Oh Pure and Radiant Heart by Lydia Millet (shoe dog free ebook .txt) 📕

think I can stand the crowds, said Oppenheimer. —I’m curious but I can’t endure all those people.

—Me either, said Ann.

—Bradley’s got these Christian rock bands that do musical accompaniment, said Szilard. —They’re calling it the Soul Harvest Crusade. And you know how many people he had at his last revival? Fourteen thousand.

Fermi waded into the marshy edge of the lake in his good leather shoes, suit pants rolled up to the knees. Overhead the bank of clouds was a heavy bruised color, brown and pending.

—You can look for them from the water, he announced, beckoning.

—Do you see the swans, Enrico?

—Swans are everywhere, said Fermi, dismissive.

Ben liked to look at the swans, gliding out calmly toward the horizon and away from them.

Fermi was up to his armpits now and Ben thought: What if he goes under and doesn’t surface again? Stay with him. Stay with him.

He took off his own shoes and waded in behind. The cold was stunning.

—I’ll look for them with you for a minute, he called, gasping and curling his fingers with the freeze rising up to his thighs, —but then we need to go back in. There could be lightning.

Fermi stopped with the water up to his shoulders and tipped his head back to squint into the sky. Coming up behind him, teeth chattering, treading water because he had to hold his feet off the slimy lake bottom, Ben leaned back too.

Even with the clouds massed over them the brightness of the sky was still too much for his vision, so he closed his eyes and felt the first light raindrops on his cheeks and forehead.

—It’s raining, he said. —We should really go in.

—Wait! said Fermi.

Now the rain was audible on the water and Ben looked around him at the pinpricking of the surface, spread out around him in a gray and complex infinity.

—Do you see? said Fermi solemnly, and pointed up at the clouds, rainwater coursing down his long nose and dripping off the end. —They are everywhere! Everywhere!

Ben followed his finger but there were no birds visible overhead. It was only a silver blur.

—What? asked Ben.

—The cranes! crowed Fermi, smiling. —They cover the sky. Can’t you see them?

—I don’t see them at all, said Ben sadly.

They watched the revival from Bradley’s trailer, on a live feed. It was a minimal trailer, unlike the bus, without wings that opened to make it broader, without even a full bathroom. In the closet-sized space between the main room and the bedroom there was only a flimsy blue toilet, and the strong smell of disinfectant. On the back of the toilet there was a basket of fake flowers and sitting among them a yellow chick made of felt. Its beak held a leafy sprig.

The walls were fake wood-panel dark and there were piles of papers spread over the table, flyers, leaflets, even grim religious comic books in black and white, and against the wall a case of prayer books, Bibles and Concordances.

Oppenheimer lay back on the couch and stretched out his long legs.

—And now we have the beautiful Crystal Night to sing for us, said Bradley, onstage with a microphone.

The picture was fuzzy and handheld, jogging up and down.

—Let’s give glory to the Lord for the first song she’s going to perform for us tonight, “Come for me, Jesus.”

—I think I’ll take a walk, said Oppenheimer, and disappeared into the darkness beyond the steps.

—Potty break for me, said Larry.

In the early 1950s, while the Cold War was accelerating and Congress was considering the details of a new Air Force budget, Representative John Rankin, a Democrat from Mississippi, stood up to speak in the House. Rankin supported a massive increase in Air Force spending, which the Air Force had requested. To explain his position—which was a popular one—he said; “We have reached the time when our Air Force is the first line of defense. The next war will be an atomic conflict. It will be fought with airplanes and atomic bombs. It may mark the end of our civilization. I shall vote for the top amount offered here.”

—Dr. Oppenheimer! said Mrs. Bradley, at the open door to the trailer. Ann recognized her: she had brought them Coca Cola at the first meeting.

She stepped inside and reached out for him shakily.

Confused, he extended his right hand and took hers.

—Remember, said Szilard drily, —You’re the risen messiah.

—Seeing you up so close! said Mrs. Bradley. —Mercy! I think I need to sit down.

She stumbled over to the sofa and perched on the arm, where Ann saw her arms were trembling, thin and brought out in goose bumps. She clasped her hands onto her knees but the trembling went on.

On television Bradley had brought a man on stage to testify. Behind them was a black-and-white photograph of the porkpie hat.

—When I met him, when I saw the light that hovers around him, said the man into the microphone, —I knew the truth!

—What is he talking about? asked Oppenheimer, straining to see the television.

—And no matter what the demons of doubt tried to whisper in my ear, I knew this was him!

—What does he mean, he touched me? asked Oppenheimer. —I’ve never met the man in my life!

—They have pieces of your clothing, said Mrs. Bradley, and they all stared at her.

—What are you talking about? asked Ann.

—Articles of his clothing get passed around. They have a suit they keep in this clear plastic box. It travels in a special car, you know, one of those black ones for funerals.

—Leo? Did you know about this? asked Larry. —How come no one told me?

—First I’ve heard, said Szilard.

—They have one of my suits? asked Oppenheimer vaguely. —I didn’t notice there were any missing. Must be one of the old ones.

—There’s also pieces of things you’ve touched, towels, glasses, cigarette cartons. When you’re in public they pick up your cigarette butts. The followers touch those things and then they can say they’ve touched you. They call them articles of worship. Some people have displays.

—Fetishistic, said Szilard. —Primitive