Stranger in a Strange Land

“But don’t think,” Patricia said earnestly, “that a person can get into an Inner Temple Happiness meeting just with a little tattoo mark—after all, it’s too easy to fake. A visiting brother or sister—well, take me. As soon as I know where the carnie is going, I write to the local churches and send ’em my finger prints so they can check ’em against the master file of the eternally saved at Archangel Foster Tabernacle—unless they already know me. I give ’em my address care of Billboard. Then when I go to church—and I always go to church Sundays and I would never miss a Happiness meeting even if it means Tim has to slough the blow-off some nights—I go first time and get positively identified. Most places they’re mighty glad to see me; I’m an added attraction, with my unique and unsurpassed sacred pictures—I often spend most of the evening just letting people examine me… and every minute of it bliss. Sometimes the priest wants me to bring Honey Bun and I do Eve and the serpent—that takes body make-up, of course, or skin-colored tights if there isn’t time. Some local brother plays Adam and we get scourged out of the Garden of Eden, and the local priest explains the real meaning, not all the twisted lies you hear—and we end by regaining our blessed innocence and happiness, and that’s certain to get the party really rolling. Joy!”

She added, “But everybody is always interested in my Foster’s kiss, because, since he went back to Heaven almost twenty years ago now and the Church has increased and flourished, not too many of us have a Foster’s kiss that wasn’t laid on by proxy—I always have the Tabernacle testify to that, too. And I tell them about it. Uh—”

Mrs. Paiwonski hesitated, then told them about it, in explicit detail—and Jill wondered where her admittedly limited ability to blush had gone? Then she grokked that Mike and Patty were two of a kind—God’s innocents, unable to be anything else, no matter what they did. She wished, for Patty’s sake, that this preposterous mishmash were really true, that Foster had really been a holy prophet who had saved her for eternal bliss.

But Foster! God’s Wounds, what a travesty! Then suddenly, through her greatly improved recall, Jill was standing back in a room with a wall of glass and looking into Foster’s dead eyes. But, in her mind, he seemed alive and she felt a shiver in her loins and wondered what she would have done if Foster himself had offered her his holy kiss—and his holy self?

She shut it out of her mind, but not before Mike had caught much of it. She felt him smile, with knowing innocence.

She stood up. “Pattycake darling, what time do you have to be back at the lot?”

“Oh dear! I should be back this blessed minute!”

“Why? The show doesn’t roll until nine-thirty.”

“Well… Honey Bun misses me…and she’s jealous if I stay out late.”

“Can’t you tell her that it’s a Happiness meeting night?”

“Uh…The older woman gathered Jill in her arms. “It is! It certainly is!”

“Good. Then I’m going to get a certain amount of sleep—Jill is bushed, believe me. What time do you have to be up, then?”

“Uh, if I’m back on the lot by eight, I can get Sam to tear down my living top and have time to make sure that my babies are loaded safely.”

“Breakfast?”

“I don’t eat breakfast right away, I’ll get it on the train. Just coffee when I wake up, usually.”

“We can make that right here in the room. I’ll see that you’re up. Now you dears stay up and talk religion as long as you like; I won’t let you oversleep—if you sleep. Mike doesn’t sleep.”

“Not at all?”

“Never. He sort of curls up and thinks a while, if he’s got something to think about—but he doesn’t sleep.”

Mrs. Paiwonski nodded solemnly. “Another sign. I know it—and, Michael, some day you will know. Your call will come.”

“Maybe,” agreed Jill. “Mike, I’m falling asleep. Pop me into bed. Please?” She was lifted, wafted into the bedroom, the covers rolled back by invisible hands—she was asleep before he covered her.

Jill woke up, as she had planned, exactly at seven. Mike had a clock in his head, too, but his was quite erratic so far as Earth calendars and times were concerned; it vibrated to another need. She slipped out of bed, put her head into the other room. Lights were out and the shades were tight; it was quite dark. But they were not asleep. Jill heard Mike say with soft certainty:

“Thou art God.”

“‘Thou art God’—” Patricia whispered back in a voice as heavy as if drugged.

“Yes. Jill is God.”

“Jill… is God. Yes, Michael.”

“And thou art God.”

“Thou—art God. Now, Michael, now!”

Jill went very softly back in and quietly brushed her teeth. Presently she let Mike know in her mind that she was awake and found, as she expected, that he knew it. When she came back into the living room, shades were up and morning sun was streaming in. “Good morning, darlings!” She kissed them both.

“Thou art God,” Patty said simply.