Objects of Worship (3 page)

The god darkens, oozes stinking grey goo all over Sara,
all over the bed. It rushes out the bedroom.

“Oh, fuck!” Sara wipes her face on the clean underside
of the pillowcase.

“You kissed her,” Rose accuses. “That woman. That
heathen.”

“Not heathen. Atheist. Heathens worship invisible gods.
Jane doesn’t worship at all.”

“How can anyone not worship the gods? They are with us.”

“Whatever. Let’s not argue.” Sara gets up, walks to the
bathroom, and cleans herself with a wet towel.

Rose follows her in. “I’ve met her before. At the store.
She angered the god.”

“Yeah, she told me. She was scoping out the neighbourhood. Jane’s our new neighbour.”

“An atheist? The resident gods won’t accept her. It’ll
cause trouble for everyone. Look what you did to our god.”

“Well, maybe we don’t need the gods.”

“The gods give us life, give us children.”

“And why do you think the gods do that? Maybe because
they need us to take care of them? Is that what you want
our life to be about?”

Rose clenches her teeth. “We are the chosen of the gods.
We are blessed. What can be more important?”

“Listen, babe, Jane has lots of ideas that I . . . that I agree
with. Things that I’ve been thinking about but was too
afraid to discuss with anyone, even you. Talking so freely,
it made me giddy. It opened me up. We just kissed.”

Rose makes an exasperated sound.

“Okay, well, maybe a little more. But it was just tonight.
I was swept up by the evening. I still love you. And the
baby.”

“What about the god?”

“I didn’t say I wanted to change our way of life . . . but
things might not be how they seem, how we believe they
are. Maybe society should change. It’s worth thinking
about, that’s all.”

“So . . . how does she live?”

“Well, she doesn’t keep a god. Other than that, she’s just
like everyone else.”

“But that’s no life.”

“Why not?”

“There’s nothing to connect her to the harmony of
the world. It’s an empty existence. Meaningless. And it’s
irresponsible. Selfish.”

“You don’t understand. Maybe you should meet her.
She’s knowledgeable about the gods and their relationship
to us. Talk to her.”

“Never. Especially not while I’m pregnant. Promise me
you’ll stop seeing her. For the baby’s sake.”

“Rose . . . I can’t do that. You can’t dictate to me. Or
blackmail me like that.”

Both of them stay silent for a few minutes, while Sara
gets fresh linen.

Rose helps Sara change the bed. “You saw how the god
reacted tonight. If I can’t stop you from seeing her — at least
be careful. Please. But . . . I don’t know what to do. About us.
I don’t know if I really believe that you still love me. Maybe
I don’t trust what you’re becoming.”

Sara didn’t come home last night. She didn’t even leave a
message.

Rose is tired. It was a big day for new releases, with
nonstop waves of customers. She unlocks the door to the
apartment, wondering if Sara is gone for good.

Rose walks in to devastation. The couches are shredded.
The television is on the floor, the screen shattered. Most of
what was on the walls or on shelves is now on the floor, in
pieces. The kitchen is a mess of broken china and splattered
food. Everything is covered in dark, stinky slime.

The god.

Rose rushes to the bedroom. The bedroom is mostly
intact, with only a trail of dark slime leading to the altar.
The god rests in its niche, exuding dark smoke. The air is
thick and odorous. Rose coughs.

“What the fuck . . . Rose . . . ?”

Rose turns to see Sara enter the bedroom.

“What happened here?”

“What do you think? You’re so selfish. You didn’t come
home last night. You can’t just abandon the god like that. If
you want to leave, fine. Leave. But there are rituals.”

“I’m not leaving. We just talked late into the night
yesterday. I didn’t even sleep. It was simpler to go straight
to work from Jane’s.”

“You think I’m stupid? The god knows what’s really
happening.”

“Maybe the god doesn’t know as much as you think it
does.”

They don’t talk for the rest of the evening. Sara cleans
up the apartment while Rose tries to comfort and placate
the god.

