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?' "
"I hope we're almost there," Father Nestor said.
August Murray's Zippy Printing was on Conner, across from the Detroit City Airport, within a few blocks of De La Salle, where August had attended high school, and less than a mile from Saint David, on East Outer Drive, where he had gone to grade school. August Murray was thirty-seven, had never been married, did not date girls, and had been a member of Saint David Parish all his life, except for a year and a half in the seminary. His parents had moved to Tampa, Florida. He lived alone now in the apartment over his shop, above the black-and-yellow sign that said ZIPPY PRINTING and, smaller, WHILE-U-WAIT.
August parked in back, off the alley, hurried with his ring of fifteen keys, and pointed to the lavatory as he went in through the back hall. Father Nestor walked in stiff-legged behind him.
August's own father would have walked in here and had a fit--the shop silent in half light that showed through the storefront venetian blinds. A quiet printing shop was a sin. Offset presses, A.B. Dick 360's, doing nothing. The IBM copier sitting there; the camera, the cutter and folder at the end of the worktable--the room close, smelling of ink. His father had printed parish bulletins and napkins and matchbooks and kept his accounts at the blond-wooden desk against the wall. August dropped his newspaper on the desk and turned on the electric fan that sat on the file cabinet.
With all that was happening, August wasn't going to waste his time on cocktail napkins and matchbooks.
He wished the priest would hurry up. Old priests in shiny black suits, withered necks sticking out of round Roman collars, seemed more useless than old laymen in sport shirts and straw hats. What did you do with them? Let them say six o'clock mass at a side altar somewhere---
Unless you were lucky enough to find one like Nestor and you saw the opportunity to squeeze a little more use out of him.
Father Nestor Czarnicki, OFM, fifty-two years a priest, nineteen years of it served in Santarem, Brazil, on the Amazon River. Returned with amebic dysentery and a story about a Franciscan brother who performed miracles.
Nestor Czarnicki--uncle of Greg Czarnicki, member of the Gray Army of the Holy Ghost--invited to a meeting to tell about his life as a missionary. And August stunned by what he heard ("And with the healing of the child, the manifestation of the blood; this, to me, the unmistakable sign . . .") and the opportunity he saw before him.
Father Nestor, who said mass in a mixture of Latin and Portuguese, never in English, no, he could never do that. If he had to he would leave the order, move to France and join Archbishop Marcel Lefebvre, God's champion in returning the use of Latin to sacred rites.
"Wait," August had said to him. "Talk about signs--don't you see it? You come from Seminario Sao Pio Decimo and find, already established here, the Society of Saint Pius X."
A society with the same name whose direct purpose is to reinstitute the Latin tradition?
And the Franciscan Brother Juvenal, also returned from Sao Pio Decimo on the same plane--Wasn't that another sign?
August had to remain calm, keep himself from trying to do everything at once. Meet Juvenal, cultivate a relationship, but not bring him into the picture just yet. The plan, first, was to establish a new parish, put Nestor in as pastor, and invite Archbishop Lefebvre over to consecrate the church, the same way the Pius the Tenthers down in Texas did it.
Five months later Outrage had leased the empty Covenant Baptist Church in Almont, rechristened it Saint John Bosco, and they were on their way. A minor problem--correspondence with Lefebvre indicated it would be at least a year before he could come for the consecration. In the meantime Father Nestor might give one last grunt and expire on the toilet. So the plan was revised. Instead of consecrating the church, they would officially "dedicate it to the accepted traditions of the Catholic Faith as established by Jesus Christ, the Son of God." A series of pamphlets was run off at Zippy Printing and distributed at parish masses throughout the Archdiocese of Detroit, inviting Catholics to "Come to Saint John Bosco in Almont, the Seat of Traditional Catholic Worship." Pamphlets appeared with the titles:
WITHOUT TRADITIONS WHERE ARE WE?
WE WILL NOT ABANDON OUR TRUE FAITH.
