Decatur (8 page)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Quick One

Father Weston looked at his Timex; he was going for a quick pop with the professor following sick rounds at St. Mary’s. They agreed to meet at five-ish in the bar at the new Holiday Inn just a few blocks from the hospital. Max said he wanted to fill Father W in on the progress he was making with Marilyn. But for the priest a drink after looking at bedpans and holding hands with papery-skinned people hoping for some kind of divine intervention was frankly a professional necessity. Frank Weston got into the priest business for saying the Mass, giving a good sermon, and the marrying and baptizing parts. But when he held the hands of the sick he could feel too deeply on their palms the lines from washing dishes for decades or twisting lugs into place or pushing pencils and now they looked up to him like all the rosaries must count for something now that they were really in a corner. It was just too depressing.

Father Troy was still sitting by old Mrs. Hanley’s side while she said her beads as Father W punched the elevator button to the lobby. The anticipation of a dry martini with olives evaporated as the irritating thought came to him that he shouldn’t be going to the new Holiday Inn cocktail lounge but dealing with the Gar situation back at the parish. Still a quick one wouldn’t hurt. The elevator dinged and a couple of doctors were getting off and they nodded in their friendly way but didn’t speak, far too busy to get into chit-chat with clergy. Father Troy stuck his head out of Mrs. Hanley’s semi-private room and gestured for him to wait and Father Weston had to let the elevator go on without him. What now, he thought, as Father Troy murmured something to Mrs. Hanley and stepped out into the hall.

“I’m going to be a little longer. I’ll take the bus,” Father Troy said.

“I’d wait but I promised to meet a professor who does religious study work at five,” said Father Weston, feeling the tiniest bit guilty.

“That’s interesting. Take your time. We can keep a plate warm for you if you want,” offered Father Troy, like last night with Gar just hadn’t happened. “Where you going to meet?” asked Father Troy in his casual ‘I’m a groovy priest’ voice.

“You know these intellectual types. He wants to meet in a cocktail lounge. I guess there’s a new Holiday Inn near here,” Father Weston fudged.

“Sure. Campus types. Enjoy.” Father Troy smiled and turned back to Mrs. Hanley’s room as Father Weston decided a double martini was probably in order.

The new cocktail lounge at the Holiday Inn had a small parquet dance floor and a disco ball but thankfully they weren’t used except on weekends. There was silver and black wallpaper with sketches of long flowing haired girls in profile and big flowers in the pattern, black and chrome chairs and stools and a mirror-backed bar outlined in the kind of lights you might see backstage in a dressing room and the place had a name, “The In Spot.” It was. Young modish looking people of both sexes were drinking cocktails wearing platform shoes, long hair, flared jeans and big extravagant shirts. This was as glamorous as it got on the prairie and from the looks of it everyone was thrilled just to be there. Max Rosenbaum stood out with his white oxford shirt and khakis, looking like an intelligent wary animal in a sea of bobbing sexed-up seals, seated at a round high table on a stool as everyone grooved on their personal mojo around him. Father Weston cut the swath that only a priest could through such a place with a lot of “Hey, Father” coming at him as he made his way to Max’s table.

The martini just wasn’t doing it, thought Father Weston as he fished the pimento stuffed olive out of the glass and snacked on it. “You really think Marilyn regressed into a past life?”

“Well, something happened, along with a pointer flying out of its holder and holding steady over the map of U.S. and Central Illinois. She says she’s being pursued by someone, a demon she called him. Either she is a terrific liar or this is the real thing. It sure feels like it,” said Max, sipping his beer.

“Reincarnation and the Church are not compatible, as you know, so I’m having a hard time with this. And I never heard of the Hebrews believing in reincarnation either. I think I’ll get another one though.” Father Weston waved for the cocktail waitress like he was flagging down a car.

“The Church understands mystery, though. I think all of us are the blind men with elephant when it comes to the Divine, Father W. There’s always been the mystic tradition in the Jewish faith as in every other faith, for a reason. Ever heard of Carlos Castaneda? There are shamans in the Mexican desert that can fly out of their bodies. Jane Roberts and the Seth prophecies? A contemporary Cassandra. Since the ancient Greeks there have been people who have predicted astonishing revelations that have come true. You have your own mystic tradition with people like Hildegard Von Bingen and more recently Meister Eckert.” Max was coming out swinging just like he did when he would give his
Ancient Religions and Contemporary Mysteries
lecture course. Jocks, Jesus freaks, buttoned-down preppies, disapproving deans, atheist colleagues: he had done battle with them all.

“Hildegard who?” asked Father Weston.

“Von Bingen, composer, mystic, wrote the first morality play---you should read more of your own history, Father,” chided Max with a smile.

“This has to do with reincarnation how?” Father Weston made a mental note to look into Von Bingen. He was Jesuit trained and it was refreshing to have someone of Max’s intellect to spar with.

