The Crucifixion of Simon Peter Foster

By Terence Hughes

In Bridgehampton, on the east end of Long Island, where he lives with his lover Jessica, Simon Foster is a sculptor of characters from Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland." He sculpts these characters life-size in wood, painting them in brightly-colored enamels and gold-leaf. Unable to pay his rent on time, Simon agrees to sculpt a large crucifix for his violent landlord Bruno and Bruno's butterfly-brained wife, Estelle, to be installed in the private chapel of their estate. Simon decides this work will be his masterpiece and as he works, he realizes the enormity of Christ's sacrifice on the cross and begins to experience this Earth as the holy place it is - the Garden of Eden in Genesis. He experiences strange spiritual situations, his soul becoming a less than permanent fixture in his own body. When Estelle is displeased by the slight smile of triumph Simon has carved upon Christ's face, Bruno demands it be removed or his threat invoked. Simon flees to Palm Beach, Florida, where he place the crucifix in a gallery and eventually begins to feel safe...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terence Hughes
• Release date: Jan 11, 2020

Book preview

Hours before his landlord threatened to nail him to a cross and kill him, Simon Foster’s wandering soul was high above the streets of a sunny Caribbean resort, looking down at the Saint Charles Hotel. The colorful line of arriving guests moved toward registration up the center of the grand steps, while two lines of departing guests, dressed in blue, exited down both sides of the steps and disappeared from Simon’s view. A voice close to him quietly explained, "Many many souls are drawn to this paradise of experience and beauty… ‘tis a place of joy and light in the Universe; oh so difficult to leave, the memories dying with the flesh, but many will return and some will remember they were Here before…"

He pulled the sheets over his head, turned onto his back and lay in the darkness for a while, not wanting to open his eyes to the day, feeling his earthly mind slowly begin to reassemble itself. He waited, lifted the sheet, squinted beneath an eyelid. Beyond a mountain range of yellow quilt he saw what he thought was faint daylight through the bedroom curtains, and he gently disentangled his body from Jessica’s without disturbing her, crept to the window to look outside. Faint rays of sunlight churned the mist and the spirits of darkness were beginning to flee. From beneath the quilt, she whispered, Why are you up?

Appointment. He had disturbed her.

Who?

Landlord.

Why?

"Not important."

A pause. If it’s not important… why are you going? He leaned down to kiss the top of her head. So that you can go back to sleep.

Oh. And she apparently went back to sleep. He put on jeans, wool shirt, socks, navy jacket, closed the bedroom door behind him, carried his boots along the hallway avoiding squeaky floorboards, went through the kitchen to brush and wash in the little bathroom, and stepped out the back door onto the porch. In the cold air, he sat on a woodpile working his feet into the boots, peering through mist at ghosts of familiar objects and pulling his collar tight around his neck. This was English weather and in its pale light, the Village of Bridgehampton on the eastern end of Long Island, was just awakening…

Across the rutted driveway from where he sat, was the old carriage house he’d turned into his sculpting studio, his truck parked near the door. He crossed the rutted drive, started the truck, opened the studio door and peered in, a rush of air warming his face. Good, the heat was on. Pinned on the far wall were his drawings of the Mad Hatter, Alice, the Queen of Hearts and other characters designed by Sir John Tenniel for Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland. His next project was the life-size sculpture of these characters from wood, finishing the work in rich enamels and adding layers of gold-leaf where appropriate. He smiled at the new sketches. Everyone okay? They looked back tolerantly; ‘Everyone is okay,’ and when he felt them say that he closed the door and locked it. Then, because he could not pay his rent, Simon Peter Foster got into his pickup truck, made a left out of his driveway toward his landlord’s nearby estate, which lay to the north and a bit east of Bridgehampton, northeast of Southampton, southeast of Northampton, and a good bit northwest of Easthampton, which lay unreasonably east of Westhampton. He negotiated the hedged and narrow country lanes of the Island’s northern shore, remaining leaves of autumn flashing yellow and orange as they tumbled down to reflect their color in the wet road ahead.

