We arrived, J. C. We poor stupid human beings. But whether its us arriving or Christ, its all the same. The world, or God, needed us, to see the world, and know it. So we arrived! But we got mixed up, forgot how incredible we were, and couldnt forgive ourselves for making such a mess.
So Christ arrived, after us, to say what we should have known: forgive. Get on with your work. So Christs arrival is just us all over again. And weve kept on arriving for two thousand years, more and more of us, mostly in need of forgiveness of self.
Id be frozen forever if I couldnt forgive myself all the dumb things Ive done in my life. Right now, youre up a tree, hating yourself, so you stay nailed on a cross because youre a self-pitying pig-headed dim-witted thespian bum. Now get the hell down before I climb up to bite your dirty ankles!
There was a sound like a mob of seals barking in the night. J. C., his head thrown back, sucked air to refuel his laughter.
Thats some speech for a coward!
Dont fear me, mister! Beware of yourself, Jesus H. Christ! I felt a single drop of rain hit my cheek.
No. I touched my cheek, tasted my fingertip. Salt. J. C., above, leaned out, staring down.
God. He was truly stunned. You care!
Damn right. And if I leave, Fritz Wong will come, with his horsewhip! I dont fear his arrival. Only your departure.
Well, then! Come down. For me! You!? he exclaimed softly.
Youre up high. Over on set seven, whatta you see? Fire, I think. Yes.
Thats the bed of charcoals, J. C. I reached out to touch the base of the cross and call softly up along its length to that figure with its head raised. And the night almost over and the boat pulling in to the shore after the miracle of the fish, and Simon called Peter moving along the sand with Thomas, and Mark, and Luke and all the rest to the bed of baking fish. The
Supper after the Last Supper, murmured J. C., high against the autumn constellations. I could see Orions shoulder over his shoulder. You did it!?
He stirred. I pursued quietly: And more! Ive got a true ending now, for you, never filmed before. The Ascension.
Cant be done, murmured J. C. Listen.
And I said:
When it is time for the Going Away, Christ touches each of his disciples and then walks up along the shore, away from the camera. Set your camera low in the sand, and it looks as if he were climbing a long slow hill. And as the sun rises, and Christ moves off toward the horizon, the sand burns with illusion.
Like highways or deserts, where the air dissolves in mirages, imaginary cities rise and fall. Well, when Christ has almost reached the top of a dune of sand, the air vibrates with heat. His shape melts into the atoms. And Christ has gone. The footprints he left in the sand blow away in the wind. Thats your second Ascension following the Supper after the Last Supper. The disciples weep and move off to all the cities of the world, to preach forgiveness of sin. And as the new day begins, their footprints blow away in the dawn wind. THE END.
I waited, listening to my own breath and heart.
J. C. waited, also, and at last said, with wonder, softly, Im coming down.
There was a vast glare from the waiting outdoor set ahead, where the extras, the bed of fish baking on charcoals, and Mad Fritz were waiting.
A woman stood in the mouth of the alley as J. C. and I approached. She was silhouetted against the light, only a dark shape.
Seeing us, she ran forward, then stopped when she saw J. C. Good gravy, said J. C. Its that Rattigan woman!
Constances eyes glanced from J. C. to me and back again, almost wildly. What do I do now? she said.
What Its been such a crazy night. Crying an hour ago at a terrible photo, and now she stared at J. C. and her eyes flowed freelyhaving wanted to meet you all my life. And here you are.
The weight of her words caused her to sink slowly to her knees. Bless me, Jesus, she whispered.
J. C. reared back as if summoning the dead from their shrouds. Get up, woman! he cried.
Bless me, Jesus, Constance said. And then, almost to herself, Oh, Lord, Im seven again and in my white first communion dress and its Easter Sunday and the world is good just before the world got bad.
Get up, young woman, said J. C. quieter.
But she did not move and closed her eyes, waiting. Her lips pantomimed, Bless me.
And at last J. C. reached out slowly, forced to accept and gently accepting, to put his hand on the top of her head. The gentle pressure forced more tears from her eyes, and her mouth quivered. Her hands flew up to hold
and keep his touch on her head a moment more. Child, said J. C. quietly, you are blessed.