In silent agreement, both women climb into bed at the
same time, their backs turned. The god slips in between
them. The women turn toward the god, toward each other.
The god’s warmth is so delicious. Rose is surprised when
Sara kisses her, and she’s surprised, too, that she lets her.
The god hasn’t accepted tribute of any kind for days. It
rarely leaves its altar, now, which Sara still hasn’t cleaned.
It reeks.

Sara is snoring, but Rose wakes her up. “We need to
talk.”

“Can’t it wait, babe? I’m too tired.”

“No. It can’t go on like this.”

“Fuck. What are you talking about?”

“Look at the god. You’re ignoring it.”

“So what? Why don’t you take over? I’ll even help with
the transfer ritual. You care about the god a lot more than
I do. And clearly it cares about you more, too.” Sara tips her
chin toward Rose’s belly.

“Is that what this is all about? You’re jealous!”

“No . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Sara sits up
and gently puts her hand on Rose’s arm. “Look. I don’t want
to worship anymore. I started thinking about this stuff
before the baby. And before I met Jane. I don’t mind if you
still worship, but it feels wrong for me.”

“What does that mean? You can’t live here if you don’t
worship. The god can’t tolerate that. Look at it. Do you want
to live like that woman? She can’t even walk into a store
without making trouble. Things are just going to get worse
unless you stop being so selfish.”

“I’m not being selfish. And neither is Jane.”

Rose pushes Sara away. “Maybe you should just leave.
Stop pretending.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe the god is the
problem, and not me?”

Through the door, Rose hears voices inside the apartment.
Isn’t Sara supposed to be at work?

Rose walks in. Sara is sitting on the couch. With that
woman, Jane.

The god is lying at their feet, collapsing on itself.
Rose rushes to it, offers it her saliva, holds it against her
breasts.

“What is she doing here? What were you doing to the
god?”

Jane says, “Only what should be done to all of them.”
Sara interrupts her with a gesture.

“Rose, baby, this is for your own good. For the good of
the baby. It’s safer this way.”

“You monsters. You were trying to kill it.”

“Baby, you don’t understand.”

“Leave. Don’t ever come back here. I’m having the locks
changed. If you ever try to come near the god again, I’ll call
the police. I never want to see you again.”

“It’s my family’s god, you know.”

“Not anymore. The god blessed me.”

Jane says, “Rose, the gods don’t care about us.”

“I don’t want to hear your lies. Get out! Both of you!”

Sara and Jane exchange a glance, and the two of them
get up to leave. Sara turns back, looks at Rose hugging the
god, and opens her mouth to speak. But Rose glares at her,
and she walks out and quietly closes the door behind her.

Rose nurses the god back to health. She performs all the
proper rituals. The god must let go of Sara, now. It must
focus on Rose and the coming baby.

The god accepts tribute again. It lets Rose clean its altar.
When Rose sleeps, it squeezes itself next to her.

Rose tries not to think of Sara anymore. That woman,
Jane, has moved away. Good riddance.

Rose is three and a half months pregnant. It’s her birthday
today. Twenty-five years old. She gives the god extra tribute
at breakfast to celebrate the occasion.

Despite the god, despite the baby growing in her body, Rose
feels loneliness gnaw at her as she slips into bed.
The phone rings. “Hello?”

“Hi, babe. I just wanted to wish you happy birthday. I
hope it’s okay that I called. I miss you.”

The god gets agitated, excited. It wraps itself around
the phone, presses itself against the receiver, against Sara’s
voice. It glows and hums.

Rose yanks the phone cord from the wall. She’s been
faithful to the god. It must love her, not Sara. Not Sara.

In a flash, the god darkens. It fumes and crackles. It
attacks the phone and shatters it. Dark smoke quickly
spreads throughout the room. The god knocks Rose onto
her back. It pushes Rose’s legs open.

“No!” Rose stifles a scream.

