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Lob rose from his knees and leaned looking out the window, clutching the steel grating covering the pane. He was not afraid anymore—nothing had disappeared, not yet, since the last time. He stopped shaking, he wiped the last tear from his eye. He breathed easy. It had been a bluff, again. As always, far off on the horizon still stood the tall white steeple. Under that steeple, Lob knew, lived God, in a cold golden tabernacle, with a small candlestick standing next to the tall white rock the tabernacle was set in. The small candlestick had a red glass shade and its soft glow meant God is still here, be reverent. As a boy he’d been told by a nun in grammar school that there’s a great tall golden candlestick like that in heaven, glowing brightly within a red glass shade, that stands by the throne of God, in the bright light, in the clouds. And if that candle ever goes out, God and everything else would cease to be. The red glass covering shielded the flame from the soft cool breezes in heaven. And after she said that the nun would cross herself and take out a black rosary and kiss the silver cross, with her large eyes closed. And then she’d open them and tell Lob, Don’t tell anyone about the candle, though— it’s one of God’s secrets. Lob flexed his hands on the grating and thought how lucky it was that everyone did not know this, how fragile our existence is, held at the mercy of a flickering flame. He always wondered how many other secrets God had. He always wondered why he’d been told this one. The steeple faded off into the horizon and the steel grid of the grating pushed his hands away and he turned facing the room where Frankie Super sat in red pants and a green shirt at the edge of his bunk, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
Do you have any secrets, Frankie? asked Lob.
Oh so you’re going to ask me that again? Well, secrets— let’s see—
Frankie leaned his head over and closed one eye and stroked the tip of his short goatee before answering.
No, said Frankie. Same answer as always. I have no secrets.
None? said Lob, raising his eyebrows and putting his hand against his sunken cheek.
Nope. None. Like I always tell you—what you see is what you get.
Lob went over and sat on his bunk across the room from Frankie. The worn parquet floor stretched between them and the yellow walls of the small room tightened about them.
Sure you have secrets, said Lob, pushing a strand of black hair from his face. Everybody has secrets. Things they don’t want anybody to know. Skeletons in the closet, and all that.
What are your secrets? said Frankie.
Huh, said Lob, hunching his shoulders. I can’t tell you. They’re secrets. But at least I can admit that I have them. Why can’t you?
The bare light bulb above them cast down its warmth. Frankie leaned back with his elbows on his bunk and tossed his head and widened his large blue eyes.
You said skeletons in the closet, said Frankie. What do you mean by that—skeletons in the closet?
Lob frowned.
Oh come on Frankie, you know that term.
No I don’t, said Frankie, shaking his head.
Everybody’s heard that term.
Not me.
So—let me get this right Frankie—you don’t have any secrets and you’ve never heard of the term skeletons in the closet before?
That’s right, answered Frankie, shifting in the bunk.
You’re lying, said Lob sharply, eyes half closed. Why are you lying like this?
Frankie sat back up. The bunk springs squeaked.
Here we go again, Lob. You’re calling me a liar again?
Yes I guess I am, said Lob, turning his head from Frankie toward the large heavy door. Everybody lied about things, thought Lob. Why are people allowed to lie about things? The tabernacle appeared in the center of the door with the candlestick with the small red flame beside it and God’s face came up from behind the golden doors. God’s face was round and his cheeks were ruddy and he had large full sensuous red lips and small black eyes. Lob was glad God had come. He asked God a question.
Why do you let liars walk the earth, God? Why is it?
God’s eyes formed into slits then opened wide.
Because people are free to act as they choose.
Lob tossed back his head and spoke louder. Frankie looked on from his bunk.
But lying is wrong, said Lob. You let people lie when you could stop them. Their sin is also your sin, God. You’re no better than them. You’re no better than Frankie over there.
Frankie’s eyes widened and he rose from his bunk.
Lob straightened his back and lifted his chin. He had spoken up to God, he had given God the what for. God’s mouth formed into an O and his eyes opened wide and he spoke deeply, his lips writhing.
You should be careful how you speak to God. I have my reasons for doing things—I have my secrets. You should not question me—
The Ruddy face receded back behind the golden doors and the tabernacle and red candle disappeared and Frankie stood between Lob and the door, pointing.
I don’t know why you say the things you say, Lob, said Frankie—but I’m never going to get used to you calling me a liar.
Frankie scuffed his steeltoed boots across the wooden floor. Lob leaned back and looked up at him.
There are things I don’t like, too, Frankie. But I put up with them—
I don’t care what you like or don’t like, snapped Frankie, wagging his finger at Lob. I just know I don’t like being called a liar every God-damned day.
