“What’s next?” snorted Van Horne.
“The Fraction of the Host,” said Miriam.
“Screw it,” he said.
“Screw you,” she said.
Sliding the spatula under the meat, Thomas transferred it to the silver salver. He took a breath and, switching on the carving knife, divided the great steak into nine equal portions, each the size of a brownie. “Haec commixtio,” he said, slicing a tiny bit off his own share, “corporis et sanguinis Dei” — with the particle he made the Sign of the Cross over the chalice and dropped it in — “fiat accipientibus nobis.” May this mingling of the body and blood of God be effectual to us who receive it. “Amen.”
“Stop stretching it out,” gasped Fowler.
“This is sadistic,” whined Van Horne.
“If you don’t like it,” said Miriam, “find another church.”
Squeezing his portion between thumb and forefinger, feeling the sticky warmth roll across his palm, Thomas raised it to his lips. He opened his mouth. “Perceptio corporis Tui, Domine, quod ego indignus sumere praesumo, non mihi proveniat in con-demnationem.” Let not the partaking of Thy body, O Lord, which I, though unworthy, presume to receive, turn to my condemnation. He sank his teeth into the meat. He chewed slowly and gulped. The flavor astonished him. He’d been expecting something manifestly classy and valuable — London broil, perhaps, or milk-fed veal — but instead it evoked Follingsbee’s version of a Big Mac.
And the priest thought: of course. God had been for everyone, hadn’t He? He’d belonged to the fast-food multitudes, to all those overweight mothers Thomas was forever seeing in the Bronxdale Avenue McDonald’s, ordering Happy Meals for their chubby broods.
“Corpus Tuum, Domine, quod sumpsit, adhaereat visceribus meis,” he said. May Thy body, O Lord, which I have received, cleave to my inmost parts. He felt a sudden, electric surge, though whether this traced to the meat itself or to the Idea of the Meat he couldn’t say. “Amen.”
Myriad sensations gamboled among Thomas’s taste buds as, silver salver in hand, he approached Follingsbee. Beyond the burgerness lay something not unlike Kentucky Fried Chicken, and beyond that lay intimations of a Wendy’s Triple.
“Father, I feel real bad about this,” said the plump chef.
“I’m sure you could’ve cooked it better. Don’t tell the stewards’ union.”
Follingsbee winced. “I used to be an altar boy, remember?”
“It’s perfectly okay, Sam.”
“You promise? It seems sinful.”
“I promise.”
“It’s okay? You sure?”
“Open your mouth.”
The chef’s lips parted.
“Corpus Dei custodial corpus tuum,” said Thomas, inserting Follingsbee’s portion. May God’s body preserve thy own. “Eat slowly,” he admonished, “or you’ll get sick.”
As Follingsbee chewed, Thomas moved down the line — Rafferty, O’Connor, Chickering, Bliss, Fowler, Van Horne, Sister Miriam — laying a share on each extended tongue. “Corpus Dei custodial corpus tuum,” he told them. “Not too fast,” he warned.
The communicants worked their jaws and swallowed.
“Domine, non sum dignus,” said Miriam, licking her lips. Lord, I am not worthy.
“Domine, non sum dignus,” said Follingsbee, eyes closed, savoring his salvation.
“Domine… non… sum… dignus,” groaned the radio officer, shuddering with self-disgust. For a committed vegetarian like Lianne Bliss, this was obviously a terrible ordeal.
“Domine, non sum dignus,” said Rafferty, O’Connor, and Chickering in unison. Only Van Horne and Fowler remained silent.
“Dominus vobiscum,” Thomas told the congregation, stepping onto the areola.
Under the captain’s direction the loyalists drew out their machetes, stilettos, and Swiss Army knives and set to work, systematically enlarging the original indentation as they carved out additional fillets for their mates back in the shantytown, and within an hour they had flensed the corpse sufficiently to fill every pot and pan.
“He smells ripe,” said Van Horne, pinching his nostrils as he joined Thomas on the areola.
“If not rotten,” said the priest, watching Miriam cram a bloody fillet into the ciborium.
“You know, I probably believe in Him more strongly right now than I ever did when He was alive.” The captain dropped his hand, letting his nostrils spring open. “It’s an absolute miracle, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what it is.” Fanning himself with his Panama hat, Thomas turned toward the communicants.
“Either that, or His body got caught on the crest of the Canary Current, entered the North Atlantic Drift…”
“Ite,” Thomas announced in a strong, clear voice.
“…and then came ’round full circle.”
“Missa est.”
“So what do you think, Father? A miracle, or the North Atlantic Drift?”
“I think it’s all the same thing,” said the dazed, exhausted, satiated priest.
FEAST
WILD APPLAUSE AND delirious cheers greeted Bob Hope as, dressed in baggy green combat fatigues and a white golfing cap, he stepped onto the stage of the Midnight Sun Canteen. The spotlight caught his famous and complex nose, limning its beloved contours.
“I’m sure havin’ a swell time here on Jan Mayen Island,” the comedian began, waving to his audience: a hundred and thirty-two Navy pilots and gunners — most of them wearing chocolate brown bomber jackets with black fur collars — plus two hundred and ten sailors in white bucket hats and blue neckerchiefs. “You all know what Jan Mayen is.” He tapped the floor mike, producing an amplified thock. “Shangri-La with icicles!”
Appreciative howls. Delighted guffaws.
Oliver, sitting alone, did not laugh. He polished off his second Frydenlund beer of the evening, burped, and slumped down farther in his chair. Some terrible tragedy, he was sure, had overtaken Cassandra and the Valparaíso. Typhoon, maelstrom, tsunami — or maybe the force was human, for surely there were institutions other than the Central Park West Enlightenment League that wished to get God’s carcass out of the way, institutions that wouldn’t hesitate to sink a supertanker or two in the process.
Albert Flume and his partner ambled up to Oliver’s table. “May we join you?”
“Sure.”
“Another beer?” asked Sidney Pembroke, pointing to the pair of empty bottles.
“Yeah, why not?”
“Last night I slept in the barracks along with the boys,” said Bob Hope. Hands in pockets, he hunched toward the mike. “You know what barracks are. That’s two thousand cots separated by individual crap games.”
A Hope classic. The pilots, gunners, and sailors nearly fell out of their chairs.
“Alby, we done good,” said Pembroke.
“Definitely one of our better productions,” said Flume. “Hey, girl-o’-my-dreams!” he called toward a pretty, honey-blonde hostess as, hips swaying, she carried a plate of ham sandwiches across the room. “Bring our friend Oliver here a Frydenlund!”
The impresarios’ pride was in fact justified. In a mere three days they’d managed to turn the Sundog Saloon into a forties USO club. Except for the availability of beer, the Midnight Sun Canteen was entirely authentic, right down to the fluted public-address speakers on the girders, the SERVICEMEN ONLY sign above the front door, and the LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS and NIMITZ HAS NO LIMITS posters on the walls. At first Vladimir Panshin had resisted the transformation, figuring his usual clientele would be irate, but then he realized that for every Ibsen City scientist who stayed away at least two Reenactment Society members would take his place.