Touch (1987) (22 page)

"How come you aren't married?"

"How come you aren't?" August said.

"I had a lovely wife, Barbararose, and her memory is all I can handle. Really, how come you aren't?"

"I haven't had time for anything like that," August said.

"Women, I imagine though, are attracted to you."

"Jesus," Antoinette said.

August gave her his cold killer look and Bill Hill said, "I'm serious. Don't you get a certain number of women attracted to your cause?"

"We don't allow women in Outrage," August said. "You have priests and you have nuns; we have our organization and the women have the Daughters of the Holy Ghost Society."

"With a silent 'h,' " Antoinette said, having a good time. "The D-O-G-S."

She wasn't bad, Bill Hill had to admit; he'd have to tell her so later.

Right now Antoinette was saying, "That's the whole goddamn trouble in the Catholic Church, all that boy-girl shit, keeping them separated so they won't have impure thoughts and get aroused. You ever get aroused, August? Come on by the club sometime and we'll check you out."

August was being cool now; he gave her a look and finished his ginger ale without saying anything.

Yes, she was quick all right. Bill Hill was thinking he might check her out himself, see the professional side of Richie's mom. He liked friendly, open women who wore perfume and Navajo jewelry.

August had taken a handful of coins out of his pocket and was selecting some of them. He was a dumb shit and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Bill Hill said, "I got it, August. Put your money away." He did, without any insisting. Bill Hill looked at his watch. "Well, if you don't have any demonstrations planned--"

"I've got something I'm gonna do," August said.

"Is that right? Whereabouts?"

"You'll read about it."

"You mean we can't watch?"

"You'll read about it," August said, "and you'll remember we sat here talking while you and"--he looked at Antoinette--"this one were making all these clever remarks, trying to put me on. You know what you were doing and so do I. But just remember one thing. I warned you."

"About what?" Bill Hill said. "You haven't told us anything."

"I told you you'll read about it," August said, pausing as he slid out of the booth. "And there won't be a thing you'll be able to do to me, either."

"Like what?" Bill Hill said. "August?"

But August was walking away.

Bill Hill watched him. "He doesn't make any sense."

"Because he's a little shitbird," Antoinette said.

Days later, six days, their last day on the beach near Glen Arbor, Michigan, south of Leland, Lynn said, "Have you decided, definitely?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna do it."

"You're sure?"

"Why're you so nervous?"

"Because I've seen his program. He's a rotten guy. He'll deliberately try to make you look bad."

"Not if I don't make any claims," Juvie said. "Who me? Look him right in the eye and keep the facts straight. Why shouldn't it work out?"

"Like the write-up in Time."

"That wasn't so bad."

There were copies of Time and Newsweek in Lynn's straw bag with straight-fact stories about Juvenal. Time described him as "the boyish missionary out of Brazil with the sometime gift of grabbing children with crippling diseases, turning on with the stigmata and performing a sanguine healing rite that leaves Juvenal emotionally drained and the children, according to eyewitnesses, jumping for joy. Not since Padre Pio . . . " And speculation as to whether or not he had the makings of a saint. There was no mention of the fact the would-be saint had a girl friend.

Juvenal had called the Center the day before to let them know he'd be back in town Friday. There were messages waiting from local television stations, from the National Enquirer, Midnight, People, and Us. Lynn told him to wait till Family Circle got in touch.

She said, "What're we going back to? Are you starting to get an idea?"

He said, "I told them I'd be on the program, otherwise we wouldn't even have to go. We're not committed to do anything we don't want to."

She was hesitant watching him closely, waiting for the catch. "What do we do after that?"

"Whatever you want."

"We don't even have to live in Detroit, do we?"

He said, "No, we could move to Cleveland if we want."

They stared at each other, straight-faced. She said, "Or East St. Louis."

He said, "What would you think of Gary, Indiana?"

"Akron," Lynn said.

"Rock Island?"

"Where's that?"

"Right next to Moline."

"How about Canton, Ohio?"

"Calumet City."

"Dubuque."

He said, "What's the matter with Dubuque?"

When they were in the motel room for the last time, packing to leave, she said, "We actually can live anywhere we want, can't we?"

"Anywhere," he said.

She waited for him to say, "But," or "Except that," or put it off by saying, "We don't have to talk about it right now"--but he didn't. So whatever it was that would mess them up would have to come from the outside. Something waiting at home. Something hidden in all he was involved in. A legal or ecclesiastical voice saying, "Oh, no, you don't. Forget it."

She said, "You could grow a beard."

"Yeah, I guess I could."

"We could change our names."

"How about Lynn Lawson?"

See? It was simple, right there, nothing to force. He held her and looked at her, she could see he loved her. There was enough love between them--it was spilling over, giving her a good feeling about everyone she met and all the people she knew; good old Bill Hill . . . even August Murray didn't seem so bad. She kept saying to herself, in sort of a semiprayer, If it's good, then it should happen. If God wants us to be good and also wants us to be happy, then . . . and then the words in her mind, the reasoning, would go around in circles though the meaning to her was clear. If God didn't want them to make it, then He wouldn't have let them get this far. Otherwise it wouldn't be fair. And if God wasn't fair then there was no reason to believe in Him.

Juvie said, "What does God have to do with it?"

She said, "He knows everything that's gonna happen, doesn't He?"

Juvie said, "Knowing isn't causing."

Strange. For a man so close to God he didn't sound very religious. But it wasn't something to worry about. There was nothing to worry about, nothing specific that she could picture. He'd appear on television, answer all questions, be insulted and misquoted--there, that would be done. They'd stay on the move until the publicity died off and then get married at downtown Saint Mary's . . . stay in Detroit and keep their jobs, or . . .

