Chapter XVIII: Going Under
It was two weeks later, after more walks in the park and Chinese lunch specials, that Taughtauer arranged the baptism. They met at the corner of Reservoir Avenue and 205th Street in the Bedford Park section of the Bronx. Taughtauer was wearing crisp gray pants and a high-collared short-sleeved dress shirt, hair combed back. Mitkin was more casual, if not just less ironed.
“This way,” said Taughtauer. “To my house. Good to see you.”
The sidewalks were alive with children, their unbounded energy spilling into the streets. A little tune came to Mitchell and he sang it in his head:
School’s out, school’s out, teacher’s let the monkeys out, one went east, one went west, one went up the teacher’s dress.
He grinned. A tiny child ducked against his legs while a playmate pursued with a water balloon. Mitkin pretended fisticuffs while Taughtauer chased the bigger kid. Everyone laughed. A car horn bellowed in front of a game of street tag, bicycles and jump ropes zipped and twirled. On the quaint block, children ran in and out of their row houses while local bodegas, bloated with candy-buying kids, blared rapid Latin rhythms. Cries of mira and papi could be heard.
“This is what school should be like, Mitch,” said Taughtauer. “It should be like this all the time.”
They crossed a large thoroughfare and turned up a tiny street. Taughtauer pointed at a church at the end of the street. “That’s where Ricky goes, do you know Ricky Cuevas?” asked Taughtauer.
“The quiet kid from South Bronx Science?”
“That’s the one.” Taughtauer then pointed at a thick brown building. “Ricky lives in that house there. He’ll be by later, everyone will be. All the martyrs are coming for your baptism.”
Mitkin pictured himself dunked in water.
Cool. Bubbles from the mouth run to the surface. A big hand with knobby calluses and long, rangy fingers is pushing. There is muffled talk and distorted faces peer in through a clear glass font. There is water pressure on the pupils, the water settles, and the crumpled chatter ceases. The leathery hand holds on. Quiet. For a long time there is a midnight silence and it is agreeable. There is no struggle and there are no dilemmas, no intellectual calculations, no right and no wrong. There is only silence. The eyes close, and against the silence darkness blots out everything. Coolness. Blackness. An embryo. Stay, stay, let go! No breathing. No nothing. Be baptized. No breathing. Darkness. Be baptized. A squeeze and then a tug and then heavy soggy hair covers the face. Noises again. People are cheering and thumping on tables and hooting. With a skinny thumb wet hair and water are moved aside and there is a man in front of him, unhanding him and hugging him. That is like love, and that is odd for this man. But it isn’t, suddenly, it seems normal. Everything is new. There is hope between them, a familial longing, and between the others too. Love. There is something in it all that must be love.
“Mitch?”
Mitkin turned with a start.
“Mitch, are you listening to me?”
“Yeah, sure. Is there going to be water at the baptism?”
“Of course there’s going to be water. There’s no real baptism without water. It’s elemental.”
Mitkin moved his head approvingly as a harried man in a tight-fitting business suit loped in full stride toward him, his head and eyes down checking his watch. His briefcase nearly gutted Mitkin.
“Wow, how about that guy?” said Taughtauer turning like a matador. “See what happens to us, Mitch?” He shook his head. “Slaves.” Suddenly he stopped, ebullient and untroubled but pensive as always. He stuck his hand in the air, forefinger first, and shouted through a grin, “Damn, I’d like to burn it down today. Right now. I mean what else is there? Suits and bank accounts. Ridiculous.” He moved his head to and fro in disapproval. A little boy stopped and stared. Taughtauer let out a growl and playfully chased the boy up the block and waited for Mitkin to catch up.
“That’s my house,” said Taughtauer pointing to the church. “Nice, huh?”
Mitkin laughed.
“Of course, you know it really is my house. Me and those guys, we’re brothers. We both want the same thing, peace. What is it? Peace on earth, good will toward mice?”
“Yeah, mice,” replied Mitkin, wistfully. He was thinking of Raphaella. She’s really not very peaceful, most of what she does divides people actually. He shook his head and spoke out loud, “I bet you’ve never even been inside that church.”
Taughtauer straightened his neck. “In there? I don’t need to, they’ve been coming to me four times a year for twenty-five years. I know just about all of them in some form or another.”
