On the Third Day (9 page)

            The Bishop didn’t speak.   He sat back slowly, and his heavy, comfortable leather chair creaked ominously.  He stared at the blank screen, lost in thought.  His features were etched in severe lines of disapproval and – something else.

            Father Thomas, who had glanced at the Bishop surreptitiously, tried to place it.  Eventually, he settled on outrage.  The Bishop was outraged, and Quentin didn’t know if it was because the man couldn’t explain what he had just witnessed for the thousandth time, or if he were still single-mindedly blaming Father Thomas for setting up a clever hoax that was making him look foolish.

            Father Thomas himself hadn’t moved since the film played out its last seconds, and though the screen has gone blank, the last image – that of Gladys Multinerry holding his inert form and screeching orders at her fellow parishioners as if she were some sort of maternal general, would not leave him.  He was haunted by it, as he’d been haunted since that day, and he had grown very weary waiting for support from Bishop Michaels, or the church.  So weary that at times he felt like breaking down and weeping like a child.

            So he sat, his knees close together, his hands clasped, and his eyes respectfully tilted toward the carpeted floor beneath his feet, and he waited.  He looked as if he might be awaiting the final judgment.

            Father Prescott was silent as well.  His expression was much harder to read.  He stared at the screen, transfixed, and though it was their second time through it that morning, his reaction was no less intense.  His brow rippled with deep-etched furrows of concentration, coated in a clammy sweat he hadn’t bothered to wipe away, though his handkerchief was clutched tightly in one hand.

            The Bishop cleared his throat, and the tension in the room slowly dissolved.  Father Prescott inhaled deeply, lowered his gaze for a moment and shook his head, as if dislodging some thought he wasn’t happy with, or something he didn’t want to show on his face when he met the gaze of the two others in the room.

            He sat back, stretched, and turned to face Father Thomas.

            “That was quite the performance, Father Thomas,” he said after another long moment’s silence.  “I hope that you’re fully recovered?”

            Though it was still impossible to read anything in Father Prescott’s expression about what he believed, or what he thought of the film he’d just viewed, it was equally impossible to ignore the intensity of the man’s interest.  There was no condescension in his voice, and there was no trace of accusation.  He seemed, and Father Thomas believed that he was, interested only in honestly asking for the truth. 

            Father Thomas returned Father Prescott’s frank gaze with one of his own and answered.

            “It was several weeks after that before I was really able to be back on my feet.  Father Carlson from Lavender stepped in and assisted while I was – recovering.  I don’t know what I would have done without his help.  And my parishioners cared for me as well.”

            Bishop Michaels, who had tried to listen to this exchange in aloof silence, failed, snorting derisively.

            “Cared for you is rather an understatement, don’t you think?” He asked.  “In most cases it was obviously out of fear.  I’m surprised they haven’t erected statues in your honor out in the parking lot and petitioned Rome for you to be sainted.”

            The Bishop’s words had meant to sting, but they ended up sounding shrill and childish, and he fell silent. 

            Father Prescott swiveled slowly in his seat, taking his gaze off of Father Thomas and locking it onto Bishop Michaels' flushed features.  The Bishop appeared on the verge of saying something more, but he managed, with a great effort of will to hold the words in check.

            “Excellency,” Father Prescott said, his voice soft, deferential, and without malice, “Father Thomas has been through a lot.  What you just witnessed, whether real, or something else, was a tremendously painful ordeal.  I am not as convinced as yourself that it wasn’t exactly what it seemed to be.  That’s why I’m here. 

            “I’m asking that you give me the benefit of your patience until I have had a chance to look into this fully, and make my report to yourself, and to Rome.”

            Several emotions flickered across Bishop Michaels’ face in quick succession.  Surprise at the younger priest’s frank request; embarrassment over his own ill-timed outburst, and frustrated anger at the whole situation.

