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The Plunge

Westley O. Heine

    From above they looked like a flock of pigeons on the beach. The congregation was lined up waiting to be baptized. In their white shrouds hung from their necks like fluffy bells.
    Father Shears was knee deep in the lake waving his constituents into the water. The Father was the only one dressed in black. Sister Margaret was at his side and wearing high rubber boots and her white habit that she only brought out for baptisms.
    Heavy clouds were beginning to roll over the city lakefront, and Sister Margaret was beginning to get nervous.
    “Maybe we should reschedule the ceremony till tomorrow father.”
    “Nonsense! It’s the day of the lord! Tomorrow won’t do.”
    “Tomorrow won’t dooooo!” echoed the choir standing to the right of the baptees.
    Father Shears redirected his attention back to the line of eager souls waiting to be saved, “Keep the line moving! Those clouds are full of the lord’s tender tears!”
    “Tender Tears!” sang the choir.
    He placed one hand behind the lower back of an eager rosy-cheeked baptee. The other he placed behind her head. Then he dropped her into the water like a dip while dancing the tango.
    The baptee rose from the frothy water as Father Shears said, “Accept Jesus as your personal savior!”
    “Je-sus!... Sa-vior!” chimed the choir.
    Clouds rolled in like a film in fast-forward. Churning shapes hovered above the beach. The lake’s waves began falling to the shore faster and faster the whitecaps peaking.
    Sister Margaret shook her head, “Look at that Father.”
    “Look? Look at what? Sister please I’m busy.”
    “Bu-sy!” rang the chorus.
    Sister Margaret pointed but no one looked. Dead fish, black silt, and half-eaten hotdogs became visible underneath the waves. But all eyes were up in the clouds being churned like the storm itself, pushing them to move faster. The line began to have a stiff rhythm like a march. Impatiently they inched forward.
    The Father waved at the line feverishly. After all, a postponement would only temp the apocalypse to occur before next week’s services, and all those left behind would be dancing in eternal damnation. Those at the end of the line may be tardy, but do they really deserve hellfire?
    He dunked another baptee into the lake as blind little tadpoles tried to nibble out the baptee’s eyes. Condoms, raw sewage, diapers splashed around the anxious ankles of the faithful. Some of the congregation started to look worried, but they were more worried how it would look if they left the line. Snotty strands of unknown organic materials, patches of knitted lint, soggy food-waste, industrial lubricant run-off, neon toxins, greasy dishwater, medical bags of biohazard, and every kind of fast food logo on Styrofoam emerged.
    Then a broken sign rolled on to the shore, which said, “Beach Closed Due to Bacteria.”
    “Father!” pointed Sister Margaret, “This is carelessness! This is not the waters of salvation, but of Hell... Earthly muck... man’s urban strife!”
    “Ur-ban strife!”
    The Father looked Sister Margaret dead center in the eyes and said, “Why don’t you go take a vow of silence?”
    “Vow of Si-lence!”
    With that Sister Margaret pulled up her habit just enough to evade the water and hurried back to the church in her rubber boots. She stepped into the sanctuary of St. Aquinas Church just in time to miss the clouds cracking. The downpour finally spilled forth.
    Meanwhile the choir sang a new hymn written by Father Shears himself:

“Ohhhh Je-sus
Ohhhh Jeeee-sus
When I get down on my knees before you
And sing the sooong, out loud, and looong
I can feeeeel your grace
On the tip of my tongue
White light on my face
And on the tip of my tongue
Come, Jesus... Coooooome!”

    Next Sunday, just before Church was about to open for mass, an altar boy ran up to Father Shears screaming.
    “What is it sweet one?”
    “Monsters at the Church doors!”
    “Monsters?”
    Sister Margaret was peeking out through the keyhole. It looked like a colony of lepers had gathered outside. The same congregation from last week’s baptism stood under a canopy of umbrellas dressed in their Sunday’s best. Yet now lesions and blisters covered their skin.
    Father Shears shoved her aside. “Let me see!”
    Bent on one knee he stared out through the keyhole. Then he turned and looked blankly into space, “A plague has struck... These creatures are trying to slip into these walls and drag us down... We must cast them out!”
    “Father, I believe...” began the Sister.
    “Quiet! I’m trying to think!” The Father leaned over the alter-boy, “Go get all the rosaries and holy-water you can carry and bring them here!”
    The boy scurried off.
    “I think, Father, that we should call the Red Cross and set up some beds in the basement.”
    But Father Shears wasn’t listening. He was peeking out the keyhole again. His pupil bulged into a meniscus of horror.
    Outside a rumble of questions began to rise. “Why aren’t the doors opening?”
    “It is ten o’clock, isn’t it?”
    “I need to pray for my open sores!”
    Father Shears turned back to Sister Margaret. “They’re getting restless! Soon they’ll be charging the doors with battering rams and throwing stones through the stained glass!”
    The alter-boy rolled up a cart full of rosaries and holy water in random containers: pitchers, cups, chalices, hats, and bowls filled to the brim.
    “Good job son!” The Father began looping rosaries around his neck in many layers. Then he reached into his black robe and pulled out a sharp metal cross three feet long.
    “What are you doing?” said Sister Margaret.
    “Don’t fear... I’ll take care of you!”
    The doors flung open. Everyone froze at the sight of him: Rosaries hanging like an Indian Brave laced with beads, jars of holy water cradled in one arm, and above his head he wielded a glimmering cross.
    “I cast thee out! Spawns of Satan!” The Father flung the water into the crowd.
    “Ahhh, you ruined my suit!”
    “So much for staying dry...”
    Father Shears began swinging the cross at them.
    “Back Heathens! In the name of Christ!”
    “Father it’s us!”
    “Lying demon! Get back!”
    “Please don’t!”
    Sister Margaret began pulling on Father Shear’s robe, “Stop! Stop! Let them come in!”
    The Father turned around swiftly and peered at her with brimstone eyes, “Traitor! Heathen! Deceiver!”
    Sister Margaret ran back through the doors giving up on any chance of reasoning with him. The Father lunged after her with the cross, but he slipped on the church steps now slick with holy water. His robe fell over his waist and exposed his legs.
    The congregation gasped.
    Father Shear’s legs were eaten with bubbling sores right up to the point that his legs touched the lake last Sunday.
    The Father looked down, “Ahhhhh! I’ve been possessed! Help me! Help!”
    Sister Margaret came back and she looked at everyone: the Father, the congregation, the altar boy, and even at herself. She began weeping. The silence seemed to break as the rain began to fall harder.
    Sister Margaret looked up into the sky letting her tears mix with the downpour until she was soaked. She felt cleansed by the rain sliding coolly on her hot skull. It was as if blue drops were dissolving in the center of her mind. The rain was a gift from the pure clouds heavy with tears when the weight of heaven grew to be too much. She looked down at Father Shears and said to the crowd, “Pick him up. Bring him inside to rest.”

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