Chapter 9
Three hours later I was sitting beside Reggie on a train to Rome. We were both dressed as Catholic priests, including black suits, crucifixes, and stiff white clerical collars. Between Luc’s disappearance and today’s persona, I was grappling with every conceivable theological dilemma.
Luc had been stabbed beside me. Reggie had advised, “This shit happens. The people we’re up against play rough.”
“Do you think he’s dead?’
“I don’t know. He could be anywhere and in God only knows what kind of shape. I’ve got Tuxes searching for him, but whoever arranged this had a head start.”
“But would someone kill him over a diamond?”
“It’s conceivable, especially this particular diamond. Which everyone’s after. Reata’s got more information, but for our ears and eyes only. We’ll be seeing her in person. But Andrew, you have to look after yourself. We need to function.”
Yes. Of course. I had to keep it together, in the face of—what exactly?
Homicide? An international manhunt for Luc, as well as me?
I shut my eyes, obliterating this reality.
I opened them: I was still here, on a train, outraging my Jewish ancestors.
Focus, Andrew—one nightmare at a time. Jews don’t have hell, so I’m marginally safe.
But what if the Catholics are right about everything, especially blasphemy—then I’m doomed.
And is waking up in a blood-spattered bed an irreversible trauma, a mystery to be unraveled, or simply the worst date ever?
Topping even that night I’d spent with a guy who’d dropped acid and accused me of being his mother, which had turned him on?
My mother. Seeing me dressed as a priest. I’d tell her I was shooting a pilot, called Thoughts & Prayers, as an earnest young gay cleric running an inner-city community center and praising the Lord on the basketball court.
Stop it, Andrew—your mother is not on this train.
But given my current maelstrom, she might be.
No. Get specific. If I’ve been cast in this role—what’s my backstory?
What does my character want? He wants to be back home on Long Island, riding his bike to get a Slurpee.
My conclusion: I didn’t have one. I’d been attracted to Luc, and now he was hurt or worse.
I had no idea what to do with that or with any other aspect of this cataclysm.
I didn’t just compartmentalize—my brain filed every aspect of the past tweny-four hours under “Stuff I can’t even think about because my head will explode.
” This folder also includes anyone dating a Republican, anyone being a Republican, making sense of the Middle East, making sense of Alec Baldwin, owning a pit bull, sitting through an entire opera, people who don’t vote, and how to pretend any sort of composure at a nude beach.
“But why are we dressed like this?” I asked, as a more limited, practical matter.
“First of all,” said Reggie, “it’s a disguise, to shield you from the European authorities. But more specifically, Reata’s on a goodwill tour, where she’ll be meeting with the Pope. She’s asked us to join her, at the Vatican.”
“We’re going to the Vatican?”
Before I could even begin to absorb this destination, a young mom and her twelve-year-old son were greeting Reggie and me from the aisle, as the modern train sped through the French countryside, which I should have been paying attention to, since if my parents were here they’d be saying, “Look out the window! You’re in a foreign country!
” But this nearby mother, standing a foot away from me, was asking, “Fathers? May I talk to you?”
“Yes, my child,” said Reggie, causing me to think, Jesus Christ, did he really just say that? But Reggie was diving deeper: “I am Father Mulcahy and this young man is Father O’Rourke.” Was he using an Irish lilt? Were we priests or leprachauns?
“I’m Ashleigh and this is Jericho,” the woman said with a Midwestern accent, flatly Ohio or Nebraska, and she was wearing leggings and an oversized Levi’s jacket, the back of which had been airbrushed with a portrait of a very caucasian, blond, dewy-eyed Virgin Mary, gazing upward, with the front of the jacket emblazoned with a vibrant Disney Cinderella and, for some reason, Nicole Kidman at her most radiantly perfected, an image copied from those ads promoting AMC Theatres, aired during the coming attractions at cineplexes, in which Nicole, draped in an elegantly sequined pantsuit, enthuses about movie “magic.” I love these promos, although I’m puzzled that Nicole sits alone in a luminous theater, as if she’s the only star left following a Hollywood apocalypse, or the first one to show up at a screening, to get a good seat.
“We don’t want to bother you,” the woman in the aisle said. “But I tell Jericho that when we see priests or nuns, it’s good luck. Like it means the train or the plane won’t crash. So could you bless Jericho?”
Jericho was studying Reggie and me with a skeptical eye, and it occurred to me that he might be gay, and was judging the effectiveness of our masquerade.
“Father O’Rourke?” said Reggie, to torment me.
“Aye, laddie,” I said, in my best Riverdance-ready brogue, which I’d picked up from scene work on Martin McDonagh plays and any number of vintage films, before the appearance of a priest denoted questionable bachelors, troubled politics, and financial settlements.
I’d be a blameless, pious priest, so Jericho wouldn’t file any lawsuits.
“Jericho, ye seem like a fine young feller,” I said. “And yer mam must love ye very much. Do ye have a favorite Spider-Man?”
Jericho became interested. “I’ve seen all the Spider-Man movies,” he said. “And I like classic Spidey with Tobey Maguire, and also Andrew Garfield, except he seems depressed. The animated Spideys are good but I guess my favorite is Tom Holland.”
“And why be that?” I asked.
Jericho stared at me, indicating, “Because of the way his butt looks in the Spider-Man spandex, duh.”
“Why are you asking about Spider-Man?” Ashleigh wondered.
“Because in many ways,” I said, “Spider-Man be a secular saint, helpin’ everyday people be fightin’ supervillains played by gifted character actors. So I’ll be blessin’ young Jericho in the spirit of Tom Holland and anyone who makes this world a more peaceable place. Like Nicole Kidman.”
“I just love her,” said Ashleigh. “She’s so beautiful.”
“I liked The Hours,” Jericho added, “and that series on MAX where she killed her abusive husband.”
“Peak Nicole,” Ashleigh agreed, tousling her son’s hair.
“Bless ye and keep ye,” Reggie intoned, and the woman took the hint, thanked us, and she and Jericho returned to their seats, where I later overheard them arguing about whether Cate Blanchett has become too mannered. Jericho would be just fine.
“Are you out of your mind?” Reggie asked me, under his breath. “Spider-Man?”
“I’m a twenty-first-century cleric. The church needs to be more welcoming.”
“You are not really a priest,” he hissed.
“We all be God’s children,” I replied.