Touch (1987) (7 page)

Father Quinn did not like August Murray. He considered him a pain in the ass and a humorless bore; Christ, anyone who could get excited about bringing Latin back to the Church. But August Murray--since the first time he had visited a few months ago--had been bringing bundles of used clothing, showing an interest in the Center, though he seemed to have little or no understanding of drunks. He was weird, but he was a do-gooder, so Father Quinn tolerated him, let him do some good.

August said, "Father, I want you to meet Father Nestor. He's a Franciscan. Or he was until recently."

An old man in an old black suit, a limp fringe of gray hair and practically no grip to his handshake. The priest said, "How do you do." The corners of his mouth looked sticky.

"Father Nestor's pastor out at Saint John Bosco in Almont. You know where Almont is, Father?"

Quinn said no, but he was happy to meet Father Nestor. It was a part of the work he had to put up with, being civil.

August said, "It's out toward Lapeer, northeast. Father Nestor--I've been telling him about the Center and he took up a special collection last Sunday at mass he wants to give you."

The old priest was holding a manila envelope with both hands.

Strange. Quinn said, "Well, we certainly appreciate it, Father." But it was strange, a contribution from a parish he'd never heard of.

"We collected eighty-two dollars," Father Nestor said.

And Quinn was thinking, That must be some parish. August Murray was saying, "I told Father you'd take a few minutes of your time to tell him about your work here. I'm gonna run upstairs and say hello to Juvie." He was already moving away.

"He might be out," Quinn said.

"No, I called. He knows I'm coming." Going toward the stairway now that rose next to the elevator.

"August"--trying to sound pleasant--"don't bother him if he's in detox, all right?"

"I know where he'll be," August Murray said. He went up the stairs, past an empty bird cage on the landing, and made the turn to the second floor.

"Let me ask you something first," Lynn said. "Did you ever live in Miami?"

"Uh-unh."

"Dalton, Georgia?"

"Nope."

"And you were never with the rodeo--I don't know why, I have a feeling we used to know each other. I don't mean we met one time, I mean we knew each other."

"You're a friend of Virginia's," Juvenal said. "Another friend of hers's been coming here."

"That's Bill Hill. Virginia and I both used to work for him."

"And he put you up to it," Juvenal said. "Why?"

"See if you're real."

"I'm real. I'm sitting here with you."

"You know what I mean."

"You want to know if I can actually heal people, perform miracles?"

"I don't have any reason to doubt it," Lynn said, "but it's a lot to believe, isn't it? See, the last miracle worker I knew was always trying to get me in his room."

Juvenal, grinning, seemed to appreciate that. Then, for a moment, looking past her, the smile left his face. It was gone and then back again, though not with the same warmth and intensity, and he raised his hand to wave someone over.

Lynn looked around, surprised to see the room nearly empty. A man with his hair combed straight back was coming toward the booth. He had a row of pencils or pens in his shirt pocket and was carrying a newspaper, taking it from under his arm.

Juvenal said, "August, this is Lynn. Have a cup with us."

"I don't drink coffee," August Murray said. He glanced at Lynn, nodding, and laid the newspaper open in front of Juvenal.

"Now what'd you do?" Juvenal said.

"Right there, with the picture."

"Doesn't look like you," Juvenal said.

"It was taken four years ago at Kennedy Square. We were counterdemonstrating against some hippie peace march."

Lynn moved over. Juvenal was studying the paper spread open on the table and August didn't seem to know where to sit. He slid in next to Lynn, but didn't look at her. He watched Juvenal reading the news story, Juvenal smiling a little. Lynn was thinking that August was about the squarest-looking guy she'd ever seen. She hoped he wasn't a good friend of Juvenal.

Lynn said, "How're you doing? August, is it?"

He said that's right, showing absolutely no interest. She could be sitting at another table.

Juvenal brought her in. He looked up and said, "August is head of a group called Outrage and they demonstrate a lot. This is about him getting arrested." He looked down at the paper again. "What was it, disturbing the peace?"

"Assault," August said.

"Yeah, I see it. You hit this . . . Father Navaroli?"

"I didn't hit him, I tried to hand him some pamphlets."

"And you told the judge he wasn't qualified?"

"He's a dumb guinea fallen-away, excommunicated Catholic. What does he know? It was like they were having a trial instead of a hearing. I said, 'Wait a minute. Nobody's bothered to ask me, but I want a jury trial.' You understand, when it's just a misdemeanor they don't like to take time, but I knew I could demand it and I did, a twelve-man jury trial."

Lynn looked from one to the other, from August, very serious, to Juvenal, amused.

Something didn't seem right. If Juvenal had been in a religious order, not a priest but close to it, why did he think this was funny? Look at it another way, if Juvenal thought it was funny, why didn't August?

Lynn said, "Outrage is the name of your group?"

"Organization uniting--" Juvenal began. "What is it, August?"

"Organization Unifying Traditional Rites As God Expects."

"They go around breaking up guitar masses," Juvenal said.

"That's quite an oversimplification." August seemed offended. "Our purpose, as you well know, is to restore traditional forms of worship."

"As God expects," Juvenal said.

"As handed down for two thousand years from Christ and the Apostles," August said.

Juvenal looked at Lynn. "Are you Catholic?"

"No, but I was married to sort of one," Lynn said. "Except he never went to church. I know what you're talking about, but I don't know much about it."

"August likes Latin," Juvenal said. "He doesn't like the mass in English. Or peace marches or Communists."

"I don't know any Communists," Lynn said, "but I met a guy from William Morris who's a fascist."

"They're different," Juvenal said. "I've met some fascists myself, in some pretty unexpected places."