WHY THE HOLY GHOST FLEW VATICAN II.
And August's favorite, WHY DO PRIESTS TODAY THINK THEY KNOW MORE THAN GOD?
The appeals brought them in gradually, a few dozen more traditionalists each week, until last Sunday August had estimated well over two hundred at the ten o'clock High Mass and Benediction. (Many commenting after that it'd been years since they had sung good old Genitoris and Tantum Ergo. And, boy, was it good to hear Latin again instead of those boring Protestant hymns.) They had also announced the dedication to be this coming Sunday and sent out invitations to parishioners, friends, and the press.
What August had to do now, with Father Nestor's help, was prepare a press release to be handed out after. "The Juvenal Story" or "The Miracle Worker"--something like that, basic information about Juvenal. Because if it worked out the way he hoped it would the newspapers would have to feature it on the front page and they'd be asking all kinds of questions.
Father Nestor--out of the lavatory, sitting across the desk from August--said, "Newspaper reporters will be there? You think so?"
"I know they will," August said, "because I'll be there and it happens that I'm news." He nodded to the paper on the desk. "I'm in there, aren't I? I staged a demonstration in court to make sure I'd be. Whatever I'm involved in is news. And what we're involved in together, specifically, what they refer to as church disunity and schism, that's news too. Reporters will be there, take my word. That's why I want to get this news release ready." August took the silver pen from his shirt pocket and released the point. "There're a few facts I don't think you told me, like where he was born, first."
"In Chicago," Father Nestor said. "You see, everyone who goes to Santarem is from the Chicago Province. Before I went, though, I served at Saint Paschal Friary in West Monroe, Louisiana, and also at Saint Joseph in Bastrop, Louisiana--"
August said, "Father, we're talking about Juvenal. His parents still live in Chicago?"
"He doesn't have parents that he knows of," Father Nestor said. "He lived in foster homes and at Our Lady of Mercy, a home for boys. You've heard of Father Kelly? He's dead now--"
"Father--" August began.
Father Nestor waved his hand at him. "All right, I know. He was at the home--let me see--he went to work at a hospital and shortly after that he entered the order."
"You were in Santarem a long time before he came--"
"It's pronounced Santareng," Father Nestor said. "Oh, yes, many years."
"So that you helped him along, showed him the ropes maybe?"
"No, you see I was at Sao Pio Decimo and he was, most of the time he was at Convento Sao Raimundo. Or, let me think, he may have been at Convento de Nossa Senhora Nazare."
"You knew him though."
"Yes, I met him. And we came home together on the same flight."
"Wait, first I want to stay down there."
"You want to go to Santarem?"
"No--no, I want to talk about the time you met him," August said, "when the miracles started, how it came about, and the first time you saw the blood."
"Wait," Father Nestor said. "I think I have to go to the toilet."
Chapter 8
JERRY SAID he'd close his eyes and see this guy com
ing right through the wall at him.
The man next to him said he saw these slimy things like lizards crawling all over the room and jumping on the bed and he'd scream and try and knock them off but they kept coming. Like lizards.
Jerry said this guy who came through the wall had a knife raised, ready to stab him with it.
Edith, Lynn's Big Sister, said, "I know, sometimes I've heard them screaming clear up on four."
Lynn stared at the wall, at the crucifix and the photograph of the room in the condemned building. It was dark outside; bright with fluorescent lighting inside, showing sticky spots and cigarette ashes on the formica.
Edith rapped her knuckles on a wet stain of coffee saying, "Well, I never had no d.t.'s, thank the Lord for that."
The Lord, on that varnished cross holding his hip-cocked pose of agony.
"Excuse me," Edith said. "Lynn, hon, you want another cup?"
Lynn's gaze came away from the crucifix. "I'll get it." She slid out of the booth, taking their cups over to the twin urns.
Something to do. She didn't need more coffee and she wasn't too keen on listening to more stories about alcoholism. She had watched television for nearly four hours after supper, on and off, looking around for Juvenal between programs. There wasn't anything to do but go to bed or sit and listen. She came back to the table with two coffees.
