Ash Wednesday (22 page)

In spite of this there were those who felt Craven's qualities were best summed up by his name, due to his refusal to lend that name to anything that could be interpreted as controversial. In 1980, when Tom Markley had asked him to sign a petition demanding the closing of Thorn Hill until a full safety investigation could be launched, Craven had declined, saying that he couldn't use his position in the church to accomplish secular ends.

"Bob," Markley had pressed, "as a private citizen do you believe in this?"

"Yes."

"Well, why don't you sign it as a private citizen?"

Craven had smiled. "Does that mean I can go out and get drunk as a private citizen?"

Markley had begun to argue that it was not the same thing, but he could see that in Robert Craven's eyes it was, and he had given up, still liking Craven, but thinking less of him than he had.

The criticism had filtered back to Craven, and though it bothered him, he would not change. During his years of pastoral apprenticeship he had seen a long line of ministers who, by taking a stand on a controversial point, had pulled their churches apart. Take sides on any secular topic, he thought—abortion, welfare, the military, even
sports
in some communities—and you ran the risk of polarization. For there is always someone sitting out there in one of those pews who is ready to disagree, sometimes violently. And then it starts. The backbiting, the innuendos, the innocent acts made to look guilty. Craven would never forget the look on Pastor Albemarle's face when his church's lay council decided that it would be in the best interests of the church to find another head pastor.

It had been in 1952, and Craven, fresh out of seminary, had considered himself fortunate to have received the assistant pastorate, particularly at such a fine new church as St. Peter's. The congregation was upwardly mobile, as befitted a west Philadelphia suburb in the fifties, and from St. Peter's it was only an hour and half drive to his family in Merridale. But one fatal Sunday Dick Albemarle, a handsome, thirtyish bachelor, had spoken out from the pulpit against Joe McCarthy's witch hunts, knowing full well that some powerful and influential members of the church were all for "Old Joe's
stickin
' it to the commies." What had followed was disgusting: the discovery by the church caretaker of a half-empty jar of Vaseline beneath the couch of the pastor's study, a brazenly stained pair of men's briefs in the wastebasket, several homosexual magazines under the religious newspapers on the desk top. There were even some rubber sex aids found when the members of the church lay council, with Craven looking on, forced open the locked drawers of Albemarle's desk. Though Craven did not definitely know that the items had been planted, he suspected so, and voiced those suspicions to a member of the council whom he felt was sympathetic toward Albemarle. "I wouldn't bring that up," the man had told him, not unkindly. "You're married, and that helps, but you've got no kids yet. Don't get tarred with the same brush, Bob. You'd never get it off." Craven, young and scared, remained silent, not speaking as the council held their off-the-record meeting, confronting Albemarle with their evidence, doing it quietly so as to cause "no public scandal" and "wreck any future career you may have in the ministry." Albemarle was so shocked, so white-faced, that Craven wondered if his suspicions were incorrect, if Albemarle were homosexual after all. He did not deny the charges, but only smiled grimly once his initial reaction had passed. He said merely, "I see I'm not wanted here. You'll have my resignation tomorrow." The council president replied with a gracious thank you, and stressed that what had happened in the meeting would always remain confidential.

And well it might, thought Craven. He had spoken to Albemarle fifteen years later at a church conference in Pittsburgh, where Albemarle now preached. He was married, with three children, and told Craven that the evidence had been planted. "They couldn't have made it public," Albemarle said. "They'd have been open to slander then." When Craven apologized for not voicing his doubts, Albemarle shrugged it off. "They just would've got you too. No, it was the best thing. I learned my lesson. Politics and the pulpit don't mix."

Craven learned the lesson too, and had been noncontroversial ever since. Quietly, safely, he had wended his way from church to church, watching the politically and socially aware lose their congregations and ultimately their positions, until finally he was back where he wanted to be. Back in Merridale. Back in the church of his parents and his grandparents, of Pastor
Dunson
, bald,
moustached
, overweight Pastor
Dunson
who'd said. "I see the calling in you, Bobby, I can see it." Pastor
Dunson
, whose death brought Bobby Craven into the pulpit of Merridale United Methodist, from whence no sly plot or bridled congregation would ever remove him.

Chief
Kaylor's
voice broke into his thoughts, startling him. "Dotty Sanders on the line, Pastor. She'd like to talk to you."

"Oh, yes," Craven said absentmindedly. "I'd wanted to visit her. Forgot in all the excitement."

On the phone Dotty Sanders sounded upset and scared, as though she needed a living, calming presence. "I can't get hold of my sister, Pastor. But I don't want to go outside. I see
them
out there."

"You relax, Dotty," Craven said gently. "I'll be right over."

He drove apologetically through the crowd in the square, then through the streets, empty of all but the blue forms, which he avoided when he could, and closed his eyes and drove through when he couldn't. He tried not to think about the phenomenon, tried to clear his mind of it enough to decide how he could best comfort Dotty Sanders.

When he arrived, she explained what had happened, opening the bedroom door and showing him the faint shade of Sheila
Sommers
. He was shocked by this new sight, the product of lust and rage. But he drew on his calm facade as easily as a surplice, and, in the warm hominess of the kitchen, across cups of coffee, he spoke to Dotty Sanders of the frailties of humanity, of how King David had been tempted, of how all save Jesus had fallen short of God's trust and glory. "But love will win over all," he told her. "The love of your friends, the love of your husband"—she winced—"because I have no doubt that Martin still does love you, in spite of what you may feel right now. And most of all God's love, Dotty. "

"God's love."

