziness, he thought. He was Alex Lidecker. He could have anything he wanted. Well, he wanted it all.
Now several more people had gathered at the altar, and Alex recognized the one who was speaking. “The doctors say I have cancer, and I don’t want to die with these sins on my chest.” The man who spoke was Mathew Wisecraven, and he had worked with Alex. What’s more, he worked for Homeland Security. “They did a biopsy, and I go in for surgery next week. Doc says my chances are pretty good, but he says it’s in my liver, and he says that it probably started somewhere else.”
Alex wished for a curare dart and blowgun, or at least a cyanide bullet. Anything to shut Matthew’s mouth quietly and permanently. This was no time to be unburdening. This was a time that cried for secrecy, conspiracy. Alex had just survived a narrow brush with religiosity, and now this! So much was riding on discretion.
He hadn’t realized that Matthew was sick. Matthew was just a very average, graying guy with a small paunch, a small moustache, and a larger than average Adam’s apple. Alex scrutinized him for signs of illness, but there were none - or maybe just a hint of weariness around Matthew Wisecraven’s eyes. What sort of cowardice was this?
Frantically Alex thought about the secrets that Matthew had been privy to, hoping that he was only going to confess something about sex or drugs or swearing at his father. Surely anyone who worked for Homeland knew enough to keep silent.
“We made up the connection between Sadaam and Al Qaida. They hate each other. And we made up Iraq’s nuclear threat. The uranium deal – all faked. As if someone could build a nuclear bomb unnoticed by all the United Nations inspectors and all the American spy planes.” Mathew was pouring out secrets as if his very soul depended on them. Fortunately he was babbling so badly that no one in the congregation took anything he said seriously. At least Alex hoped that no one understood any of it.
“The threat to the bridges on the West Coast - we made that up too.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke. “And they’re torturing the prisoners at Guantanamo, and I knew and never did anything about it.”
Alex breathed easier. It was old news. No one cared about nuclear bombs and bridges. And no one would believe that the United States could torture prisoners. Still, from here on in, Alex would have to make sure that Matthew didn’t get any sensitive information. Anyway, depending on what the doctors found, Matthew might not be coming back to Homeland ever.
The sense of God’s spirit was now a memory. Had it really happened? Was this some trick, some mass hallucination? He watched the people around him and considered himself an island of sanity amid a sea of hysteria. And he sat back down, realizing as he did so, that he wanted his demi-god’s life more than he wanted God’s peace. So be it.
But what about the others? In a panic, Alex looked around to see who else was in church. Who else might hear the sermon and get gabby? Ernie was there, but he had enough sense not to fall sway to that confess and repent routine. Alex was smarter and braver than God and he had a stronger will. No surprise here.
But then Alex realized that even the most loyal follower could turn coward when old age and death breathed into his nostrils. Someone about to die might get superstitious and need this mumbo jumbo to face up to the old grim reaper in the clouds. No more sensitive jobs to people over sixty-five, thought Alex, or to anyone with serious health problems. He might have to figure out a way to change the laws on age discrimination, but he probably wouldn’t have to go to too much trouble. No one was about to accuse this administration of prejudice – not this administration.
Finally it was all over, and people left in a long line, stopping to shake the pastor’s hand on the way out.
“Great sermon, moving.” But Alex said the words mechanically. Actually, he wanted to flog the reverend with a bullwhip. Unconsciously he made a fist and pictured it beating the man’s face into bleeding meat. Alex could almost feel the pastor’s teeth cracking from the power of his imagined blows. He wanted to curse, to will pain, suffering, on the man. And you call yourself a Christian, he thought, a Christian and a patriot. How dare you! If Alex had had the power to damn to hell, the pastor would have been struck down right there on the Church steps. Alex realized that he’d have to be more careful about what was preached in places of worship.
So much to hold down! So much to control! Was anyone else at Homeland or in the White House dying? This was no time for deathbed confessions! Medical records were hard to obtain, but not impossible. In fact, nothing was impossible to obtain in the name of national security. Strange, death used to be Alex’s friend – not just a tool, but more like a comrade working by his side, helping to fulfill Alex’s new American dream. He’d never considered death a problem before.
