Read Towing Jehovah for Free Online Page B
Authors: James Morrow
blue jeans and khaki work shirts bustled through the great stainless-steel kitchen, filling the freezers and refrigerators with provisions: tubs of ice cream, wheels of cheese, planks of ham, sides of beef, sacks of Cheerios, barrels of milk, pools of salad oil sealed in 55-gallon drums like so much Texas crude. A propane-fueled Toyota forklift truck chugged past, its orange body peppered with rust, its prongs supporting a paddock piled high with crates of fresh eggs.
"Who the hell are these people?" asked Anthony.
"Vatican longshoremen," Ockham explained.
"They look like women to me."
"They're Carmelites."
"Who?"
"Carmelite nuns."
In the center of the kitchen stood portly Sam Follingsbee, dressed in a white apron and supervising the chaos like a cop directing traffic. Catching sight of his visitors, the steward waddled over and tipped his big, floppy cream puff of a hat.
"Thanks for the recommendation, sir." Follingsbee clasped his captain's hand. "I needed this ship, I really did." Swinging his formidable belly toward the priest, he asked, "Father Ockham, right?" Ockham nodded. "Father, I'm puzzled—how come a crummy Carpco voyage rates the services of all these lovely sisters, not to mention yourself?"
"This isn't a Carpco voyage," said Ockham.
"So what's the deal?"
"Once we're at sea, things will become clearer." The priest drummed his bony fingers on the checklist.
"Now I'll ask a question. On Friday I put in a requisition for one thousand communion wafers. They look a bit like poker chips . . ."
Follingsbee chuckled. "I know what they look like, Father— you're talkin' to an ex-altar boy. Not to worry. We got all them hosts in freezer number six—couldn't be safer. Will you be celebratin'
Mass every day?"
"Naturally."
"I'll be there," said Follingsbee, starting back into the heart of the hubbub. "Well, maybe not every day." His eye caught a Carmelite maneuvering a wheel of cheddar across the floor like a child playing with a hoop. "Hey, Sister, carry that thing—don't fuckin' roll it!" The forklift truck pulled up, and a plump, ruddy nun climbed down from behind the wheel, a string of smoked sausages hanging about her neck like a yoke. Her step struck Anthony as remarkably lively, a sashay, really, if nuns sashayed. Evidently she moved to the beat of whatever private concert was pouring from the Sony Walkman strapped to her waist.
"Tom!" The nun ripped off her headphones. "Tom Ockham!"
"Miriam, darling! How wonderful! I didn't know they'd recruited you ! " The priest threw his arms around the nun and planted a sprightly kiss on her cheek. "Get my letter?"
"I did, Tom. Oddest words I ever read. And yet, somehow, I sensed they were true."
"All true," said the priest. "Rome, Gabriel, the slides, the EKG . . ."
"A bad business."
"The worst."
"There's no hope?"
"You know me, the eternal pessimist."
Anthony massaged his beard. The banter between Ockham and Sister Miriam bewildered him. It seemed a conversation less between a priest and a nun than between two passé movie actors encountering each other on a Hollywood set twenty years after their amicable divorce.
"Darling, meet Anthony Van Horne—the planet's greatest living sailor, or so the angels believed," said Ockham. "Miriam and I go back a long way," he told the captain. "At Loyola they're still using a textbook we wrote in the early seventies, Introduction to Theodicy."
"What's theodicy?" asked Anthony.
"Hard to explain."
"Sounds like idiocy."
"Much of it is."
"Theodicy means reconciling God's goodness with the world's evils." Sister Miriam snapped off a smoked sausage and took a bite. "Dinner," she explained, chewing slowly. "Captain, I want to come along."
"Along where?"
"On the voyage."
"Bad idea."
"It's a splendid idea," said the priest. He gestured toward the sausages. "Would you mind? I haven't eaten all day."
"One PAC is enough," said Anthony.
Miriam snapped off a second sausage and handed it to
"Who the hell are these people?" asked Anthony.
"Vatican longshoremen," Ockham explained.
"They look like women to me."
"They're Carmelites."
"Who?"
"Carmelite nuns."
In the center of the kitchen stood portly Sam Follingsbee, dressed in a white apron and supervising the chaos like a cop directing traffic. Catching sight of his visitors, the steward waddled over and tipped his big, floppy cream puff of a hat.
"Thanks for the recommendation, sir." Follingsbee clasped his captain's hand. "I needed this ship, I really did." Swinging his formidable belly toward the priest, he asked, "Father Ockham, right?" Ockham nodded. "Father, I'm puzzled—how come a crummy Carpco voyage rates the services of all these lovely sisters, not to mention yourself?"
"This isn't a Carpco voyage," said Ockham.
"So what's the deal?"
"Once we're at sea, things will become clearer." The priest drummed his bony fingers on the checklist.
"Now I'll ask a question. On Friday I put in a requisition for one thousand communion wafers. They look a bit like poker chips . . ."
Follingsbee chuckled. "I know what they look like, Father— you're talkin' to an ex-altar boy. Not to worry. We got all them hosts in freezer number six—couldn't be safer. Will you be celebratin'
Mass every day?"
"Naturally."
"I'll be there," said Follingsbee, starting back into the heart of the hubbub. "Well, maybe not every day." His eye caught a Carmelite maneuvering a wheel of cheddar across the floor like a child playing with a hoop. "Hey, Sister, carry that thing—don't fuckin' roll it!" The forklift truck pulled up, and a plump, ruddy nun climbed down from behind the wheel, a string of smoked sausages hanging about her neck like a yoke. Her step struck Anthony as remarkably lively, a sashay, really, if nuns sashayed. Evidently she moved to the beat of whatever private concert was pouring from the Sony Walkman strapped to her waist.
"Tom!" The nun ripped off her headphones. "Tom Ockham!"
"Miriam, darling! How wonderful! I didn't know they'd recruited you ! " The priest threw his arms around the nun and planted a sprightly kiss on her cheek. "Get my letter?"
"I did, Tom. Oddest words I ever read. And yet, somehow, I sensed they were true."
"All true," said the priest. "Rome, Gabriel, the slides, the EKG . . ."
"A bad business."
"The worst."
"There's no hope?"
"You know me, the eternal pessimist."
Anthony massaged his beard. The banter between Ockham and Sister Miriam bewildered him. It seemed a conversation less between a priest and a nun than between two passé movie actors encountering each other on a Hollywood set twenty years after their amicable divorce.
"Darling, meet Anthony Van Horne—the planet's greatest living sailor, or so the angels believed," said Ockham. "Miriam and I go back a long way," he told the captain. "At Loyola they're still using a textbook we wrote in the early seventies, Introduction to Theodicy."
"What's theodicy?" asked Anthony.
"Hard to explain."
"Sounds like idiocy."
"Much of it is."
"Theodicy means reconciling God's goodness with the world's evils." Sister Miriam snapped off a smoked sausage and took a bite. "Dinner," she explained, chewing slowly. "Captain, I want to come along."
"Along where?"
"On the voyage."
"Bad idea."
"It's a splendid idea," said the priest. He gestured toward the sausages. "Would you mind? I haven't eaten all day."
"One PAC is enough," said Anthony.
Miriam snapped off a second sausage and handed it to