The Trinity (32 page)

Chris appreciates the gesture. He does feel like he belongs.

They all sit down. Chris expects the priest to say some sort of blessing, but he doesn’t. He pushes up his sleeves and attacks his pile of spaghetti with a certain vigor.

They eat mostly in silence, but the priest talks of current events: the bombing of Libya, the threat of nuclear war, which he feels won’t last forever, and the problems in Israel, between the Palestinians and the Jews. “That,” he says of the latter, “should worry us more than the Russians, and in a while, I am sure you will see why.”

“Yup,” says Brad, “you surely will.” The priest stares at Hinckley with mild irritation, as if he intends to be the lone speaker for this evening, and interruptions won’t be permitted. Brad feels the stare, sees the mirth in the priest’s eyes, and in embarrassment, quickly drains his glass of wine.

The things Crowley will use to lure Chris into his realm are different than what he used on Hinckley. Hinckley was very simple, just alcohol with a little rage. With Chris, he knows his approach will be with alcohol, and food for the intellect. Chris may be enticed by the Nordic gods, and learn how a Caucasian fellow such as himself can only find happiness with the only religion nature ever intended him to have. He has never discussed such things with Brad more than briefly.

Chris eats slowly, but Crowley and Brad eat quickly. The priest notices with growing irritation that his pants are constantly getting tighter. Chris tries to eat neatly, taking care to place a napkin on his lap the way his mother taught him when in the presence of company. He rolls his spaghetti tightly on his fork, in contrast to the priest and Brad, who slurp the noodles almost directly from the plate, using the fork more as a prop than as a utensil.

Crowley brings out an apple pie that he bought from the freezer section in the base commissary, along with vanilla ice cream, which he scoops liberally onto the pieces of pie that he takes right out of the oven. This is one of Chris’s favorites, and this he eats not so casually. The priest offers coffee, but Chris and Brad refuse in favor of beer, which they drink while Crowley cleans the kitchen rapidly with little regard to perfect cleanliness.

Chris and Brad retire to the living room while Crowley finishes in the kitchen. Brad wordlessly piles more coal on the fire. The extra warmth makes Chris realize that he is indeed intoxicated. But the feeling is not at all unpleasant, and he feels as comfortable as he ever has at any point in his life. It feels almost like Christmas at his grandparents’ in northern Michigan so many years ago, when he was just seven or eight. They had a fireplace and he remembers feeling very safe as the wind and the snow swirled outside the window as he and his brother opened presents in their pajamas that had feet sewn in while in front of the warm fireplace, and his parents and grandparents were all smiling, casually sipping steaming mugs of coffee.

He feels that way now, as if he is in the cradle of someone who cares. The fireplace reminds him of that scene so many years ago. By the following Christmas, his parents had stopped smiling and his grandfather had had a stroke. His grandparents moved closer to Detroit for access to doctors and clinics. They spent their remaining years in a walk-out apartment in a cinderblock building designed for seniors.

Crowley enters the living room, the goblet in his hand. He smiles at Chris and then briefly studies a fresh set of maps above the sofa.

“Well, Chris,” he begins as he sits down on the sagging armchair that Brad knows is reserved just for him, “was the dinner good?”

“Oh, yes, sir, very. Thank you.”

“We’re off base now, my good man. You can dispense with the ‘sir’s. Call me ‘Father’, as I am used to it and will be sure to answer, or you can call me Alex, whichever you prefer.”

Hinckley is jealous. He has always called the priest ‘sir’, and had never been invited to refer to him in any other way. He didn’t even know that Crowley’s first name is Alex.

“I think I would feel more comfortable with calling you Father, if that’s okay.”

“Yes, yes. Absolutely, absolutely, whatever you like and whenever you like.”

“Thanks,” says Chris.

“Now,” the priest begins, rubbing his hands together, “I promised you something when I invited you here, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“If I can recall correctly, though it was several Masses ago, I think I told you how you could find peace, the kind of peace that most people spend a lifetime searching for.”

“Yes,” Chris says.

“You’re still interested?”

“Yes, very much. I’ve been wondering lately, about God, you know, the meaning of life, why I’m here, what all this means, this stuff that I’ve been through, you know, what life is supposed to be about.”

“Well, some of those questions, I am afraid, will have to go unanswered, at least for the time being. But I can tell you the answers won’t be found in the Bible, the Koran, or the Torah. I should know; I know all the works intimately, especially the Bible.” Crowley sips his wine, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

“I only know about the Bible,” explains Chris. “I’ve never heard of those other ones.”

“Not to worry,” says the priest. “They’re not worth knowing about. The Koran is the holy book for Islam, the Torah is for the Jews, and they’re all dribble. They’re all rubbish, and so is the Bible.”

Chris stares at the priest wide-eyed. He knows little of the Bible, except that it is divided into the Old and New Testaments. He does know, and has always felt intuitively, that it is a book to be revered and never bad-mouthed. He has always had the impression that to talk ill of the Bible was a sin in and of itself. He recalls some of the black recruits from the south in his company in boot camp. They gave their little pocket version of the New Testament its own revered place in their footlockers. Nothing could be placed on top of it. They showed the book that much respect.

Crowley notices Chris’s look of morbid confusion. “I fully expect you to be shocked by what I have to tell you. It is information that is not easy to digest, but as it all becomes clear, you will feel like a great fog has been lifted from your eyes and the order of the world—the nature of predisposition, and the reason for many of life’s mysteries—will be revealed to you. That revelation will give you an incredible sort of power that a mere mortal can hardly contend with.”

