F Paul Wilson - Novel 10 (15 page)

 
          
*
* *

 
          
Later,
under the climbing sun, they walked south along the deserted beach, barefooting
through the wet sand at the edge of the surf. Joe had his sneakers slung over
his shoulder, Zev carried a black shoe in each hand, and acted like a little
kid, laughing at the chill of the water as it sloshed over his ankles.

 
          
"I
can't believe you've never been to the beach," Joe said. "Not even as
a kid?"

 
          
"Never."

 
          
Joe
shook his head in dismay and gestured at the acres of sand. "This is
Manasquan
Beach
. You should have seen this place on a
summer weekend. Wall-to-wall people. Probably never see that again. Probably be
as empty as this even on the Fourth of July."

 
          
"Your
Independence Day. We never made much of secular holidays. Too many religious
ones to observe. What would people do here besides swim?"

 
          
"Lie
in the sun and work on their skin cancers."

 
          
"Really?
I imagine that sunbathing is maybe not the fad it used to be."

 
          
Joe
laughed. "Ah, Zev. Still the master of the understatement. I'll say one
thing, though: The beach is cleaner than I've ever seen it. No beer cans or
hypodermics."

 
          
Zev
pointed ahead. "But what's that?"

 
          
As
they approached the spot, Joe saw a pair of naked bodies stretched out on their
backs on the sand, one male, one female, both young and short-haired. Their
skin was bronzed and glistened in the sun. The man lifted his head and stared
at them. A blue crucifix was tattooed in the center of his forehead. He rolled
over, reached into the backpack beside him, and withdrew a huge, gleaming, nickel-plated
revolver.

 
          
"Just
keep walking," he said.

 
          
"Will
do," Joe said. "Just out for a stroll."

 
          
As
they passed the couple, Joe noticed a similar tattoo on the girl's forehead.

 
          
"A
very popular tattoo," he said.

 
          
"Clever
idea. That's one cross you can't drop or lose. Probably won't help you in the
dark, but if there's a light on it might give you an edge."

 
          
He
noticed the rest of the girl too. Small firm breasts jutting straight up
despite the fact that she was on her back, dark fuzz on her pubes. He felt a
stir within and looked away.

 
          
"How
do you do that?" Zev said.

 
          
"What?"

 
          
"Look
away from such a beautiful sight."

 
          
Are
you watching me that closely? Joe wondered.

 
          
"Practice,
practice, practice."

 
          
"How
do you turn it off? Or does it just die?"

 
          
"Believe
me, the sexual impulse doesn't die. I've always had one. I remember having
crushes as a kid. I remember one girl, Eleanor Jepson, that I was infatuated
with. I'd think about her night and day, I'd write poems to her - which I'd
immediately tear up for fear someone would find them. I'd ride my bike past her
house at least ten times a day hoping to catch a glimpse of her; I learned her
schedule at school and I'd run through the halls so I could just happen to be
passing her locker when she'd stop there between classes.

 
          
"But
as a priest I'd do just the opposite. As soon as I felt an attraction starting
I'd turn away from it. You learn to do that—to not think about something. It's
different from saying, 'Don't think about a pink unicorn.' Instead you turn
your mind away, you learn to not think about what you don't want to think
about. Trust me, it can be done. And instead of looking for 'chance' meetings,
you avoid contact except in the most public of situations. No tete-a-tetes or
in-depth, one-on-one meetings, no lingering glances, no touches on the arm or
shoulder. The key is to recognize the spark and douse it before it can
ignite."

 
          
"Such
a way to live. Pardon me, but it's unnatural."

 
          
"Tell
me about it."

 
          
Celibacy
hadn't been easy. How he'd ached for one particular woman, but he'd put his
calling above that longing. Besides, she'd had her own vows. And nestled within
him had been the hope that the new Pope might lift the ban on marriage for
priests. But no one had heard from the Pope since last year.

 
          
Zev
laughed. "The woman two nights ago, the one dressed like a prostitute who
saved this sorry hide, for an instant there I thought, Father Joe and a
prostitute ... ?"

 
          
"What
did she look like?"

 
          
"Short
dark hair, blue eyes, might have been prettier if she hadn't looked so haggard.
I sensed she knew you. In fact I'm sure she did. The only way she knew me was
because she'd seen me with you." He touched his chin. "Oh, yes. And
she had a little scar right here. A tiny crescent."

 
          
Joe
stopped walking. No. It couldn't be. "You could almost be describing
..." He shook his head. "No. Not dressed like that."

