Blameless in Abaddon by James Morrow Page B

ad in the
New York Times Book
Review.
He was about to take out a bank loan when the money from Corinne’s life insurance policy came through—seventy thousand. He divided the settlement in half, earmarking one portion for the Kennel of Joy, the other for the downfall of God.
    Â 
    AN OPEN LETTER TO
THE WORLD’S INNOCENT VICTIMS
    Â 
Dear Fellow Sufferers:
    Â 
In the fifth century B.C. , a blameless and upright man named Job called his Creator to account, demanding to know the reason for his multiple misfortunes. Sixty years ago, three rabbis imprisoned in Auschwitz indicted the Almighty for crimes against His children. Now, once again, the time has come for humankind to ask an honorable question. Why, throughout history, has God permitted the innocent to suffer?
    Â 
    An organization has been formed
    Â 
Our name: the Job Society. Our claim: in fashioning a world where deadly viruses thrive, defective genes prosper, earthquakes kill, droughts destroy, and wars lay waste, the Main Attraction at Celestial City USA acted in a manner that can only be called murderous. Our mission: to bring this matter before the International Court of Justice in The Hague.
    Â 
    A meeting will occur
    Â 
The initial gathering of the Job Society is scheduled for Saturday, September 25, 1999, 8:00 P.M. at the Valley of Children Daycare Center, 61 Mapleshade Lane, Deer
Haven, Pennsylvania 19001. Registration is free. If you wish to attend, return the coupon printed below.
Sincerely
,
Martin Candle
Justice of the Peace
Abaddon Township, Pennsylvania
    Â 
    He would never forget buying the
New York Times
for Sunday, August 29, 1999, pulling out the
Book Review
, and seeing his cri de coeur shouted to the world in aggressive Geneva type. Despite his perusal of the dummy version he’d created on his computer, he wasn’t prepared for this outsized incarnation. Everywhere he went that morning—bathroom, kitchen, catnip patch—he carried the
Book Review
with him, reading his ad over and over. He chastised himself for not catching the typo on “Auschwitz” (it read “Auchwitz”) when he’d examined the proof that the advertising director had faxed him from Manhattan; he wished he’d said Job had “put his Creator in the dock” instead of “called his Creator to account”; he decided Helvetica type would have looked more serious than Geneva. But for all this, Martin felt unabashedly pleased with his complaint.
    The telephone started ringing right after lunch.
    â€œI can’t believe you did this,” fumed Vaughn.
    â€œNeither can I.”
    â€œI won’t stand by while you throw the election to some starry-eyed tree-
shtupper
from Harvard.” Vaughn was alluding to Barbara Meredith, the Democratic candidate for JP, a woman with environmentalist views most charitably described as extreme. “It’s political suicide. There’s a typo on ‘Auschwitz.’”
    â€œI know.”
    No sooner had he replaced the receiver when his mother called, every bit as vexed as Vaughn.
    â€œIs this really the sort of thing you should be spending your money on?”
    â€œI can afford it, Mom.”
    â€œYour father would not be proud. There’s a typo on ‘Auschwitz.’ I’m worried they’ll come after you.”
    â€œFor a typo?”
    â€œAn ad like this—it’s going to make people mad.”
    Patricia called next.
    â€œWell, it’s certainly
dramatic.
Are you satisfied?”
    â€œSatisfied, thrilled, scared.”
    â€œMy ex saw it. He wanted to know, quote, ‘How the fuck did the Valley of Children get mixed up in this?’”
    â€œMaybe he’d like to make a donation.”
    â€œI doubt it. He’s pretty religious.”
    â€œSo am I. Will you come to the meeting?”
    â€œThis is your fight, Martin. Not mine—yours. There’s a typo