Won’t Tell Nobody

“I already know.” says God.

“If I talk to you is that witchcraft?” asks Lacey.

“No.” says God.

“But I’m a witch!!” says Lacey sarcastically in a rage. “Am I conjuring you?!”

“When we talk?” asks God.

“Yes.” says Lacey. “Like, am I supposed to keep this conversation to myself or it’s heresy? Or am I not supposed to hear from you at all? Or is this allowed?”

“You hear and have cautious faith it’s me.” says God. “You remain optimistic, but would never guarantee it’s me.”

“But God is God. Not a ghost. Even if dead Christians are alive in Christ.” says Lacey.

“Change of topic!” says Joe Sr..

Everyone looks shocked.

“I was more in love with her than my son was.” he says.

“Why did you give her up?” asks Rose, aghast.

He smiles.

“Because my son found her attractive. He didn’t know I did. And I didn’t think I deserved her affection. At all.” says Joe.

“How is that truly functional?” asks Lacey.


“Obedience was a highly underrated virtue in your estimation, Lem? Or you were too broken to comprehend it?” asks God of Lem.

“Would she even know I exist if I hadn’t devoted my life to these people?” he asks.

“Oh Lem!” laughs a reader, relating to him. “Listen, if you want to read about the war of 1812 read her blog. Otherwise…I’d caution that she could be a heretic who repents, or she’ll bore you and make you feel pretentious.”

“Say! That’s it isn’t it?” says Lacey.

“Yes. You bore people. But also, they hate your depth for reasons of social class anxiety.” says Joe Sr..

“At least that’s my interpretation of it.” says Lacey.

“It’s mine too.” says Joe.

“I think they feel scared of how little they know. And then they attribute my knowledge, should I have any that they don’t have, to being in a higher social class by birth than them. And that’s a possible reason, but not necessarily correct. Still, that’s the way they interpret it.” says Lacey.

“What if I like you more now than he ever did?” asks Joe Jr..


“The thing is…there is something insidious about the way the upper-class knows more objective truth nowadays.” says Joe Jr..

“Can’t he theoretically love me more than you ever could then?” Lacey asks, in a detached manner. “But regardless, you’re right about the part about knowing. They know Christ. But they’ve been starved.” She says. “In my opinion. And should that opinion be true, they know it.”

“Huh!? Starved?” asks Joe Sr. ironically.

“Yes! But they can always eat potatoes.” says Lacey, joking. “Let them eat potatoes!” She laughs. “Mr. Potato Head.”

“But he’s made of plastic, now!” says Michael, triumphantly.

Louis smiles.

“Lem you did this for what reason?” asks a former classmate of his. “Was it some bizarre sense of noblesse oblige?”

“Sacrifice my soul at the Kennedy alter?” he asks.

“Did you read about the potato famine and decide to change the world through your love?” asks his father.

“One step of reconciliation through a life of sacrifice.” says his mother, humorously.

“White man’s burden, Lem. White man’s burden.” says an author comically. “You walked with them. Talked with them. …Laughed with them. Understood them.”

Lem laughs.

“He was a man…who dared. Dared to love.” says Lacey.

“His father’s mishandling of money and the sexual abuse of a priest lent him…perspective.” says Bobby. “He fell from the WASP elite to be a kinder, deeper, more powerful man. A power flowing from the Heavens.”

“Like a WASP social worker. A Greek Chorus. A guide.” says Lacey.

“An emissary from the Puritan Police Force. The PPF. To…instruct the Kennedy’s on…the truth…of potatoes.” says the Native American woman.

“To guide them.” says Lacey. “Like the great Sakakawea.”

“Lem, they were kids.” says Lou.

She glares at him.

“To be honest, Lem. It is sus.” says a Gen Z woman.

“Like he secretly was anti-Irish?” asks a dead intellectual. “And they were all taken in? Because he’s got a good heart and they loved his tenderness like the Irish do?”

“They thought he was like them.” says Lacey.


“It’s a mistake Americans often make.” says Lacey. “About themselves. About each other. Everything is the same.”

“So they saw Lem’s love…and assumed entirely pure love from Heaven?” asks a hater.