            He wanted it to be finished.  He wanted it to be washed away, as the blood had been washed from the altar at San Marcos, and from the rug.  He wanted it to disappear and leave his life, and his Diocese in the comfortable, un-wavering peace it had enjoyed for so many years prior.  He wanted the walls of his faith to be finite and close in around him like the walls of a confessional, keeping the world at bay and leaving him to meditate in quite silence.

            Father Prescott watched the inner struggle, but did not speak again until the Bishop had dropped back into his leather seat, deflated and angry, but silent as well.  Bishop Michaels nodded curtly, and Father Prescott continued.

            “This is where this starts to sound like a bad law drama on television, I’m afraid.” He smiled bleakly.  “I can’t get to the heart of a thing without understanding every aspect of it, so I hope you’ll bear with me.”

            Father Thomas nodded.  “I want to do anything I can to help you,” he said.  “I want this to be over, one way or the other, as badly as anyone.”

            He glanced up at Bishop Michaels then, but the Bishop was turned and stared out the window with his jaw clenched and his back rigid.

            “You first felt these sensations--when?” Father Prescott moved on.

            Quentin tried to relax.  He wanted very badly to make the right impression.  He was afraid he’d seem defensive, or dishonest in some way, which would only support the Bishop’s obvious disbelief.  In the end, there was nothing he could do but to tell his story and to hope, just this once, that someone would actually listen.

            “Everything felt normal, just as it always does, until the first words of the Mass,” he said at last.  “I remember starting to speak.  I remember their faces, and glancing up to where Bishop Michaels had set up his camera.  What I have been unable to put my finger on is the exact moment that things were – different.  I can’t place the exact moment, but I do know that it began sooner this year than it did last year.”

            He fell silent a moment, then glanced out the window and added, “I’m not even sure how I know that.”

            Father Prescott said, “Surely you can remember a thing like that?  Like when it started?  You are a young man, Father, but still – you must have led the celebration of the Mass countless times before.  Can’t you remember when things changed?”

            Father Thomas opened his mouth to protest, and then bit his lip.

            “Try to visualize it,” Father Prescott prodded.  “Close your eyes if it helps, but think about that day – about the first words, and the next.  See if you don’t find – something – that will tell you when this phenomenon, whatever it proves to have been, began.”

            Father Thomas sat back, exasperated and frustrated.  His features clouded, and he brought his hands up to cover his eyes for a moment, not caring if it seemed overly dramatic.

            “That’s just it,” he said.  “I don’t remember anything after the itch in my palm began, and no matter how many times I go over the whole thing in my mind, I can’t recall at what point that happened.  When I first stepped out there, I was nervous, and I was sweating.  At that point my palm itched also, but I wiped it dry, and that sensation was gone.

            “Last year the Mass was nearly complete.  I remember the main body of that earlier celebration very clearly.  I remember the faces of those in the pews, and the way the sun glowed through the stained glass.  Almost the entire ceremony is etched into my mind, and since that is the case, I know where the lines of the itching cease and the darkness begins.

            “This time I feel as if I wandered for a very long time in a fog, and woke up covered in blood.  I remember stepping onto the stage, and I remember starting the mass – because I do remember wiping the sweat from my palms – but I can’t place a last coherent thought.”

            “So, you remember nothing of what came after?” Father Prescott asked softly.

            “How convenient,” Bishop Michaels cut in.

            Father Prescott, angry now, spun on the Bishop, but Michaels kicked the floor violently and spun his chair away, staring fully at the window now, and paying no more attention to the two younger priests at his back. 

            Father Prescott pursed his lips.  He started to say something more, then thought better of it and turned back to Father Thomas.  There would be time to confer with Bishop Michaels once this was all behind them.  Father Thomas was not the only man who’d been through something traumatic, even if the Bishop’s attitude tended to make one think he may have gotten exactly what he deserved.

            Father Thomas paid no attention to Bishop Michaels at all.  He stared at his hands in a futile attempt at concentration.  It was obvious that he wanted to help – that he was desperate to help.  Everything about him from his expression to the tilt of his chin expressed a desire to be compliant.