The god squeezes itself into Rose’s womb. Rose feels the
god inside her, twisting and thumping. Taking back what it
had given her. It pushes its way out of Rose’s vagina. Blood
oozes in the god’s wake, flowing out of her womb and
spreading onto the sheets.

Silently, Rose weeps, clutching at her belly.

The god accepts the tribute of Rose’s tears and consumes
them.

Raymond and George had never thought much about
religion. They’d tried going to services at their local church
shortly after adopting the child — it seemed like the right
thing to do — but the preacher said children weren’t allowed.
No animals of any kind. Only people. It had never occurred
to Raymond and George that there was that kind of bigotry
in the world. They shopped around and found a more open-minded church about a thirty-minute drive away from
their home. It was more trouble than they’d bargained for,
but they wanted to be good parents.

They weren’t the first ones to adopt a fleshie as a pet
child — almost a family member, really — but they were
the first in their neighbourhood. They decided to get a
boy, hoping he’d fit in with the all-male character of their
household. The agency said his name was Rod, but they
didn’t like that. So they called him Scott, instead. He was
so cute.

They loved Scott like a son. It was biologically impossible
for people to have children, and George had heard on
the news that recent studies indicated that the lack of
children was a probable cause of apathy and depression, an
unconscious nostalgia for people’s animal past. So, when
George noticed that Raymond was maybe getting a little
depressed, he suggested that they nip the problem in the
bud and adopt a fleshie child. Even if it was expensive.

The mere idea of it had so lifted Raymond’s mood that
George had known it was the right thing to do. Besides, it
wasn’t like it was a long-term commitment or anything.
Scott was already four years old; he’d only be a child for
another ten years or so. Adoption was such a new fad that
people didn’t really know what they’d do with the fleshie
children once they grew up. This was the topic of the
preacher’s sermon.

Scott was sitting between Raymond and George, with
a gag in his mouth to keep him from shouting during the
service and his hands tied to make sure he didn’t remove
the gag. George smiled when he noticed how affectionately
Raymond kept his arm around the boy.

Most people thought that, once the children grew up,
they should be sold so their brains could be used as food,
or simply killed by their adoptive families, their brains
eaten fresh. Fresh brains were such a rare — and delicious —
treat. That packaged stuff was never as good. Too many
preservatives.

But the preacher at this church was a radical. She loudly
advocated animal rights, even human rights, for fleshies.
George listened. He had never considered these ideas
seriously before. He used to snicker at anyone so naive as to
buy into that sentimental propaganda. Glancing at the boy,
he pondered the preacher’s words. He wasn’t convinced, but
he realized that he now needed to think about all this more
carefully.

Food was a problem. Pet food came in two formats. There
was kibble, which wasn’t too smelly, but Scott clearly wasn’t
that enthusiastic about it. He loved the other kind, the
moist food. But neither George nor Raymond could stand
the smell of the stuff, those icky vegetable, leafy, and fruity
odours.

They argued about it. Raymond was willing to try, for
the boy’s sake. Plus, the vet said that the moist food was
healthier.

George, however, was far from convinced. “No! It’s just
too disgusting,” he said as Raymond served dinner. They
were having brain casserole with chunky brain sauce. The
brain cake they were going to eat for dessert was baking in
the oven. It all smelled so delicious.

He continued: “And who cares if it’s healthier? It’s not
like he’s going to have a long life or anything.”

Raymond looked hurt. “Don’t say that! You heard what
the preacher said! We have to work toward becoming a
more compassionate society! To stop thinking about these
animals only as a resource, a source of food. I mean, look
at them, they look almost exactly like us. Sure, their skin
is kind of sickly smooth, without any rot, and you can’t
see any of their bones or anything, but, still, they almost
look like people. They can talk. They walk on two legs. It’s
not their fault if they smell, well, alive or something. Sure,
it’s kind of revolting that they grow old and then just stop
moving once they die. But what we do to them in those
factory farms just isn’t right!”