Chris likes the sound of that. He has felt everything but powerful throughout his life. Even though the Navy has given him more freedom than he has ever realized, he is as near to the bottom of the ranks as is possible. The weight of the entire Navy stands above him. He has no power, no authority over anything or anyone, except his own destiny and the course he wishes it to take.

“Any questions so far?” the priest asks.

“No, Father, none.”

“Very well, but first let me refresh my drink. Beer, anyone?”

Chris declines and Hinckley asks for another tin. The priest goes to the kitchen to refill his goblet. He returns to the living room with a freshly opened bottle of wine. He does not bring Brad a beer.

“Now,” he continues, “where do all three of the major religions have their origins?”

“I don’t know,” Chris says.

“The Jews come from Israel,” inserts Hinckley, starting to feel starved for attention.

“Very good, Mr. Hinckley, very good. I didn’t think you would know that, but looks can be deceiving,” he says, paying Brad a compliment followed by a back-handed insult. The insinuation is lost on Hinckley.

“Yeah, I knew that, and Jesus was Jewish, and the Christians probably came from Israel too?”

“Yes indeed, yes indeed. Christianity did spread from Israel. And Islam, where do you suppose it started?”

“I don’t know.” Chris’s conscience has been bombarded with images of Palestinians across countless television screens and photographs in newspapers and magazines, throwing rocks at Israeli soldiers. He knows the Palestinians to be Muslim, and he also knows the Libyans are Muslim, as is the rest of the Middle East, a region of the world that he regards rather darkly, based on his impressions of current events. “I guess the Middle East, somewhere in there,” he says, not entirely sure of his answer.

“That is correct. Saudi Arabia, to be precise, is where that religion took wing, fairly recently, actually. In the grand scheme of things, it’s a mere babe compared to the other religions, especially to the one I am going to introduce to you shortly.”

Chris lights a cigarette, and Brad, without asking, takes one from Chris’s pack, which is set upon the coffee table.

“Now, unless I am entirely mistaken, I would say you’re a Caucasian, a white male, one hundred percent, not a drop of black or red or yellow or Arabic blood in you. Is that correct?”

“Yeah, sure, of course,” replies Chris.

“And so is Mr. Hinckley and so am I, which is why we’re all here, together, in this house, without the company of blacks or Hispanics or any other lesser race of man.”

Chris notices the use of the word “lesser” in reference to minorities, but his mind is too intoxicated to take offense.

“Where do people of our race traditionally hail from?” asks the priest, enjoying the flow of this conversation, of this instruction. Every statement he has made has been unchallenged, and he feels smug in his intellectual superiority.

“I guess we all came from over here somewhere, you know, Europe.”

“Right, mainly northern and central Europe, to be more specific, but not the Middle East, wouldn’t you agree?”

Chris nods and sips his beer.

“Now, I can tell you most assuredly that Europe was civilized and populated long before the birth of Christ, long before the Zionist spread of Christianity. You see, those religions—the three big monstrosities—weren’t designed for people like you and me. We had our own religion, a library of beliefs and gods that were natural to us, given to us, and meant for us alone. It is blasphemous for people of our race to worship any god other than what was intended for us. You, my kind young sir,” he points at Chris, “are a descendant of pure and noble and superior European stock, and your ancestors were born under the all-knowing and illuminating eye of Odin.

“Our true religion, mine, yours and anyone of European descent’s, has a written history going back some eight thousand years, long before that lousy little Jew was born. The religion is called Odinism, and our Father is a god called Odin, who sits right now in his hall in Valhalla, smiling upon us. He is the father of all the gods, and also the god of magic, the god of poetry, the god of death, essentially all that is beautiful and ugly in this world. We are all a result of his union with the goddess Frigga. She is the mother of all the gods, as well as the goddess of marriage, goddess of birth and the goddess of the dawn. She is the Earth, Mother Earth, and Odin is the sky, Father Sky. And their union, their marriage, if you will, is responsible for the conception of all of us and our world, a world not meant to be intruded upon by false gods and prophets and the blood of lesser races. You see, Chris, have you ever noticed that there are so many different churches in America, but all supposedly Christian in nature? I should know—I am a part of one of the biggest. Yet there is so much conflict between them, differences of opinion, and you know why? Because each follower has an organic doubt and instinctive knowledge that what they’re hearing in church and reading in the Bible is not true—certainly not for them. They are born of a higher god, and his reason resonates in their soul.

“Simply put,” Crowley continues, “it is against your nature to believe in Jesus, just as it would be against your nature to live in the water like a fish, or in a tree like an ape. Did you go to church as a child?”

“Yes,” says Chris.

“Me too, sometimes,” says Hinckley.

“And did you enjoy it?” asks Crowley, still talking exclusively with Chris.

“No, not really.”

“Exactly. Even at a tender age, it is obvious that Christianity requires a slavish devotion, a denying of oneself, everything that goes against human nature. It is a religion that plays on guilt and doubt. Your Father in heaven loves you, therefore, don’t disobey, and one doubts where his soul will land when his life is over. It is a religion with a figurehead, a religion that has it all mapped out for you in a convenient little package over a thousand pages thick, vague enough to be interpreted a thousand different ways, causing a thousand different cults to arise from it, because that’s all the Christian Church is—a giant tree of cult—with countless branches twisting and turning away from the same basic trunk.