Night Music (9 page)

“What if they tell us that there's something wrong with her?” she asked. “What if they take her away?”

“Why would they do that?” he replied. “And there's nothing wrong with her. She's just different, that's all. Special. Whatever she has is a gift from God.”

“I wish He'd given it to someone else, if it is. I wish He'd left her alone, and let her be a normal girl. Maybe they can get rid of it, the priests. Maybe they can, I don't know, say a prayer and send it back where it came from.”

“I think that's an exorcism you're talking about, and she doesn't need one of those.”

“Are you sure?”

Now it was his turn to hold her. He took one of her thin arms in each of his meaty hands, hard enough to hurt, if he squeezed.

“Don't you say that,” he told her. “Do you hear me?”

She nodded dumbly. The tears started again. Jesus, he thought, she's like a waterworks, and here were the two of them taking the Lord's name in vain, her aloud and him in his head, and the men from the Vatican on their way. Not like they'd know it, of course. It wasn't as though they had a radar that told them when someone had been breaking a commandment, although he wouldn't have put it past Father Delaney, who had an eye cold as a crocodile's when he chose, and knew every voice that spoke to him from the dark of the confessional, which was as good a reason as any to avoid it, except at Christmas when it was proper for a man to unburden himself of his sins, even if a wise one made sure to gloss over the worst of them with “for these and all my other sins I am heartily sorry,” leaving Father Delaney with a couple of admissions of lying and swearing and lustful thoughts in order to hold to the spirit of the thing and keep the priest happy.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Just after nine. Their daughter had gone to bed early, telling them that she wanted to get a good night's rest in preparation for the day to come. She didn't seem nervous at all, but she'd been quiet at dinner and hadn't eaten much. He'd asked her if she was all right, and she'd told him that she was, but he thought there was a sadness to her. Still, she was often that way, and had been ever since her gift had first started to manifest itself. Even though he would never have admitted it to either of them, he thought that his wife might well be right, and it would have been better if the Lord had bestowed this particular boon on another, for some gifts were no better than curses.

It had started to rain, a heavy downpour that belabored the roof with a sound like coins dropping in a tin cup. He was glad that he wasn't out in it. It wasn't weather fit for man or beast.

“Your tea will be going cold,” she said.

“Ah, I don't know why I made it.”

“I was thinking that. You don't usually have tea so late.”

“It was for want of something to do with my hands,” he said.

She put her arms around his waist and drew in the smell of him. Her head only came to his chest, for he had a good foot on her. Despite all that was happening, and all that was to come, she felt a warmth spreading through her. It might be nice, she thought, to lose herself beneath the weight of him, and forget their troubles for a while in the pounding of him.

“I can think of something you can do with them,” she said, and was pleased to see the look of shock on his face.

“Jesus, and the priests on our doorstep!”

“Don't be saying ‘Jesus',” she scolded.

“You said it not five minutes ago.”

“I did not!”

“You did so.” He smiled at her. “You're a terrible woman.”

And then they heard a knock at the door.

•  •  •

The three men on the step were already soaked from their walk up the path, their hair—or the hair of those who had it, for one of them was entirely bald and another wouldn't be lording it over him for much longer on that count—plastered to their heads, their black jackets stained darker over the shoulders and back. Two of them were wearing collars. The third, the one with the big red beard, wore an old sweater, and the top button of his black shirt was unbuttoned. He had the hair of a mountain man, and the face and body to match.
Weathered
. A hard man, in his way.

“Mr. Lacey?” said the bearded one, and Lacey nodded a yes. He was briefly struck mute, and all he could think was that he'd bought himself a new shirt for no good reason now.

He found his tongue.

“Yes,” he said. “Are you—?”

But he didn't finish. Of course they were. I mean, who else would they be?

“I'm Father Manus. These are my colleagues, Father Faraldo and Father Oscuro.”