Lob clasped his hands together and looked up at Frankie with wide blue eyes.
You really don’t care what I like or don’t like Frankie?
No—not if you’re going to call me a liar—
Lob sat straight, swept his hand across and threw out words.
Never mind that—tell me if its true that you don’t care what I like or what I don’t like.
Well then—no! No I don’t!
Frankie stepped back, his arms folded. Lob’s voice grew low and even and his lips barely moved.
What if everybody in the world felt that way, Frankie? What kind of world would this be?
Frankie shrugged and held out an arm to the side, the hand wide open.
I don’t know—for all I know nobody cares about anybody else. Why do we go over this every day, Lob?
Ignoring the questions, Lob looked up and pushed a finger into his cheek.
Who do you care about, Frankie?
Frankie pushed a hand into his pocket and scowled.
Like I always tell you—I don’t know.
Think. Give me an answer. Who do you care about?
Well—I care about myself.
And who else. Do you care about me?
Not really. Not when you sit there and call me a liar. But we go over all these things this every day why do you always bring all these things up Lob, why—
Lob tossed his head, to cut Frankie off.
And what if I didn’t call you a liar, said Lob. Would you care about me then?
Frankie folded his arms again.
I doubt it. Listen. It’s like I always tell you. I care about number one. Me, myself, and I.
Frankie stomped over to his bunk and threw himself full length onto the woolen blanket, on his back with his arm over his eyes. Lob turned once more to the door. The dark grained wood swirled and the tabernacle doors came up in the wood once more, and the ruddy face of God came up again and the small golden candlestick with the dim red shaded flame burnt off to one side. God said nothing. His mouth was set into a hard line, full lips pushed out.
Why do you make it so people don’t care about each other, asked Lob.
Frankie raised his head, watching Lob speak.
Make it? said God, tilting his head. I don’t make it any way at all. People make their lives for themselves. People choose to be uncaring. I can’t help that.
Lob stood up with his hands out.
But you can help anything. I thought you were God—
God’s eyes widened and his lips writhed once more.
Hold it right there, son, he said. Think who you’re talking to now.
Oh—what are you going to do. Punish me?
I might.
God looked away toward the window.
Oh, said Lob—you’ll punish me for being honest with you but you let the rest of the people just go on lying and not caring about each other—like Frankie over there. I don’t see you jumping into his face and saying Watch what you say now when he says the things he says about not caring about anybody.
Frankie sat up. The face of God grew silent and still. The black eyes gazed half-closed. The red flame alongside God flickered.
Be careful how you speak to me, said God. Or bad things are likely to happen—
Frankie got up and stepped between Lob and the heavy wooden door, shutting off God and the golden doors and the golden candlestick. Frankie leaned down and put his face close to Lob’s.
What are you saying? said Frankie. Like I tell you every time—If you’re going to rant and rave to an empty door, keep my name out of it.
Lob’s eyes widened.
Oh? And what if I don’t keep you out of it Frankie? What are you going to do?
Frankie stepped back, hands out.
I don’t know. I’ll do something—Jesus Christ, Lob, I’m sick of this—
What will you do? snapped Lob, jerking his head and pushing his black hair away from his eyes.
I don’t know what I’ll do, said Frankie.
Are you going to smack me in the face? asked Lob.
I don’t know—come on, Lob, let’s not go through all this again—
Tell me, said Lob, rising, one fist out, voice raised. Are you going to smack me in the face or not?
No. But I—
Lob’s eyes burnt into Frankie’s.
Do I piss you off, Frankie? Tell me—do I really really piss you off?
Sometimes, said Frankie, backing up and leaning against the yellow wall. When you go on and on like this, I get pissed off. But I always tell you this—
And what have you ever done about how pissed off you get, Frankie?
Frankie dropped his eyes to the floor, then looked up.
I’ve never done anything about it. But that doesn’t mean I won’t—
Ahh, you never will, said Lob, bringing his arm down hard to his side and half turning away.
Don’t be so sure, said Frankie, stepping forward.
I said you never will! shouted Lob, as he sat on the edge of his bunk and turned toward the wooden door. The golden candlestick appeared and the golden doors and God’s round red large-lipped black-eyed face. God opened his mouth to speak but Lob beat him to it.
I’m glad you came back, said Lob, pointing at God. There’s more I need to ask you. Why do you let people keep it all bottled up inside? It makes people sick to keep it all bottled up inside, like Frankie here—
He waved his arm toward Frankie, as he went on.
He gets pissed off over and over and over again and you let him keep it all bottled up inside! You ought to tell him to come up and give me one right in the face! That’s what you should do—
Frankie’s hands formed into fists. God half-closed his eyes and spoke low.