"They're very serious," Lynn said. And made a face, hunching her shoulders, aware of August next to her.

Juvenal caught it, smiling, shaking his head. August didn't react, or wasn't listening. He said, "You say I don't like the mass in English. Listen, we have at least two hundred thousand followers in the United States we're sure of. Several thousand--I'll bet ten thousand here in Detroit."

"Followers of what?" Lynn said. She felt brave with Juvenal across the table.

August turned and looked at her for the first time as he said, "The Society of Saint Pius X, the traditionalist movement to restore Latin to the mass and sacramental worship."

He meant it too. God, Lynn thought, you don't fool with August. It was funny Juvenal could get away with his remarks, his amused expression.

Juvenal said, "How about the Gray Army of the Holy Spirit, August? How's that doing?"

"The Gray Army of the Holy Ghost," August said. "We have currently over two hundred active members. Most of them, incidentally, will be out at Saint John Bosco Sunday. Did you get your invitation?"

Juvenal was looking down at the paper again. "Yeah, I did, but I don't know if I can make it."

"What's the Gray Army of the Holy Ghost?" Lynn said.

"I told Father Nestor I was sure you'll be at the dedication," August said. "You can imagine how important it is to him, his first parish."

"I'd like to--" Juvenal said.

Lynn watched him. No, he wouldn't. He didn't know how to lie and it showed.

"--but things come up around here. Sometimes Sunday's a bad day."

"I would think you'd feel obligated," August said, "a former religious giving support to a brother--"

"You'll have a lot of people, won't you?"

"Father Nestor and I both assume with your background and what you've experienced, ten years in the order--"

"Eleven," Juvenal said.

Something was going on. Lynn could feel it, something passing between them. August seemed to be quietly putting him on the spot, with even a subtle hint of blackmail.

"Eleven," August said. "How many, four years at Sao Pio Decimo." He leaned close to the table. "You think that's a coincidence? Pio Decimo, Pius the Tenth. Father Nestor said the children would ask you if you'd seen ghosts and witches--"

"I told them no ghosts, a few witches," Juvenal said. "They'd hustle guys in the back of the church."

August didn't smile. He said, "How can you dedicate eleven years of your life to God, then throw it all away?"

"I haven't thrown it away," Juvenal said. "I was into that, now I'm into something else."

"Taking care of drunks--It doesn't seem a waste to you?"

"What should I be doing?" Juvenal said.

And August said, "I don't have to tell you."

Very dramatic, almost grim. Lynn glanced at August. So serious he was weird. While Juvenal leaned on his arms and was patient. She should probably get up and leave them alone; but that seemed dumb after going to all the trouble to get here. Now in a front-row seat. If they wanted her to leave somebody would have to push her out.

It wouldn't be Juvenal--her new buddy, already feeling close to him and not knowing why. He said to her, "What did you want to know? Oh, you asked about the Gray Army of the Holy Ghost." And looked at August.

"The Gray Army is the task force corps of Outrage, our activist group," August said.

"They're the demonstrators," Juvenal said. "They wear armbands and pass out literature and get arrested. Isn't that right, August?"

August was giving Juvenal a silent, dramatic stare. "I think we should have a few words in private."

Lynn began to move, picking up her cigarettes; but Juvenal said, "Listen, I'm gonna have to get back to work, but why don't you two stay and talk?"

August got up, taking the newspaper, folding it as he said, "Father Nestor's waiting for me. I'll tell him you'll be there Sunday, all right? In fact I'll pick you up."

Juvenal shrugged and said fine. Maybe to get rid of the guy, Lynn wasn't sure. She watched August walking away and called after him, "It was nice meeting you!" But August didn't look back. She said to Juvenal, "You were gonna leave me with him?"

"Why? August is fun. Don't you think so?"

"He's a spook," Lynn said. "In fact the whole thing was spooky. What's going on Sunday?"

"A church dedication. I used to know the pastor and, I don't know, he'd like me to be there."

"There's more to it than that," Lynn said.

Juvenal was looking at his watch. "I've got to get going." He slid out of the booth, taking his cup.

Lynn said, "Can I talk to you later on?"

"Let's see what happens," Juvenal said, again the mystery man.

Chapter
7

IN THE CAR, August Murray's black Dodge Charger, Father Nestor said, "I should have talked to him if you're not sure."

"I didn't say I wasn't sure, I said at first he tried to get out of it. He was different," August said. "He wasn't as . . . like humble as he was the other times."

"He practiced humility. As I remember he was very humble, obedient, as we all were . . . poor, and I presume, chaste. Poverty, chastity, and obedience--now, I don't know." Father Nestor's head nodded with the motion of the car. He said then, "Oh, my, I think I have to go to the toilet."

"Why didn't you go while we were there?"

"I did. I have to go again."

August didn't say anything for a minute or so. He was thinking of a headline for a pamphlet he'd print--also use it as a news release--when he got back to the shop. The Brother Juvenal Story. No---

The Miracle-Working Missionary.

The Miracle Worker of the Amazon.

"I have to go bad," Father Nestor said.

In the Footsteps of Saint Francis. A modern-day Franciscan friar . . .

"Once the urge comes," Father Nestor said, "there isn't much I can do. The doctor says a parasite in my intestine causes the dysentery. I could have it for years."

"We'll be there in a few minutes," August said, moving the Charger north on Gratiot Avenue, shifting lanes in the homebound traffic, blowing his horn at cars poking along. "Half asleep," August said. "They stop off for a shot and a beer and can't see their way home. End up in a drunk tank. I don't know, I can't figure it out why he's working in a place like that. I said, 'Don't you think it's a waste?' "