The other two priests nodded greetings at the mention of their names. Faraldo was the oldest of the trio, Oscuro the youngest, with a bald spot spreading over the back of his head that you couldn't have covered with a saucer. Oscuro didn't smile, and he made Lacey uncomfortable. He had the eyes of a man who didn't trust in much, and believed in less. His path to the priesthood must have been difficult, Lacey thought.

“We weren't expecting you until the morning,” said Lacey. “That's when Father Delaney told us you'd be coming.”

His wife appeared beside him, wringing her hands, her apron hurriedly tossed aside before she came to the door. He could feel the waves of nervousness, and worse, rolling off her. There was a word for it, he knew. He'd read it somewhere.
Obsequiousness
, was that it? Yes, he believed so. He wanted to take her aside for a moment and tell her to calm herself, that these were men, only men.

“Perhaps we can explain ourselves inside?” said Father Manus. Water was dripping from the drain above, pattering onto his shoulder. Lacey thought that he'd have to get a ladder and take a look at it, once the rain had stopped and there was light to see.

His wife took charge now, pushing him gently aside with her hip, forcing him to open the door wider.

“Of course,” she said. “You're very welcome, no matter the time. Come in, please. Can I offer you a cup of tea, or something to eat? You must be exhausted after your long journey.”

They trooped inside, careful first to wipe their feet on the mat. Lacey peered into the darkness, but couldn't see their car. He supposed that it was out there somewhere. Had they driven themselves? He thought the diocese would have sent someone to collect them, given how important they were. Then again, they'd probably flown into Dublin and driven down from there, but that was a long old road, and it was easy to go astray if you didn't know the way. He thought that he had better ask, just in case someone was out there needing a cup of tea in his hand to warm himself, and maybe a sandwich or a biscuit, too.

“Did you drive yourselves, Fathers?” he asked.

“No, a driver picked us up at the airport,” said Father Manus.

“And he'd no trouble finding us?”

“Clearly not.”

His accent was hard to place. There was a bit of Irish in it—Cork, or south Kerry—but all the edges had been knocked from it, and it was more neutral than anything else.

“I'm glad,” said Lacey. “Does he need anything, your driver?”

“I shouldn't think so. I believe he's capable of looking after himself.”

Lacey took one more look into the night, still straining to pick out their car, then closed the door. His wife was trying to steer the priests into the good room, but Father Manus insisted that he was always more comfortable in a kitchen.

“We lived around the kitchen table when I was young,” he explained. “I never knew where to sit when we had visitors in the living room.”

Lacey slipped ahead of them to put away the ironing board, just in case they did decide to move to the living room at some point, and when he returned his wife already had a kettle boiling, and was putting plates down on the table, and cutting the fruitcake she'd baked earlier that day. The priests took off their jackets, and Lacey hung them in the airing cupboard to dry. They made small talk about their trip from Rome, Manus doing most of the talking, the other two remaining silent except when Faraldo thanked Lacey's wife for the tea and accepted sugar and milk. His accent was thick, and he smiled all the time. He tucked into his slice of cake with relish, slathering it with butter first.

Oscuro, by contrast, communicated mostly by gesture: shakes and nods, and small movements of his right hand. He picked at his cake in an effort at politeness, but Lacey could see that it wasn't to his taste. He was already establishing a picture of the three priests and how they might operate: Manus the glad-hander, the personable one, but clever with it; Faraldo the quiet, genial one, the repository of knowledge; and Oscuro the skeptic, cold and dispassionate, the closest in spirit to Doubting Thomas, his hand poised to explore the wound in his Savior's side, heedless of the pain that the action might cause.

“I should call Father Delaney and let him know that you've arrived safely,” said Lacey, but Manus raised a hand to stop him.

“I'd prefer if you didn't just yet,” he said.

“He'll be sore annoyed,” said Lacey.

This was Father Delaney's fiefdom, and he wouldn't take it well if he was left out of anything to do with the visit from the Vatican. Father Delaney didn't suffer fools gladly. He didn't suffer anyone gladly.

