Authors: Elmore Leonard
"What're you gonna say to him?"
"I don't know--how are you? What do you say? I'm gonna apologize, ask if I can come and talk to him sometime. . . . What do you keep looking at me like that for?"
"I'm concerned about you," Bill Hill said. "You feel all right?"
"I feel fine."
"There's something about you that's different."
"Well, what do you expect? I just got out of an alcohol treatment center."
That was better.
He didn't want to see her tighten up and lose her sense of values, get too serious. He needed Lynn with him all the way if he was going to make his million dollars.
Chapter
12
AUGUST MURRAY planned the dedication ceremony around Father Nestor's contaminated bowel. He knew the old man would never last two hours away from a toilet, so he planned it: procession, Solemn High Mass, break; second procession, Benediction, impromptu announcement and . . . whatever happened after that.
Following the break, Greg Czarnicki would remain outside. He wanted to be sure to tell Greg to have his camera with him at all times.
Bill Hill waited in front of Lynn's apartment until almost eleven; gave up, irritated, got lost on the way to Almont, and didn't arrive at Saint John Bosco until the second procession was moving up the walk to the church. Bill Hill didn't know he had missed the first procession, mass, and Father Nestor's halting sermon on the true spirituality of the Latin tradition. He thought the show was just beginning, and in a way he was right.
He recognized Juvenal, thinking at first he was dressed as a priest. No, more like a tall altar boy in his cassock and surplice, showing about six inches of tan cotton pants and white sneakers below the hem of the black gown. Juvenal carried a cross straight up in front of him, like a staff with a crucifix mounted on top. Behind him came two real altar boys, about eleven or twelve, one of them swinging a silver thing of incense--a nice touch, Bill Hill thought, the sound of the canister swinging on thin chains--then another guy about Juvenal's age in black cassock and white surplice (August Murray) and then an old priest in gold vestments flicking holy water out of what looked like a flashlight--flicking it at the men in white shirts and gray arm-bands who lined both sides of the walk and were holding lighted candles.
Bill Hill hung back until the Gray Ghosts, or whatever Lynn said they were called, fell in behind the priest; he followed them into the church.
The Detroit Free Press had sent a writer by the name of Kathy Worthington, twenty-nine--eight years on murders, drug busts, city politics, fish with mercury and milk laced with PBB--to cover the Saint John Bosco dedication. She didn't ask why; she had covered August Murray activities before and knew something at least worthy of , local news, could happen.
The paper had not assigned a photographer--they had several shots of August Murray on file, both wild-eyed and composed--and Kathy didn't see anyone from the News or any of the television stations; which was fine. She wouldn't have to stand around with them being cynical. So this is where the action is, huh? Four and a half million people either doing something or getting ready to on a summer morning in August . . . while here at Almont, at the dedication of Saint John Bosco . . . and tie it in with Tremors in the Church of Rome . . . Catholic, universal, the French Archbishop Lefebvre's traditionalist movement--"This attitude of the Vatican against us is not come from the Holy Ghost"--and you have August Murray's white-shirted ghosts . . . bring August into the story, grim defender of right-wing causes . . . though she didn't see how he could swing very militantly today and get busted for anything. August among his own kind: play it straight and hope that at least he'd insult the pope and call him a Communist.
Kathy Worthington's note pad remained in her canvas bag while she sat through her first mass since graduating from Immaculata High School. So far, what did you write about a mass said by an old priest who sprinkled his Latin with Portuguese? Even if Rome found out, would they give a shit?
* * *
Lynn was only about ten minutes behind Bill Hill once she was able to shake Artie loose, trying to be nice, then raising her voice and telling him no, definitely, she would not help him with his presentation or discuss any part of the business with him for two weeks; she was on her vacation, and if he didn't like it he could get somebody else; she had to go, she was late for church. Artie said, "You going to church? Who's getting married?"
She arrived to see all the cars parked along the gravel road in front of the typical white frame basic church she had seen on county roads all her life, feeling they were the same dusty cars and pickups, the same people attending--just like when she was little and would hang around outside with her friends until they heard the organ playing and the people solemnly joining in the first hymn. Lynn parked and walked down the line of cars in her blue-green eighty-dollar print, a little awkward in heels after years of sandals and wedgies--it was the gravel, and wanting to hurry but still look neat and fresh when she entered.
The organ sounded like an accordion, tinny, the notes dull, repetitive. The words were different though.
"Tan-tum air-go-oh, sac-ra-meh-en-tum . . ." Mournful, a slow chant.
"Vay-nay-ray-mur cher-nu-ee-ee . . ."
She paused on the steps before the open doorway, looking over to see a yellow school bus, Lapeer County Schools, pulling up to the house or rectory next door. A young guy in a choir or altar boy outfit stood in the drive with both hands raised, guiding the bus toward him past a line of parked cars. The door opened, a little boy wearing a baseball cap jumped out of the bus, and a voice called to him to wait.
Lynn didn't know if this was mass or what. She couldn't remember if she'd ever heard Latin before. The church was packed. A line of men in white shirts and gray armbands, holding lighted candles, extended up both sides of the middle aisle. The priest on the altar in gold vestments-- She saw Juvenal then, the tallest altar boy up there, and August Murray, also in an altar boy outfit.
"Sol-us hon-on-or, vir-tus quo-oh-quay . . ."
The song was so sad; she wondered what it was about--looking around for Bill Hill now, her eyes seeking color.
"No-vo say-dat rit-too-ee . . ."
The congregation didn't appear much different than any other. They could be Baptist, Pentecostal, Church of God . . . the guys with the armbands, she decided, must be the Gray Army of the Holy Ghost. Fundamentalists didn't have anything like that. She wasn't even sure if they had a Holy Ghost.
