Reborn, page 25
Bill stared at the dead brown blades curling up from the dirt and had to admit Carol was right. This grass was dead. As if the life had been sucked right out of it. But how? And why? Why just here in this neat rectangle? Unless someone had poured a herbicide on it. But that didn’t make sense. Who would want to do something like that?
And the most disturbing part of the patch was the way it didn’t quite reach the edges of the replaced sod. The dead grass was confined to a neat narrow rectangle exactly the size of Jim’s coffin lying six feet below. Carol hadn’t mentioned it. Maybe she hadn’t noticed it. Bill wasn’t about to point it out to her.
He turned and looked at her, saw her tortured, frightened eyes, and wanted desperately to help her. But how?
“Carol, what do you want me to say?”
Her control began to crack. Her face screwed up and tears began to slide down her cheeks.
“I want you to tell me that he wasn’t possessed by the devil and that there’s a good reason for the grass over his grave to be dead.” She leaned against him and began to sob. “That’s all I want. Is that so much?”
Hesitantly, Bill put his arms around her and gently patted her back. It seemed such a wholly inadequate gesture, but it was the best he could do, the most he dared do.
For contact with Carol was sending intensely pleasurable but unwanted sensations racing up and down his body. All those hidden feelings and desires that plagued him in his bed at night were awakening here in the day and beginning to move. He hugged her a moment longer, then, with difficulty, put a little space between them.
“No, it’s not much at all to ask.” He gave her a stern look. “But I’m surprised you have to ask it.”
“I know, I know.” She lowered her eyes. “But after all the things those awful people said on Sunday, and then to come up here and see this, I…I just cracked a little.”
He glanced back at the dead grass. “It is weird, but I’m sure there’s a good explanation that doesn’t rely on the devil.”
“Good. Tell me what it is.”
“Let’s head back to the car,” he said.
He kept a protective arm around her shoulder as he guided her down the hill toward the drive. He couldn’t bring himself to break physical contact. Not yet, anyway.
He finally let go when he opened the door for her on the passenger side.
“What do you think?” she said as he started the car.
She was so hungry for an explanation—he wished he had one for her.
“I don’t know. I’m not a horticulturist. But surely you of all people know that Jim wasn’t possessed by the devil or any of that nonsense. We know he was an atheist, but the idea of Satan was as unacceptable to him as the idea of God.”
“But what about the hair on his palms. You heard them out there when they saw it. They called it ‘the Mark of the Beast.’ They said it’s a sign that Satan dwells within.”
“Jim was a hairy guy. A hairy palm means he was born with hair follicles in an unusual spot, and that’s all it means. Nothing more. Probably genetic. If he was really a clone of that Hanley fellow, then I bet Hanley had hairy palms as well.”
“Well,” Carol said slowly, “Hanley did look pretty hairy in those old photos.”
“What’d I tell you? Really, Carol, all that Satan garbage is just that—garbage.”
In the ensuing silence, he glanced over and saw her shocked expression.
“Bill!” she said. “You’re a priest!”
He sighed. “I know I’m a priest. I’ve spent the last decade studying theology—studying it intensely—and believe me, Carol, no one in the Catholic intellectual community believes in Satan.”
She smiled. Sadly.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“Catholic intellectuals…I can hear Jim now.”
Bill’s throat tightened. “So can I. He’d say, ‘That’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one.’”
She sobbed. “Oh, God, Bill, I miss him!”
“I know you do, Carol,” he said, feeling her pain, sharing a part of it. “So keep him alive inside you: Hold on to those memories.”
4
Carol pulled herself together with an effort.
“But what you said before, about not believing in Satan—you sounded almost like Jim.”
“Well, Jim and I rarely disagreed on ethics or morals, just on their philosophical basis. And we’d both agree that there’s no such being as Satan. Frankly I don’t know of a single Jesuit who believes in Satan. There’s God and there’s us. There’s no single being who embodies evil skulking through the world trying to get us to commit sins. That’s a myth, a folktale that’s useful in helping people grasp the problem of evil. The evil in the world comes from us.” He jabbed a finger against his breastbone. “From in here.”
“And Hell?”
“Hell? Do you think there’s a place somewhere, a room or a cavern where all the sinners go to be tormented by demons? Think about it, Carol.”
She did, and it seemed pretty far-fetched.
“It’s all personification,” he said. “It’s a way of giving people a handle on some complex problems. It’s especially useful with children—they have an easier time with theological concepts if we dress them up in myths. When we tell the kids, ‘Resist the devil,’ we’re really telling them to hold out against the worst that’s in them.”
“Lots of adults believe in those myths as well—I mean, really cling to them.”
Bill shrugged. “A lot of adults never grow up when it comes to religion. They could never accept that Satan is just a symbolic externalization of the evil that lurks in all of us.”
“But where’s that evil in us come from?”
“From the merging of the spirit and the flesh. The spiritual part of us comes from God and wants to return to Him. The physical part of us is like a wild beast that wants what it wants when it wants it and doesn’t care who gets hurt in its drive to get it. Life is a process of striking a balance between the two. If the spiritual part prevails, it is allowed to return to God when life is over. If the baser drives and emotions of the physical aspect taint the spirit too deeply, it is not allowed to return to God. That, Carol, is hell. Hell is not a fiery place with pitchfork-wielding demons. It’s a state of being bereft of God’s presence.”