“I'll explain my reasons to him in time, just as I'm about to explain them to you. Will you sit with us please, Mr. Lacey?”

Lacey sat. His wife positioned another cup of tea in front of him to replace the mug that was still standing cold on the mantelpiece. At the rate they were going, the whole house would be filled with cups of tea before they were done.

“Your daughter?” asked Manus.

“She was upstairs asleep, though I'm sure she's awake now,” said Mrs. Lacey. “Do you want me to bring her down?”

She was surprised that Angela hadn't appeared yet. She must have heard the commotion of the priests' arrival. Perhaps she was just listening upstairs. Sound carried through the house, and who knew what business Angela had been privy to over the years, either intentionally or accidentally. It was why her parents had learned to make love in silence.

“No,” said Oscuro. “Perhaps later we might like to see her, just for a minute or two.”

Lacey was shocked to hear the young priest speak so much. His voice was soft, and not unpleasant, but as heavily accented as Faraldo's. Lacey didn't know what nationality he might be. Was Oscuro an Italian name, or a Spanish one?

“We came early,” said Manus, “out of experience.”

“I don't understand,” said Lacey.

Manus sipped his tea. Droplets of it hung in his beard, and although he couldn't have seen them, he wiped them away with his right hand. Experience again, thought Lacey, who had never grown a beard for precisely the reason that he'd have spent his life wondering if there was anything caught in its bristles.

“You must understand that we have to approach all cases such as this one with great care,” said Manus. “We must be open to miracles, to the hand of God at work, yet at the same time be watchful for deception. I mean to cast no aspersions on your honesty, or that of your daughter, but there have been . . .
incidents
in the past.”

“What kind of incidents?” asked Mrs. Lacey, before her husband could pose the same question.

“Unfortunate,” said Oscuro. “Very bad.”

Manus shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was clear that he would have preferred it if Oscuro hadn't dived straight in at the deep end, but now the words had been spoken. Unfortunate. Very bad.

“Go on,” said Lacey. “We'd be happier if you were open with us from the start.”

Manus gave a little grimace of understanding.

“Last year, we were sent to Padua—” he began.

“In Italy,” said Oscuro.

“I know where Padua is,” said Lacey. Fuck's sake. It came out sounding testier than he'd intended, but he didn't want these three thinking he was an ignorant man. He wasn't about to be patronized in his own home.

“My apologies,” said Oscuro, but he didn't sound as though he meant it.

“Anyway,” said Manus. He cast a meaningful glance at Oscuro, as if to say, For the love of God, can you not show an ounce of common sense? “We went to Padua because a child there, a little girl, was showing signs of the stigmata.”

“The wounds of Our Lord from the Cross,” said Mrs. Lacey, to avoid any confusion, and to show that she, too, was no idiot, for she was also fully aware of the location of Padua, after St. Anthony of Padua. She could have given them chapter and verse on St. Anthony, having done a series of essays on him while at school, and also because she was forever losing things and promising him a shilling if he found them for her. St. Anthony, she thought, must spend his days peering under mattresses and rugs.

“Indeed,” said Manus. “She had open wounds on her hands and feet. They bled on Sundays, and holy days, and anytime the girl received Communion. They were also said to produce a pleasant, perfumed smell—the Odor of Sanctity, as it's sometimes called. Word reached us, and we went to investigate.”

“We had our suspicions from the start, though,” said Oscuro. “Because of the nature of the wounds.”

Lacey looked puzzled. “In what way?”

“The wounds appeared on the palms of her hands and the tops and soles of her feet,” said Manus, “just as they do in most depictions of the Crucifixion. But the nails in a Roman crucifixion were driven in through the wrists, because the palms of the hands couldn't support the weight of the body, and might be pulled free if the nails were hammered through their soft flesh. In the same way, the legs would probably not have hung down in the way we see on the crucifix. They'd have been pulled up and sideways, like this”—he demonstrated awkwardly, assuming a position in his chair that was close to kneeling—“with the nails driven in closer to the ankle.”