“I’m asking you to not close your mind just because it’s not official Church doctrine. I need your help here.” Max was on familiar ground now; persuading people to expand their belief systems was central to everything he taught.

“Okay, then let’s just say for a moment that I’m going to suspend my pastoral judgment. A demon - like in a devil or what?” Father Weston hoped the waitress would hurry up with his drink. “Because the Monsignor half told me a story once about Marilyn as a girl. Her mother’s employer had made some accusations of Marilyn stealing from him, she was in fourth grade. Ridiculous. But her mother must have become worried about, well, you know, Marilyn and the objects that move on their own and the rest of it. Anyway, he said the prayer.”

“The prayer?”

“The exorcism prayer. But something went wrong because the Monsignor feels like he let Marilyn down -- or himself. I don’t think he seriously thought she was ever possessed but it’s not really clear.”

“If I’m going to help her I’ve got to find out what the burden is Marilyn’s carrying psychically from past lives, or whatever you want to believe. Frankly, if she got into the wrong hands, the way modern psychiatry works, it could be a scary, scary thing. A botched exorcism would be nothing.” Max brushed his hair back with a long sensitive hand and bit his lip at thoughts of how some of his more Neanderthal colleagues might elect to treat Marilyn. Shock treatment, lobotomy, it would all be on the list. “Now, do you know if she’s had any connection to any Thai people, because the life she went back to was a monk in Siam. It’s standard to try to make sure people aren’t just imagining things under suggestion.”

“A monk? Wow.” Father W nodded thanks to the waitress who set another martini down on the high table, very carefully trying not to bend over too much so her boobs wouldn’t spill out, being there was a priest sitting there and all. Too bad, thought Father W.
A little boob wouldn’t send anyone to hell
. “Not any people from Thailand in Decatur that I know of.”

“A Vietnam Vet, for instance, who maybe had gone to Bangkok,” Max persisted. He wanted to do his diligence on this point; if he was going to fashion a book out of this work it was important he check this out. Max couldn’t help himself as he pulled the precious letter out of his back pocket to show the priest. It was thick creamy vellum with the words
Institute of Consciousness Studies and Ancient Religions
in blue ink as a masthead; underneath that in black type it read, “Request for Proposal- Research Fellowship” The new research center now had an official name and start-up funding, Dr. Wendell was nothing short of amazing. He spread it out on the table. “I may get my walking papers, see. I’ve been asked to apply for a six-week fellowship this summer and maybe something more permanent if all the funding comes through. Along with full freight to a retreat designed to get ICSAR, that’s the acronym, off the ground in the south of France.” Max hadn’t felt this hopeful in a long time.

“Nice, Professor, you academics living the high life while we priests toil in the fields.” Father W gave a twisted little smile. He was glad that Max might find a way to pull his career back together but why did he have to do it in the south of France? “I hope you’re putting Marilyn first in this equation.” The scold just slipped out, greased by the gin. He regretted it instantly.

“Of course, she’s first,” Max said evenly as the old anxiety and depression began to seep back in through the cracks of his newfound hope as the face of his former grad student flashed in his memory for just a split second.

“Of course. Make sure you send a postcard,” said Father Weston.
That’s why they called it loud mouth soup.

“So, no Vets?” persisted Max, trying to get back on track, wishing he hadn’t bragged about the new institute,
when would he ever get it right?
And putting the request for proposal letter back in his jacket pocket where it belonged. “I’m pretty sure what Marilyn’s experiencing is authentic but for her sake as well as mine I need to ask.”

“Uurgh,” the priest mumbled.

“What?” Max said.

“Not her, I don’t know that she knows any vets. It’s another vet. He’s a parish guest. It’s a mess.” Father Weston pinched his nose, he should get going. Father Troy and Gar home alone was not a good mix.

“What’s wrong, Weston?” Max asked.

“If you just knew.” Father Weston felt a knot of dread in his stomach.

“You know I can keep a confidence. Does this have anything to do with the two dead carnies that are all over the news?” Max could feel the priest’s anxiety ratchet up. “I only ask because of the school carnival?”

Father Weston clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth together. Just as sure as Jesus raised the dead, other people in town were putting two and two together as well.
Dead two-bit carnies? Where was the last carnival in the area? St. Patrick’s last Saturday, the night they died!
He was struggling internally with himself, part of him wanting to confess to the professor what he obviously had already figured out and ask him what he thought about Gar, the homeless vet, making the potential scandal worse for the church. But the other part of him wanted to shy away from the whole topic because of Father Troy, Father Troy with his sandals and his guitar and his crush on Gar. Father W had been to seminary school and he witnessed things that would make the Marquis De Sade blush so Father Troy’s crush seemed innocent enough. As did Gar, if you thought about it from Father Troy’s point of view.