5
Carol was still trying to digest Bill’s words when they pulled into the driveway of the mansion.
“I know it sounds pretty radical,” he said, “but really it’s not. It’s just a different perspective. We tend to take what the nuns taught us in school and tuck it away in the backs of our minds and accept it at face value for the rest of our lives. But real grown-ups need a grown up theology.”
“I’m working on it,” she said.
“And just think about this ‘Mark of the Beast’ or ‘vessel of Satan’ or ‘gateway for Satan’ crap. Even if you want to cling to the old mythology, remember that God doesn’t move in obvious ways. That’s why it’s a trial at times to keep one’s faith in Him. If Satan existed, don’t you think he’d avoid the obvious as well? Because finding proof of the Ultimate Evil—Satan—would make it so much easier for us to believe in the Ultimate Good—God. An’ dat wouldn’t be to dat ol’ debbil Satan’s liking, would it now?”
Carol couldn’t help laughing—the first time all week.
“You make it sound so simple.”
“That’s probably because I’m oversimplifying. It’s not simple. But I hope it helps.”
“It does. Oh, believe me, it does.”
She felt so much better. She saw the whole idea of Jim being possessed by the devil for the juvenile superstitious silliness it was. The fear, the uncertainty all slipped away, replaced by a sense of peace.
All thanks to Bill.
But as Bill opened the mansion’s front door for her and ushered her inside, the gratitude evaporated in a blast of rage.
You smug, sanctimonious son of a bitch!
She staggered a step. Where had that come from?
She didn’t feel that way about Bill at all. Why that instant of hatred? He was only trying to soothe her, doing his best to—
—impress her with his pseudointellectual bullshit and make himself look so infinitely superior, so far above the petty fears of the common folk like her. Pompous, self-righteous Jesuit bastard. So fucking aloof. Thinks he’s immune to the insecurities and frailties of the flesh. She’d show him.
Carol didn’t understand this sudden rage, this wild, alien emotion, coming out of nowhere, imposing itself on her, enveloping her, making her want to claw at Bill’s blue eyes with her nails, making her want to bring him down, degrade him, humiliate him, break him, drag him into a mire of self-loathing and make him wallow in it, rub his face in it, drown him in it.
As soon as he was in the foyer, she closed the door behind her. Passion was suddenly a white-hot flame within.
“Kiss me, Bill.”
He stared at her incredulously, as if trying to make himself believe that he really hadn’t heard her correctly. A small voice deep inside her screamed, No, I didn’t mean that! But a much stronger voice overpowered the first, shouting that she did mean just that. And more.
6
“Carol?” Bill said, watching her. Her face had changed, as if the lighting had shifted to give her a strange, almost malevolent look. “Are you all right?”
“Of course I am. I just want you. Right now. Right here.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“I’ve never been saner,” she said, fixing him with her bright, slightly unfocused eyes as she slowly pulled off her sweater.
“Stop that.”
She smiled. “You say that, but you don’t really mean it. You’ve wanted me since high school, haven’t you? And I’ve wanted you. Don’t you think we’ve waited long enough?”
She reached around behind her and began unfastening her bra.
“Carol, please!”
Then the bra came loose and she shrugged free of it, letting it drop to the floor. Bill’s mouth went dry as he stared at her bare breasts. They weren’t the big bouncy kind he’d seen in the men’s magazines he’d confiscated from the boys over the years, but they were round and firm with pink nipples and they were right within reach.
“Who’s going to know, and who’s it going to hurt?” she said, in a softly reasoning voice as she drew long strands of her sandy hair over her shoulders, pulling them taut and strumming them back and forth across her breasts until the nipples stood out hard and erect, just as Bill felt himself becoming hard and erect within his trousers. “After all this time, don’t you think we owe it to each other? Just this once?”
“Carol—”
“Come on. It’s sort of like unfinished business, don’t you think?”
Bill closed his eyes. The idea was so appealing, almost as if she was echoing thoughts from his own subconscious. In a way it really was unfinished business, a ghost from his past that would haunt him indefinitely if he didn’t do something to exorcise it. Just this once, with Carol, his old love. What could be more perfect? How good to surrender to this delicious warmth spreading from his groin and suffusing his whole being. Just this once and then he could put her behind him and get on with his vocation unencumbered.
When he opened his eyes, he stared in awe. She’d slipped out of her jeans and pan ties and stood completely naked before him. She was beautiful—so beautiful. His eyes gravitated to her light brown pubic bush. He’d never seen a completely naked woman before, even in a photo, and this one was naked for him, in the flesh, and she was Carol.
“Come on,” she said, smiling and moving closer. She took his hand and placed it against her breast. He could feel the nipple arching against his palm. “Just for old time’s sake.”
Just once? In the long run, would it matter if he broke his vow of chastity just once? He tried to fight that seductive thought but his mind didn’t seem to be working too well at the moment.