“You mean teacher-parent nights?”
“More. Most of the earliest ideas for the movement are a reaction to these Christian people who bitch and moan about the system they trust their kids to. The problem is most of them don’t realize that they are as much to blame as the system. They, after all, believe in the lie of authority, I mean they are authority. The system relates to their kids the same way they do—as a behemoth overseer, as one above the other, all this ‘in charge’ crap. Yet they hate it; they hate the heavy hand when it comes to their kids. They want,” he sugar-coated his voice, caring teachers who’ll take an interest in my child. Yeah, right. They’re all confused and deluded.”
“But there are exceptions,” said Mitkin.
“Yeah, the exceptions all put their kids in home school or private school if they can afford it. The almost-rebels move to some tundra commune somewhere in California and regret it deep down.”
They walked one more block. “Here’s my house, really.”
In front of them stood a tall, two-story house with an attic. It was painted navy blue. All of its borders were done in canary yellow giving the house a foreign feel, almost like a Swiss chalet. The front yard was tiny and newly laid with luscious green sod. Neat little beds of fetching flowers rimmed the yard. Red orchids and yellow daisies sat side by side with hardy roses.
“You did all of this?” asked Mitkin.
Taughtauer nodded. A short banister led to an open porch on which sat a rocking chair. The porch reminded Mitkin of something from the South. It was inviting, like a bed and breakfast. Taughtauer opened the door and led Mitkin inside. The first things he noticed were two televisions, one giant and the other smaller, just to the side. Both were tuned to news channels. In the far corner sat three army-style cots lined up in a neat row. Below each lay bundled bedding and other personal belongings including the latest black and red striped Air Jordans. Mitkin waited in the foyer while Taughtauer went up and down the stairs, prowling about the house searching for something. He rifled through the cots and their belongings and then went to the phone and turned it upside down. He then went out the back door where Mitkin lost sight of him.
The back door slammed and Taughtauer’s voice could be heard, “Okay, Mitch, you can come in now. Nobody’s been here.”
“What about the TVs?” Mitkin hollered.
“They’re always on.”
“Okey-dokey, then,” Mitkin said under his breath.
Mitkin met Taughtauer in the kitchen where he was stirring some iced tea. He poured a glass and gave it to Mitkin.
“This is our headquarters, yep. Everything that goes on here is absolutely top secret. As you know, there are many forces out there with an interest in seeing the movement fail.”
“Top secret, huh?”
“Yep, yep. Top secret.”
“Have you ever been arrested, Ed?”
“No. Harassed yeah, arrested no. They’ve got nothing to arrest me for. Now, as for the kids, we’ve got a few societal degenerates, if you know what I mean.”
Mitkin sipped his tea. “Like who?”
“You tell me when they get here. You’ve met most of them before. But if you pay attention, you’ll notice that the kids with the longest rap sheets are also our best martyrs. That’s how I persuade so many teachers to join us. The whole movement is transformational.” The doorbell rang.
Two teens appeared in the kitchen. Mitkin recognized one of them immediately. His name was José Hernández, a student at South Bronx School of Science, a popular student whose dyed hair, this day yellow, was his trademark. His face was uneven—big teeth, oafish lips and a meager mustache gave him a doltish appearance—but his eyes were kind. He was staring at Mitkin now, hard, he and his friend giving the once-over. Mitkin’s stomach turned and his heart raced. It was like a coming-out party. “So, it is true!” José Hernández stiffened his hand and stuck it out. “You’re really with us, you really are the man.”
Mitkin nodded.
“I was there at Borly’s, I saw it all.” Still nodding Mitkin said, “Nice hair.” José patted it down coolly and pointed at Mitkin’s head.
“Yours too, papi.”
The other student stepped forward. “James Hunt,” he said. He wore cornrows and an oversized black leather jacket. His skin was very dark, the color of a rich stout, and his eyes were piercing. Even in the jacket, it was easy to see his athletic build. Together all three went into the living room, Mitkin trailing the two boys. Taughtauer sat in a recliner with a bowl of chips. “I’ve already told Mitch about his recruiting mission. He says he’s the man for the job, right, Mitch?” “You liked the idea?” asked José. “It’s mine, you know. I’m working on it with you, me and Richie. Do you know Richie?”
“No.”