Listen Lob. First of all, its wrong for anybody to smack anybody else in the face—
But you could make him do something—
If people decide to bottle things up inside, that’s their business.
Even if they make themselves sick?
God glared.
You should not question me so. Beware.
God’s face faded back into the golden doors and the golden doors faded back into the large wooden door and the candlestick disappeared once more. Frankie stepped forward quickly and lightly.
You’re nuts, he said to Lob, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and thrusting it into his mouth. It bobbed in the air as he went on. This is why I don’t know what to make of you, Lob. How to talk to you, or how to treat you. You’re nuts.
Frankie lit the cigarette with a green lighter as Lob looked up wideeyed again and spoke.
It’s a sin for you to tell me I’m nuts, said Lob. Don’t you know that?
Sure I know that. So what?
Frankie pushed the lighter away into his pocket and took the cigarette from his lips and blew a cloud of smoke in the air that snaked about Lob as Lob answered.
God will punish you for your sins.
He hasn’t yet, said Frankie, taking a deep drag.
What other sins do you commit every day, Frankie?
That’s my business—
But you do commit sins.
Jesus Christ, here we go again, said Frankie. He turned away and took a quick drag then went across the room and crushed the cigarette out in a small silver cardboard ashtray. He turned to Lob.
Sure I commit sins. Everybody does. Don’t you?
Lob glanced toward the yellow wall. Yes, he committed sins—and he’d never been punished for them either. He turned his head toward the large wooden door. He had another bone to pick with God. God came into sight again, within the golden doors, the candlestick beside him. Lob spoke to God.
Why do you let people sin and sin and you don’t punish them—you let them keep sinning until it’s too late and then boom, bang, you throw them into hell when its too late for them to confess—
Wait a minute, Lob, said God, his shining black eyes piercing Lob’s. People can choose to sin or not, confess or not, it’s their choice they’ve got free will—
Right, snapped Lob sharply, throwing up an arm. They’ve got just enough free will to end up in hell! You give them just enough rope to hang themselves—
Now hold it right there Lob—
No! exclaimed Lob, rising, breathing heavily, fists raised. Every single soul who’s in hell today, you put there! You let them sin and keep sinning until it was too late—Jesus!
God’s mouth fell open and Frankie went back over onto his bunk as Lob spun around, spewing words, his eyes blazing.
Let’s see, God, let’s see what we’ve established—you let liars walk the earth, you let people go on not caring about each other, you let people suffer with things all bottled up inside of them, and you let people sin and go on sinning, and then you have the balls to throw them into hell. You’re worthless!
A curtain of calm drew down over God’s large face.
What did you say Lob? Say that again.
You’re worthless!
Lob pointed at God, breathing faster, his finger shaking. Frankie watched wide-eyed, his mouth fallen open, from the safety of his bunk. They stayed frozen this way a full minute. Then God spoke.
I’ll show you how useless I am, said God.
God reached down with a long muscular arm and took the red shade off the candlestick and leaned over and blew out the flame. He raised his face to Lob.
There. The light’s out. And I’ve seen to it the one in heaven’s out too. Now you’ll see what I’m good for Lob, said God, breathing heavily, his face flickering in and out of sight—now you’ll see. I exist to keep my creation alive. And now I am no more—so you’ll see how useless I am Lob. You’ll be no more. There will be nothingness. As there was before. No Earth, no Heaven, no Hell—
Nothing.
Then God disappeared, as if flicked off with a switch, and the golden doors were gone and the candlestick was gone—and Lob looked toward Frankie, his face beet red.
God, what’s wrong with you, said Frankie.
I’ve gone too far again, I think, said Lob toward the wall. His face fell slack, he turned ghost white. He turned from Frankie to the wooden door and toward the window with the metal grate.
I’ve gone too far again—why do I always take it too far— What’s wrong with you? said Frankie. What the hell is wrong with you Lob, to go on and on like this five times a day—
Slowly the grated window approached Lob. The sun still shone brightly through the metal. That was a good sign. The sun hadn’t yet disappeared—
What’s wrong with you? continued Frankie from his bunk— Jesus Christ, Lob, I can’t figure you out—
Lob went up to the window and clutched the grate and looked out to the far horizon, the trees, the steeple, the scattered houses, and wondered if things would disappear all at once, or one at a time, or if God was bluffing this time again. Letting go of the grating, he sank to his knees and began to pray—but if God was bluffing there was no need to pray—but if God wasn’t bluffing there was nothing to pray to—the room began to spin and he raised his hands to his face, kneeling there, not knowing what to do, again, the tears streaming down his face as he cried and cried.