"Yes. Of course."

"If God loved me, how could He let this happen?"

"We can't understand His ways, but we must believe that there is a purpose."

"
Purpose?
" she snarled. "What
purpose?
What conceivable purpose could there be in Marty screwing that . . . that
whore
, and her getting her head smashed? You tell me
that!
Purpose!" she went on, flecks of spittle coating her lips. "What
purpose
that . . . that parents beat their babies, or . . . or plane wrecks kill a hundred people, good
and
bad? Why do people die of cancer? Like my mother? She was
sixty
, only sixty, and she suffered like she was in hell
before
she died. Why do killers walk free out of courtrooms? Why does the plant get to throw that
shit
into the air we breathe? Why do
we
take the chances? Why do we have a town—
right now
—full of
dead people?
Why don't you
tell me!
Tell me something that makes sense to
me
, not to God. But please,
please
, don't tell me there's a reason that we're all too stupid to see. Don't insult my intelligence anymore."

Her voice had slowly become less frenzied until now she sounded nearly in control, almost reasoned. It discomfited Craven. He had always been able to deal with emotion. But pure reason left him at a loss. His faith, that which he personally bore within him, would not let him spar with reason. "I'm sorry, Dotty. I don't know what else to say. Only that I believe that what I say is true."

She cried then, and apologized afterward. He left her house feeling like he had poured buckets of water into a barrel only to find there was a hole in the bottom. I believe it, I do, he thought violently, trying to avoid looking at the glowing figures that increased in number as he neared the town's center. They seemed to mock him, as if saying, "Explain us. Why are we here, Pastor? Why have we come back?"

"I don't know," he said aloud. "But God does," and he thought of the church, and turned in its direction. It was always there for him, that huge, somehow motherly building with its warm wood interior and bright stained-glass windows. When he felt troubled, worried, or simply tired, he would seek out the sanctuary and sit several pews from the front, waiting for his strength to return, listening for his faith.

There were not many ghosts near the church when he arrived. It was relatively new, built in the mid-fifties at what was then the edge of town. But now, several decades later, the town had moved outward, surrounding it with tract-home suburbs so that it rested amid young houses, young streets, young families.

Pastor Craven opened the unlocked door of his church and walked through the narthex and into the sanctuary, where Pastor Evan
Dunson
stood naked in the half light that penetrated the stained glass. The old man's shade was behind the right pulpit as Craven faced the altar, so that only the head and upper torso were visible. There was no expression on the pale blue face, no wry smile beneath the heavy moustache. The eyes no longer twinkled. It was a face as lifeless as an art student's statue.

Craven stood, incapable of movement. He had seen them before, by the hundreds. He had seen people he had known in life, people he had called by name, had shaken by the hand on Sundays, people at whose deathbeds he had knelt in prayer, seeing the tears roll down their faces, wondering if anything he did or said could ease their terror at leaping into the great unknown.

But he had not yet seen his grandparents, or his father, or the older sister he'd loved so. He had not seen anyone he had loved until now.

Pastor
Dunson
had been like a second father after his dad had died when Craven was fifteen. And now he stood at his pulpit, stripped of not only clothing but of humanity as well. He was like . . . like . . .

Like a locust shell, Craven thought. The form is here, but not the soul. The thought emboldened him, and he regained the power to move. He walked toward the altar with a deliberate tread, but at a moderate speed. Had it been faster, he might have frightened the image away, though he knew that was unlikely. Any slower, and he might have stopped out of his own fear. He paused only a few feet from the pulpit, looking up at the round robust body the heart attack, unheralded, had claimed during
Dunson's
sleep. Craven's eyes grew wet with tears, and he held out a hand to be taken and held in return.

It did not happen. "Pastor," Craven said, his throat tight, "can't you tell me? Tell me so I can tell them?" The face did not move. Craven's nose was stuffed up; he breathed through his mouth, shallow, insubstantial breaths. "Is it so much to ask? To know?" He could not see the face now. His tears blurred his vision.

"
Why!
" he cried out before he went to his knees, pressed there by doubt, by sorrow, by fear of his own mortality, which, in spite of all his declaimed faith, had never been as strong as at this moment.

"Doris . . . Jesus Christ, come in and listen to this."

Doris's voice, weakened by three rooms' distance: "I'm not done with the dishes."

"Screw the dishes. Hurry up."

Doris appears wearing rubber gloves and a look of irritation. "What is it?"

"
Shh
. Listen."

A newscaster, gray-haired and earnest, is speaking: ". . . in this small Pennsylvania community. Unheralded, as yet unexplained, it is mystifying scientists and parapsychologists as well. Needless to say, it is also terrifying the residents of the town, and a state of near-panic exists.
CBS Evening News
will have a full report with filmed coverage." A film of a dog turning away from a bowl of food replaces the newscaster's head.

"What was that?" Doris asks.

"This town in Pennsylvania. Merry-something.
Dead
people are starting to appear."

"What, like a mass murder?"