Towing Jehovah

“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’Co

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 Lia

“Domine, non sum dignus,” said Rafferty, O’Co

“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.” Fa

“Either that, or His body got caught on the crest of the Canary Current, entered the North Atlantic Drift…”

“Ite,” Thomas a

“…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 gu

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, gu

“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.

The refurbishing had cost Oliver nearly eighty-five thousand dollars, most of it going to the carpenters and electricians they’d ferried over from Trondheim, but that sum was nothing compared to the sizable percentage of his bank account Pembroke and Flume had consumed in procuring the talent. The New York office of Actors Equity had sent two dozen ingenues and chorus girls, all of them more than willing to put on cocktail aprons and flirt with a bunch of middle-aged schizophrenics who thought they were fighting World War Two. From the William Morris Agency had come So

Oliver looked at his watch. Five P.M. Damn. Commander Wade McClusky’s portrayer should have reported in well over an hour ago.

“You know, I recently figured out that all General Tojo wants is peace,” said Hope. “A piece of China, a piece of Australia, a piece of the Philippines…”

By his own account, Wade McClusky was a crackerjack target spotter. While still an ensign, he’d become known as the man who could pick out a camouflaged aircraft factory from three miles up, though Oliver was unclear on whether it was the real McClusky, the real McClusky’s portrayer, or the real McClusky’s portrayer’s fictionalized version of the real McClusky who boasted this talent. In any event, ten hours earlier the stalwart leader of Air Group Six had taken personal charge of the reco