My Wholly Heartbreaking Heretic, Page 2

  Part of me has been concerned that either one of us might crack from the considerable mental stress of unwarranted immortality. Ma Bichette seemed like the most likely candidate; whereas I have my good old fashioned self-loathing to keep me sane, she had this unwillingly thrust upon her. The human mind was not designed to process all the accumulated mental debris that builds up over centuries. I did not voice my misgivings, however, as if I was incorrect she would been upset that I suggested that she was insane.

  “Space?”

  Ma Bichette opened her eyes and stared directly into mine. “Yes. Well, to be exact, Nibiru.”

  “Is that anything like an ashram?” I asked, trying not to let the growing worry for her sanity show on my face.

  “It’s Babylonian,” she answered, rather condescendingly. “It’s not a planet, at least not as these mortals understand it. It’s a passage way between heaven and earth. It’s where goddesses such as myself step in between realms and realities. Should I want to, I could exist in all dimensions, at all times, through the gateways of Nibiru. It hasn’t got a fixed location, but it’s beyond the eyesight of man, even with these sophisticated telescopes and satellites.”

  Her explanation left me speechless for a few moments. I stood up. “I’d offer you a drink but you’ve obviously had enough.”

  “I haven’t even gotten started.” Ma Bichette kicked her sandals off and pulled her feet up on the sofa. “Did I ever tell you how that the Sumerian gods made man to serve them as slaves?”

  I shook my head, relived. She had dropped her spooky staring and was now being her usual glib self. “Must have slipped your mind.” I went to the kitchen and opened the door to the icebox. “What do you want to drink?”

  “Anything cold. Like I was saying, yeah, the Sumerian gods made mankind for slave labor, except they aren’t really gods. More like they are inter-dimensional super beings. I’m one of them.”

  “I see,” I said as I returned from the kitchen with two bottles of 7-Up. “Am I as well?”

  She shrugged. “If you like.” She popped the cap off on the edge of the coffee table.

  I sat back down next to her. “I am not signing on to anything else again without hearing all of the details.”

  Ma Bichette leaned against me. “I don’t want to explain it right now, I’m tired. I’ve been driving since six this morning.”

  How lovely it felt to have contact with her, if only just through our clothes. I ignored my vow to let her decide what course our relationship would have in this particular incarnation and I grabbed her hand with mine. “Just give me the gist of it. You can’t come in here, say these absolutely mad things, and then say that you are too tired to explain any further.”

  She squeezed my hand back. “I’ll do whatever I want,” she tauntingly answered.

  I sighed and leaned into her as well. “Obviously. But I would appreciate it if you let me in on your scheme.”

  “Don’t worry, I will. Let me take a nap until supper, alright?” she replied. She sounded terribly drowsy. She fell silent and I presumed she had fallen asleep. I began to wonder if I could stand up and turn the television on and keep it at a low volume when I heard her call my name.

  “Hmm?” I asked, feeling her drowsiness infect me.

  “I can’t stay with you,” she murmured and shifted against me to get comfortable. “I have to go to Oregon.” She squeezed my hand again. “I have obligations there.”

  “That’s all right,” I answered her. “It’s not like we haven’t got all the time in the world.”

  She snorted something halfway between a derisive laugh and a resentful rebuke. But she said nothing else and fell asleep after a moment. I got up and turned on the television. It was a western I believe, but I’m sure you’re just gutted that I can’t remember what particular series it was.

  At sunset I lit the coals on the barbeque and then sat on the patio, drinking a beer and pondering what sort of lunatic scam Ma Bichette was running this time. Claiming to be a Sumerian goddess and running around the country with a suitcase full of cash was not a clear-cut hustle by any definition. Whatever it was, however, it was certainly too complicated for me to want to get involved with. But, well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?

  After a while I heard the distinctive sound of the sliding glass door being eased open. “Did you have a nice nap?” I asked without turning around.

  “Yup,” she answered with her normal bounciness. “I feel tons better. You want to hear my plan now?”

  I gestured towards the empty white plastic lawn chair across from me. “Please enlighten me.”

  Ma Bichette took a seat. “Very appropriate choice of word, enlighten. That’s all the rage now, enlightenment. There are hordes of people looking for it under every rock they can find. Traditional religion is no longer effective, these new devotees of ‘truth’ want it dressed up in bright saffron robes or dusty with ancient superstitions. I can offer them both.”

  “Ma bichette, look, you can’t go around telling people about our beginnings,” I sternly began to lecture her. I was not worried about the neighbors overhearing since we conversed in French.

  She dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “I am not, don’t worry.”

  That did not exactly put me at ease. Clearly she had some grand scam in mind that revolved around her inability to die. “Don’t worry?” I repeated. “You can do whatever you want, but when you begin to put my own anonymity in danger-”

  “Oh, it’s always ‘me me me’ with you, isn’t it Rémi? Rémi wants to be with Geneviève forever! Rémi will do anything! Rémi is in love and that’s all that matters!” Ma Bichette cried out indignantly. “Don’t worry, you have nothing to do with this. I haven’t mentioned you to anyone and I won’t.”

