I’m afraid this town already had a shadow before its prison was recently installed because it rains eighty-five inches a year, if you can believe that number.
I’ll bring my raincoat. Nine-thirty or so.
And rubber boots.
You’re serious.
Unless you want wet feet all day.
Are we going somewhere?
Out into the woods. That’s where she has her apparitions. Two miles back in the woods.
There was a pause at the other end of the line. Father Collins made no effort to fill it. Last year, sighed Father Butler, I looked into the case of a girl near Yakima who was hearing the Blessed Virgin’s voice rising out of an irrigation canal at the edge of a cherry orchard. That one, I nearly froze to death. Something like twenty degrees over there. So this—this should be better.
Forty and wet is worse than twenty and dry in my humble, unprejudiced opinion. This place will chill you to the bone.
Sounds miserable. All right then. I’m warned.
I only want you to be comfortable.
Anything else?
She’s young, said Father Collins. A teenager. Just a little girl, so expect that.
And a child shall lead them, said Father Butler.
That’s it, said Father Collins. So go easy on her.
When he’d hung up he had to ask himself, as in the old rousing Wobbly hymn, which ineluctably he began to sing, Which side are you on? This Father Butler sounded vitriolic and highly unpleasant to be around. Father Collins did not look forward to lugging him around North Fork the next morning.
He put a small neat packet together—a pair of sweatpants he rarely wore, a clean white t-shirt, a v-neck cardigan, winter-weight woolen socks. All of that seemed innocent enough. He didn’t need to castigate himself about choosing this essentially loose-fitting and androgynous wardrobe. When the shower went off he called through the door, I’ve got clothes for you, right out here, I’ll leave them here, I’ll be in the kitchen, there’s lotion if you want it, do you see where it is? I should have showed you before, I’m sorry. It’s on the shelf. About eye level. And down below, two shelves down, if you look around, poke around back there, there’s a toothbrush still in its packaging. And dental floss—you’ll see where it is. It’s right there beside the sink. Next to the bottle of mouthwash, Ann. Anyway, I’ll set these clothes down. How was the shower, by the way?
Good.
It’s a little hard to adjust sometimes.
He guessed from the muffled sound of it that she was rubbing her hair with the towel just now, that was why she didn’t answer, maybe she hadn’t heard what he said, not that it mattered very much, he was lingering for no legitimate reason, he liked the idea of talking to her while she was naked just beyond the door, which he also knew wasn’t right. Okay, he said. I’ll leave you to it. I’ll just be in the kitchen.
Where?
I’ll just be in the kitchen.
Pulling back one corner of the shade, he looked out the window at the two men in the car, vigilant sentinels like baleful shadows behind their rain-smeared windowpanes, and then he waited in his reading chair where he worried that his thinning hair was more unattractive all the time, there were always methods of intervention like Rogaine or plugs, but he urged himself to consider these things from the perspective of his highest values. He had mentioned the kitchen only because it was as far away from the bathroom as he could get and he wanted her to feel entirely confident that he was not in the vicinity, that he was thoughtful enough to give her privacy while she showered in his house. Like everything else, mentioning the kitchen had a sexual subtext and sent a libidinous message. Even pretending that everything didn’t had a carnal objective, too. What man could help it? Who wasn’t human? Even a priest was subject to these rules. Lust, said the catechism, was a disordered desire, an inordinate enjoyment of sexual pleasure, but every man felt lust all the time, the question was how to contend with it, on this the Church was not silent either, it urged liberation from earthly passions, it also urged self-mastery which was an infinite and exacting work, never acquired like a car or liver spots or season tickets or herpes simplex, instead self-mastery was a permanent quest, it presupposed renewed effort at all the stages of life.