“He’s a trip, yo. You’ll like him though, smart as hell, right, James?” James nodded. “I brought you this stuff,” he pointed to a black bag, “it’s a notebook and some drawing paper. And here’s some art pencils, chalk, a what-cha-call it. Oh and here is my favorite.” He pulled a floppy disk from the bag. “A program so we can upgrade our MacArt. This bad boy will let us do anything we want, and fast.” He handed the glossy box to Mitkin. “You work on computers?”
“Yes,” said Mitkin.
“Good, Richie will love you.”
There was a quick knock and the front door opened again. A skinny teen slipped his way in and with a grin on his face searched the room ravenously for something or someone.
“It’s gotta be you, you the only white boy in here,” he said, looking at Mitkin. “A new teacher martyr and the son of Martin Mitkin. Damn, skippy!” Mitkin raised an eyebrow. They slapped hands. “Richie Rovers,” said the thin boy. “I hope you know some shit about computers, yo.”
Another teen was soon inside too. Mitkin knew this one. They exchanged glances, but unlike the lightsome Richie Rovers, this lean kid was aloof. He made his way into the kitchen without greeting anyone but Taughtauer. Richie squawked on, “How much you know?”
Mitkin shook his head confused.
“About the movement, motherfucker? Did Taughtauer show you the lists yet?” Mitkin went to answer but Richie kept talking, “Did he take you to the World of Darkness, yo?”
“He did.”
“So you really in, man. This white boy is really down, huh? This shit is real.” He fisted both hands like he’d just scored the winning basket. “I love saying that. This shit is real!”
The room was filling up, and as it did the boy with whom Mitkin had exchanged glances returned. He meandered over and sat on the rug opposite Mitkin, sipped from his drink, nodded, and then held his glass to the sky, slightly, reverently.
“Cheers, Mitkin. I told you we’d call.” His voice was silky.
“Yes. Yes you did.” Mitkin raised his glass. “Cheers. Your name is?”
“Enrico Cuevas. Ricky ‘round here.”
“Ricky Cuevas. The one in charge.” Mitkin recognized him as the leader from the classroom.
The boy put his drink down and leaned backward, onto his palms. Almost imperceptibly he began to rock to a gentle rhythm and did not answer Mitkin. He was very cool, calm, as if he were there for something else, not banter. And of course he was; he was there for Mitkin’s initiation.
Mitkin’s mood began to change. He thought how his father had planned for this moment, and how much his father had loved him. He thought how this movement had begun to change his life, and a great vitality rose within him. In his mind, he managed the words holy warrior as a description of himself. Indeed, he was about to embark on a holy war.
Taughtauer set a large table. Some clanking in the kitchen and a sweet aroma reminded Mitkin of Thanksgiving dinners past when his mother would feed his father’s aging but agile friends, each of them tanner than normal. He heard a dry coil creak as someone opened the oven door, he heard the chopping of food on a butcher’s block, an electric can opener grinding, the cork popping out of a bottle. Curiously, these holiday sounds brought with them thoughts of Raphaella and an ironic melancholy seized him. “Were we this close that I can’t shake her now, thoughts of her?” He imagined her prostrate before her sacred trinkets on a cold Christmas Eve. “If only she’d dump all of that,” he thought. He wanted her to join him. “She would be a star here.” He thought about going wantonly after her, rushing through the streets and finding her with a hug and a kiss and then brusquely carrying her back, to the hideout, where she, too, would be cleansed in the baptismal waters. Eager agitation shot through Mitkin’s soul and he stood up, walked over to Taughtauer, and with a heedless hand took him by the elbow. Taughtauer, taken by surprise, followed.
“Whoa, Mitch, take it easy, my elbow. Relax.” Mitkin, still holding tight, directed Taughtauer to the back porch.
“I’m ready to be baptized.”
“I know, Mitch, you already told me. Take a seat. We’re all going to eat and then a little meeting and then the water. Take a little break and get something to eat.”
“But you’re not getting it, Ed. I really want to be baptized. It’s not like at the zoo before, I want it like food or water. Do you understand?” Taughtauer flashed a broad grin. “Don’t look at me like that,” said Mitkin. “I’m not some experiment. This has been coming ever since my father’s death and now it’s hitting me. It feels like gravity.”