Simon had rented the house and carriage house from Bruno four years ago and hadn't seen him since. Each month, an inarticulate employee of the landlord would come to the back door to collect rent and Simon would hand him an envelope of cash. Over the years, Simon heard rumors about Bruno, read of his exploits in the local paper and apparently, Bruno was a man of violent reputation. He owned several automobile salvage yards equipped with great machines capable of reducing cars and flesh if necessary, to cubes of abstraction. And Bruno’s employees, all small-brained hulks, were known not only for acts of unquestioning loyalty toward him, but in restaurants and delicatessens near the salvage yards, they were admired for their ability to pay their lunch bills after they disappeared without a trace.

Slowing on a turn, Simon found the estate’s great iron gates open and drove into the cobble-stoned parking area where his truck was quickly besieged by four barking and bouncing Dalmatians. He remained inside until Bruno, apparently alerted by their noise, lurched out of the shadow beneath some distant trees. Striding toward the dogs with a shovel over his shoulder, he reached the parking area without greeting Simon, raised the shovel over his head, shouted Raus! and the dogs skittered away toward a decaying mansion almost hidden amongst trees. Not quite convinced of their complete departure, Simon remained by the truck’s open door, extending his hand toward Bruno who ignored it and growled, Whadd’ya want? Under his old wool shirt and khaki slacks, Bruno appeared to be made of brick, thick and solid. His head was large, blue eyes set deep beneath simian forehead, crowned by individual wisps of sandy hair which seemed fight and struggle with one another in the breeze. The muscles of his chest bulged through the shirt, which draped over a heavy paunch, his arms appearing to Simon to be suspiciously long for someone who did not habitually swing through trees. He said, "Whadd’ya want?" Raspy, aggressive voice.

I’m Simon Foster. I rent your place in Bridgehampton.

There was no sign of recognition from Bruno, so Simon tried a reminder. You told me to be here at quarter past seven this morning. He nodded for emphasis. I rent your house in Bridgehampton.

Bruno stared. So; whadd’ya want?

I called you last night about my rent.

"You mean my rent. What about my rent?"

Well, yes. I’m running a bit late with it this month, but I’m sure to have it soon and I came to see if you’d mind waiting a bit. Bruno, shovel still resting on his shoulder, craned his head closer to squint at the strange vertical scars on Simon’s cheeks and forehead, as though raked many years ago by a lion cub. Simon tensed, backing away.

Yeah. Bruno said. I’d mind waiting a bit. Simon was confounded. He tried- "Look, I’ve never been late with my rent before and I think a gallery has a buyer for one of my sculptures. I just need a little more time. Another pause. No. Bruno lowered the shovel blade to the ground, glaring. Plenty of people have owed me money; nobody owes me money. He paused waiting for a sign of appreciation for his verbal cleverness, and Simon managed a snort and grin combination. It worked. Bruno's manner softened and his tone became almost conversational, as though he’d decided Simon could be useful. Whadd’ya do anyway? You make statues or somethin’?"

Yes, statues. I glue and dowel boards into large blocks of wood, then sculpt them life-size, finish them with enamels… Sometimes I use gold leaf.

What’s gold leaf?

Thin sheets of twenty-three karat gold adhered to the surface – it’s expensive and it takes a long time to do- Bruno snorted and inclined his head toward a wooden bench situated on a white gravel walkway before a garden of faded roses. You see that bench over there? Simon saw that bench over there. Go sit there, Bruno ordered. Wait for me. He took a step to leave, turned back and said "What the hell happened to your face? A surge of anger at the intrusion tempted Simon to ask the same of Bruno, but he was in a delicate situation. Childhood tussle with rosebushes," he said coldly.

Ha! The rosebush won.