  She had shamed me into reluctant compliance with her supreme weapon; the reminder that I had made her a monster. I had a flurry of objections remaining, but I kept silent. “Fine, you can play your little game. Why did you even come here?”

  She sighed, apparently as unhappy that she had brought up my mistake as I was. “I don’t want you to interfere, that’s all, should you hear about it.”

  “Hear about what? Can you just tell me?”

  “You know that Manson fellow, right?”

  I nodded. I am going to presume that you have a passing familiarity with him as well. If you don’t, well, I’m not your damn wiki, look it up yourself.

  “When I read about it in the papers I thought “wouldn’t that be grand?’ To have devoted slaves willing to mindlessly do anything, at my word, for no reason other than I said so?”

  I did not want to point out that she was more or less describing myself. That was too emasculating, even considering our extreme intimacy. And I was trying to distance myself from that pathetic role as I matured. So there’s that.

  Ma Bichette continued with her explanation. “I don’t want them to kill for me, that’s too risky. They’d get caught. No, I want them to live for me.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Oh, I fabricate something about being born of the pre-time sea and to prove it I lie submerged underwater for about an hour. That pretty much convinces everyone I’m a goddess, if they are too stupid to suspect it’s a trick of some kind.” She fidgeted absentmindedly with a bottle cap. “Of course, it’s a lot more elaborate than it sounds,” she added. “I wear this white robe and nothing else, and I have this long prayer in what I say is Babylonian that is just made up gibberish. Sometimes I stab myself in the throat beforehand with this fancy dagger, just to really drive it home.”

  “You always did have a flair for the dramatic,” I commented. “And so what, they pledge themselves to your service? People are easily impressed, it would seem.”

  She rolled her eyes, not at me but at her followers. “You don’t know the half of it. Just because I can do a few tricks they believe everything I say. I don’t do miracles on their behalf, I don’t cure anyone, I don’t cause rain to fal
l in the desert or flowers to bloom in the snow. I just don’t die. That’s it. If you didn’t know what you know, you would assume that it’s a trick, albeit a good trick, right?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. If I was not undead myself there would be no amount of visual evidence someone else could perform to convince me that such things are possible. I would presume it be an illusion, like making the Statue of Liberty disappear.

  “Fools and their money are soon parted,” she quoted the axiom. “Not just their money, but their time and their labor. I started doing this back in January. I bought a vineyard in Oregon last year, but that was sort of a failed project because I didn’t have enough cash on hand to pay laborers. I was just about to sell it when I thought of this plan after reading about that Manson fellow in the paper. Why not have a little fun, I thought. They work there, for free, because their goddess tells them to do so. They live there as well. And here’s the best part. Because it’s a church and they donate their time those fools aren’t subject to any sort of labor laws.”

  I imagine that her scheme sounds terribly cynical and cruel, but that’s what she has become. Jaded and aloof, Ma Bichette seeks only to amuse herself, to find something to occupy her time lest she be actually be driven mad by boredom. She chooses to perceive the world as her playground, and while you might be eager to condemn her for doing so I invite you to live for two hundred and twenty-five years first.

  I was not appalled by her plan. I agreed with her that if someone was stupid enough to believe that she was a Sumerian space-goddess just because she could take a few machine gun rounds to the face, or whatever parlor trick she was demonstrating, well, they maybe deserved to be a slave. I’ve seen worse reasons to enslave people.

  But being appalled and having reservations are different. Ma Bichette did not completely comprehend the advances in technology that had occurred in middle of century. No longer could we just ride out of town and into another territory if our situation got dicey. There was now a collective memory and consciousness achieved through telex and nationwide media outlets and just better organization and communication. We had no choice but to adapt, but Ma Bichette is stubborn and serious changes usually take a while to sink in.

  “Do you really think that’s a good idea? People might start asking questions. Police people. Government people. Tax people,” I reminded her.

  She shrugged. “What are they going to do me? Put in prison? Handcuff me? I’ll escape easily enough. There’s nothing they can do to me.”

  “That Manson fellow is on every newscast and newspaper from here to the Orient. You think living forever is hard? Try doing it under a microscope.”

  She rolled her eyes, this time undoubtedly at me. “I’m not going to do anything outrageous, like sending them out to kill. Nothing illegal, just pick grapes and press them and such.”

  “And have them shower you with awe and praises while doing so,” I commented.

  She shrugged. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Ma bichette, if this gets to the point to where I hear about it, I think it will have gotten out of control.” I sighed. “Where did you even come up with all this nonsense about goddesses from beyond the moon?”

  “Books about the ancient world. I didn’t really make any of it up myself, it’s just a bunch of hooey that I’ve read about.” She struck a dramatic pose. “Look, couldn’t I be carved in a stone relief and buried under sand and rock for three-thousand years?”