“It feels like gravity?” Taughtauer put his hands on his hips and smirked, “Let’s call that God for lack of, well, a definitive term. That’s God calling you, Mitch.”
“Yeah, well, maybe. I don’t know what it is here,” he said pointing to his head. “But there’s more. I can feel it and I don’t want it to go away. Did you know that for the first time since his death I feel at home? I think I must feel like they do.” He nodded toward the kids. “Were they like this before they came to you?”
“Mitch, we are all like that, we just don’t all wake up and realize it. These kids are closer to who they are.”
“Freedom,” Mitkin said knowingly.
“Freedom, you got it, Mitch.” It would be Taughtauer’s mantra for the next three months. Over and over he would drive it in, and he would not waver. Other ideas revolved around the ideal: justice, goodness, equality, something he called the “intolerable shackles of authority” (he usually said this in a state of near ecstasy), and of course his battle cry of “constructive destruction.” But it was young hearts and freedom that made Taughtauer tick, and in turn, the movement itself. Mitkin loved the ideal too, but it was not freedom that made him so ecstatic. It was the physicality of it all. He had left the books and created real relationships. Being there he felt at home, and seeing the unquestioned allegiance of these students, day in and day out changed him. He came to know how they silently lent money to one another, fed and washed each other’s babies, shared bus rides late at night, and volunteered to risk their lives collecting guns and money. For Mitkin, as lonely as he was, it didn’t matter so much that these kids worked to change the system, it just mattered that they worked together, united, lovingly, patiently, side by side. Out on the porch that evening all of this came as a blur, an intimation of something good.
“Funnel your idealism,” said Taughtauer. “Be reckless, but just wreck the right stuff.”
Taughtauer had set nine places. A bench had been dragged from the back porch and on it sat Richie Rovers and James Hunt. Mitkin sat to Taughtauer’s right, as Taughtauer sat at the head of the table. On the other end, at the head, Ricky Cuevas sat tall in a grandly carved wooden chair. He commanded the circular passing of dishes and calmly, keenly, directed traffic on everything from potato salad to the wine and beer bottles. Imperceptibly, like a ripe married couple, Cuevas and Taughtauer communicated their authority (though Taughtauer would have denied such authority; that was against the mantra).
“That ain’t eatin’,” said a young woman to Mitkin’s right. “I could eat that for a snack, come on now.”
“Just getting started,” said Mitkin.
“Ain’t that the truth,” she laughed the words through her teeth. “Ain’t that the truth...” This was Nicole and her baby girl, Tiana. She was James Hunt’s girl and one of the sharpest martyrs at the table. With a high voice and a strong hand, she took Tiana by the wrist and waved at James who sat far away at the other end of the table. “Hey Daddy, hey old man.” James Hunt waved back meekly, embarrassed. “Tiana’s planned,” Nicole told Mitkin.
“Oh, you’re married?” asked Mitkin.
“No. Not the way you thinking anyway. We together though, he needs me ‘cause without me he wouldn’t talk to nobody never. Probably end up mute from not using words, like the kid in Jungle Book. We love each other though.” Mitkin chewed slowly and looked at James. James never raised his eyes from his plate.
“How long have you been together?” asked Mitkin.
Taughtauer pushed his way into the conversation. “Just as long as they’ve known of the movement. It was freshman year that you met, my first full year recruiting martyrs. I waited on your class for fifteen years.” He smiled and looked at them all. “Fifteen years!”
“I remember, too,” said Nicole. “I just got off suspension when James told me to take your class. You taught crazy stuff in that class. That’s when I first learned the word anarchy.”
Mitkin turned to Taughtauer. “What class was that?”
“Study hall.”
“Oh,” peeped Mitkin, winsomely. “Of course.”
“Every one of these kids took that course. Yep. Every one.” Taughtauer raised his glass and gave Mitkin a wicked wink. “Aah-tahn-cion people. I would like to make a toast.” A few forks could be heard tapping against cheap crystal. Taughtauer waited like a thespian, his back straight and pinky finger extended. “This is a toast to family. Every one of us is ordained to live in a family—” He was interrupted. “Ed, you better explain what means for these fools, especially José over there,” said Richie Rovers.
