The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (7 page)

On the local news, crowds clot the streets of Washington, chanting and shaking posters of Leslie. Banners cry ‘Save us Saint Leslie!’ and, ‘Kill them all in the name of Leslie'. The bronze-skinned anchorman introduces the nation's premiere Policies Etymologist, Al D. Bankley, Ph.D. The vision eye focuses on the top of his cotton-covered head, his sagging chin, a shaggy white eyebrow, as he talks.

"Let me begin with a definition of my area of study,” he squeaks. “Etymology is the study of the history of how words and their meanings change over time. We call investigation into the history of government policy etymology because policies and their rationales change in much the same fashion, so that meanings completely flip-flop for the same words and phrases. Without etymological scrutiny, policy often bears no apparent relation to the values or philosophies from which it is supposed to grow. This is why my work, and that of my colleagues, is so important to Washington. Popular understanding of policy and the values from which it grows is of the utmost importance in a democratic system. Now take for example the issue of abortion. Washington's anti-abortion stance is, of course, a given. But you may hear an ignorant or ill-informed critic from some rogue state or another say that the Blessing of the Unborn is pro-abortion and unpatriotic."

The expert shakes his head, grinning at the thought.

"Policy history informs us that the Pilgrimage ritual is the natural result of an anti-abortion stance as it became complicated by the War on Cloning, the War on Poverty, and necessary compromises on the War on Stem Cell Technologies. Welfare recipients cannot be allowed to reproduce at the expense of hard-working citizens. Washington's solution has allowed advancements in health and longevity for our citizens through agreements with the Stem Cell companies, so that good can come from the Godless mistakes of these poor women. And the ceremony itself is valuable because it provides the poor mother a chance at redemption. We're not barbarians, and that's the socially responsible thing to do."

The vision eye has turned to the chuckling anchorman.

"Terror readiness advanced today to code Melancholy Apprehension,” he announces, as New York City Police are shown dragging a dark-skinned man to the pavement in Times Square. “Officials in New York, preparing for the upcoming Rebel Day Parade, began a crackdown on potential threats in the area."

A related story shows an increase of public belief in the existence of the Antichrist. “Of course he's real,” a pot-bellied man eating an ice cream cone says. “You can't have a force of good like Father Washington and expect there to be no opposite. That's just called the law of conservatism. And I know a guy who's seen him, too...."

A consumer report follows, discussing the broad success of McDonald's Restaurant's new advertising campaign for their Christian Karma Drive-Thrus. “You collect Penance Points on your free Repentance Card with each purchase of the American Family Meal, and you also get credit on special sale coupons when you magni-size your freedom fries.” The anchorman winks. “Sounds like good family fun."

The first time she punched in his number he answered the second buzz. She was afraid to let him see her and had turned off her visuals with the remote. But she could still see him, larger than life across her vision wall. He had black, kinky hair, but his skin was pale beneath it. His soft chin was concealed in black stubble.

"Is this Roger Calvin?"

"You've got him."

His voice was high pitched and a little weak. Still, her nerve faltered and she felt her face blush. “I—I'd like to meet with you somewhere. I'd like to talk with you."

After a long, baffled pause, the man spoke again. “Oh yeah? Who are you?"

"It's—” She was afraid to tell him. But lying would defeat her purpose. She wanted to break the connection. “It's Leslie Freeman."

"No, really. Who is this? June? Not a funny joke, June—"

"This is no joke."

"Saint Leslie,
that
Leslie, the Security Guard Leslie? The great hero of the day Leslie, the...” His words sprayed out at an even higher pitch. Then, before she could answer, he reached for his control. There was a click, a bright afterimage and then he was gone. In spite of her embarrassment and something that felt suspiciously like shame, the lonely click only made her more determined. She poked in the number again and let the remote buzz for seven minutes. When he finally answered, he was hollering.

"Look! What in Red Hell do you want with me?"

"I want to meet with you and talk."

"What is your problem? I don't fear Washington enough? I haven't done anything."

