Decatur (16 page)

“ Max, I don’t know that I want to know,” Marilyn said in frightened voice, feeling a throb in her temple. Father W put his hand over hers on the table for just a second.

“I’ve seen my own share of ancient texts too you know. They’re not exactly like reading the telephone book, bound to be interpretations,” said Father Weston with more assurance than he felt.

“In some of the tribes of the Amazon there are pictographs that show a hunter taking souls from the living. The Egyptians had a cult that was so secret that it was certain death to speak of their practices, but we believe it also centered on the soul hunter.” Gretch Wendell took a deep drag on her cigarette.

Max jumped in, “Ask yourself why so many religions’ burial rituals focus on protecting the dead from evil spirits and making sure they cross over with their souls intact. The practice of putting a coin in the mouth of the deceased was a way of stopping the soul from being sucked out.”

“I’m advising you to keep an open mind, at least,” Gretch said firmly to the priest and then turned all of her attention to Marilyn. “Tell me about the pursuer.”

“The so-called soul-hunting vampire,” Father W got up and began pacing. The seated Buddha statue on the stereo was serene at least.

“Marilyn?” Max prompted.

Marilyn felt queasy. She wanted to leave and go back to her apartment and Rowley. She wanted to think about the day, with the petals snowing on the paths, and the lake with Gar. She shook her head and took a sip of her water. “I’m not sure where to begin,” she said softly, trying to keep the questions at bay.

“Marilyn, if there is a vampire chasing you through lifetimes, you are in terrible danger until and unless you can figure out why it so persistently seeks you out,” Gretch said in a determined way. “That’s what we need to focus on.”

Max read from his notebook, “Notes from a novice monk in Siam sometime before the Burmese overran the ancient city of Attyahuya: ‘He came to us as an elephant trainer. It was our tradition during the water festival to take in those who wanted to be with us and the elephants and he said he could train them for battle. He was a fearless fighter…’ but then the monk begins to be afraid when a fellow novice is killed by an elephant at the monastery but that the stranger really was responsible for his death. The monk said he began to fear for more than his life and he had escaped using an underground passageway. And then this, from Sister Ellen in Hancock Shaker Village: ‘The winter was hard, we took in those who needed our help… Young and strong, he could do things that the older Shaker men could not.’ But after two mysterious deaths it seems an Elder warned her that this stranger was dangerous and she was being taken in by him. The Elder then goes missing and the stranger claims he has found him trapped under the ice in the mill pond. The sister had a warning vision that he had come after her in another realm and by dressing as a man and having her Shaker sisters distract the stranger through a spirit sing she narrowly escaped again.”

“So you can see some patterns emerging here. What I think has Gretch and I both concerned is that your recent telekinesis and recurring dreams could be signaling something’s going on now, the hunter may have picked up the scent of the trail again. Weston, you’ve got to count yourself in now, we need you. ” He put the notebook down and silence seemed to fill up the room then.

“Hmm. Max, you know I want to help but…” Father W inhaled through his nose and exhaled slowly. This was more than he had bargained for. He wanted to say the whole thing seemed far-fetched, but in some ways it really didn’t, he thought, as the cosmology that Gretch Wendell laid out resembled things he already knew. If only it was in theory, if only it wasn’t Marilyn that was in the center of this.

Gretch Wendell got to her feet with a clumsy little struggle. “We don’t want to frighten you but information is your best defense at the moment, Marilyn. Should the time come, we will marshal others. Max, I will expect you to keep me informed. My watch says it’s eight, my yellow pumpkin of a coach waits for me. I need to check in with my hosts in UI. I’ll only be forty-five minutes away for the next week or so. If you need me, I’ll give Max the number of Steward House where they’re putting me up. Max, see me out. Marilyn, listen to your instincts.”

The professor then limped to the door and with a brisk nod was gone. Max lifted his eyebrows, as if to say, see? And followed. Unable to help themselves, Marilyn and Father W lifted the bamboo blind and peeked out of the picture window onto the entrance of the building. There a yellow cab waited. Max saw the professor to the cab and bent over. It seemed like she was giving him something. Feeling overexposed, they both let the blind down and turned back to the living room so that when Max entered they were both reseated.

“It’s been a long day. Marilyn, you want a lift?” asked Father Weston when the door had shut. Suddenly the plain parish house seemed like a haven from these dark and troubling visions.

“That’d be great, Father,” Marilyn said getting to her feet, “It’s a lot to take in.” Her head was buzzing with images of the map room and what they had talked about in it. It was interfering with thinking about Gar, his eyes, the husky way he spoke to her, how he seemed to really know who she was.

“Max, you know I respect your intellect but I’ve got to take this past life regression thing a step at a time, no matter what Gretch Wendell says or thinks she knows. I want you and Marilyn to be careful not to let your imaginations run away with you because the water you’re talking about is very deep and I don’t know that any of us can swim there.” Father Weston spoke with the easy scolding authority that his roman collar gave him even though inside he felt anything but secure.