Taughtauer smiled and continued. “Living in a family is a needful thing. Thanks to this movement, every one of us has a family now. And I know every one of us is grateful for that.” He looked surreptitiously at Richie. “But we must continue to grow and share our wealth. Today we do just that. I’d like to present for baptism a new martyr, the son of an old ally, and, I might add, a young teacher with ample intellect and a mighty mettle.” Taughtauer looked at Mitkin and resumed, his vocabulary just as pompous and ridiculous as ever. “Yep, good folks, I give you Mitchell Mitkin.” Everyone toasted. Mitkin nodded while the martyrs sipped. He watched each of them, afraid he’d find some evidence of unbelief, a boyish giggle or a ridiculous belly laugh. But he didn’t. They believed and so he marched forward, his progress measured instantaneously in little soul-seconds, deeper and darker into the night of his soul he went, groping to believe and stumbling forward, standing taller with each doubtful breath overcome. They were done clapping and he was done doubting. He drank the toast to himself, finishing it and filling it again, blissfully swilling. “Thank you,” he finally said aloud. “Thank you.”
The wine and beer flowed. A huge carafe of red wine glimmered as if dappled on the table. All around were tall cans of malt liquor. Conversation broke out in all corners. Nicole, sitting next to Mitkin, served as a sort of interpreter. In hushed tones, she retold the tales that were being passed around, tales of old friends and high school adventures. Taughtauer needed no translation as he laughed along with all of his followers, baying at their jokes. “Richie hadn’t even learned to read yet,” said José, snorting. “You remember, Rich? You used to come to me and ask me to read for you.”
“It was Spanish, fool.”
“Richie, the United States Constitution was not written in Spanish, man.” Everyone rolled.
Taughtauer turned to Mitkin and then to Richie. “Rich, tell Mitchell about how far you’ve come. Tell him about junior high.”
Richie curled his lip and shrugged his shoulders. “Come on, Ed, that’s old news.”
“Go ahead, Rich,” said Alysha, a tall good-looking girl of eighteen. “Tell him about Woodson and woodworking class. That’s all, just woodworking.”
The whole table stopped chatting. Richie slowly warmed to his audience, convincing Mitkin that he had wanted to perform his story all along. He stood up.
“This is how the story ends.” He pulled up his loose fitting shirt and exposed a giant scar that ran up his flank. He did so plainly. “Now for the beginning. See, I had this woodworking teacher named Woodson. We called him Woodie. He was always trippin’ in class. He used to make these crazy-ass motherfucking wood blocks. He made a woodblock look like a dick once, I mean it had all the right parts, balls, the whole thing.” Mitkin looked around the room and waited for embarrassed laughter but none came. “One time he made this death scene out of wood. It had a guy on the ground with a knife going through him. He was real good with the wood yo, seriously, but he was always trippin’. Woodie loved to make jokes. He would put on plays in class and use what he carved as props. One-man plays, man, like he’d talk to himself and use these characters and then use their voices to teach with. Like still use them even after the play was over.”
Richie put on a voice. It was a deep Russian voice complete with the obligatory da and nyet. “Vee vill kroosh Amerika,” he mocked, “like an ahnt beneath my shooo…” Richie feigned stepping on an ant. “I remember my favorite voice was his English accent. It was that real, real uppity voice like of royalty. Every time he did it he talked about having sex, though, like he’d say,” Richie twisted his hand into the air and stuck out his jaw, “James, could you fetch the wench, please.” There was laughter. “The one with the big bootay.” Then, still in character, Richie pranced off in pursuit of the wench. He returned laughing and loose, his skinny body rubbery and ecstatic. “And that little bitch used to put on wigs too. Some kids liked him a lot, yo, they said his class was the only fun one. Me too, I liked his class, but I never really liked him ‘cause he reminded me too much of my pervert uncle. So that shit was always going through my mind, every time I saw old Woody.”
Alysha urged him on, “So get to Chucky and the saw.”
