And then, this, just what the I’s need: a woman at that retirement home gala linner out in Mass., He thinks come Connecticut…a woman He’s never known before, never known in any sense how she stands up for herself to announce, to the press and the hysterical rest: Ben Israelien the Messiah is the father of my daughter! and then, hymn, what do you know (from want, from accusation, from the hurt of denial), another woman from inside the receiving line in the parkinglot she stands just outside it, removed, holds her kid if it even is hers up in the air under the weather as if praying for lightning to strike them both down how she booms…mine, too! He’s the father of mine, just as much! Mister Israelien has never had relations with that woman, Gelt says. Sadly, He thinks. Unfortunately no, is maintained. You’re goddamned right you’ve never slept with me, she says into a mic, proferring — pardon. As if I would sleep with a God poo poo poo — the mothers hock at once, spit to ice. This kid’s immaculate, she goes on…as a wad of photographers press in to shoot her; for the sake of circulations (panting), she’s milking the kid at a scandalous teat, deviatorily distended, bared. And so the paternity suits begin pouring in, allegations of daughters, too, but predominantly of heirs, sons alleged prodigal, their birthrights assumed: their papers always served late at the partner hotel, after roomservice brunch or lunkfast but before its dessert, as if cream for His coffee, a sapping stir. A third woman big with His issue datelined the opposite coast, then an oviferous fourth from overseas where Ben’s never yet been; a fifth with issues with a sixth with problems and more, seeking a degree of enablement, and that materially as much as of the soul we should hope; some alleging two kinder by Him, others three, though even if these offspring would be acknowledged, and let’s be clear, none of them are, “none would be Affiliated, as such transference must be maternal,” reads in part the Garden’s statement — which doesn’t mean these women won’t be bought off. Envelope stomachs, a womb flush with coin. A Maggie Dalene, 26, of Mittel Albany who’s swollen with daughter; a Christiana Eleison, 18, of Kfar Echo Lake, she’s worrying twins; an A. Leah Capitolina, age and whereabouts withheld or unknown, who she’d suffered a miscarriage of triplets she claims had been His; an Agnes Day stunned at the virgin birth of her son one David Stern last name and the eyes of her husband now ex; one Polly Esther suing Miss Day for partial custody of the boy, willing to let judgment decide, seeking a severance Solomonstyle, perhaps; even and for the ennobling edification of none a Bea Titude of Kiryas Joe alleging rape, a night spent in the stairwell of a motel outside of what’d been Goshen, violent and apologetic and altogether pathetic (the pleading, the please) while the lobby hordes were kept waiting for moments; though rumors of a legitimate son will prove unfounded, what won’t, and even amid the handling of this issue misplaced deftly in how furious, fierce, they manage never to make public His, how to say — operation: His procedure’s never leaked is what, and Miss Shade is overtimes reassured of the purity of her bridegroom-to-be.
Another offday, downtime of sorts and this despite its appearance worked only in public defense: up in Cambridge, Ben’s squeezed into a suit of tweed the kind with the leather spleenshaped patches on the elbows to protect Him in His wriggling grovel. A deserved sabbatical upon a Monday spent pent within the ivy walls and ivory towers of this university turned kollel of late, He’s here to accept an honorary diploma, an nth degree in theology, it’s decided, demanded, its presentation followed by a turn at hightable, leading Kiddush at a private faculty oneg — the intelligentsia supporting Him more for what He represents, less for who He is, suspecting such when this dean promoted to Rosh hands Him His sheepskin unframed and unsigned. Campuseswide, lectures have been forsaken in favor of sermons. Higher homiletics; the week following newspapers carry columns Ben signs, never reads. Maui offers Him a pulpit. Nome counters to name Him Chief Rabbi. Elite me nothing, snub me no snob: He’s both pop and not, His cult a movement of mass and a stilling of One…the namebrand, the Name.
