The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (4 page)

When she entered the front lobby of security headquarters one of the personnel managers under Tom's supervision caught her and led her into his sterile office. He sat on the edge of his desk and guzzled coffee. She met his eye, standing just inside his door, and watched him try to say something mid-swallow. His mug came down, his free hand up. “I forgot to offer you a cup."

"Sure, why not? Then tell me what's going on, Meyer."

He straightened and reached for the pot beside his work screen. “My mind. It's muddy until after the first, oh, gallon. Forgive me.” He handed her a Styrofoam cup, then leaned again on his desk. “Tom said you might be in this morning. Did he forget to remind you last night? I'm sure you two had better things to do than talk about work—"

"Remind me of what?"

"Come on, Leslie. You've been proclaimed a saint. You don't work here anymore."

"That's ridiculous."

"That's the way it's done. Feel privileged. You've become an honorary member of Congress, and you don't even have a stock portfolio. Didn't Tom discuss this with you?” He clenched his eyebrows and scratched at his thin yellow goatee.

"I enjoy Security, Meyer. And I'm already here anyway. Why don't you just give me an assignment and pretend you forgot?"

"We have the agents too, you know, and—"

"Piss on the agents. All they're good for is standing in the way of a laser stream. If they were adequate what would any of us be doing here at all? Let me do something. Let me cover the Pilgrimage. My last day. That's all I ask."

"Just go home and rest up for your big night."

"The congregation of pilgrims will only last a couple of hours. Just pull somebody off and put me on."

He sighed and finished his coffee. A drop had dribbled into his beard. He wiped at it and scrutinized Leslie, his face hardening. “I never could understand why so many people around here are always making allowances for you. Why is this so important?"

"Does it matter? It's my last request."

He continued to stare, and she became certain he would tell her to forget it. Even as she felt the sweat on her back and forehead she wondered herself why this was so important. She wanted to see the pilgrims, that's all. She wanted to be with them, wanted to hear what Father Washington would have to say this time.

"Let me call Tom to authorize it, okay?"

Her vision blurred. She didn't believe Russell would agree to any such request. Meyer rounded his desk and turned on his screen. Then he told Tom what Leslie wanted. There was a moment's pause, then she heard his voice: “Leslie?"

"Yes, Tom."

"You'll be finished with the pilgrims by two-thirty the latest. Stick around; I'll meet you there. That's an order."

"Yes, sir."

Meyer switched off the communication line and shook his head. “Welcome back to the work force, Saint Leslie of Security."

As the sweat cooled against her back, Leslie thought perhaps Tom
did
understand at least a little, and was grateful.

The early September sun was a ball of bright dust. Rather than luminosity, it offered a pervading, smothering warmth. Summer was old and, with the thin smog above and the crowded White House grounds below, dirty. The red, white and blue, twenty storied ziggurat of the White House was the only thing seeming untarnished by the dull air. The pilgrims congregated on the lawn, and Leslie was one of the thirty other guards patrolling their borders inside the high fence, barbed at the top, around them. That didn't count the agents, on the other side of the fences, numbly keeping the crowds at a distance. There were demonstrators there, following a long and occasionally honored tradition of American expression.

Leslie held no sympathy for them. In number they tripled the quiet, long-faced, thousand-or-so women inside the cordons. They screamed incomprehensible chants, shook signs and fists. Leslie wasn't sure, but it seemed she saw far more men than women among them, which didn't really surprise her. Men had been making decisions for women for a long time. What did surprise her, however, was the resentment rising from her stomach as she watched the demonstrators jumping and raging and singing in the hope they would catch the attention of the vision crews already scattered across the lawn, and on both sides of the fences. Would any of these earnest heroes hide her while her womb ripened, and offer to take on the child as their own? She wondered if there were any Atheists among them.

Really, the demonstrators were as impotent in their effect as the ritualized demonstrations routinely staged by Washington in honor of the Holy Spirit of Revolution. Her resentment of them was not in proportion to that reality.

