Towing Jehovah Read Free Page B

"Your ship—and something more . . ." Halo sputtering, tears flowing, the angel tossed his quill pen into the pool. A tableau appeared, painted in saturated reds and muddy greens reminiscent of early color television: six immobile figures seated around a dining-room table.
    "Recognize it?"
    "Hmmm . . ."
    Thanksgiving Day, 1990, four months after the spill. They'd all gathered at his father's apartment in Paterson. Christopher Van Horne presided at the far end of the table, overbearing and elegant, dressed in a white woolen suit. To his left: wife number three, a loud, skinny, self-pitying woman named Tiffany. To his right: the old man's best friend from the Sea Scouts, Frank Kolby, an unimaginative and sycophantic Bostonian. Anthony sat opposite his father, bracketed on one side by his hefty sister, Susan, a New Orleans catfish farmer, and on the other by his then-current girlfriend, Lucy McDade, a short, attractive steward from the Exxon Bangor. Every detail was right: the cheroot in Dad's mouth, the Ronson cigarette lighter in his hand, the blue ceramic gravy boat resting beside his plate of mashed potatoes and dark meat.
    The figures twitched, breathed, began to eat. Peering into the Cuxa pool, Anthony realized, to his considerable horror, what was coming next.
    "Hey, look," said the old man, dropping the Ronson lighter into the gravy, "it's the Valparaíso." The lighter oriented itself vertically—striker wheel down, butane well up—but stayed afloat.
    "Froggy, take it easy," said Tiffany.
    "Dad, don't do this," said Susan.
    Anthony's father lifted the cigarette lighter from the boat. As the greasy brown gravy ran down his fingers, he took out his Swiss Army knife and cut through the lighter's plastic casing. Oily butane dripped onto the linen tablecloth. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, the Val's sprung a leak!" He plopped the lighter back into the boat, laughing as the butane oozed into the gravy. "Somebody must've run her into a reef! Those poor seabirds!"
    "Froggy, please" wailed Tiffany.
    "Them pilot whales ain't got a chance," said Frank Kolby, releasing a boorish guffaw.
    "Do you suppose the captain could've left the bridge?" asked Dad with mock puzzlement.
    "I think you've made your point," said Susan.
    The old man leaned toward Lucy McDade as if about to deal her a playing card. "This sailor lad of yours left the bridge. I'll bet he got one of those headaches of his and, pfftt, he took off, and now all the egrets and herons are dying. You know what your boyfriend's problem is, pretty Lucy? He thinks the oily bird catches the worm!"
    Tiffany burst into giggles.
    Lucy turned red.
    Kolby sniggered.
    Susan got up to leave.
    "Bastard," said Anthony's alter ego.
    "Bastard," echoed the observer Anthony.
    "Gravy, anyone?" said Christopher Van Horne, lifting the boat from its saucer. "What's the matter, folks—are you afraid?"
    "I'm not afraid." Kolby seized the boat, pouring polluted gravy onto his mashed potatoes.
    "I'll never forgive you for this," seethed Susan, stalking out of the room. Kolby shoveled a glop of potato into his mouth. "Tastes like—" The scene froze.
    The figures dissolved.
    Only the waterborne feather remained.
    "That was the worst part of Matagorda Bay, wasn't it?" said Raphael. "Worse than the hate mail from the environmentalists and the death threats from the shrimpers—the worst part was what your father did to you that night."
    "The humiliation . . ."
    "No," said the angel pointedly. "Not the humiliation. The brute candor of it all."
    "I don't understand."
    "Four months after the wreck of the Val, somebody was finally telling you a truth the state of Texas had denied."
    "What truth?"
    "You're guilty, Anthony Van Horne."
    "I've never claimed otherwise."
    "Guilty," Raphael repeated, slamming his fist into his palm like a judge wielding a gavel. "But beyond guilt lies redemption, or so the story goes." The angel slipped his fingers beneath the feathers of his left wing and relieved