Jerry was saying, yeah, he used to hide them in the garage different places, even in the shrubs. That's why he was always out cutting the grass.
The man next to him said in his apartment, when he'd clean it up about once a month, he'd reach under the couch and drag out all these empty bottles.
Jerry said, "You ever reach under there and come out with a full one you forgot about? Put it on the table next to about half a fifth you got left? Man, knowing you're set for the day? Jesus, that was a good feeling."
Lynn said to Edith, setting the cups down, "I'll be back in a little bit."
* * *
"They usually don't talk that much about drinking or d.t.'s unless a new resident's asking questions, or sometimes you'll get a person who maybe wants to impress you," Juvenal said.
"I was impressed, but I got tired of it," Lynn said. She paused. "I was looking for you earlier."
"I had to go out on a call."
"This is your office?" It was exactly like the woman counselor's office she had been in this morning. In fact, from the hall, seeing the light on inside, she had thought it was the same one and thought of the telephone on the desk.
Juvenal had a phone too.
He nodded, sitting back in the chair with his pleasant expression, wearing the same red-and-blue-striped knit shirt. "I use this one if I have the duty; I can hear better if anyone starts to freak out. My room's way down the end of the hall."
"I won't bother you," Lynn said, starting to turn, but giving him time to stop her.
"No, sit down. You want to ask me something, don't you?"
Lynn eased into the chair next to the desk, facing him. "Well, when you put it like that, and since I've blown my cover--"
"Your cover wasn't that red hot to begin with. Quinn already suspected you're straight."
Lynn was surprised. "I only talked to him for a minute. The first time I saw him he came roaring into that big room that's like an auditorium on a motor scooter. Got off and gave the most fascinating talk I've ever heard."
"He makes an entrance," Juvenal said. "Have you seen the fire engine? . . . It's a real old one. He gets a bunch of residents on the back end and they go for a ride downtown, ringing the bell, waving at people--it's part of the therapy, get the alcoholic out of his shell."
"Maybe before I leave--" Lynn said.
"You don't need to be brought out," Juvenal said. "You're fine."
"Aren't you a little irritated? I mean I tell you I've come here to find out about you-- But you aren't mad or anything."
"I haven't told you anything either," Juvenal said. "You hear a story and you wonder about it, you and your friend Bill Hill--That reminds me. You were a baton twirler in a religious service?"
"What were you doing, checking on me?"
"I spoke to Virginia today, so I asked about you."
"It wasn't exactly during the service," Lynn said. "I twirled a little while the choir was singing, just the opening part and the close."
"I'd like to've seen that."
"The part of the service that was the feature, Reverend Bobby Forshay'd come out and heal people."
Was Juvenal grinning a little? She wasn't sure. He said, "What do you want me to ask you, how he did it?"
"No, it was fake," Lynn said. "At least I think most of it was. I'm not sure."
It was a nice expression--not amused, but almost a smile--interested and open, glad to be talking to her. Could that be?
"Bobby might've healed some of them. You think it's possible?"
"Why not?" Juvenal said.
"Do you heal people?"
"I guess so."
"How do you do it?"
"I don't know. I mean it's not something I can explain."
"Wow," Lynn said, "this is weird, you know it? You're actually telling me--like if I had something wrong with me, a disease or something, you could cure it? Or do you say heal it?"
Juvenal hesitated, though he continued to stare at her--nice brown eyes and those long lashes--
"Is there something you're worried about?"
"Well, I'm not sure," Lynn said. "I guess I'm worried, yes; but I don't know if I should be or not."
He reached across the corner of the desk, brushed her right shoulder, the scooped neck of the loose-fitting Bob Marley shirt, and put his hand on her breast.
She couldn't believe it, feeling his hand on her, the gentle pressure of his fingers, through the bleached cotton, as they stared at each other. She thought of pulling back, with some kind of horrified expression, but realized the time to do that instinctively had already passed.