Bruno waited vainly for Simon to laugh then walked off toward his house. Don’t worry about the dogs, he called back, they’re in the house. As he disappeared among the trees he added a faint, And don’t argue with my friggin’ rose bushes, okay?

Simon was looking at the fading rose garden, conjecturing whether Bruno made friends easily when an opening in the clouds suddenly bathed his surroundings in golden sunlight, drops of dew on the bushes suddenly sparkling colors of the prism and he found if he shifted his position, the drops reflected all colors of the prism, so he swayed left and right, moved here moved there, imagining sunlight beamed through a cascade of water drops when he heard the sound of approach on the gravel path. He glanced in that direction but bushes and fence obscured his view; if dogs were coming it was too late for retreat and time to make friends quickly or donate limbs. He waited, ready to jump onto the bench and leap into the rose garden.

Rounding the corner, she waddled into view. The woman and her wafting clothing were wide enough to block Simon’s view of Bruno who walked behind, occasionally trying to peer around her girth toward Simon. She was clad in a long, frilly white housecoat worn over voluminous lounging garments. White ribbons retained frizzed brunette hair to frame her pale, chubby face. Her lips were emblazoned with bright red lipstick, cheeks rouged circles, eyes were shadowed with what appeared to be iridescent British racing green and her feet were encased in fluffy white bunny slippers whose ears and glass eyes were occasionally exposed as she kicked her billowing frills out of the way.

Simon smiled at her approach and she grinned, holding forth a bejeweled hand. Bruno, blocked from view was forced to lean around her to look at Simon, mumbling, This here is my wife, Estelle. He circled her to face Simon. Estelle, he's got the place with the carriage house in Bridgehampton. His name's Fester or Forester or somethin', – I dunno. -niceties seemed to embarrass him. Simon nodded to her and took her hand;

"It’s Foster. he told her, smiling. Simon Foster."

Ooh, pleased ta meet’cha, Forester. There were tiny silver sparkles in the eye shadow and rouge on her cheeks.

Glad to meet you, Estelle.

Bruno announced, Estelle and me wanna show you somethin’, uh… Forester. So like, you follow us would ya? We'll go first.

Trailing them along the gravel path under the trees surrounding the mansion, Simon was fascinated by their dogs' appearances inside the large windows. Front paws on the window ledges in order to look out at the passing parade, they seemed to appear in the same order at each window, gawking and drooling at the human procession as it rounded the corner of the house onto a great lawn that sloped down to a narrow beach. The lawn was planted here and there with walled flower beds, ragged occupants obviously tired and torn by the struggle against constant wind whipping off dark waters of Long Island Sound. As they came closer to the beach, Simon dropped a few paces behind his guides in order to see beyond Estelle’s cavorting buttocks, billowing housecoat and Bruno, who held her hand while they murmured in conversation. As they passed the narrow beach, Estelle pointed to a long, wind-whipped serpent of brown foam and flotsam writhing on the sand. Across the restless waters lay the distant and mysterious coast of Connecticut.

They started moving uphill, the land rising to deflect the cold wind, a chilled Simon noted. Above them on the flattened crest of the rise, in the shelter and shadow of tall pine trees was the only possible destination for their walk, a white stone building perhaps fifty by fifty feet, its Greco-Roman six-pillared front supporting the traditional triangular pediment, but below which, fools had placed an arched Gothic doorway. That there, Forester, announced Bruno, pointing ahead, what we’re comin’ up to, -he sucked a deep breath into his lungs- is me and Estelle’s private chapel what we had built. From the expression on Bruno's face, and Estelle's smile, Simon knew this building had great meaning for them; it was their pride and joy.

They climbed the steps of the concrete apron the building stood upon and turned back to look at Simon, who had decided not to mention their chapel’s architectural anomaly because he very much enjoyed inhabiting his body. Bruno told him, Them doors Forester, they're real bronze, melted and poured in molds what we had designed by artists. It ain't like, thin metal or nothin'; just solid bronze.