            “Let’s come back to that,” Father Prescott said at last.  “We have time.  I want to come at it from a different direction for a moment.”

            Father Thomas nodded, and his relief was obvious.

            “What is the first thing you remember
after
the – phenomenon.”

            Father Thomas didn’t look up this time.  His features softened, and the tension in his shoulders and throat eased.  Taking Father Prescott’s advice, Quentin leaned back, closed his eyes, and began to speak.

* * *

            The first sound Father Thomas heard was the rush of Venetian blinds up their cord.  He blinked and bright sunlight slashed across his face, blinding him before he could take in his surroundings.  He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer and collected his thoughts. 

            When he opened them again he saw that the person who had pulled the blinds was Gladys Multinerry.  She stood with her immense bulk between his bed and the window.  He was slightly surprised to find that he was in his bed, but not as surprised as he was to see Gladys in his quarters.

            The room was in the upper story of San Marcos.  The rectory was built up along the rear of the cathedral.  It consisted of a library, two offices, a pantry, small kitchen and a meeting room.  The upper rooms included Father Thomas’ quarters, a small private chapel, and a living room of sorts with a television, stereo, and other distractions. 

            There had originally been several priests assigned to the Parish.  The Bishop had kept larger quarters just up the road, and his “staff” had been housed in the rectory.  Now Father Thomas was the sole inhabitant.  He had a regular maintenance crew, who cared for the building and the grounds, and he occasionally had guests, but most of the space allotted was open and empty.

            The Deacons shared the open office, but he rarely saw them.  Most of the financial and maintenance requirements of the Cathedral were handled through the Diocese in San Valencez.  It had taken some time to get used to performing a solitary mass, but it actually suited him well.  With some aid from the deacons and a crew of altar boys who showed up unannounced on weekends, sometimes to play basketball at the far end of the parking lot, sometimes to help him around the building, he got along fine.  

            Father Thomas found that, with Gladys Multinerry in the room, his quarters seemed small indeed.  When she moved, he closed his eyes and let the bright sunlight stream over his eyelids.

            When he opened them again, the confusion hit harder.  When he was groggy, it was easy to drift, take in the room, and the fact he was lying in bed as matters of course.  As his mind cleared, though, his memory kicked in as well, and he tried to sit up too quickly.

            “Why am I . . .”

            He started speaking, but the sudden motion was too much for him.  The room reeled, and he fell back heavily against his headboard, cracking his head hard on the wood.

            “Gladys?” he asked weakly.

            Gladys turned with a bright smile, more gracefully than Quentin would ever have dreamed possible.  When she saw that he’d tried to rise, she clucked her tongue like a mother hen, bustled to his bedside, and pressed him firmly back into place.

            “So,” she said, unable to conceal the obvious pleasure in her voice, “the dead awaken.  You are back with us, then, Father.  Praise be.”

            Father Thomas lay back on his pillow and stared around the room.  He could tell that it was afternoon.  The angle of the sun through the room’s one window attested to it, but what afternoon?  What had happened?  He shook his head gently but the haze remained in place.

            “Back with you?” he asked.  “But . . . where have I been?  I remember Easter, the Mass, and . . .”

            He fell silent.  Everything flooded back at once, everything and nothing.  He remembered stepping up onto the altar.  He remembered Bishop Michaels and his camera. 

            “Gladys,” he asked softly, “how long have I been lying here?”

            Gladys stepped closer to the bed.  She gazed down at him with maternal concern in her eyes, and he had the fleeting impression that she intended to reach out and smooth his hair back from his forehead.  She did not.  Instead, Gladys laid one huge, meaty hand on his arm, pressing the quilt to his suddenly clammy skin.

            “You’ve been lyin’ there as quiet as a lamb these past two days, Father,” she said.  “You’ve been here ever since you fell – during the Mass, I mean.  I had them carry you here, Kathy O’Pezio and me saw to it.  They wanted to take you away to the hospital, but there was nothing those doctors could do.  They checked your signs and all, and they knew it as well as I did.  What you needed was rest – and plenty of it.”