Somehow, the nearest vision crew, thirty feet up on its scaffolding, hadn't noticed Leslie yet, for no mechanical eyes had approached her through the crowd. At least she hadn't noticed any. She was relieved, even though she knew it couldn't last much longer. Many nearby women were paying too much attention to her. Widened eyes, murmurs, affectionate grins, excited gestures, awed glances. “Saint Leslie!” someone cried. “Hey, Saint Leslie! It's Saint Leslie!"

No, the crews would see her soon enough. She turned away from the women and scrutinized the sniper towers along the fence, but could see none of the agents and guards who occupied them. A woman near her cried for Father Washington. Leslie looked. It was a young girl; perhaps she was thirteen. She had sagged to her knees on the grass, tears made her cheeks slick. Still, Leslie was unsure whether it was grief or gratitude overwhelming her. Soon her belly would be sucked clean and she would be like an empty gourd, but for the knowledge that her unborn had been blessed by the mortal hand of the Lord. Leslie watched this girl for a long time.

"It is. Do you see her? Saint Leslie—"

The voice sounded too close. Leslie half turned. Nearly a dozen young women had ventured closer to her. One of them reached out with a fleshy, sagging arm and nearly touched her shoulder.

"I'm not here to socialize,” Leslie said. “Please back away."

"Leslie!"

As the others nudged her, the fat woman stumbled still closer. Her creased, sausage fingers gripped Leslie's arm. Immediately, Leslie yanked Gun from under her summer jacket. She poked the barrel into the flesh of the lurching woman's side, where it caught in the light fabric of her bright dress. Leslie heard a rip as the woman fell against her companions, squealing. Her face contorted in surprise, then fear.

Leslie raised Gun high so they all would see it. Awkwardly, they backed away. As Leslie watched their betrayed faces retreat, she wondered if the vision crews had caught the commotion. When she looked up, she saw at least one had—he stood a few yards away, his green glowing eyes fixed on her.

She vaguely heard the voices of the women: “You know, she's a lot darker than on vision. Is she black?"

"Leave it to a nigger to pull a gun on you."

"Even if she
is
going to be a saint."

She felt her heart sinking as Gun buzzed. She held it in front of her. “Leslie here."

"It's me,” the sector coordinator said. “Caught a little motion. How's your area?"

"Yes, a little problem a moment ago, but it's over."

"Good. Father Washington is on his way out."

Leslie nodded absently, then quietly laughed at herself. “I'm ready if you are.” Then she put Gun away. Shortly, two flag bearers appeared on the porch of the great ziggurat and each stood by a large column. The Speaker of the House, corpulent and balding, followed them. He led the pilgrims in reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. His voice cracked out across the lawn through enormous speakers. When the pledge was finished he introduced the Presidential Procession. Gun buzzed again.

"Don't forget to watch for Atheists, Leslie,” the coordinator joked.

"You just worry about your own area."

"You looked a little too absorbed in the ceremony."

"Well, best you look for Atheists instead of watching me, honey. I'm doing fine."

"Wish I could say the same, really. We just had a couple of anti-abortionists climbing the fence."

She glanced back up at the porch. More flags, Presidential Aides, the President Himself, and in the background, several more agents and two guards. Washington was a tall, chunky man with thick silver hair and eyes that seemed bright even from a distance. One of his aides whispered into his ear, motioning in Leslie's direction. She looked away, shivering. There was something about him that made the invisible tentacles of her head mem coil around her thoughts. She didn't know why.

The coordinator was right—she was too engrossed in the ceremony. A fine saint she would make if, on her promotion day, she allowed Father Washington to be blown away by some heretic Evildoer. She tried to ignore the speeches and blessings that followed, like a good Guard. But something went cold in her and she dwelled on the incident with the ugly woman who had touched her. Even when she overheard the blanketing blessings—to solace mothers and their unborn across all the United States who were unable to take part in this season's pilgrimage—she could not temper the cold. She thought about her fight with Tom, again.

An Atheist. An unborn.

After Washington's final address, when the drum and bugle corps began to sound out
Taps
, the coordinator called her a final time. “Word's come down from behind the columns that Father Washington would like a word with you when you're done. They'll send an Agent down to escort you.” He whistled. “I'm impressed."