And thereupon did Simon, slowly mounting the steps to stand between his hosts in exaggerated awe of their creation, speak the words which captured their egos and won him the commission to sculpt their crucifix. This, he said, "doesn’t look like a chapel! His gaze swept the face of the structure, lowered to the bronze doors, examining their detail then, turning toward them, he swept his arm to indicate the whole building and announced, This, is a temple!" He regarded them, shaking his head in wonder.

Bruno grinned, Estelle let out a delighted Ooh, her finger and thumb pinching Bruno’s cheek to jiggle it in furious abandon, causing his mouth to make wet slapping sounds. Bruno blushed with obvious pleasure as the motion continued and Simon decided it was probably a ritual they went through and wondered how long it would take for that action to produce flecks of blood in the spittle and froth being ejected from Bruno’s flapping lips. Ooh, Bruno baby, Estelle squealed, "we got a temple! She stood on tiptoe whispering in his ear, A temple is sexier hon! We can have a lot more fun in a temple than we can have in a chapel…" She continued to jiggle his cheek.

Bruno, embarrassed before Simon who was diplomatically examining the doors, said, Themmm doorrrrs, Foresterrrr, -he pulled his wife’s hand from his cheek to plead, Stop it hon, Jesus! He smoothed his cheek back into shape, patted Estelle’s buttock in consolation, and continued, -all them scenes on the doors is actual scenes from the Bible, Simon raising his eyebrows and nodding in understanding.

At the top of the Gothic doors were the bas-relief heads and shoulders of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, among the clouds of heaven. They pointed downward to the earthly figures of Bruno and Estelle, identified by their first initials floating above their heads, as this very temple they did build. And there were other depictions of the magnificent earthly couple, watched by the Holy Family: Bruno merrily instructed a smiling Estelle to fill a jug as Jesus turned water to wine: Estelle and Mary tended the baby Christ: Bruno and Estelle pointed the way the way to the manger for three wise men seated upon camels: Bruno and Estelle cast loaves and fishes while Jesus preached the Sermon on the Mount, and Bruno and Estelle watched as Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. Simon’s hand was exploring the work upon the door, watched intently by Bruno and Estelle. He felt compelled to say something and trying his best to approximate awe he breathed, "Good Lord, I had absolutely no idea…" leaving undefined exactly what it was he had no idea of. And they grinned and they grinned and they grinned...

And now, Bruno stood at the center of the doors, turned an ancient-looking handle, pushing the doors inward. Then, like ushers at a wedding on either side of the doorway, Bruno and his wife each extended an arm, beckoning Simon into the dark interior of the temple and he entered slowly, trying to maintain wonder upon his face. Damn, it was cold in there...

Two large, stained-glass windows on either side showed armored knights with shields, allowing in more color than daylight. Old stone pillars ornamented the center of the only aisle, and these supported the framework of wooden beams supporting the roof and horizontal beams coming to center from either side. There were six rows of oak pews on either side of the aisle, stained and darkened by a patina of use. The floor, great worn flagstones, was beautifully fitted and cemented into place, daylight from the opened doorway casting long shadows over its variations. Simon guessed most of the furnishings had been found at antique auctions in the Hamptons or Manhattan.

Bruno and Estelle moved ahead of him, beckoning him forward, until they all stood at the juncture of the aisle and the first row of pews. Before them along the rear wall, was a low wooden dais covering the stone floor from side to side. Upon the dais an antiquated lectern stood centered, the wall behind covered in dark antique paneling to a height of about ten feet. While Estelle sat in the first pew on the right side of the aisle, Bruno climbed onto the dais and leaned his elbows casually upon the lectern, regarding Simon at the head of the aisle. Bruno commanded, Tell him what you want, Estelle. 'Don’t desert me God,' thought Simon, 'here it comes.'