She released his hand and went down on her knees in front of him.
Just this once. In the long run, in the big picture, what could it matter?
7
He was weakening. She could feel the arrogant bastard’s defenses crumbling as she knelt before him and ran her fingers over the bulge behind his fly. A wave of exultation engulfed her. She felt strong, powerful, as if she could conquer the world. The feeling was better than sex, better than the best orgasm she’d ever had.
She reached for the zipper on Bill’s pants. If she could get him in her mouth, he’d be hers, she knew it. There’d be no turning back for him then.
She smiled.
So much for keeping the spirit unsullied by the flesh, Mr. Jesuit priest.
Suddenly he backed two stumbling steps away, face flushed, tortured, beads of perspiration dotting his forehead and upper lip.
“No.”
He spoke the word softly in a hoarse, agonized voice, but it was like a red hot spike driven into her pelvis. Suddenly the powerful feeling was ripped away. The world seemed to teeter, the walls of the mansion leaned toward her, as if about to crash down upon her.
And the pain—the pain inside was like hell.
Bill had turned away. His words were hurried, breathless, spoken to the empty rear section of the front hall.
“Carol, please! I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but this is no good.”
More pain, but she forced out the words.
“It’s love! It’s sex! What’s more natural than that?”
“Yes, but I made vows, Carol. And one of them was chastity. You can argue all you want about the wisdom and utility of that kind of vow, and whether it’s productive or counterproductive—and believe me, I’ve heard all the arguments—but the fact remains that I made it freely and I intend to hold to it.”
The pain drove Carol to the floor. It felt as if something was slowly ripping apart inside her.
“But you of all people, Carol. I can’t understand you,” he said, his voice slowly returning to normal. “Even if you think my vows are stupid, you know what they mean to me. Why would you try to get me to break them? Especially now with Jim barely cold in his—”
He turned and must have seen the agony in her face.
“My God! What’s wrong?”
Something felt hot and wet on her thighs. Carol looked down and saw blood running down her thighs. The room swam around her. And the pain was so much worse.
“Help me, Bill! I think I’m going to die!”
TWENTY
Manhattan
1
“Do you really find comfort in all these little statues and knickknacks?”
Grace regarded Mr. Veilleur with a mixture of fondness and wariness as he finished gluing the head of the archangel Gabriel back onto its body. Brother Robert was at the far end of the living room, sorting the pieces of the large Madonna.
If you had my past, she thought, you’d take comfort wherever you found it.
“Comfort,” she said. “Yes, that’s a good word. They do bring me comfort. Just as the two of you do today.”
Brother Robert wasn’t listening, but Mr. Veilleur looked up at her with his intense blue eyes. Grace felt an immense attraction for the man. Nothing sordid. Nothing like that. He was perhaps ten years older than she, and talked freely of his wife, to whom he seemed very devoted. She felt nothing sexual in the warmth he inspired in her. It was just that his presence gave her such a safe, secure feeling and, Heaven knew, after last night’s terror, security had become a precious commodity.
“It must have been a terrible experience for you,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d want to be alone.”
“I didn’t. But how did you know?”
“I called—or tried to—to see how you were faring after Sunday. The phone was out of order. I came by and learned about the break-in from the super.”
She hadn’t been able to stay here last night. The young patrolman had been kind enough to drive her over to Martin’s home. He and Brother Robert had been shocked by her story. They gave her the use of one of the spare bedrooms. But even with the coming of this bright sunny day she’d been unable to bring herself to return to the apartment.
Then Mr. Veilleur had shown up at the brownstone this afternoon. He’d offered to escort her back. Brother Robert had come along. The apartment super had replaced the lock on the door and lent her a spare phone until the phone company could replace the one that had been smashed last night.
“Why are you helping me fix my things when you think they’re just a silly woman’s toys?”
“I doubt that you know very much at all of what I think,” he said. She sensed no hostility in the remark. The tone was casual, as if stating a simple fact.
“I’m quite sure that you do not believe as we believe,” Grace said, gently challenging him. She wanted to draw him out. He intrigued her so.
“I thought I had made that quite clear.”
“Then why do you keep coming back to us—I mean, the Chosen? And why are you here today? I’m enormously grateful for your presence, but surely you have something better to do on a Friday afternoon than help me repair my apartment.”
“At the moment, I do not,” he said with a quick smile. “And as to why I keep coming back to the self-proclaimed Chosen, I’m not all that sure myself. But this group of yours—”
“It’s not mine,” she was quick to say, for she did not in any way wish to be held responsible for what happened to poor Jim. She glanced at the preoccupied monk. “It’s Brother Robert’s group.”
“I meant yours by association. But no matter. This tiny group of Catholics seems to comprise the sum total of everyone who is aware of the return…”
His voice trailed off.
“Of the Antichrist? Satan?”
The term seemed to annoy him. “Yes, yes, if you must. But I am drawn to the group. I sense that the one who will finally stand against the threat will be drawn from these Chosen.” He looked at her intently. “Perhaps it will be you.”
The idea jolted Grace. She almost dropped the broken base of the Infant of Prague she’d been holding.