"I know that. I just want to ask you a few questions about your brother and the Sons of Man."

"Is that all?” He laughed before he said, “This is a setup, isn't it?” His voice calmed suddenly, became almost unconcerned. “On the other hand—” his voice changed yet again, “—maybe that's a moot point.” This time his tone was odd to Leslie. What it signified, she was not sure. But it sounded like a stirring curiosity—a morbid, spiteful desire to meet his brother's killer? Perhaps he noticed his own shifting tone, too, for he was suddenly roaring through the wall: “Why am I even talking with you?” And again the click.

She made the connection a third time and let it buzz while she made herself lunch. She listened to the buzz as she ate a sandwich. She refused to feel any futility. There had been this tone in his voice; she knew he would answer again eventually.

And he did.

Still, she was startled when his face brightened her wall, displacing an ad about erectile dysfunction. This time his voice was calm. Even though she knew he could not see her, his wide, unblinking eyes seemed to stare through her head. “I think you should just leave me alone."

"Roger—"

"Just hang up and forget about this conversation, and I'll forget about it too, and we'll both pretend that this never happened."

"I can't. Please just listen. I've never ... killed anyone before. I never knew your brother. I feel lost without knowing something about him. Don't you understand? Look, I'm not even a Guard anymore. My career is over."

"You want me to tell you something about him so you can feel better about murdering him? You have
got
to be mis-wired. My brother may have been a desperate man, but he wasn't a monster. And I have nothing to explain to you."

"Please."

"Ah, shit, you're pleading. Why are you pleading with me? What do
you
have to be desperate about?” He laughed a flash of dull yellow and silver. “Saint Leslie of Security is pleading. With me. This is really too ... too. And you know something? Damn me to Red Hell, I can't resist. I don't pretend to understand the game we're playing, but I just can't resist. Sure, I'll meet with you. And, believe me, I take no responsibility for what happens if this is a setup. I'm not entirely without ... resources, you know."

"You have my word this is not a setup."

"The word of a saint,” he said. Then he told her to come alone, when to come the next morning, take it or leave it. The connection clicked a final time. Leslie stretched her legs across the couch and tried not to think. If she rocked herself slightly where she sat, the rhythm of her motion could shut everything out. After some moments she found herself pressing into her abdomen, searching.

Oh, it was there, all right. Not that there was any doubt. And she'd already gained four pounds. She rose from the couch and went to the bedroom, to stand in front of her full length mirror. Did she look any different? Maybe. Probably not. She studied her abdomen, her light brown face, thick lips—for a second she puckered, as if giving herself a kiss. Tom had said she was pretty. She supposed it true, but she couldn't see it. She brushed her fingers through her short copper hair. She thought her eyes were set too widely apart. She watched her wide nostrils flare with a surge of scorn.

A corner of her bed was reflected in the mirror. She thought of Tom, over her, crushed against her breasts he said were really no more than thick nipples, then raising himself with his arms, fists on the bed by her muscled shoulders. Driving into her hard, she not wet enough yet and feeling as if he was tearing her open. Leslie closed her eyes to the mirror, to the memory. But with her eyes closed, her body remembered.

Her throat tightened against the sensual memories until it ached like a rough stone. It was like that sometimes. Body associations she couldn't stop. She felt the sliding inner arm of her head mem, seeking control. Tom thrusting into her until his hips were soft against her rough hair. The tightness in her face, muscles like bands of soaked leather drying in the sun. His tongue pushing into her teeth. And then not Tom, but ... her father? At first he fists the hair at the back of her neck. How old is she? Six? Seven? His voice saturating like dirty oil in her ears. A whisper, not a memory, but the echo of one:
Do as Daddy says
. Something salty on her lips and tongue. Then, when she is older, big hands tighten on her wrists as she drops, first to an explosion in her knees, and then friction burning her shoulder blades on the floor. He, swatting her legs. Leslie, standing by the mirror, and Leslie lying on the floor, crying,
Stop, please stop
. She opened her eyes and tried to shut out the sensations.