She sat up straight in the pew and turned toward him. "A crucifix Forester, she said loudly, I want you to make a beaudyful crucifix and put it on the wall behind where Bruno is now. Bruno half-turned rearward, slamming his hand flat on the paneling behind him. Estelle wants a crucifix Forester. he cried; She says she wants a beaudyful crucifix! He hit the wall again – Right here on this wall, seven foot tall, right Estelle? Taken by the spirit, Estelle stood upon the seat of the pew, house-coats billowing about her as her arms waved in the air, eyes glowing and she squealed, Yeah, a big one Forester, a real big one seven foot tall, beaudyful, an’ make his hair yellow like yours so we can have gold leaf on it, right honey? She looked to Bruno rapturously and Bruno announced, Any way you want it baby, that’s how he’s gonna make it, one hand on the lectern the other waving about authoritatively, he shouted, Forester, do what she says, make His hair with gold leaf but make it long, like they used to have it done in them days; you know, like Samson an’ Delilac and Noah and them guys! Estelle wants a beaudyful crucifix with a lot of gold leaf hair an’ Estelle’s gonna get exac’ly what she wants!" She squealed, Bruno grinned and brought his raised fist down so hard on the face of the lectern’s book-rest the wood split, part of it whirling through the air, narrowly missing Bruno and clattering onto the dais. He grinned sheepishly at Estelle who looked in embarrassment at Simon, shaking her head and giggling.

When it was all over, when Estelle had gone back to the house to feed the dogs, leaving Bruno to handle the financial details as she always did because she was so very delicate and sensitive; when the financial details had been arranged satisfactorily between the two men, and Simon was sitting in his truck about to start the engine and hoping to pick up Jessica for a late breakfast, Bruno, his hand on Simon's door, held up a calloused forefinger and said, Forester, one more thing. You gotta paint some murials on that wood wall behind the preachin’ desk, like the little statues of me an’ Estelle on the bronze doors. I want ‘em done real good.

"I don’t do murals Bruno, sorry.

Bruno laughed, leaned closer. "You do murials if I tell you to do ‘em."

Simon shook his head. "I’ve never done murals, Bruno," he lied. I haven’t got brushes for that, I don’t know how to do them and if I tried, I’d probably do something you wouldn’t like. But I do know a mural painter who could come out from Manhattan and do them for you – nice fellow- professional, expert. James is a good friend of mine. Want me to call him for you?"

Call him give him my number, he better be good though…

Reaching for his ignition key, Simon was wondering whether his landlord had the ability to make an agreement without a threat when Bruno said again – Forester, one more thing.

Yes? Turning to face him indicating full attention, Simon smiled. Bruno leaned toward closer, resting his great hands on the roof of the truck, peering in. My Estelle is a real nice girl, he began.

Yes, she is, Simon agreed because he thought he had to.

Bruno pointed a threatening forefinger. "Listen Forester, listen good; I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think about my Estelle. She’s my wife. She’s been good to you. If it wasn’t for Estelle I’d be takin’ you for a ride in my boat or a ride to one of my yards, you got me?! There was still a tremble of rage in his voice about the rent. Nobody owes me money, nobody." He glared. Simon nodded silently, loyal testicles tightening because they felt he needed them tightened. Bruno continued, Estelle told you she wants a beaudyful crucifix, he prodded Simon’s shoulder with a forefinger, their faces almost level. "You’re gonna make her a beaudyful crucifix an’ I’m gonna come around to your place to make sure you do it." From the dark horror of his mouth, garlic fumes billowed over teeth suggesting a vandalized graveyard. Simon drew back, pretending to shift his position for comfort and noted that he liked his testicles tightened in a situation like this. "Estelle is a sweet woman, Bruno went on, She cries a lot, she gets hurt real easy an’ I get mad when Estelle gets hurt. The forefinger reappeared. You make one tear fall on Estelle’s cheek over this here crucifix, I will nail you to the back side of it an’ you ain't gonna come off that thing alive… I mean it." He backed away a step, cold, unmoving eyes seeming to penetrate Simon’s being.

