“Lemme do the talkin’,” said Brick putting out his hand to restrain Mortar and he stepped up front. Mortar gave a look of exasperation. Our two heroes had conferred and decided that they wanted to lay low for a time, and join forces with this Jesus fellow, who seemed to them a fair and even person.

 

The two men begged the Lord to take them on as Apostles, but the Lord demurred saying, “I am come to the lost sheep of the House of Israel. Jews, yes. Gentiles, no.”

 

 “But we won’t be no trouble, sir, and Brick here’s got a real talent for words. He can talk circles around me!” said Mortar by way of testimonial. “Besides, him and me, we’re a team.”

 

“I thought you guys were morticians? On your way to a convention? If that’s not true , what is it you do do?” asked Jesus.

 

“I’m a scribe, translator, secretary, bard, man of letters, poet, novelist, writer, playwright, essayist, dramatist, pamphleteer, brochurer, speechwriter, penman, overall Man-‘O-Words, sir,” said Brick.

 

“Formerly not a man of many words, but now, not a man of few words, are you?” said Jesus. “And you, Mortar?”

 

“Butcher and such like a chef, Me father sent me to Gaul to learn the Beaux Arts de Cuisine, sir,” said Mortar.

 

“‘Butcher of Men’ isn’t going to work, is it? And Brick, do you happen to be familiar with Greek or Aramaic?” asked the Rabbi. 

 

“Yes,” he lied confidently, but thought better of it immediately and hastened to add, “No, but I can learn,” insisted Brick, “and right quick!”

 

“Everybody needs to eat and I can cook,” put in Mortar earnestly.

 

“Man does not live by bread alone,” responded Jesus.

 

“Man does not live without bread, neither,” replied Mortar.

 

“I have only a limited roster and at this stage it’s an entirely Jewish operation. I don’t really have room for any more Apostles… just thinking out loud here… you could possibly be Para-Apostles, a position that actually calls for a bit more personal responsibility and independence of action. You say you have a talent for words?”

 

“Yup, words is me principal oeuvre, you might say,” said Brick excitedly.

 

“Please find a place for us, sir. We won’t cause no trouble,” said Mortar.

 

“Please, please, please. We’ll be good,” pleaded Brick.

 

“Do you happen to have a sample of your work?” asked Jesus.

 

“What, d’ya want something to eat? Now?” asked Mortar incredulously.

 

Brick looked down his nose condescendingly and clarified, “He means a sample of me writing, you dumb bunny.” 

 

“Actually, I’d like both,” said Jesus. “If you’re going to be a writer and all the rest, like you say, you’d be carrying your best work around looking for readers. I’d like to hear something you’ve done. And if Mortar can cook as well as he says he can, then I should have a passable meal and an entertaining literary interlude within, say, an hour? I’ve just got to run up to Peter’s house and I’ll be back in an hour. I want to hear some literary wonder and eat a light, nutritious meal. See you in one hour.”

 

And with that, the Carpenter turned and followed a path to the village of Capernaum.

 

Jesus returned in exactly one hour and he found Mortar, in formal attire with a four-in-hand bowtie and a white rose boutonniere, waiting for him by a small table set for one, complete with a white tablecloth, vase with a rose, the finest silverware, all under a an umbrella to shield the diner from the harsh rays of the noonday sun. Jesus stared, mouth gaping, in disbelief.

 

Mortar gave a slight bow of the head and said, “Al fresco dining for one, Monsieur? Allow me to see you to your table.” He led Jesus around the table and pulled out the chair and helped his guest into the chair. Jesus felt the gentle pressure of the chair at the back of his knees and was gently and effortlessly guided into the chair. With elegant ease, Mortar dropped a spotless white napkin in Jesus’ lap. With two sharp claps of the hands and a discreet call of ‘Garcon!’, Mortar summoned Brick from behind a screen with a tray held high bearing a snifter of palate-cleansing iced champagne sorbet which he deftly placed with a flourish before the Carpenter, and then vanished behind the screen.

 

“I’m so sorry, that given the constraints of time, I have only been able to produce an extremely modest repast,” apologized Mortar, “but the chef has prepared for you a Vichyssoise with just a kiss of tarragon, rack of spring lamb with rosemary, haricots vertes, salade of mixed greens with a light raspberry vinaigrette, followed by a light-as-air Grand Marnier soufflé. Again, our humble house begs to apologize for so primitive a fare upon which one feeds as if from a trough in the most Spartan of circumstances.”

 

As Jesus tucked into the soup, Brick reappeared from behind the screen, but no longer in in the garb of a waiter. Now he sported corduroy slacks and a tweed sport coat with leather elbows, a loose ascot at the throat, reading glasses and puffing a pipe filled with cherry flavored tobacco. A large book was tucked under his arm.

 

Mortar had produced a Queen Anne wing backed chair in which Brick sat down. He made a great fuss and show of finding the proper place in his book, earnestly puffed on his pipe, looked up at Jesus and he cleared his throat signaling his intent to begin.

 

Enunciating his words carefully, Brick gave the title of his recitation, “Your Story.”