The priest meditated on his celibacy. As in Sirach 1:22: Either man governs his passions and finds peace, or he lets himself be dominated by them and so remains unhappy. As in the Presbyterorum Ordinis: Accepted with a radiant heart, celibacy radiantly proclaims the Reign of God. As in Saint Augustine: While he is in the flesh, man cannot help but have at least some light sins. As in Romans 11:32: God has consigned all men to disobedience, that he may have mercy upon all. It was enough material for a sermon, thought the priest, who usually wrote sermons on Tuesday afternoons, brooded and revised them carefully on Wednesdays, let them sit on Thursdays and Fridays, and reconsidered their contents on Saturdays so as to deliver them with confidence on Sundays. In fact he’d sermonized that very morning on the communal character of the human vocation and on the human desire to come to God, the latter a little bow toward the visionary, whose presence in the forest north of town had infected the mood of his congregation, whose presence was like an agitation to his poor beleaguered flock. Only through God, the priest had said—aware that he was jealous of the visionary’s magnetism—only through God can human beings find the happiness they restlessly seek; only through God lies surcease from pain and an end to that perpetual discontent informing every second of life. Father Collins believed this without irony. He believed that his personal ceaseless anxiety was a universal ceaseless anxiety that could find no salve in the things of this world but only in God expansively defined, how life-effacing the thought of that was, how rarefied, abstract, bloodless, conceptual, unreal, and transcendent. Certainly God was complicated, Father Collins had never meant to suggest to his friends who were thoughtful worldly atheists that the God he meant was otherwise or easily assailed by arguments, that wasn’t the God he meant to propose when he told them he believed in God. But what did he mean? they wanted to know, to which he could only shake his head and reply, like the arcane Jews who read the Kabala, There are no words, God is ineffable, the name of God cannot be spelled, to look for God with the tools of man is like trying to capture the sun’s light in our hands, perhaps, he thought, I should have been a Jew, that quaint Jewish simile makes perfect sense, he was thinking this when the visionary appeared, dressed in his sweatpants and cardigan sweater, her hair combed sleekly and wetly back, white lotion at one wing of her nose, and it occurred to him in that incidental moment that attraction was wonderfully capricious. All right, he said. All showered.
Yes.
Your clothes are in the washing machine.
Thank you.
So now would be a good time for dinner.
What about those guys outside?
I’ll go talk to them about it.
He went outside beneath his umbrella, which had caved in on one side, sprung a rib. They were not even listening to the radio. They were sitting on watch with a dour discipline. The windshield had been fogged by their breathing, though they’d cracked their windows to defeat this. Who were these men and why were they here? Gentlemen, said the priest, let’s ponder for a minute. Are you sure you want to sit here in the rain? Because I don’t think we need any bodyguards. And we’re going to be a while.
We’ll wait, Father.
I don’t want you to.
It isn’t a problem.
It is a problem. For Ann and me, we both feel this, it’s a problem, a definite, serious problem. You’re making us nervous. Sitting here. You’re making us feel uncomfortable. We can’t concentrate on our important discussion. Because we keep thinking of you out here. Just sitting here doing nothing.
Don’t think about us.
That’s impossible.
We’re committed to providing security, Father. We can’t leave our visionary exposed.
Exposed to what, though? Have you thought about
that?
Danger, said the man in the passenger seat. Any kind of possible danger.
What kind of danger worries you?
All kinds, said the driver.
The priest tipped his umbrella back and leaned aggressively into the window. He smelled aftershave and pine car freshener. Understand, he said. You’ll be here all night. I’m not going to let her go back to that tent. That damp little tent in the campground.
She has a cold, so that’s kind of you.
Anyway we’re fine with all night.
But, said the priest, how can you be? A miserable night in your car?
We have a cell phone. We’ll do it in shifts. In fact, it’s already been organized. Twenty-four-hour protection.
Who are you anyway? asked the priest. I don’t understand where you come from.
I’m Mike, said the driver. This is Bill. I’m from Butte, Montana, and he’s from Boise, Idaho.
That’s not what I meant.
Then what did you mean?