"Gen-ee-tor-re-is, gen-ee-toh-oh-quay . . ."
Everybody singing and they weren't even reading it from hymnbooks. They actually knew the words.
Juvenal was facing the congregation, he and August Murray flanking the old priest, maybe holding him up. Juvenal moved aside and Lynn had the feeling he was looking at her, past all the heads and hats, picking her out where she stood in the back of the church. Smiling? Lynn wasn't sure if he was smiling at her--actually, she wasn't sure if he was smiling at all--a boyish face up there beyond all the hats.
Yes, hats--it dawned on her that all the women seemed to be wearing summer straws or little hats with veils she hadn't seen in years, or scarves over their heads, all of them . . . except the blonde in the last pew, just a little over from Lynn, a girl about her own age with long, straight blond hair, green shirt-dress, and canvas bag.
Something something "doe-que-men-tum," something else and "la-ouw-da-ah-tsi-oh--" And then a sustained "Ah-men." There was a long silence. She couldn't see what they were doing up there. Then everyone knelt down and Lynn felt exposed, the only one standing.
She saw Bill Hill, squeezed in at the end of a pew over on the far left, wearing his yellow outfit two days in a row. Black hair slicked down in place--she was pretty sure he used Grecian Formula. He looked out of place, though not because he claimed to be a Fundamentalist. He looked too studied-slick to be among the Latin-lovers.
A little altar boy was swinging something silver on a chain, thin wisps of smoke rising. Lynn realized it was incense--they actually used it in their religious ceremony. There was a faint odor, too, but it wasn't the sweet smell of incense in dark rooms with cool jazz playing. The priest turned to the congregation, raising a gold statue that was like an arty sunburst with a little round window in the center and something white showing through the glass. Bells rang several times. There was a hush inside the church, not a sound. The members of the Gray Army were down on one knee. It was moody, very dramatic, the incense, the thin little sound of the bells, the gold sunburst raised high. Bill Hill was half sitting, half kneeling, watching, not moving a muscle--the expert on God, religion, and church administration. Lynn watched him begin to turn, looking around with his head raised. She waited. When he saw her, finally, she gave him a motion to come on back. The priest was saying, in English, "The Divine Praises . . . Blessed be God."
And everyone in the church said, "Blessed be God."
"Blessed be His holy name."
Everybody: "Blessed be His holy name."
She wanted to ask him what was going on and if she'd missed anything. Bill Hill was coming down the side aisle now--heads turning to watch him as they answered, "Blessed be Jesus Christ, true God and true man." Lynn waited as he crossed the back of the church.
"Blessed be His most sacred heart."
She stage-whispered, "You see him? Juvenal?"
Bill Hill nodded, reaching her. "I think he saw me, too, but I'm not sure."
"What's going on?"
"How should I know?" Bill Hill took her arm. "Let's go out and grab a smoke."
Lynn hesitated, the little girl again. Was it all right? She wasn't going to have much choice the way he was pulling her. She said, "You should quit if you have to leave church to have one."
He said, "Come on," starting for the vestibule, sunlight showing in the open doorway.
The priest was saying, "Blessed be Jesus in the most holy sacrament of the altar."
The congregation said it again.
The priest began, "Blessed be the name of Mary--"
"Blessed be the name of Mary, virgin and mother," the congregation said.
There was silence.
Then another voice said, "Blessed be her holy and immaculate conception."
As the congregation repeated the words, Bill Hill stopped to look over his shoulder at the altar.
The priest was walking stiff-legged yet hurrying to leave the altar. For a moment Juvenal stood watching. He went after the old priest then, close behind him as they went through the door into the sacristy. The other adult altar boy, August Murray, glanced after them, saying, "Blessed be Saint Joseph, her most chaste spouse."
Bill Hill felt Lynn's hands on his arm.
"Blessed be Saint Joseph, her most chaste spouse."
He turned back to go out with her, feeling her close. But she didn't move and he bumped against her, saying, "What's the matter?" as he saw her expression.
"Blessed be God, His angels and His saints."
"Blessed be God, His angels and His saints."
Silence.
Lynn stood rigid, facing the vestibule.
The sunny area between the inner and outer doors of the church seemed to be full of children. Children on crutches, children with metal leg braces, children wearing padded helmets, children in wheelchairs . . .
Chapter
13
FATHER NESTOR had said yes, he saw it with his own eyes, the healing of the crippled boy.
"How was he crippled?" August had asked.
"His spine was deformed. The little boy used crutches and dragged his legs. It was very difficult for him."
"Then Juvenal touched him?"
"The boy was in the road where other children were playing. Juvenal was walking by them, ahead of Brother Carlos and I. He looked at the boy and then stopped. The boy looked at Juvenal. Something passed between them; or it might have, I don't know. The boy hobbled over to Juvenal--yes, and then he touched him, dropped to his knees, and held the boy against him. The boy seemed to be taller, his crutches fell--"
"The boy was happy, smiling?"
"I don't remember. I believe he was . . . stunned, very surprised. He looked down at his legs--"
"He ran off then?"
"He walked a few feet away, then in circles, looking down at his legs."
"What about the other children--was it at the same time, the others?"
"There was a little girl with tumors on her body, very ugly sores. He took her into his arms also."
"And they disappeared, the tumors?"
"No, it was not like that. But the next day they were talking about her in the village, everyone very excited. The doctor examined her, there was nothing, no tumors on her, not even scars, and he questioned if it was the same little girl."
"What about other children?"
"I'm not sure. Perhaps."
"Did he restore anyone's sight?"
"Yes, a young man. He left the village and went to Santarem and was injured very severely in a barroom fight and died soon after. This is what they say, I have no proof of it."