And looking at Constance Rattigan kneeling there, I thought, Oh, the ironies of this lost world. Catholic guilt plus actors flamboyance.
Constance rose and, eyes still half shut, turned toward the light and moved toward the waiting bed of glowing charcoals.
We could but follow.
A crowd was gathered. All the extras who had appeared in other scenes earlier that night, plus studio executives and hangers-on. As we approached, Constance moved aside with the grace of someone who had just lost forty pounds. I wondered how long she would remain a little girl.
But now I saw, stepping into the light, across the open-air set, beyond the charcoal pit, Manny Leiber, Doc Phillips, and Groc.
Their eyes were so steadily upon me that I hung back, fearful of taking credit for finding the Messiah, saving the Saviour, and trimming the budget for the night.
Mannys eyes were full of doubt and distrust, the Docs with active venom, and Grocs with good brandy spirits. Perhaps they had come to see Christ, and myself, roasted on a spit. In any event, as J. C. moved steadily to the rim of the fiery pit, Fritz, recovering from some recent fit, blinked at him myopically and cried, About time. We were about to call off the barbecue. Monocle!
No one moved. Everyone looked around. Monocle! Fritz said again.
And I realized he wished the loan of the lens he had so grandly handed me a few hours ago.
I darted forward, planted the lens in his outstretched palm, and jumped back as he jammed it into his eye as ammunition. He fired a gaze at J. C. and
heaved out all the air in his lungs.
Do you call that Christ! Its more like Methuselah. Put on a ton of skin pancake color thirty-three and fish-hook his jawline. Holy jumping Jesus, its time for the dinner break. More failures, more delays. How dare you show up late! Who in hell do you think you are?
Christ, said J. C. with proper modesty. And dont you forget it.
Get him out of here! Makeup! Dinner break! Back in an hour! shouted Fritz, and all but hurled the lens, my medal, back into my hands, to stand bitterly regarding the burning coals as if he might leap to incineration.
And all the while the wolfpack across the pit, Manny counting the lost dollars as each moment fell like blizzards of paper money to be burned, and the good Doc itching his scalpel in his fisted pockets, and Lenins cosmetologist with his permanent Conrad Veidt smile carved in the pale thin melon flesh about his chin. But now their gaze had shifted from me to fix with a terrible and inescapable judgment and condemnation upon J. C.
It was like a death squad letting go an endless fusillade. J. C. rocked and swayed as if struck.
Grocs assistant makeup men were about to guide J. C. away when The thing happened.
There was a soft hiss as something like a single drop of rain struck the bed of burning coals.
We all looked down and then up
At J. C., whose hands were thrust out over the charcoals. He was studying his own wrists with great curiosity.
They were bleeding.
Ohmigod, Constance said. Do something! What? cried Fritz.
J. C. said, calmly, Shoot the scene.
No, damnit! cried Fritz. John the Baptist, with his head off, looked better than you!
Then, J. C. nodded across the set to where Stanislau Groc and Doc Phillips stood, as merry Punch and dark Apocalypse, then, said J. C. let them sew and bandage me until were ready.
How do you do that? Constance was staring at his wrists. It comes with the text.
Go make yourself useful, J. C. said to me.
And take that woman with you, ordered Fritz. I dont know her! Yes, you do, said Constance. Laguna Beach, July 4th, 1926.
That was another country, another time. Fritz slammed an invisible door. Yes. Constance paused. The cake fell in the oven. Yes, it was.
Doc Phillips arrived at J. C.s left wrist. Groc arrived at his right.
J. C. would not look at them; he fixed his gaze on the high fog in the sky.
Then he turned his wrists over and held them out so they might see his life dripping from the fresh stigmata.
Careful, he said.
I walked out of the light. A small girl followed, becoming a woman along the way.
Where are we going? said Constance.
Me? Back in time. And I know who runs the Moviola to make it happen. You? Right here, coffee and sinkers. Sit. Ill be right back.
If Im not here, said Constance, seated at an outdoor