“Will you at least think over what we talked about?” Max asked them both as they headed towards the door. Marilyn and Father W looked at each other then, and back at the tall thin professor with deep worry lines around his fine eyes.

“It’s a hell of a threesome,” Marilyn said, her voice low and husky with just the barest whisper of smile as Father W sighed and nodded.

“I’ll think if you’ll be careful,” is what he said and then they were gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
To Mop up or an Ancient Fish

Gar had to exercise all of his self-control to relinquish the source that late Sunday afternoon in front of her duplex. He had wanted so much more but held back, trying to create in Marilyn a hunger that would mirror his own. She kept affecting him in ways he couldn’t predict. He was skittish and cranky when he got back to the parish house, his nerve endings tingling and raw. Father Troy was moping in his bedroom, tuning his guitar with the door open, hoping that Gar would come in and sit on the long bench and they could just talk. The parish house was gloomy and heavy with Monsignor’s death so it was only natural, Father Troy guessed, that Gar busied himself in the kitchen instead of coming in to visit. For his part, Gar concentrated on putting together the supper that Mrs. Napoli had mostly prepared. He plopped the cooked meatballs in her good red sauce and pulled out the big pot to cook spaghetti in. It was important now to keep things stable until he could make his move, Gar coached himself, putting out the green foil-wrapped Kraft shaker with the powdery salty cheese they called Parmesan in Decatur, Illinois.

“We have to eat, Father Troy,” he finally said while washing lettuce.

Father Troy nodded and put down his guitar in what he hoped was a dignified way and went into the kitchen. “Father Weston has gone to have dinner with friends. So it’s just us,” Father Troy said, trying to keep a smile from coming to his lips at the thought.

“Father Weston has friends? Really, what kind of friends does a priest like him have?” Gar said in laughing way that lifted Father’s Troy spirits like a bright red balloon flying over the parish house and up, up even over the church steeple.

“A professor, I think of ancient religions,” said Father Troy, enjoying how Gar’s muscles rippled when he lugged the water-filled pot over to the stove

“Ooh, that sounds fun,” Gar said, not really caring but glad to have something to poke at to keep his mind off how much he wished he was back in front of Marilyn’s house smelling her hair, the perfume she wore and underneath that, her living essence.

“And a waitress he sees once in a while. Innocent, I’m sure.” Father Troy couldn’t help himself, knowing that mentioning the waitress, what was her name, was taboo to Father W. He didn’t know what had happened there but something had.

“A waitress,” repeated Gar, smiling widely at Father Troy, his eyes so intense they seemed to be shooting sparks into the kitchen. “What do you say? Wanna play hearts while we wait for the water to boil?”

They played cards and ate spaghetti like two overgrown boys at camp until Gar got up to wash the dishes and Father Troy tried to help. “Oh, no, Father, you’ve got the Monsignor’s mass to think about. I’ll do these,” Gar said in a determined way, “You’re the one Bishop Quincy will rely on, especially when he hears about how Father W spent the first Sunday evening away from the parish house with the poor Monsignor embalmed at the funeral home.”

“How will he hear about that, Gar?” asked Father Troy as a queasy feeling came over him. Maybe he shouldn’t have had the second helping of spaghetti just to prove he could keep up with Gar.

“Oh, you’ll think of a way,” Gar said with a grin.

Father Troy flashed on the Hans Holbein print of demons torturing priests. He shook his head - that was ridiculous, Gar didn’t have a mean bone in his body. It was his fault for even bringing up Father W and his friends
.
“Father W’s okay, Gar. You just need to give him a chance,” Father Troy said in an apologetic way as Gar parried the air with his fists like a boxer.

“He’ll get his chance all right, big padre,” Gar nodded and punched at the air, imagining how easily Father W would go down.

Grief had a way of intensifying things and Gar seemed like some exotic being in the kitchen suddenly, with the checkered towel rakishly draped over one shoulder as he bounced on the balls of his feet. A little quiet time in contemplation was what he needed, Father Troy realized.
Maybe a rosary in memory of Monsignor Lowell
. He felt guilty and uneasy over poking fun at Father W. It just wasn’t like him but before he could gently defend his fellow priest Gar turned and winked at him in a way that sent a shiver through his body and a hot shaming desire burned in his groin. Gar flicked his towel at Father Troy playfully and the priest backed away with a lopsided half grin.

“Better get back to your room, Father Troy, you don’t know what might go on if you stay,” Gar murmured and flicked the towel again as the priest reddened and stumbled back into his room. Shutting the door felt like a relief.

. The blue-black sky had a fingernail moon shedding a sliver of light and the smell of processed soybeans was blowing the right way so that the air wasn’t thick with chemical odors as Gar leaned against the rectory garage waiting for Father W to come home. He kept replaying his conversation with Father Troy in his head as he waited. A waitress, it had to be Marilyn, and who was the ancient religion professor in this curious little triangle
?
Well he would find out soon enough. It was time he and Father W got to know one another better
.
The Olds glided into the driveway a little after nine and Father W got out so he could lift the garage door. Gar bounded to his feet.