I mean, how did you come to be sitting here like this? Don’t you have jobs? Families?
I came because of the sighting, said Mike. And then—then I felt I knew. That I was called to provide protection.
Me too, said Bill. I felt called.
People are differently called, said Mike. This is what I feel I have to do. Come to the defense of those in need. Provide for their security. I guess you could say I’m a Christian soldier. Same with Bill here. A soldier in Christ. We’re willing to put up with the rain and whatnot. With sitting here all night if we have to. Second Timothy Two, verse three. Thou therefore endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.
If we suffer, we shall also reign with him, said Bill. If we deny him, he also will deny us.
Think not that I am come to send peace on earth, said Mike. I come not to send peace, but a sword.
Dangerous language, warned the priest.
It’s just that sometimes the wicked rise up. And the righteous must answer with arms, said Mike. And we’re the guys for that.
Nay, said the priest. I’ll pray for you. Because I don’t think our Lord indeed wants violence. Violence of any sort.
Neither do we, they both answered.
The priest went inside. He took three deep breaths. Dinner, he said to Ann, pumping dry his umbrella. We’re going to eat now. Something healthy, good for your cold. Or your flu—forgive me. Your flu.
What did they say?
They’re fine where they are.
In the car like that?
They say they’re fine.
What are they doing?
Reconnaissance, they say. I don’t really follow it. They’re on the lookout, on watch.
Lookout for what?
Dragons, I guess. Or infidels. The British, maybe. Or Bigfoot.
The visionary sat poised on the edge of the couch, her hands stuffed between her knees, her feet pointing toward one another. I don’t understand, she told the priest.
Nor I.
Is there some kind of danger?
There’s absolutely no danger.
Is it, maybe—someone is after me?
No one is after you.
I feel like there is.
Who could be after you?
I don’t know. Someone.
What you need, I think, is dinner, Ann. Dinner and a little downtime, rest. How are the clothes. Okay?
Great.
You’re comfortable enough?
I feel good. Clean.
I’m sorry I didn’t have anything better.
These are fine. I’m great.
I have, said the priest, a nice piece of halibut. Halibut, rice, and a tossed green salad. It’ll take about thirty minutes.
I can’t eat, though. I’m not even hungry.
You have to eat.
I can’t.
The priest sat down in his reading chair. The Ginger Man lay on the table beside him, a symbol of his own transgressions if a book can be a symbol of something, the throb of his groin pumping the teeming fluid into her throat and other episodes of poetic pornography, Donleavy on the back of the book looking dapper in knickers and carrying a walking stick, the priest had the complete and unexpurgated edition sold for ninety-five cents by Dell, and now as if by casual caprice he picked up his hardback Ship of Fools with its black-and-white photo of Porter at her desk, wearing pearls and clutching her typewriter, and set it on top of the Donleavy. The priest felt a little like Ichabod Crane, agitated by hormones and racing nerves, though not quite so hyperthyroidal. He held his chin between his fingers in order to pose as an intellectual and said I’m sorry I have to slow down I’m acting like your father or something it’s just that I don’t have visitors too often I don’t really know how to be a proper host of course we’ll eat when you’re hungry Ann and not a moment before you’re hungry and in the meantime we can just relax I have a collection of cassettes over there I’ll put one on say Gorecki or Brahms or maybe chamber music classics do you have a preference?
No.
He put on the Gorecki, symphony number 3, the Symphony of Sorrowful Songs with its Lamentation of the Holy Cross dominating the first movement. Its stairway of fifths, its eight-part polyphony, its eerie Goreckian tempo. An antagonist for his Id, he hoped. There was nothing like Gorecki’s Number 3 except perhaps intestinal distress to induce a shriveling woe.
That’s sad music, Ann said.
Shall I change it then?
I want to be sad.
How come?
I don’t really know.
Well I won’t invade your privacy. I won’t pick or probe. I’ll just say that in about twenty minutes I can put your clothes in the dryer.