  “No, because you are from space. Wait, no, you’re from Louisiana. I keep forgetting because you keep changing your mind on who you are.” I stood up and poked at the coals with a stick. “Why can’t you just be you? I could-” I stopped myself before I poured out my heart to her for the umpteenth time. I would have told her that she didn’t need a legion of mindless slaves or her own religion or whatever absurdity she was compelled to pursue this time around. I could give her all the attention and love she so desperately desired, but…ugh, even typing this I realize how pathetic it all sounds. I have literally lost track of how many time I’ve tried to convince her of the above. Everything I have, I offer her, but it is never enough.

  “Well, unlike you, I am not content to live as a simple laborer. What are you doing now, huh? Digging ditches?” she jeered, as was to be expected the moment I started to get uncomfortably close to the truth with her. I think that she honestly does not know what she wants, and her perception of what she needs to be happy grows more and more muddled each year.

  “Repairing televisions,” I answered in a measured tone. “And you’d be much better off learning an honest trade as opposed to these insane ideas that are going to get the both of us in trouble.”

  “You worry too much,” she answered sweetly. Her pleasant disposition had returned in a blink of an eye.

  “You don’t think,” I accused her, growing a bit impatient. “How can this result in anything but disaster?”

  “Disaster?” Ma Bichette scoffed. “You’re such a killjoy. What could possibly happen? I just want to have fun, mon canard. Even if one of them runs to the police and goes ‘there’s an insane space goddess who is making me work’ what are they going to do about it? My followers are just filthy young men and-”

  I perked up. “So that’s your recruiting tactic,” I leveled with so much jealously it even alarmed myself. I know it’s an awful double standard that it’s perfectly acceptable for me to bed and wed as many women as I want when we are separated, but the thought of her with other men…it boils my blood. We have a tacit understanding that if she does feel the abhorrent desire to know another man she does not mention it to me.

  “Are you insinuating that I am having it off with these morons?” she asked with amusement. “That wouldn’t be in character of Ninsutu, Sumerian goddess of agriculture, would it? To fraternize with her laborers?”

  “Well why else would they follow you to a your own private little plantation, huh? Unless you’re bribing them! With your…charms!”

  “Because I am offering them enlightenment, mon amour, not because I’m flopping them. It would ruin the whole mystique, wouldn’t it?” Ma Bichette stood up and walked over to me. She slithered her hands under my shirt and caressed my bare skin. “Besides, goddesses only consort with gods.”

  “I’m not playing your game, ma bichette, I thought I made myself clear. Not even to win you back into my bed for the few hours you’ll be here.”

  “I miss you,” she breathed into my ear. “I can stay a few days, they’ll wait for me.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t feel like it.”

  “What do you mean you don’t feel like it?” she questioned, taking offense that her mere touch didn’t trigger earth-shattering lust in me.

  “Just don’t.” It was true. While I wouldn’t have minded some no strings attached rumpy pumpy, well, just that concept alone is more far fetched than the whole space goddess thing. Especially with her. Honestly, do you think that a woman who would amuse herself by role-playing as a Sumerian deity is the sort who would not generate intense and searing waves of drama after said relations? I can tolerate said drama when I want and I do enjoy it in a perverse way (perhaps that is what keeps me from drowning in ennui, as opposed to treading water in it like I do), but her whole scam was just far too convoluted and weird for me to want to have any part of. If she had just been cruising around America, butchering people like a proper ghoul should, well, that would have been different, but damnit, I just wanted to stay in my two-bed, one-bath with attached garage and not have to deal with her shenanigans for a decade or so.

  Ma Bichette removed her hands and awkwardly held them at her sides. “When can we eat?”

  She sounded so disappointed I nearly dropped my resolve, but I preserved. “These coals should be ready in a few minutes,” I said while poking at them with a pair of tongs. “If you want to go get the meat you can, it’s sitting in the icebox.”

  Little miss sourpuss avoided anything resembling congenial conversati
on for the rest of her visit with me. I suppose that she was upset with me since I wasn’t on board with her mad plan and I wasn’t open to her manipulation at that juncture in my afterlife. For probably the first time in our relationship I had refused her sexual advances, and I don’t believe she knew how to interrupt that. As I write this I am texting her over the issue, as she is at her bakery. According to her, she thought I was sleeping with someone else at the time and she felt inadequate. Fancy that. I suppose that I shall have to validate her when she gets home from work tonight.

  Uh, that sounds terrible, doesn’t it? That I am just lying about the house, frittering my time away by writing my memoirs while the lady of the house supports us with her hard work and ingenuity. It’s supposed to be acceptable now, gender equality and all that, but I am an old fashioned man in many regards. Sure, I may embrace technology with eager arms and strained eyes, but my apparently antiquated masculine role as provider is deeply engraved on my psyche. I haven’t yet decided what I am to be on this go-around, aside from author (which isn’t really a job as much as it’s an hobby). My lack of direction and clarity is eating at me, and it certainly doesn’t help that Ma Bichette requested that I fold and put away the laundry this morning. I have never been less pleased to lady’s underpants in my life.

  Anyway, she only stayed with me for the night, dallying only long enough in the morning to eat some breakfast and ask me if I intended to live in Reno for some time. I did and I told her thus, and then without so much as polite goodbye she left. I watched her drive off and I could see the reflection of myself in the window scowling.