“Damn, Alysha, you act like you bought a ticket or some shit. I got this, don’t worry.” He nodded as someone laughed. “So after a couple of months I got into a beef with this little Spanish kid they called Chucky. He was real light-skinned and I guess I picked on him for that, but it was no big deal, at least not until I caught Chucky and Woody doing the nasty after school one day.” Mitkin looked at Taughtauer who was chewing with his head down, slowly, deliberately. “I ran out that mother fast as I could and figured I’d tell somebody the next day but the next day came and I got scared. The whole past with my uncle and all scared me, and so I just went to class and tried to forget about it. But I couldn’t. I saw Chucky and he was real embarrassed and he started crying. I felt real bad and then I got this rush of anger. It came out and I couldn’t really control myself. It was like waking up, yo. I took Chucky by the arm and walked him into Woody’s carving class and picked up a chisel, you know those sharp things, and jumped Woody. All the while I was whacking him, I could hear Chucky crying and that made me whack him even harder until I could feel his blood on me, dripping down my cheek. I stopped then but he wasn’t hurt as bad as I thought ‘cause before I knew it I was pulling a screwdriver out of my side.” He pulled up his shirt again. “That screwdriver.” Nicole winced ceremoniously. “I just wished he hadn’t got hold of that.”
Mitkin’s mouth was open.
“That was in seventh grade, right, Richie?” said Taughtauer still with his head down.
“Seventh grade.”
“Seventh grade?” repeated Mitkin.
“Yep,” said Richie. “Seventh grade. I didn’t go there in eighth.” “No shit?” said José sarcastically. “They had enough Texas Chainsaw for one day, huh?”
“Where did you go?” asked Mitkin.
“Spofford Correctional Facility. Great place if you like being caged like a fucking ferret all day.”
“What about Woody?”
“Woody? He retired. He’s probably chilling somewhere in the Keys right now. That’s where he always said he’d like to live, the Florida Keys.” Richie sighed and sat down. “That’s the end of my funny story. Eat up.”
“Mmmmm, thanks, Richie,” said Nicole. “Tell it again, no really,” said José.
And then, under the din of general conversation, Nicole gave Mitkin the translation. Chucky wasn’t the only one who Woody had molested. Richie had been a victim, too. “But we still love him anyway and he’s still the funniest of all these niggas and the cutest, except,” she smiled, “for his stupid tail-braid coming down the back a his neck.” She laughed. “We love him. A real rude boy.”
The baby cried and Nicole took her for a change of diapers. The doorbell rang. Taughtauer motioned James to the door and he went quietly. Two older people walked in. They were both a little overweight and both a little ruddy. One, the man, wore his hair combed to one side and neat, like a mannequin might. His black hair was thick and jet. The woman wore her hair up and in a bun under a broad-brimmed summer hat. She warmly opened her arms, and with a smoky voice greeted the people.
“Ed, you’ve got a damn good-looking bunch of revolutionaries here, a damn fine lot.” She looked at him. “And you’re not such a bad old white man either. Of course, I excuse myself.”
“Yes, you do Judy. Yes, indeed you do,” lolled Taughtauer.
The man with the deep black hair removed his windbreaker and searched the table for a place to sit. “Is that free?” he asked Mitkin, eyes up and bright. “Hey, wait, are you Mitch? What am I saying—you must be Mitch.” He picked up his foot and like a horse to a gallop, he charged for the seat. “I’m gonna sit right here.” He plopped down. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Taughtauer spoke, “Roger meet Mitchell Mitkin. Mitch, this is Roger Nin, coordinator of teacher affairs. He’s also been on board longer than anyone but the old hag over there. These are two of my five teacher martyrs. Get to know them, it’s in your best interest.”
Mitkin shook Roger Nin’s hand. “Good Rog, now go find yourself another chair, that’s Nicole’s.” Taughtauer pointed and then returned to his plate. “Some food, too,” he finished with his mouth full.
Judy Strand approached. She shook every kid’s hand all the way around the table, bowing to each and reverencing the males with a curtsy. She got to Mitkin and fell, wryly to one knee. She was very spry for her age, her legs looking strong in her sheer pantyhose. “Bless me, son of Martin. A pat upon the head is all I want, oh young master. Mitkin tentatively obliged, his palm resting lightly against her big-haired head. Strand looked enchantingly at Taughtauer. “And he has a sense of humor too. Ed, what a perfect child you’ve brought us.”
Taughtauer shooed her out of the way as well. “There’s a seat in there, go find Rog. Go ahead, git.” Strand grabbed Taughtauer’s hand and kissed it all over. “Forgive dear, sire, forgive… Boy, I’m getting old.”