Or I could do it, answered Ann.
And I’ve saved all your pocket things. Your flu pills and shells and candy.
Thank you.
So in the meantime there’s tea which I’ll warm up for you and please help yourself to biscuits. The priest sat down and delicately sipped. Your confession, he said. Earlier. I’m thinking of the mushrooms you mentioned. The hallucinatory psilocybin mushrooms and of what a committee of inquiry might want to make of them.
I haven’t done any mushrooms for a while. If that’s what you’re thinking—I haven’t done them.
As I understand it, nevertheless, there’s a phenomenon commonly known as the flashback which attaches to hallucinogens like LSD or peyote buttons or psilocybin mushrooms. Are you aware of this? The flashback?
Sort of.
Well how can I explain it?
I don’t know.
Someone uses a hallucinogenic drug. They experience an episode of immediate effects that subside within say twenty-four hours. Arbitrary. It could be twelve hours. Who knows? That’s not the point. Well a flashback would be an episode of effects occurring sometime afterward. The next week. The next month. A year later or two years later. You’re going about your normal business, eating a sandwich and reading a magazine, when the sandwich turns into a little bird and the magazine grows little hands and feet—this is what’s called a flashback.
That’s not what’s happening.
How do you know?
I know cuz I know. That’s not what’s happening.
How long has it been since you used psilocybin? How many weeks or months?
Our Lady is real so it doesn’t matter.
But how long?
Like a month maybe.
What about dope?
I don’t smoke dope.
But how long?
You know. Weeks.
So not too long.
A couple weeks. At least two weeks before I saw her.
The priest sipped his tea and arched one eyebrow, his little finger bent and held aloft. He felt comically smug. He felt villainous. What do you think? he asked the visionary. Could I have maybe been a celebrity interrogator during the Inquisition?
She didn’t answer, didn’t smile or laugh, so that he felt, next, like a pompous cleric full of sanctimonious ri
dicule. Forgive me, said the priest. It’s an absurd line of thought. You haven’t used dope in at least fourteen days. You haven’t used mushrooms in at least a month. And this doesn’t sound, to me, like a flashback. It’s too concrete. Too vivid for that. But maybe; I don’t know.
Ann fingered the nap of his cardigan sweater. Before, she said. What did you mean by a committee of something? Like a minute ago? When you said that?
A committee of inquiry. Of investigation. Into this episode of Marian apparitions. A process known in the Church as discernment. To discern the validity of your visions, Ann. To discern their legitimacy.
The Church has that?
It has for centuries. Because what if someone was faking it or was out of balance mentally? Or consciously manipulating followers for the selfish purpose of material gain? What if their visions were false in some way? It is the duty of the Church to ferret this out. To determine if it can sanction an apparition or deem it worthy of belief.
Well I haven’t used anything for like a few weeks. So it isn’t that. Not mushrooms, Father. Not mushrooms or marijuana.
Let’s not discount the flashback, Ann. It might go a considerable way toward explaining what you’re experiencing.
But why don’t you just believe me, Father? I’m telling you—Our Lady is real. I’m not hallucinating.
The priest interlaced his fingers slowly and set them in an attitude of child’s prayer just beneath his chin. I’d honestly like to believe you, he said. Believing would make this so much easier. I don’t want to be a skeptic or cynic. I’d like to make that leap of faith, but in all honesty I can’t just yet. I just don’t have enough information. So tomorrow morning I meet with a priest the bishop is sending out our way. And I think, given the numbers of people who seem to be attracted to this event, I think he will appoint a committee. A committee of investigation on which he will want me to sit. And then I’ll approach it formally, if and when I’m called to the task. But until then, let’s be tea drinkers.
I can’t just sit here drinking tea though.
But this is soporific—chamomile. And highly therapeutic, too. For somebody with the flu.
I was trying to tell you before, Father. I’m here because I need to be cleansed of my sins. And we have to start building the church.