Juvenal said, "You were going to tell me you have a lump, maybe a tumor, and if it's malignant would I do something." His hand came away. "Was it to test me or shock me?"
Lynn hesitated. "I don't know. Maybe both."
"If you're worried," Juvenal said, "take my word, your breasts are okay."
Now, instinctively, she almost said, Just okay? But in her mind it sounded dumb instead of funny; typing herself with a smartass comeback; or he might even think she was on the make. She wasn't at all, and knew he wasn't. And yet the touch hadn't been clinical either. He wasn't a doctor, he wasn't a lover--what was he?
"I don't know," Lynn said. "This's a new one I'll have to figure out."
"Figure what out?" Juvenal said.
"I plan something, it looks simple, to see if you're real or not. Then I get more confused than I was before."
"Don't try so hard," Juvenal said. He got up from the desk--striped shirt and faded jeans, white sneakers, the drunk counselor. "I'll be back."
"Where're you going?"
"I think it's Arnold. He's been having a bad time." Juvenal left.
To get away from her? Lynn hadn't heard a sound. She remembered Arnold, though, a man with a nose like a walnut, broken blood vessels in his face, his eyes barely open--she remembered him this morning groping his way into the lab, moving stiffly in sagging wet pajama pants, and the nurse calling out, "Somebody take care of Arnold!"
Lynn looked at the phone on the desk. Earlier in the evening, searching for Juvenal, she had tried the different counselors' offices, found them all locked. Now a phone was sitting within reach. Make a quick call---
She heard the sound then from down the hall, a scream, or someone calling out, and thought of Juvenal again, curious, wondering about him, then anxious.
Lynn stepped out of the office and followed the sound down the dimly lighted hall, a man's voice wailing in agony, or fright. There was a worn-out easy chair in the hall where, they had told her, residents sat in shifts throughout the night on "heavy duty," to help anyone in detox who
might begin hallucinating. But tonight Juvenal had been alone on the floor . . .
Juvenal standing next to Arnold's bed now--she could see him through the open doorway, light from the hall across the chenille cover--Arnold sitting up, his back pressed against the headboard, screaming, holding himself, trying to hide inside himself.
Juvenal moved. Past Juvenal's arm she saw Arnold's face, the man's eyes stretched open, his chin glistening with saliva. He was saying something, though she wasn't sure, that sounded like, "Don't don't don't--don't let it don't let it--" Sobbing, convulsing, as he cried out . . . then stopped as Juvenal moved in front of him and she could no longer see Arnold's face . . . stopped that suddenly and seemed to let his breath out in a moan as Juvenal sat on the edge of the bed and took Arnold's head and shoulders into his arms.
God---
Lynn could feel the chills-and-thrills on the back of her neck and down her arms, giant goosebumps. But aware and thinking at the same time, seeing her chance.
There was no sound as she turned and hurried back through the hallway to Juvenal's office, hesitated with her hand on the door, left it open--what difference did it make?--picked up the phone and dialed Bill Hill's number.
* * *
"I'm getting out of here tonight. Pick me up."
"Wait a minute," Bill Hill said. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. I want to get out of here."
"You talked to him already?"
"I talked to him and he's real. I don't know what he is, but he's real. He knows things. I've done my job and now I want to leave."
"Wait, okay?" Bill Hill said. "You see him heal somebody?"
"Not exactly, but I think I know why he's here. Pick me up in front. What'll it take you, about a half hour?"
"Little more'n that, I got to get dressed," Bill Hill said. "Tell me what happened."
"Nothing happened. Well, it did, but not something you'd say is proof he heals people." She paused a moment. "I told him why I'm here."
"You told him--"
"He knew anyway, I could tell. He knew I wasn't an alcoholic."
"Didn't you act it out any?"
"I tried but . . . it's different. They don't act like drunks. Listen, he's not the only one. Everybody here knows something I don't. I don't fit in."