some dirt on every one of them and will use it if he must.
    I have spilt the blood of Muslims and a time will come when all the faithful, all true Christians and Saints, will have to do the same. We are blessed in this the land of Eden and we must defend it with our blood and with our muscle and sinew. We must take unto each of us many wives and propagate so that we as a people do not die out. We are the true sons and daughters of Israel. The bloodline of the chosen people. The Lord would curse us for our failure if we are so weak as to fail and fall.
    Ruby tunes out his words. She sees through the tales of suffering, the noble banishment in the Great American Desert and the construction of the New Jerusalem, and beneath the table she smells a ripe bucket of hooey.
    What kind of church is this? No stained glass. No stone statuettes of the beatific Virgin bearing their sorrows in her bosom. This is more like a drop- off station for Goodwill Industries junk. In one corner stands a half- dozen rolls of pink Johns- Manville fiberglass wall insulation and a jumble of paint cans. The altar is a cardboard refrigerator box covered with a stained tablecloth.
    Ruby endures it, holding sleeping Lila to her chest, feeling the sweet rhythm of her breathing, the limpness of her little arms like the softest blessing touch of an angel. She sits still as the Virgin Mary and stares at the metal ripples in the corrugated walls and listens to the voice in her head. It's not of a Christian or Saintly cast, this she knows, but you can only take so much Jesus and Brother Joseph Smith propaganda before you wanted to trip the Son of God down the stairs and poke the prophet in the eye with a pitchfork. She listens to the voice in her head and she plots.
    She vows to crush Lord God and free herself of his yoke. To lie in wait like the whipped dog she is, obedient and twitchy, waiting till the master sleeps, till she can catch him upside the head with an ax handle or perhaps the blade itself and lay him low. She will do this if she can.
    In her heart she knows she can't.
    Juliet squeezes her tight and without a word urges her to persevere, to lie in wait, to have patience. She comes to Sunday service only for Ruby's sake and suffers the scowls and opprobrium of all who know she no longer chooses to live under the same roof as Brother Cole or sleep in his sanctioned bed.
    At sermon's end she leaves as the lumpy congregation filters into the parking lot to mingle with pleasantries or exchange new omens of the apocalypse many believe is knocking at the door and about to come true. Ruby follows Juliet to her car, carrying Lila, who has awakened and is now beginning to squirm and fuss. Ruby wants to get in the passenger- side door but knows Lord God is watching from the front steps of the ridiculous tin- can temple and will come limping if she so much as reaches for the handle.
    Ruby leans down to take a kiss on the cheek and holds out Lila for the same, smiling as Juliet says, Now, listen, baby girl. You be good for your mama. She needs you.
The middle of night and Lord God awakens, his heart beating so hard his neck veins pop against the pillow. The pulse- touch sounds like tiny cymbals ringing. The only other noise is the whistle and seep of wind against the windows. He lies in bed, his one good eye open wide in the inky darkness, its pupil swollen wide as a giant squid's in the depths of the sea. He hears a thump on the roof. As if something has landed on it. An owl? An angel? A creaking of the timbers and asphalt shingles, the footfalls of a body walking upon the roof.
    Lord God lifts his head and strains to follow the sound. The creaking approaches nearer and nearer still until it comes to a stop above his head. Lord God thinks to rise from bed and rush outside, to catch a glimpse of the beast,
    I have spilt the blood of Muslims and a time will come when all the faithful, all true Christians and Saints, will have to do the same. We are blessed in this the land of Eden and we must defend it with our blood and with our muscle and sinew. We must take unto each of us many wives and propagate so that we as a people do not die out. We are the true sons and daughters of Israel. The bloodline of the chosen people. The Lord would curse us for our failure if we are so weak as to fail and fall.
    Ruby tunes out his words. She sees through the tales of suffering, the noble banishment in the Great American Desert and the construction of the New Jerusalem, and beneath the table she smells a ripe bucket of hooey.
    What kind of church is this? No stained glass. No stone statuettes of the beatific Virgin bearing their sorrows in her bosom. This is more like a drop- off station for Goodwill Industries junk. In one corner stands a half- dozen rolls of pink Johns- Manville fiberglass wall insulation and a jumble of paint cans. The altar is a cardboard refrigerator box covered with a stained tablecloth.
    Ruby endures it, holding sleeping Lila to her chest, feeling the sweet rhythm of her breathing, the limpness of her little arms like the softest blessing touch of an angel. She sits still as the Virgin Mary and stares at the metal ripples in the corrugated walls and listens to the voice in her head. It's not of a Christian or Saintly cast, this she knows, but you can only take so much Jesus and Brother Joseph Smith propaganda before you wanted to trip the Son of God down the stairs and poke the prophet in the eye with a pitchfork. She listens to the voice in her head and she plots.
    She vows to crush Lord God and free herself of his yoke. To lie in wait like the whipped dog she is, obedient and twitchy, waiting till the master sleeps, till she can catch him upside the head with an ax handle or perhaps the blade itself and lay him low. She will do this if she can.
    In her heart she knows she can't.
    Juliet squeezes her tight and without a word urges her to persevere, to lie in wait, to have patience. She comes to Sunday service only for Ruby's sake and suffers the scowls and opprobrium of all who know she no longer chooses to live under the same roof as Brother Cole or sleep in his sanctioned bed.
    At sermon's end she leaves as the lumpy congregation filters into the parking lot to mingle with pleasantries or exchange new omens of the apocalypse many believe is knocking at the door and about to come true. Ruby follows Juliet to her car, carrying Lila, who has awakened and is now beginning to squirm and fuss. Ruby wants to get in the passenger- side door but knows Lord God is watching from the front steps of the ridiculous tin- can temple and will come limping if she so much as reaches for the handle.
    Ruby leans down to take a kiss on the cheek and holds out Lila for the same, smiling as Juliet says, Now, listen, baby girl. You be good for your mama. She needs you.
The middle of night and Lord God awakens, his heart beating so hard his neck veins pop against the pillow. The pulse- touch sounds like tiny cymbals ringing. The only other noise is the whistle and seep of wind against the windows. He lies in bed, his one good eye open wide in the inky darkness, its pupil swollen wide as a giant squid's in the depths of the sea. He hears a thump on the roof. As if something has landed on it. An owl? An angel? A creaking of the timbers and asphalt shingles, the footfalls of a body walking upon the roof.
    Lord God lifts his head and strains to follow the sound. The creaking approaches nearer and nearer still until it comes to a stop above his head. Lord God thinks to rise from bed and rush outside, to catch a glimpse of the beast,
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