Chapter XXXIII pgs. 213-315
But in those moments before Alex reached the aisle, his father’s image flashed in his mind. And he could feel the words inside his bones. “I’m very disappointed in you.” Alex paused. Remordia, he thought. He wanted God’s peace, and he needed his father’s respect – that and the demi-god life he’d built. Save me from this craziness, he thought. He was Alex Lidecker. He could have anything he wanted. Well, he wanted it all.
Now several more people had gathered at the altar, and Alex recognized the one who was speaking. “The doctors say I have cancer, and I don’t want to die with these sins on my chest.” The man who spoke was Mathew Wisecraven, and he had worked with Alex. What’s more, he worked for Homeland Security. “They did a biopsy, and I go in for surgery next week. Doc says my chances are pretty good, but he says it’s in my liver, and he says that it probably started somewhere else.”
Alex wished for a curare dart and blowgun, or at least a cyanide bullet. Anything to shut Matthew’s mouth quietly and permanently. This was no time to be unburdening. This was a time that cried for secrecy, conspiracy. Alex had just survived a narrow brush with religiosity, and now this! So much was riding on discretion.
He hadn’t realized that Matthew was sick. Matthew was just a very average, graying guy with a small paunch, a small moustache, and a larger than average Adam’s apple. Alex scrutinized him for signs of illness, but there were none - or maybe just a hint of weariness around Matthew Wisecraven’s eyes. What sort of cowardice was this?
Frantically Alex thought about the secrets that Matthew had been privy to, hoping that he was only going to confess something about sex or drugs or swearing at his father. Surely anyone who worked for Homeland knew enough to keep silent.
“We made up the connection between Sadaam and Al Qaida. They hate each other. And we made up Iraq’s nuclear threat. The uranium deal – all faked. As if someone could build a nuclear bomb unnoticed by all the United Nations inspectors and all the American spy planes.” Mathew was pouring out secrets as if his very soul depended on them. Fortunately he was babbling so badly that no one in the congregation took anything he said seriously. At least Alex hoped that no one understood any of it.
“The threat to the bridges on the West Coast - we made that up too.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke. “And they’re torturing the prisoners at Guantanamo, and I knew and never did anything about it.”
Alex breathed easier. It was old news. No one cared about nuclear bombs and bridges. And no one would believe that the United States could torture prisoners. Still, from here on in, Alex would have to make sure that Matthew didn’t get any sensitive information. Anyway, depending on what the doctors found, Matthew might not be coming back to Homeland ever.
The sense of God’s spirit was now a memory. Had it really happened? Was this some trick, some mass hallucination? He watched the people around him and considered himself an island of sanity amid a sea of hysteria. And he sat back down, realizing as he did so, that he wanted his demi-god’s life more than he wanted God’s peace. So be it.
But what about the others? In a panic, Alex looked around to see who else was in church. Who else might hear the sermon and get gabby? Ernie was there, but he had enough sense not to fall sway to that confess and repent routine. Alex was smarter and braver than God and he had a stronger will. No surprise here.
But then Alex realized that even the most loyal follower could turn coward when old age and death breathed into his nostrils. Someone about to die might get superstitious and need this mumbo jumbo to face up to the old grim reaper in the clouds. No more sensitive jobs to people over sixty-five, thought Alex, or to anyone with serious health problems. He might have to figure out a way to change the laws on age discrimination, but he probably wouldn’t have to go to too much trouble. No one was about to accuse this administration of prejudice – not this administration.
Finally it was all over, and people left in a long line, stopping to shake the pastor’s hand on the way out.
“Great sermon, moving.” But Alex said the words mechanically. Actually, he wanted to flog the reverend with a bullwhip. Unconsciously he made a fist and pictured it beating the man’s face into bleeding meat. Alex could almost feel the pastor’s teeth cracking from the power of his imagined blows. He wanted to curse, to will pain, suffering, on the man. And you call yourself a Christian, he thought, a Christian and a patriot. How dare you! If Alex had had the power to damn to hell, the pastor would have been struck down right there on the Church steps. Alex realized that he’d have to be more careful about what was preached in places of worship.
So much to hold down! So much to control! Was anyone else at Homeland or in the White House dying? This was no time for deathbed confessions! Medical records were hard to obtain, but not impossible. In fact, nothing was impossible to obtain in the name of national security. Strange, death used to be Alex’s friend – not just a tool, but more like a comrade working by his side, helping to fulfill Alex’s new American dream. He’d never considered death a problem before.
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