“I should really drink and run. Please be careful, Marilyn’s one of God’s sensitive ones.” Father Weston made his decision ingrained from the culture he came from to protect his fellow priest from possible embarrassment and tossed back the drink as the bartender with the mutton chops came up to their table. “We’re good,” Father W said.

“It’s the phone. You’re wanted on the phone, Father. I mean you’re the only priest in here. It’s gotta be you.” The bartender wasn’t taking no for an answer. A call for a priest on a bar phone was serious business.

Max and Father W exchanged quick looks, this didn’t sound good to either one of them. Father W got up and went to the wall phone hanging behind the bar. Max watched him sag against the wild wallpaper and pull his stiff roman collar off as if it had suddenly become too much. When he came back over to the table Father Weston’s dark eyes were strained. “That was Father Troy. The Monsignor suffered a stroke. He’s at St. Mary’s now.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
A Chance Meeting

Marilyn made her way home on foot enjoying the spring evening air, it was full of the smell of lilacs and with so many bushes in bloom it masked the processed soybean smell in the air, so that Decatur smelled sweet for a few precious weeks. During the winter months Marilyn would take the bus, or sometimes Scott would give her a lift with her sitting in the back of the Cadillac he inherited from his father and Scott’s wife, Doris, sitting primly in front with her mink-collared tweed coat on. But once the light came back into the world Marilyn would walk home at night, relishing the sounds and smells of the day dropping off her as she passed all her familiar landmarks: the old public school, Gasman, where she would routinely bang on the chain link fence in a gesture of defiance from the horrors that she had experienced there as a girl; the two identical big cut-up mansions once owned by twin brothers that made her wonder how it would be to live with someone so close like that, and then the little dark red house called the Front Porch that sold old fashioned penny candy and ice-cream that Marilyn had never quite had the nerve to try. It seemed so perfect, like from a childhood she had never experienced, but she didn’t want to take the chance that it might not live up, so she never went in, just pretended that she did, ordering butter pecan ice-cream in her head evening after evening when she would walk past.

She walked easily, her shapely legs moving with animal-like confidence in her ballet slippers, the rayon of her uniform skirt clinging to her thighs. Behind her she heard someone bouncing a tennis ball as they came down the street. The twilight softened the yards, making weedy lots thick with fat fistfuls of dandelions look almost romantic. The soft thud of the tennis ball kept on coming behind her and she turned around to see a guy in a t-shirt and khakis on a bicycle, bouncing the ball and catching it as he cycled slowly down the street behind her. She felt a thrill of fear and then quashed it down, with a shake of impatience at her own nerves. The bicyclist looked innocent, almost like a boy bouncing the ball and catching it easily in one big hand while the other held onto the handle bars. From habit though she picked up her pace ever so slightly and didn’t turn around again. When she got to her front porch, he cycled on past her with a shy wave of his hand even as the other hand kept on bouncing the tennis ball.

Rowley jumped up and whelped a little bit just so that she would know how desperately she had been missed all day. Looking out the windows at cars that couldn’t be chased down the street was a lonely occupation and Rowley couldn’t wait to get outside, pee, and take in the full aroma of the spring night. Marilyn threw her handbag on the sofa, sticking her apartment keys in her waitress uniform pocket, and grabbed the leash. They thundered down the stairs recklessly, not caring that the old grouch Harry Thompson banged on his door for them to be quiet. Harry was a pill.

They hustled past dilapidated houses on North Street and made a beeline for Charlesworth Place, their private park, as the Victorian street lights marking the entrance came on. Marilyn reached down and kissed the top of Rowley’s head as she unhooked the leash from his collar.
Aaah, that was better
. Rowley took off and headed straight for the big bronze statue of Stephen Decatur, a great place to mark your territory and pick up the local gossip from the rest of the dogs. Marilyn ran after him, calling “Rowley” more just to hear the sound of his name than call him back. The statue was on a little stone plaza surrounded by a mass of lilac bushes so in the last light of the day the perfume from purple and white blooms was intoxicating. She leaned against Stephen Decatur’s pedestal as Rowley rooted around, sniffing and peeing. A tennis ball came flying out of nowhere in a high arc and bounced as Rowley leapt up to catch it with a grin. Marilyn felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise as the man who had been behind her on her walk home came through the lilac bushes, walking his bicycle.

Rowley’s mouth was crammed with tennis ball, his teeth in a satisfying grip, when he saw a stranger coming towards them. He dropped the ball and moved closer to his mistress to see what she thought of the stranger’s sudden presence. The man spoke then, “Hey a dog needs a tennis ball, huh, don’t you good boy, need a tennis ball” and he wasn’t looking at Marilyn at all, just at Rowley with a big open smile on his face, as if he had been waiting all day to play ball with a dog cooped up in an apartment building. The man used the bike’s kickstand and picked up the ball with an easy stoop and threw it in a soft perfect pitch so that it bounced and Rowley could leap high and catch it in his mouth. The man laughed then and said, “That’s a good dog. I love a good dog.” He turned to Marilyn, “Sorry to bother you. I don’t know anyone around here and I just couldn’t resist throwing the ball to your dog. He’s a beauty, what’s his name?”

