lambs, and heralding angels. The stable was made of lumber, and the
bales of hay were real; the people and animals were plaster over
chicken wire and lath, their clothes and features painted by a gifted
artist, protected by a waterproof lacquer that gave them a supernatural
glow even in this poor light. judging by the tools, paint, and other
supplies at the periphery of the collection, repairs were being made,
after which the creche would be put under drop cloths until next
Christmas.
Beginning to make out scattered words of Pinn’s conversation with the
unknown man, I moved among the figures, some of which were taller than
I am. The scene was disorienting because none of the elements was
staged for display; none was in its proper relationship to the
others.
One of the wise men stood with his face in the bell of an angel’s
raised trumpet, and Joseph appeared to be engaged in a conversation
with a camel. Baby Jesus lay unattended in His cradle, which stood on
a bale of hay to one side. Mary sat with a beatific smile and an
adoring gaze, but the object of her attention, rather than being her
holy child, was a galvanized bucket. Another wise man seemed to be
looking up a camel’s butt.
I wended through this disorganized creche, and near the end of it, I
used a lute-playing angel for cover. I was in shadows, but peering
past the curve of a half-furled wing, I saw Jesse Pinn in the light
about twenty feet away, hectoring another man near the stairs that led
up to the main floor of the church.
“You’ve been warned,” Pinn said, raising his voice until it was almost
a snarl. “How many times have You been warned?”
At first I could not see the other man, who was blocked by Pinn. He
spoke quietly, evenly, and I could not hear what he said.
The undertaker reacted in disgust and began to pace agitatedly, combing
one hand through his disarranged hair.
Now I saw that the second man was Father Tom Eliot, rector of St.
Bernadette’s.
“You fool, You stupid shit,” Pinn said furiously, bitterly. “You
prattling, God-gushing moron.”
Father Tom was five feet eight, plump, with the expressive and rubbery
face of a natural-born comedian. Although I wasn’t a member of his-or
any-church, I’d spoken with him on several occasions, and he seemed to
be a singularly good-natured man with a self-deprecating sense of humor
and an almost childlike enthusiasm for life. I had no trouble
understanding why his parishioners adored him.
Pinn did not adore him. He raised one skeletal hand and pointed a bony
finger at the priest: “You make me sick, You selfrighteous son of a
bitch.”
Evidently Father Tom had decided to weather this outrageous verbal
assault without response.
As he paced, Pinn chopped at the air with the sharp edge of one hand,
as though struggling-with considerable frustration-to sculpt his words
into a truth that the priest could understand.
“We’re not taking any more of your crap, no more of your
interference.
I’m not going to threaten to kick your teeth out myself, though I’d
sure as hell enjoy doing it. Never liked to dance, You know, but I’d
sure like to dance on your stupid face. But no threats like before,
no, not this time, not ever again. I’m not even going to threaten to
send them after You, because I think that would actually appeal to
You.
Father Eliot the martyr, suffering for God. Oh, You’d like
that-wouldn’t You?-being a martyr, suffering such a rotten death
without complaint.”
Father Tom stood with his head bowed, his eyes downcast, his arms
straight at his sides, as though waiting patiently for this storm to
pass.
The priest’s passivity inflamed Pinn. The mortician made a
sharp-knuckled fist of his right hand and pounded it into the palm of
his left, as if he needed to hear the hard snap of flesh on flesh, and
now his voice was as rich with scorn as with fury. “You’d wake up some
night, and they’d be all over You, or maybe they’d take You by surprise
in the bell tower or in the sacristy when You’re kneeling at the