On the way home, she said, "We don't have to be poor, do we? Like in poor but honest?" Thinking, God, I hope not.

He said, "No. Why should we be poor?"

For a moment she saw herself in an inner-city ghetto mission, a repainted and repainted storefront place with a high tin ceiling and a lot of old black people lined up to get something.

She said, "You know, I wasn't kidding. I think you'd make a really good record promoter."

Chapter
23

EACH AFTERNOON August Murray returned to Lynn's apartment, picked up the paper in the upstairs hall, let himself in with the extra key he'd found in the kitchen, and dropped the paper on the growing pile of morning editions on the coffee table. If she hadn't stopped delivery, August reasoned, they wouldn't be gone long; maybe a few days.

On the second visit he was going to pick up the broken glass all over the carpeting, but changed his mind. He'd leave it to look like the work of the burglar who came in, was surprised by the girl . . .

Sometimes he would see people on the golf course, but never anyone close by or coming into the building. If he was ever stopped and questioned, he was her brother, checking on the place while she was gone.

On the third visit he found a pair of men's undershorts and the shavecoat. He looked around again thoroughly during the next visits but didn't find anything else incriminating or any sexual objects; though he was sure--sitting in the living room looking around, thinking of places--there were sexual objects in the apartment somewhere. "I know!" he said to himself one time, jumped up and went to the kitchen to look in the refrigerator, thinking that maybe some sexual objects had to be stored in a cold place. There wasn't much in the refrigerator: a nearly empty bottle of wine, one can of beer, milk, yogurt, wilted celery and carrot sticks, Cool Whip . . . Cool Whip. Maybe.

He waited every afternoon and into the evening from August 20 to August 26, a few times returning a little later, around midnight, to check the apartment from the golf course side, see if there was a light on.

Waiting in an apartment . . . waiting in a Roman villa, gun instead of a short sword. There was little difference. The purpose, the intent, was the main thing.

He rehearsed it and pictured it.

The girl comes in, stops, surprised to see him sitting in the chair. "What do you want? What are you doing here?" Juvenal, if he was with her, would say something in that lethargic way of his--which could be a result of his bleeding so much, a chronic weakness associated with stigmata.

It didn't make sense that someone like Juvenal, who seemed so indifferent, so wishy-washy about it, would be given the stigmata when, Christ, if August had it he'd know exactly what to do. First he'd vow, unequivocally, it was an act of God and describe apparitions and quote voices he heard during his passion. He would use the stigmata as a stamp of divine approval on the movement to restore traditional rites "as God expects." And he would specialize in healing crippling, nationally recognized diseases and overnight become a bigger name than Albert Schweitzer and Jerry Lewis combined.

If Juvenal was with her he'd tell him to stand aside. If Juvenal tried to say anything, he'd tell him, "Stay out of it!" Then, calmly, "You've been contaminated. As you rid the cripple of his disease, I rid you of yours."

Then shoot her.

Take Juvenal out to Almont and keep him in the rectory. Talk to him, quietly, rationally, with indisputable arguments to justify the removal of a malignant member. Juvenal would gradually, passively begin to understand and ultimately accept the inevitability of the girl's death. "My friend, as God is my witness, I had no choice." Juvenal would nod docilely and accept, because he seemed to be a better accepter than anything else.

But it didn't work that way. On Friday, the twenty-sixth, August had to wait for a shipment of paper stock. He called the plant, threatened, railed, but still had to wait; so that by the time he got in his Charger and headed for Troy and the Somerset Park Apartments, Lynn and Juvenal were already there.

Lynn saw the newspapers on the coffee table first. Then the broken glass. Then Waylon, with the word Outrage written across his face in red Magic Marker, gone over again and again, the word scribbled on in a tasteless lack of style and composition. She did think that for a moment; if somebody--not somebody, he, August--was going to mess up Waylon, he could have tried a little harder to make it look good. The guy had no class at all. He broke in--for what?

"Our friend August," Lynn said. "Do you believe it? I don't know why, he reminds me of Toby and Abbott, guys I told you about with the Cobras? They get a bug up their ass they have to wreck something."

Juvenal stood holding the suitcases; he looked from Waylon to the shattered glass door and back again before putting the bags down.

Lynn pushed pieces of glass out of the way with her foot. The door frame had been slid aside, the screen door in place. She opened it, went out on the balcony, and stood there. Looking over the rail she said, "The people downstairs go away all the time. All these people living here, but you don't see anybody." After a few moments she came back in. "You ever live in an apartment?"

Juvenal shook his head.

"It's like living way off by yourself," Lynn said. "What would he have against Waylon, for God sake?"

When she walked out of the living room to the hall, Juvenal took the suitcases into the bedroom. Lynn looked in her office, then came through the bedroom to the bath. "I don't know, a few things're out of place. I can see him nosing around. The guy's really weird."

"I guess he is," Juvenal said, sounding resigned. "Did he take anything?"

"Probably my panties," Lynn said. "He looks like a guy who'd be into girls' panties."

August had a feeling they were both here; but at first, opening the door quietly and looking into the living room from the hall, he saw only Lynn and thought, Perfect. Because she was on the floor with newspapers spread all around her, sitting with her back to him . . .

August reached inside his light poplin jacket and drew the .38 Commando from his belt.

. . . and when he shot her she would fall on the newspapers and it would be neater that way. There were scissors on the coffee table, stories with pictures she had cut out of the papers, narrow newsprint columns hanging over the chrome edge of the table.