Leslie frowned. Russell would have to wait. Which made her breathe easier, even as she grew nervous about facing the President. She watched the women as the Presidential procession retreated into the House. They were quiet—most of them were on their knees, many sobbing.
Assimilating favors.
She could not recall ever having used the word ‘assimilate’ before. Her new programming. Leslie started toward the porch steps and women moved to get out of her way. An Agent from the White House approached her, his young face smooth and expressionless, then walked ahead of her. She climbed the steps and let him lead her inside. She felt an involuntary relief at being quit of the people behind her—the demonstrators, still chanting, and the blessed women with their blessed fruit.

An Atheist and an unborn fetus....

She thought about Gun's information, about the man she'd killed, about his brother. Roger Calvin. She didn't want to feel this way, the edges of obsession, needing to see this dead man's kin. She didn't want to think about Atheists at all. Or for that matter, Tom, or unborn children. Then what
should
she think about? Her sainthood?

Try that. Think about ‘Saint Leslie of Security'.

They took the elevator to the seventh floor, and then the Agent led her to a meeting room with an antique oval table in its center. Sunlight from the window across the room reflected in patches across the table's polished surface. Without a word, the Agent left her alone. The walls were covered with paintings. To Leslie's right were the stations of Christ; to her left, the stations of Washington. There was the great Father Washington, cutting down the Tree, praying over his people in Valley Forge and giving a poor foot soldier the jacket of his Holy Business Suit. He stood proudly as he crossed the Delaware, gazing sternly at something beyond her. She moved closer to Him, thick carpeting silent under her shoes. Then the door which had just closed behind the Agent slid open again.

"Hello, Leslie. Saint Leslie, that is."

She faced Him and He smiled. His voice was gentle, yet strong, like His smooth skin over perfect muscle and bone. “Please sit down."

"Yes, Mr. President,” she murmured. She pulled a chair from under the table. She fought to keep from shaking, and to continue breathing.

"I was sorry to make you wait, but I wanted to get most of this make-up off. Ugh.” He mimed rubbing at His face, then sat at the table with her ... right by her.

She had been a Guard for nearly three years now, through almost all but the first year of Washington's term, and in that time she had never been this close to Him, never been spoken to directly by Him. Part of her groped for the feeling of inner movement, arms reaching, or even the false nausea, which would mean her head mem was guiding her.

He spoke again. “When I heard you were here I couldn't resist the opportunity to personally share my gratitude with you. Of course, someone is going to have to come up with a good explanation for your presence, but we'll worry on that later, won't we?” He smiled again. “You know these assassination attempts are usually foiled long before I'm in any personal danger, so it's true, it's rare someone truly, personally, saves my life. Of course it isn't as rare as I would have it.... “He took her hand and kissed it. When He raised His face up, His eyes held a playful light. In spite of herself, Leslie smiled. She realized Washington was flirting with her, and recognized the inner motion of the head mem, almost at the same time.

Still holding her hand, the President said, “So how do you feel about your dawning sainthood, hmmm? You can be honest with me."

"Well,” she licked her lips. “It's flattering, but overwhelming. I haven't really thought about it as much as you might imagine."

Washington chuckled. “You'll have plenty of time to think about it after tonight. It is a great thing. A great opportunity. And as you know, not only for you."

Leslie stared, unsure if she should ask Washington to explain.

God, he scares me.

She watched his easy expression change, almost indiscernibly. He clearly expected her to say something, but she didn't want to admit confusion. In the absence of her response, He spoke again. “You're doing Washington every bit as much a service by becoming a saint as you already have done by saving His life.” He smiled, but now His gaze scrutinized her. “You look puzzled."

Leslie shook her head. She felt she was being tested, but didn't know why.

"It's simple, my dear. You will inspire the citizens who watch on the vision to maintain a certain attitude, perform their daily roles in certain ways. Your baptism into Congress is a statement. I'm sure I don't have to tell you what a rising threat Atheism has become. There's nothing holy or apparently moral Washington can openly do to abolish it. But proper coverage of your story encourages the belief Atheism weakens our collective spirit. These kinds of personality stories—the success of an underdog like you—work magic on public opinions. Why, if we're lucky we'll incite a few healthy riots. And with elections coming up in November—well I don't need to tell you how good it will be for me to embrace a national hero such as yourself when people go to the ballot box."