13

               "Hey Chris," Father Kevin called out to someone still inside his church. A lone hand waved to

him from an open window, the red fingertips briefly visible, perhaps numb from the autumn wind.

Father Kevin looked at his watch; the truck from the demolition crew was just turning the corner. He

glanced over at the church across the street, wondering what sort of sordid plan Father Feinstein was

up to.

               He slowly stretched his neck, extending it a few millimeters toward the sky. He pulled it down,

then moved it slowly to the left, then back to the right. His hands were still, but somehow his patient

movements before leaving his church for the last time looked very much like the sign of the cross.
 
 

III

               Months later, Father Feinstein stood at the altar of his cathedral. (That's what he'd been calling

it lately.)He faced the congregation and tightened the hanging flesh around his jaw. The screwed up

expression, his attempt at solemnity, made him look more like an actor in a Maalox commercial than a

holy man. Truthfully, the spirit within him was gas, not God.

               In front of Father Feinstein was a wide podium covered with a heavy white cloth. On top was a

golden wand lying next to a large urn. Like an ice bucket from the Waldorf Astoria, the urn was

decorated with jewels; its sheer elegance seemed to make its function more dignified. Father Feinstein

grabbed the wand from the podium, and began to wave it vigorously in circles above the urn.

               "And now, for my next trick" he began, "When I say the magic words, this ordinarywater will

turn into... Holywater! I can assure you, ladies and gentlemen, no mirrors or camera tricks will be

used. Now, silence, please. I must now concentrate."He closed his eyes, and slowed the pace with

which he waved the wand. In deep, resonating tones, the priest chanted:

O God in Hea-ven...please hear our prayers...

we ask thee to change the atomic structure of this wa-ter...