“Let me get that for you, Father,” Gar said, twisting the metal knob and heaving up the garage door with one swift pull.

Father W stopped short, the driver’s side door of the car still open. He hadn’t been expecting to see anyone, as the lights were off in the parish house. He was feeling melancholy after dropping Marilyn off and didn’t welcome Gar’s intrusion on his thoughts.
This guy just couldn’t stop helping around the house, it was getting to be annoying.
Unlike Father Troy who kept up a constant hosanna singing his praises, Father W felt there was something false about it, but he had to admit things were getting done. He gave what he hoped was a friendly wave, having no patience for any kind of fuss; getting back into his car; he eased it into the garage.

Gar was waiting for him when he came up to the parish house door and he held the door open like he was a night watchman. “Hey, Father. I waited up, like a good house guardian,” Gar said in a husky whisper. He could smell her on him; her perfume was all over him. Father Weston had just come from being with the source and the jealousy raged up, choking Gar’s throat, and he had to not kill him right this second, he thought. The younger priest hadn’t touched her soul like the old Monsignor because he knew he would have sensed that, but Gar couldn’t stand the thought that this arrogant Jesuit had any kind of relationship with the source. “How was dinner with your friends?” he asked like it was perfectly natural for him to be waiting up for the priest.

House guardian, why did he use that phrase? Something was off, why had he waited outside on the steps for him? Father Troy was his meal ticket, not him
. “Gar, everything all right?” asked Father W, feeling a heavy foreboding suddenly. Maybe he shouldn’t have left Father Troy here with him alone but he just needed a break from the parish house. A panicky bubble of anxiety came up into his chest,
what did they really know about Gar?
Feeling suddenly wary, Father Weston forced a neutral smile on his face, the one he used when the parish council bickered over money.

“Sure, everything’s fine. Father Troy’s safe in bed and I’m just kidding around with you.” Gar said like he could read Father Weston’s mind, “We’ve never gotten much of a chance to get to know each other. I got the feeling you weren’t interested but that’s crazy. I mean here I just asked about your friends for the very first time. Sometimes, I gotta be the one to reach out, right? So, did you have a good time with the waitress and the professor?”

“Been chatting it up with Father Troy, I see,” is what he said in a dry way, hoping to cut the conversation off. “It was a fine dinner. I think I’m going to turn in.”

Father Weston felt Gar’s hand squeezing his shoulder. He brushed it away.
A stranger comes into a community and is taken in by monks in Siam, Shakers in Massachusetts, and parish priests in Decatur? No.
But ever since he had come to the parish things had gone to hell, he thought, as he pictured the Monsignor’s hospital bed as he tried to make contact with the old priest right before he died. He saw the old man’s strained face whispering to him incomprehensibly, “Rag.” “Gar” was what he meant, Father W realized in a flash, the stroke had garbled his words
. What had the Monsignor wanted to tell him about Gar?

“Your dinner with Marilyn, you mean?” Gar asked, unable to stop himself - this bastard wasn’t going to worm out of talking to him.
Yes, Father, I know her too and far, far better than you ever will,
he thought.

Father W felt his heart seize up for a split second.
How did Gar know Marilyn?

“Yes, Marilyn,” Gar said, his voice deep.

Father W wanted to slump against the wall but he held himself erect. “She’s okay. I’m kinda tired, Gar. Why don’t we talk about this in the morning?”

“I asked you about the professor, Father? I need to know who Marilyn’s been seeing, see? We go back a long ways,” Gar said with a little half smile.

“I didn’t realize you lived around here before. Nobody really. I introduced them thinking Marilyn could use a date,” Father W lied as Max and Gretch Wendell’s theories spun in his brain.
Get hold of yourself.
He would ask Marilyn about Gar tomorrow. Why hadn’t Gar said he had come from this area before? Or was he just saying that now? Father W wondered. But how would have he known Marilyn unless he was, oh for God’s sake, Max had him seeing things.

Gar laughed then, it seemed so silly suddenly. A date, Father W was playing matchmaker. “Aaah, all you priests are fags and old maids,” he said, almost snorting in laughter. He released Father W’s shoulder then with a light tap. “No offense. Fadder, just a joke.”

“Sure,” Father W said and moved away, trying not to look scared. Holding his breath, Father W went past Gar and made himself walk slowly up the steps to his room where he locked the door. He sat in his easy chair for a long while, shook and not wanting to be. Finally he set his jaw - it wasn’t like he believed in all of Max’s and Gretch Wendell’s conjecture. Still. He had to do something
.
Feeling a heaviness in his chest but with solemn determination, Father Weston took down the prayer book from the shelf, got a shaker of holy water from his traveling sacrament case, took his silver crucifix from his cuff-link drawer and wrapped it in a black jacquard silk evening scarf
.
He was making an exorcism kit.
What had things come to?