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older than her and Joe, which would make her around fifty, but she
was a trim, well-kept and handsome fifty. 'Becka herself had put on a
little weight during her marriage, going from one hundred and
twenty-six to a hundred and ninety-three, most of that since Byron,
their only chick and child, had flown from the nest.
She could have gone on ignoring it, and perhaps what would
even have been for the best. If The Hussey really enjoyed the
animalism of sexual congress, with its gruntings and thrustings and
that final squirt of sticky stuff that smelled faintly like codfish and
looked like cheap dish detergent, then it only proved that The Hussy
was little more than an animal herself and of course it freed 'Becka
of a tiresome, if ever more occasional, obligation. But when the
picture of Jesus spoke up, telling her exactly what was going on, it
became impossible to ignore. She knew that something would have to
be done.
The picture first spoke at just past three in the afternoon on
Thursday. This was eight days after shooting herself in the head and
about four days after her resolution to forget it was a hole and not
just a mark had begun to take effect. 'Becka was coming back into
the living room from the kitchen with a little snack (half a coffeecake
and a beer stein filled with Kool-Aid) to watch General Hospital. She
no longer really believed that Luke would ever find Laura, but she
could not quite find it in her heart to completely give up hope.
She was bending down to turn on the Zenith when Jesus said,
"'Becka, Joe is putting the boots to that Hussey down at the pee-oh
just about every lunch hour and sometimes after punching out time in
the afternoon. Once he was so randy he drove it to her while he was
supposed to be helping her sort the mail. And do you know what?
She never even said 'At least wait until I get the first-class into the
boxes.' "
'Becka screamed and spilled her Kool-Aid down the front of the
TV. It was a wonder, she thought later, when she was able to think at
all, that the picture tube didn't blow. Her coffeecake went on the rug.
"And that's not all," Jesus told her. He walked halfway across
the picture, His robe fluttering around His ankles, and sat down on a
rock that jutted out of the ground. He held His staff between his
knees and looked at her grimly. "There's a lot going on in Haven.
Why, you wouldn't believe the half of it."
'Becka screamed again and fell on her knees. One of them
landed squarely on her coffeecake and squirted raspberry filling into
the face of Ozzie Nelson, who had crept into the living room to see
what was going on. "My Lord! My Lord!" 'Becka shrieked. Ozzie
ran, hissing, for the kitchen, where he crawled under the stove with
red goo dripping from his whiskers. He stayed under there the rest of
the day.
"Well, none of the Paulsons was ever any good," Jesus said. A
sheep wandered towards Him and He whacked it away, using His
staff with an absentminded impatience that reminded 'Becka, even in
her current frozen state, of her long-dead father. The sheep went,
rippling slightly through the 3-D effect. It disappeared from the
picture, actual seeming to curve as it went off the edge ... but that
was just an optical illusion, she felt sure. "No good at all, "Jesus went
on. "Joe's granddad was a whoremaster of the purest sense, as you
well know, 'Becka. Spent his whole life pecker-led. And when he
came up here, do you know what we said? 'No room!' that's what we
said." Jesus leaned forward, still holding His staff. "'Go see Mr.
Splitfoot down below,' we said. 'You'll find your haven-home, all
right. But you may find you new landlord a hard taskmaster,' we
said." Incredibly, Jesus winked at her ... and that was when 'Becka
fled, shrieking, from the house.
She stopped in the backyard, panting, her hair, a mousy blond
that was really not much of any color at all, hanging in her face. Her
heart was beating so fast in her chest that it frightened her. No one
had heard her shriekings and carryings-on, thank the Lord; she and
Joe lived far out on the Nista Road, and their nearest neighbors were
the Brodskys were half a mile away. If anyone had heard her, they
would have thought there was a crazywoman down at Joe and 'Becka
Paulson's.
Well there is a crazywoman at the Paulsons', isn't there? she
thought. If you really think that picture of Jesus started to talk to you,
why, you really must be crazy. Daddy'd beat you three shades of blue
for thinking such a thing one shade for lying, another shade for
believing the lie, and a third for raising your voice. 'Becka, you are
crazy. Pictures don't talk.
No ... and it didn't, another voice spoke up suddenly. That
voice came out of your own head, 'Becka. I don't know how it could
be ... how you could know such things ... but that's what happened.
Maybe it had something to do with what happened to you last week,
or maybe not, but you made that picture of Jesus talk your own self.
It didn't really no more than that little rubber Topo Gigio mouse on
the Ed Sullivan Show.
But somehow the idea that it might have something to do with
that ... that
(hole)
other thing was scarier than the idea that the picture itself had
spoken, because that was the sort of thing they sometimes had on
Marcus Welby, like that show about the fellow who had the brain
tumor and it was making him wear his wife's nylon stockings and
step-ins. She refused to allow it mental houseroom. It might be a
miracle. After all, miracles happened every day. There was the
Shroud of Turin, and the cures at Lourdes, and that Mexican fellow
who had a picture of the Virgin Mary burned into the surface of a
taco or an enchilada or something. Not to mention those children that
had made the headlines of one of the tabloids children who cried
rocks. Those were all bona fide miracles (the children who wept
rocks was, admittedly, a rather gritty one), as uplifting as a Jimmy
Swaggart sermon. Hearing voices was only crazy.
But that's what happened. And you've been hearing voices for
quite a little while now, haven't you? You've been hearing His voice.
Joe's voice. And that's where it came from, not from Jesus but from
Joe, from Joe's head
"No," 'Becka whimpered. "No, I ain't heard any voices in my
head."
She stood by her clothesline in the hot backyard, looking
blankly off toward the woods on the other side of the Nista Road,
blue-gray-hazy in the heat. She wrung her hands in front of her and
begun to weep.
"I ain't no heard no voices in my head."
Crazy, her dead father's implacable voice replied. Crazy with
the heat. You come on over here, 'Becka Bouchard, I'm gonna beat
you three shades of blister-blue for that crazy talk.
"I ain't heard no voices in my head," 'Becka moaned. "That
picture really did talk, I swear, I can't do ventriloquism!"
Better believe the picture. If it was the hole, it was a brain
tumor, sure. If it was the picture, it was a miracle. Miracles came
from God. Miracles came from Outside. A miracle could drive you
crazy and the dear God knew she felt like she was going crazy now
but it didn't mean you were crazy, or that your brains were
scrambled. As for believing that you could hear other people's
thoughts ... that was just crazy.
'Becka looked down at her legs and saw blood gushing from her
left knee. She shrieked again and ran back into the house to call the
doctor, MEDIX, somebody. She was in the living room again,
pawing at the dial with the phone to her ear, when Jesus said:
"That's raspberry filling from your coffeecake, 'Becka. Why
don't you just relax, before you have a heart attack?"
She looked at the TV, the telephone receiver falling to the table
with a clunk. Jesus was still sitting on the rock outcropping. It looked
as though He had crossed His legs. It was really surprising how much
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