Tom had known her father. She never asked anymore about their relationship, and Tom rarely offered. Leslie didn't even know where the man was now, since she had been taken away from him by the government. And she couldn't remember what he looked like. Sometimes blurred images—more sensation than sight—pricked through the protection of the head mem. But then they disappeared, and no matter how she tried, she couldn't remember exactly what she had been thinking. She couldn't remember her mother at all. What she could see most clearly in that past was its ending, when security took her away from the country house. Tom was running the operation. She remembered knowing who he was, as if he'd been around for years, a familiar shadow. He found her a home. Then when it didn't work out, he got her into the head mem program, and eventually, the Academy for Security Guard training.

Tom knew how the memories, as vague as they were, made her feel, not only in relation to having sex, but within the context of her whole life. Being forced to do something, told by people with all the symbols, the social trappings of power, told how to act and what to say ... it was like being raped all over again.

Yes, raped, for that was what she believed had happened to her even though she could never get her mind around the memory. And her head mem—the constant programming, reprogramming. Even with her total reliance on it now, it was still like having the vague blur of her imagined old man over her, slamming her head on the floor whenever she tried to fight, to get up, to ... kill him.

Tom knew. And sometimes he seemed so sympathetic, so understanding. But there was the ugly night, probably the night of the conception—and others like it. And now the sainthood. And the idea of an abortion. She wasn't in control.

Leslie's eyes focused on her reflection again. She watched herself sit on the edge of the bed, a pathetic, lonely woman. Oh, she had her vision and she had Gun. And her security job. And in the back of her mind, there was the unspoken chance that she would never have to be alone again ... growing there inside her.

But that's all to end soon, isn't it?

Leslie shook her head, feeling the mental slur of the head mem fragmenting her memories. Sometimes they burst out so sharply. Really, it was a blessing she could only see these glimpses, which soon confused and faded under the programming. She didn't want to see her past any more clearly than that.

The Congregation for the Causes of Saints was the cathedral where all the beatifications, miracle proclamations and saint celebrations, were performed. It took its name from the board which, under the direct supervision of Father Washington, decided such matters. Older than the rebuilding of the White House, it dated back seventy years to the last of the truly great TV Evangelists, legendary Holy Men like Roberts and Graham and Falwell. It was a huge coliseum of glass and steel with a curved stage at one end and seven stories of facing balconies. There was a gallery in front of the cathedral, with sculptures of the Virgin Mary and her Christ before the coming of Father Washington, and sculptures of Father Washington Himself. Behind the cathedral stage stood altars trimmed with gold. Near its center, water rained into a wading pool from the stone mouths of a circle of Minute Men. And Michelangelo's great frescoes were projected overhead on the high vaulted ceilings.

Tom brought her to the cathedral an hour early to run through the ceremony with the rest of the Congregation of Saints. Surrounded by over a dozen agents and guards, she followed the others through the great empty building to sit in a row directly before the stage. Tom had disappeared somewhere behind them. Leslie counted fifty saints in addition to herself and the coordinator of ceremonies, the eldest saint, who stood below the steps of the stage and faced them.

He was a pudgy man with no more than a tuft of white hair sprouting from the back of his head. His voice was oily and soft. “I would like to welcome you all, and thank you for participating in the rebirth of a new member.” Faces turned to Leslie and smiled. She tried to smile in return. The coordinator looked directly at her as the smile caught itself on her uneasiness. “Saint Leslie,” he said. “Welcome to power!"

Leslie thought he was trying to impress her with his own sainthood and decided she didn't like him. He waddled toward her and clasped her hand with doughy fingers. When Leslie realized he wasn't intending to release her hand, she squeezed against his grip until he changed his mind. “Yes, well,” he said. Then he regained his composure. “You'll find being a saint has myriad advantages, my dear. Since we're heroes, you know, a lot of people do as we say. But with power comes responsibility. You will see people from all walks of life trying to emulate your lifestyle, your fashions.” He chuckled. “It can be quite fun. By the way, I'll be interested in hearing what you think of our syncretic little ritual here."