I stood there. Eberhardt stood there. Neither of us moved or said anything for at least fifteen seconds. Then Eb blew out his breath gustily and said with awe in his voice, “Now I’ve seen it all.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I thought he was in some kind of commune. The Hare Krishnas or something.”
“Yeah. Or something.”
Eberhardt came over to my desk and picked up Dunston’s card. “Church of the Holy Mission. The Moral Crusade.” He flicked a fingernail against the card and said, “From the Hare Krishnas to Jerry Falwell—that’s some leap.”
“You’re telling me?”
“You ever hear of either one, the church or the crusade?”
“No. You?”
“No. I can check ’em out, if you want.”
“I want. Thanks, Eb.”
He went back to his desk. I picked up the phone and dialed the number of Bates and Carpenter, the ad agency where Kerry worked as a chief copywriter. The switchboard put me through to her secretary, who said that Kerry was in conference, could she call me back in about an hour? I said, “No, she can’t call me back in about an hour. I don’t care what she’s doing, I want to talk to her now. Tell her it’s an emergency.” There was something in my voice that made the secretary decide not to argue; she went away meekly. I waited. A full minute went by. Then there was a clattering noise, followed by another clattering noise, as if the phone had been dropped, and Kerry came on sounding out of breath.
“What is it?” she said. “What’s the matter? Are you all right?”
“That depends on your definition of all right. Your ex-husband just showed up here at the office.”
“What!”
“We had a nice chat,” I said. “He called me a fornicator and a witch, or maybe it was a warlock, and accused me of seducing you and then casting a spell on you to keep you from going back to him.”
Silence for three or four seconds. Then she said, “Oh my God.”
“But that’s not the best part. No more commune for old Ray; no more shaved heads and robes and chants. He’s back to wearing three-piece suits, he lives in San Jose, and he’s an ordained minister—he says—in something called the Church of the Holy Mission.”
“Oh my God!”
“God, right,” I said. “I almost forgot. He talks to God now. Personally.”
“Talks to …” She made a funny little strangled noise.
“Yes indeed,” I said. “And God told him divorce is a pernicious invention of man, so as far as he’s concerned the two of you are still married.” I waited a while, and when she stayed silent I said, “He wants me to give you up. He said if I don’t I’m going to hell.”
“You mean he threatened you?”
“Not exactly. No.”
“Thank God for that. He was never violent when I knew him.” Pause. “He’s living in San Jose, you said?”
“Apparently. You didn’t know that, huh?”
“No. How would I know?”
“He hasn’t been in touch with you?”
“Not in months. You don’t think—?”
“I don’t think anything. I’m just asking.”
Another pause. “This new church—what kind is it?”
“Good question. It has something to do with the Moral Crusade. Him too.”
“I never heard of the Moral Crusade. Like the Moral Majority?”
“Probably. Eberhardt’s checking on it.”
She said nervously, “What are you going to do?”
“About what?”
“About Ray.”
“I don’t know yet. You got any suggestions?”
“No. Just don’t do anything until we talk this out.”
“What are you afraid I might do? Drown him in holy water?”
“Don’t grouch at me. It’s not my fault, is it?”
“Well, you married him.”
“He wasn’t a lunatic when I married him, for God’s sake. He was normal.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Normal.”
“Well, he was.” There was some mumbling in the background. Pretty soon she said, “Listen, I have to go now. I was in an important meeting with a client…. I’ve got to get back. We’ll talk about this tonight, okay?”
She sounded flustered and edgy, and all at once I was sorry that I’d shaken her up like this. It wasn’t her fault she had an ex-husband who claimed a personal relationship with God, or that he’d decided to walk into my office this morning. Why take it out on her?
I said, “Okay. Babe, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that he got me all worked up …”