The Terrible Twos. Ishmael Reed

the end of the week, the Secretary of Defense was found dead, a possible suicide.

      On the editorial page, there was a letter to the editor. It was one of many letters which had been coming in for five years, complaining about a decision handed down in a California court awarding exclusive rights to Santa Claus to Oswald Zumwalt’s North Pole Development Corporation.

      10

      No one touched the food. It was supposed to be a feast. When the Nicolaites entered the ballroom, conflict and raised voices had immediately begun. Bro. Peter, as he was demanding to be called these days, had removed the face of Saint Nicholas from a painting above the fireplace and replaced it with one of Haile Selassie. Boy Bishop’s followers objected and were threatening to summon him back from Boston, where he’d gone to officiate at the wedding of a rich patron. They were being jeered by those Nicolaites who were loyal to Bro. Peter. The Nicolaites were split down the middle.

      Black Peter had been left in charge by Boy Bishop. Peter was seated at the head of one of fifteen tables located in the ballroom with mahogany panels and chandeliers. He sat on red, black, and green satin pillows. He wore the costume page boys wore in the Spanish court. The other brothers and sisters sat before turkey, goose, blackberry pie, and cherry pie, and there were huge bowls of salad on each table and three kinds of wine. And in the middle of it all lay a pig with an apple in its mouth. Black Peter was enjoying his fish and peppers, jerked pork and Dragon’s Snout while the others whispered among themselves.

      “How dare he remove the face of our Saint from that painting? Why does Boy Bishop always leave that crazy spade behind when he goes on a mission? I’ve had enough of this painting. Ghetto surrealism, that’s what it is.” Sister Alice and Sister Barbara were scribbling notes and passing them to each other. One would read a note from the other and giggle.

      “If Boy Bishop doesn’t return soon, this maniacal and paranoid black is going to take over,” said another of Boy Bishop’s followers.

      “I plan to phone him tonight. If he doesn’t get back here soon, there’s going to be bloodshed,” said Brother James. Sister Barbara pouted and then gave Black Peter a fierce stare. She folded her arms. Her bald head glistened and she wore hooped, gold earrings.

      “How come we have to do what you say and accept your painting? Boy Bishop should have the final sayso. I for one don’t like what you’ve done with the painting,” she said. The gathering murmured: “You ain’t no Rasta anyway. You maybe can fool these white people, but you can’t fool me.” Sister Alice sat down, triumphantly.