Marilyn bit her full lower lip. “Rowley, and we should get going. We’re expected back.” The man had soft brown hair that fell a little over a face that was expressive with a strong nose and wide forehead, and he was big. Marilyn had a soft spot for large muscular men and in spite of herself she sucked her stomach in and shook her hair out a little.

Rowley came back up and dropped the ball on the plaza in front of the bronze statue of Stephen Decatur. The man leaned down and picked it up, throwing it again in the same lovely way that allowed Rowley to feel like he was flying as he leapt up to catch it. Then the man walked right up to a purple lilac bush and buried his face in the blooms like he would inhale their very essence in a way that caught Marilyn by surprise and gave her another shiver of excitement and fear. “The world can be a beautiful place,” he said. “My name’s Gar. I’m new here, staying with some folks that need my help. Do you come here a lot?”

“I do,” Marilyn said as she noticed how the sky was turning that blue right before it went black and the stars came out, “I’m Marilyn.”
Why was she talking to this stranger?
a little voice niggled in her brain.
Get Rowley and go
, it said. But his eyes looked so familiar and there was something deeply secretly exciting about just standing on the grounds next to him that made her want to prolong the moment against her better judgment.

“I can sure see why. I’ll see you around then, Marilyn. There’s an ice-cream place close to here. Do you like ice-cream? Maybe we could go sometime,” Gar said in a low relaxed tone keeping his inner excitement in tight check. His heart was pounding. The source, at long last the source, it was dizzying with the lilacs and oncoming darkness just adding to the constant hunger he carried around with him every waking second of every day. He had never had a map to find the source, only his instincts and desire and now before his long invincible life crumbled under him he had found her once more and he wasn’t going to let go. To retain his vitality he had taken life after life and seen those essences disappear into his maw as he kept his grip on his power and his dark center opened ever wider. Some days it seemed as wide as the world itself. He had become aware that with every life he took he was climbing deeper into the rings of the power of the infinite. But at last he would swoop over the source and she would have no choice but to surrender what he had so long sought. Renewed and strengthened he would escape the fate of those that failed to keep climbing the rings.
Oh, to stay here and let the night come on fully so that in the darkness he could take everything from her, all her loveliness, every last bit of light in her.
But the thought burned in his brain,
what then, what would be left, what would become of her? He couldn’t just take her the way he had taken so many
. He froze for a moment overwhelmed with conflicting desires.
It was so good just to see her. Why rush?

Marilyn gasped for a moment as the potent perfume of the flowering bushes seemed to swirl like a cloud around her and she felt a sharp pang of desire mixed with impending loss in her heart as she silently prayed to the lilacs she had known since childhood to sustain her.
This is why she was afraid she get close to people, she felt too much.

The lilacs in their full burst beauty felt some creeping death at the tips of their petals. The gnarled branches that held the kept promise of spring moved instinctively against the dark, creating an opening in their walls of thick leaves, purple and white blooms and wood. In that opening they called the moon, the starlight, called the just awakened lightening bugs and everything that glowed in the dark in the world including the lowliest worms, to intervene against a danger directed at the woman that had grasped their tender branches with a chubby baby fist not so long ago.

Marilyn felt a whoosh and somehow stumbled back through the lilacs, just out of reach of the soft-spoken stranger. Her own radar flared and she called for Rowley.

“I’ve gotta go now,” she said, not sure how she had landed three or four feet back from where she had just been, feeling wary and startled as the lilac branches waved and their gnarled limbs crossed back against themselves, satisfied, as their roots dug deeper into the ground.

“Sure,” Gar said as he felt the moment break apart as he made himself go back around to Father Troy’s bike, kicked the stand up and climbed on
.
No scaring her, not now that he had found her. He learned his lessons. He saw himself in his mind’s eye thudding down an earthen tunnel, the secret passageway hidden under the temple altar, torch in hand calling the novice monk,
Khandar
, hearing the name echo back to him in the empty passageway. Feeling the rough almost crying sense in his chest,
where was the source? He had frightened it away.
Then as had been predicted for months the Burmese invaded the golden city, and all was lost in the smoke and confusion. So Gar bit his lip but spoke gently, determined not to tip his hand. He wanted it to be perfect this time. “Rowley can keep the ball,” was all he said.

Gar peddled away effortlessly with a casual wave of his hand. Marilyn felt a mix of relief and regret and wondered how he knew she had wanted for years to try the ice-cream parlor that she walked by after work. Rowley chewed on the ball and wondered if the man could be trusted with Marilyn.