 
          
"Who
were you thinking of?"

 
          
"One
of the nuns. Sister Carole. She was.. . special."

 
          
Oh,
was she ever. His heart lightened at just the thought of her.

 
          
"What?
Someone was special to you and I know nothing? I thought we discussed
everything."

 
          
Almost
everything, Joe thought. But not this. Not Carole.

 
          
"She
wasn't special just to me, she was special to everyone who knew her, or met
however briefly. You would have taken to her, I know it. She was one of those
people who lights up a room simply by entering it."

 
          
"Then
your Sister Carole this was certainly not. Darken a room, that's what this one
would do. This woman was very grim, frightening in a way; the only time she
brightened was when she mentioned your name."

 
          
"No.
My Carole—" He caught himself. "St. Anthony's Sister Carole, would
have been out of town when the undead struck—back with her family in
Pennsylvania
."

 
          
He'd
thought about her countless times since Good Friday.

 
          
She's
safe ... I pray she's safe. She's too delicate, too sensitive for that kind of
horror. She never would have survived.

 
          
"Since
the mystery woman wasn't your paramour or your Sister Carole," Zev said,
"I assume we can get back to priestly celibacy. I read once where priests
had been allowed to marry until sometime during the Middle Ages. Why was that
changed?"

 
          
"For
financial reasons. Priests were accumulating wealthy estates and leaving them
to their families instead of the Church. So one of the Popes instituted the
no-marriage rule. It came around and bit the Church on its ass."

 
          
"Oy,
did it ever."

 
          
"Yeah.
The priesthood became attractive to too many who were ambiguous about their
sexuality or to those who saw the Church as a sanctuary from their darker
impulses; it wasn't. The impulses only became stronger. Seems to me that early
entrance to a seminary interferes with normal maturation, and because of that
you wind up with a percentage of priests with arrested sexual
development."

 
          
Joe
thanked God that he'd yielded to his vocation later in life. The love of God
had always been strong in him, but he hadn't seen himself as a priest until
after his graduation from
Brooklyn
College
. The idea took hold and wouldn't let go.
He'd entered the seminary at age twenty-three, but not as a virgin.

 
          
"The
arrested types," he said, "they're the ones who became pedophiles,
and their presence tainted the rest of us. We all got smeared with the same
brush. Look at me. I'm a prime example."

 
          
"No
one who knows you," Zev said, "believed a word of that."

 
          
"Didn't
matter. As soon as something like that gets out, you're ruined. Guilty or
innocent, who you are and whatever good you've done is canceled out." He
ground his teeth. "The only feeling I've ever experienced looking at a
child was the desire to see him or her grow into a God-loving adult."

 
          
Zev
put a hand on his arm. "I know, Joe. I know."

 
          
They
walked on in silence.

 
          
ZEV
. . .

 
          
Eventually
they turned west and made their way inland, finding Route 70 and following it
into
Ocean
County
via the
Bridle
Bridge
.

 
          
"I
remember nightmare traffic jams right here every summer," Joe said as they
trod the bridge's empty span. "Never thought I'd miss traffic jams."

 
          
They
cut over to Route 88 and followed it toward
Lakewood
. Along the way they found a few people out
and about in Bricktown, furtively scurrying between houses. They walked a
gauntlet of car dealerships, the stock sitting dirty and idle in the lots
beneath waving pennants, the broken showroom windows carrying signs promising
deals that would never be closed.

 
          
Zev
noticed how Joe's steps seemed to grow heavier with every mile. But he had to
show him something that would make his steps—and his heart— even heavier.

 
          
At
the corner of
New Hampshire Avenue
, he turned them south.

 
          
"But
it's shorter this way," Joe said, pointing down 88.

 
          
"I
know. But we'll end up in the same spot, and along the way there's something
you must see."

 
          
They
trod the undulating pavement until they came to a baseball field, the former
home of the Lakewood Blue Claws.

 
          
Joe
smiled. "This brings back memories. Remember the games we used to go
to?"

 
          
"I
do," Zev said. The Blue Claws, a class-A minor league team, maybe, but
those games had been fun. The stadium even served Kosher food. "But what I
want to show you here, baseball's got nothing to do with."

 
          
"I
don't think I like the sound of that." Joe pointed to the unusual number
of gulls and crows circling the field. "And I know I don't like the look
of that."

 
          
Zev
knew as they climbed the grassy slope to the fence that whatever uneasy
premonitions Joe was feeling, even the worst he could imagine would leave him
unprepared for the sight that awaited him on the other side.