“Like wine,” shouted Richie from the other end of the table.
“Or Old English,” followed Ricky. The young leader then turned to Taughtauer. “Is that everyone for tonight then?”
“Yep, yep.”
As if on cue, the martyrs all looked at Mitkin. Whispering wings fluttered in his stomach and he got up.
“Not yet, Mitch,” said Taughtauer. “Let’s finish our meal first, okay?”
Mitkin sat back down.
“But make a toast, Mitchell, that’s what we need, a good toast. Give us one would ya Mitch?”
Slightly dizzy, Mitkin got to his feet and held up his drink. The others did the same. The acceptance he felt rose within him, warmed by the camaraderie and cheap wine. A faint image of what he wanted to say belched up from below and he reeled as he began. “I guess I want to toast to you. I feel saved by you really. There is something about you all, together, that is good. Over the past months, something intangible and spiritual but more real than rock, has started happening to me, and has led me here to this room tonight. It’s freedom I think. Freedom is the only prerequisite for happiness, and so fighting for it and teaching others to do the same, well, it’s changing my life. It makes me happy.
“Since my father’s death, I have been a mess, you know. I have been unable to find my way in the world and at times have considered leaving it. It seems like a cruel joke sometimes, but meeting you guys has rejuvenated me. You have allowed me to see the beauty of life. You people have embraced love and life and a spirit that I’ve spent my short and naive life denying, and being here has enlightened me. I can see that no matter what happens to us and this movement, we will have lived struggling for freedom, the only thing worth living for. It’s maybe not a good comparison, but I feel like I accepted Jesus. Like I’ve thrown myself on the ground and it feels good. Here’s to the ground.”
No one moved. Some gaped. Mitkin, too, stood still. He stared and then, suddenly, remembered to drink. They all followed and the dignified mood broke. Chatter resumed. A bit sheepish, Mitkin sat down.
“Nicole, was I an idiot?”
“Hell, no. You just kept it real.”
Mitkin looked at Taughtauer. “Was it too much?”
“Absolutely not.” Taughtauer leaned back and patted his belly. “Yep, Mitch, you definitely are the man for the job. Yep, yep, you are a great, great man, the only one for the job. They love you, too.” He plunged a food-filled fork into his mouth and washed it all down with a glass of wine. Mitkin breathed deeply.
Dinner wound down and one by one the martyrs got up and cleared their places. They began to do the dishes and clean the dining room. No one handed out orders and no one slacked off. Only Taughtauer could be called lazy. He stayed in the living room in a leather chair, finishing his wine and smoking a cigar. Mitkin watched as the spindly man called his followers to him, one by one, talking quietly, earnestly. Judy Strand and Roger Nin sat on either side of their chief, like sentries. After a few minutes, Taughtauer called to Mitkin and then motioned for the others to leave. Mitkin walked through the smoky mist and sat where Nin had just been. He noticed that both Strand and Nin watched him intently as he got closer to Taughtauer.
“It’s just about time now,” said Taughtauer. “I will be your sponsor. All you need to do is listen to me, in fact that is all you will do. Right now, I want you to go on your own into the basement and look around. Just stroll around and get a feel for the place. So go ahead down there now. You’ll see a font, but don’t touch it, or anything, just go down and look. And relax. These rituals are all for a reason. You’ll know the reason.” Mitkin got up and followed Taughtauer’s outstretched forefinger until he found the hallway and the little door that led to the basement. “Yep, yep, right there. Go on down.”
There was no light in the stairwell, only an oily-black abyss looming against the puny hallway light in which Mitkin now stood. The stairs stretched interminably into the dark, as if falling forever, down and down into oblivion. He reached around the corner and fumbled for a switch. His hand ran smoothly over a poorly papered wall and made a slick sliding sound as it went. He felt unsteady but found nothing and reached further into the stairwell, leaning a bit, over the stairs and into the black. His fingers were taut and spread wide, the tendrils on the back of his hand raised and rigid. He found nothing. Behind him, he heard the chitchat of his compatriots. Two steps down he went. Again he rushed his hand over the wall and still he found nothing. The sound of his sliding hand was all there was.