“He was…yummy.” says another hater. “Always…a…good time.”

“I am just a piece of cake!” sings a hater.

“It’s a no. But not a clear no. From good ol’ Lemmers.” says a hater, describing the Kennedy perspective.

“Because he’s not…a serious man.” says a different hater. “And if he wasn’t gay…we still don’t know that.”

“He might not even have been neutral.” says Red Faye.

Elliott laughs.

“How is this complicated?” asks Lacey. “It’s not.”

She sits up straighter to be respectful.

“One: If Lem was straight he was deeply confused.“ she says.

“Two: He was patronizing towards the Kennedy’s due to his background but they were too Irish and extremely wealthy to notice.”

“Three: It affected all of us because of who the Kennedy’s actually were.”

“Four: Because of those consequences we now have to deal with why Lem was so confused.”

“Five: We also have to appropriately place the Kennedy’s socially. We can’t make them less or more than they are. Or something they are or are not.”

“Six: Finishing all of these things to their completion requires honesty. And that’s something we’ve had stolen from us.”

“You can’t rip her heart out without her dying. And possibly blowing-up the entire Earth to end it all.” cautions a saint.

“You mean literally?” asks a living Native American woman.

“To bring us all into the other-side?” asks a hater.

“Yes. She’s asked God why He doesn’t just destroy the Earth. Repeatedly.” says the saint.

“Like, she thinks He should just fix it all and start over?” asks a hater.

“Better than that.” says the saint.

“But then we have to deal with the possibility of Hell.” says the Native American woman.

“Yes.” says Lacey desperately concerned.

“Does this stupid bitch realize she could go to Hell for not thinking we’re hot and rich?” asks a hater.

“But are you actually hot and rich?” asks Lacey.

They stare at her in a growing rage.

“Wait. So, is why mom wants to blow-up the world?” asks a living Native American woman.

“Yes.” says a saint.

“They want love. I think. But they don’t get it.” says Lacey. “God’s parental love.”

She sighs.

“But the stupid Catholic Church ruined that by molesting kids.” says Lacey. “Which is why I’d be tempted to destroy everything by now.” She thinks. “It’s getting too lost, in my opinion.”

“It’s starting to seem too convoluted?” asks an intellectual of Lacey.

“Yes. The truth is getting far too lost.” she says. “And people can’t let go of their self-perceived need for clout.”

Lem smiles.

“Lem, do they need clout?!” asks a perfume hater.

“No.” he says, apologetically. Morosely.

A dead Kennedy turns the Taylor Swift music on on the sound system in the car.

Lacey laughs.

Lem is annoyed. Seethes.

Lacey refuses to turn it off.

He calms himself down and crawls up to the front to turn it off.

Lacey turns it back on.

He feels the need to smile but decides not to. Because he’s actually quite angry.

“It’s me, hi!” sings Taylor Swift.

He holds the steering wheel and ponders. States out.

“Why do like me?” he asks Lacey.

“Why are you determined to torture me?” asks Lacey.

“Because I sided with the Devil about the value of my soul while I was alive.” he says.

“But you’re in Purgatory?” asks Lacey.

“It seems so.”

“So you torture me?”

“I don’t want to. But, yes. I ruined your life before you were born if you can love me.” says Lem.

“That’s okay, Lem.” says Queen Victoria. “You’re not God.” She smiles. “He can fix it.”

“Just accept Jesus’ offer of salvation.” says Lacey.

“But I want to stop torturing her and just love her.” says Lem.

“Not so fast!” says Joe Jr..

“Not so fast?!” asks Lem.

“Yeah. She’s mine forever. Mine.” says Michael. “Mine.” He looks at all of them. “Mine.” He looks at God. “Unless…Lem. Lem. Just Lem…can convince me otherwise with God’s authority. And maybe he already has. But that’s all. It’s just me and Lem.”

Louis stares. Harold is bothered. “I think if that’s true…we need to ask God for his reassurances of that.” says Louis.

“Go ahead.” says Michael smiling.

“Lem…hey Lem…honey…why?!” asks a living Native American woman. She may mean it kindly.