Bruno’s method of dealing with the world was beyond Simon’s ability to comprehend. He reached for the ignition key, stopped. He couldn’t leave without a word. Bizarrely, he thought of saying, ‘Okay, thank you; have a nice day,’ and driving off, but obviously he’d have to deal with Bruno on numerous occasions before the crucifix was finished and installed. Pronouncing clearly, he said, "Bruno, I’m an artist. I have an excellent reputation because my work is professional. I do not have to be threatened to perform to high standards. The crucifix I will build will be beautiful – a work of art. You will see." He waited for a reply, nodded to signify he’d finished talking but Bruno uttered not a word and remained staring at Simon without moving or talking. It went on long enough for Simon to actually feel the presence of madness descending upon them, then Bruno smiled and abruptly turned away in the direction of the house. As he reached the white bench he shouted, Here, and the dogs suddenly charged toward him around the corner of the rose garden, tails wagging furiously. He raised his arm, commanding, Sit! and they sat immediately, panting and alert for his next command; Stay! He left the dogs sitting there and disappeared toward the mansion. They tensed, waiting for the command, and at his cry of Here! an explosion of black, white, pink tongues and legs rocketed toward the sound of his voice. There was sudden quiet… And as Simon started his engine, large raindrops began to spatter on the surface of the truck. He rolled up the window, turned the truck around, drove slowly through the iron gates and turned back toward Bridgehampton.

***

London suburbs: 1944. Simon and Roger his friend, were playing on the front steps at Simon’s house when the air raid siren began its mournful wail, warning of death. German planes approaching. This was not an unusual event, and by the time the War began in earnest, each family had a heavy steel and wire cage inside their house in case there was no time to run to the back garden, where a shelter of corrugated steel was dug partially underground, and covered with a hill of soil and sandbags. Everyone knew there was no chance if these shelters suffered direct hits.

At the first sound of the siren and without a word, Roger seized his yellow fire engine and was gone, running down the street toward his house as his parents had instructed him. As Simon watched him running he felt the air begin to pulsate. Seconds later, the balmy summer day was fractured by a deafening and reverberating roar, as though the gates of hell had suddenly opened to spew evil upon the Earth. Simon knew what it was – everyone in England knew what it was. It was a V-1, Germany’s rocket-propelled bomb. Its terrifying roar would stop only when the winged monstrosity ran out of fuel, whereupon it would dive steeply to the ground and detonate almost two thousand pounds of explosive.

And it ran out of fuel. An awful silence enveloped Simon, the absence of noise meant death was imminent and he froze. His mother, half-tied apron fluttering, hurtled out of the front door, seized him by the collar and dragged him toward the back garden shelter. While he was still protesting his unexpected acceleration and the fact that the skin of his elbow and knee now decorated bricks along the outside wall of the house, she stopped at the shelter's open door, using his momentum to fling him forward through the entrance into the damp gloom. He collided with a folding cot, bounced off the back wall and crashed on the plywood floor. Looking up from there he watched her silhouette clamber in behind him in the bright square of sunlight formed by the entrance, the image burning into his mind. The steel door closed and they were plunged into blackness, donning gas masks as they lay upon the floor, her body sheltering his. He closed his eyes, fascinated by the after-image burned upon his vision, her blue-green silhouette in a deep red rectangle becoming a yellow-orange silhouette in a purple rectangle, colours constantly changing; then it happened.

The world heaved, concussion so great that their clothing slapped against their bodies, a roar filling their senses and the sudden presence of a loud, universal ringing as the earth they hid in and lived upon, convulsed beneath them. They screamed without hearing, bodies flailing involuntarily, as though caught in the blast, while the black and damp hole they occupied felt as though lifted into space, their confused minds not knowing how much of their bodies remained attached to them. Then, a sudden change of air pressure as the explosion echoed and died away and they felt the