Step by step, he made his way down. The wall fell away on either side and he experienced a sudden space, wobbling a little. He imagined he was close to the floor and began to point his toes with each step. He waved his arms above his head looking for a dangling chain switch, the kind he had in his childhood basement. There was nothing there. His gulps for air grew louder in his own ear. The dim light from above petered out now, and he was enveloped by the pitch darkness. His own hand was invisible in front of his face. He toed the next step. It came to him and beneath his foot he recognized a new surface, cement, the floor. All the way down now, he recognized the air of the basement. It was tepid and heavy, just like his own basement had been, and he remembered playing there, in a fantasy land designed by his father, one replete with jungle gyms and a giant sandbox city. Slowly treading along, his shin knocked hard against a post and he wanted to go back up. Finally he found a cast-plastic switch. Light flooded the room and he squinted. A well-kept room came slowly into focus and he saw that it was filled with chairs and what he immediately thought of as a giant birdbath. “The font,” he thought.
It was filled with glistening water. He looked and saw his reflection, and then that face, his face, in so many places from the past. He was with his father on a fishing trip, he was with his mother as a little boy, naked and happy and being bathed by her florid hands, he was with Raphaella as they walked in Central Park, and at his father’s bedside. He was at Columbia taking an exam and he was at school teaching. He saw himself upstairs, only moments before, giving his toast, smiling ferociously, talking eloquently again in front of his new friends. And he was here, in the basement, staring back at himself, his eyes blue and bold, his strong nose centered perfectly on his angular face, lips laying thin and still. Boldly he raised his hand and plunged it into the water. It was cool like a spring from the ground, like juice from the forbidden fruit. It comforted him. With two hands, he cupped it and washed with care. Slowly and gently he scrubbed his face, massaging it into his skin. He traced his nose and eyes and ears and felt the bones behind them. He felt every bone in his face, one by one, like a caring lover might. He rubbed each gently and envisioned his skull below. He ground his palms against his face and pulled his skin tight. Again and again he washed, and water began to splash out and onto his feet, death and life changed places in his soul until finally he was finished. A thick strand of wet hair dangled in his eye and water ran nimbly down his back.
And then he heard footsteps above, many moving feet. One by one they all came down and gathered around him. They were quiet and somber, though none of them had changed clothes or put on anything shiny or new. Taughtauer was the last to join them. He approached Mitkin and patted him on the head slightly. “Seems like you got an early start.”
“I was just washing.”
But Taughtauer put a finger to his lips to stop him. Everyone put their heads down as he spoke.
“Many people think that ritual is a waste of time. Modern people are embarrassed by it; they think that it is superstitious and foolish. So why are you here, about to be dunked in this water, and why water, and why rituals at all? The reason is simple, Mitch. You believe, as we do, that the world can change and that making a commitment to change makes you a better man. With this water, we will separate you from the old man, the one who did not believe, or who did not care, or who simply did not know that freedom is possible and that children can live freely in this world. When you go under this water, Mitchell, you will be released from this old, pessimistic man, and become the new man, the one you know is good. So the time is now. Repeat after me.”
The words flowed. There were invocations of hope and truth and commitment. There were incantations about brotherhood and success and keeping secrets. The crowd of martyrs spoke up too, acting as witnesses for Mitkin’s transformation and promising to assist him in times of fear and turmoil. There was talk about the crimes to come, how each martyr must be willing to die for the movement. All the while Mitkin stood only half-listening; he was focused on the thick fingers of Taughtauer who now gripped him behind the neck like a child. Taughtauer was gently massaging Mitkin, not in a sensual way, but as if to calm and prepare him properly. The words faded until finally the room fell quiet.
Taughtauer edged Mitkin closer to the font and then pushed him slightly, bending him at the waist so his face looked directly into the water. Then, starting with Ricky Cuevas, each martyr stepped up and pushed his head deep into the water, one by one they initiated him, and little by little he felt unable to catch his breath, just as in his daydream. He groped about and lurched for air and by the time Taughtauer took him by the neck again, he believed he would die. In his ear he heard Taughtauer say, “Welcome, Mitchell. You’ve done it. We have done it together.”
With a towel around his soaking wet neck, Mitkin walked slowly up the stairs and back to the big table where dinner had been served. Eventually he would put on a dry T-shirt, one of Taughtauer’s, and curl up on one of the army style cots he’d noticed upon his arrival. He slept there that night, a new man and a martyr.