Our Lady of the Forest (41 page)

No atheist, she thought, is ever firm. Even at near complete conviction the pittance left over was consternating: fire and brimstone, geysers of flame, those popes in Dante stuffed head to toe down orifices in Beelzebub's cellar. Chilling. Gruesome. Popes in a chute. In college she'd memorized twelve lines of that canto for the express purpose of anticapitalist recitation.
Ah, Simon Magus, and you his wretched followers, who, rapacious, prostitute for gold and silver the things of God which should be brides of righteousness, now must the trumpet sound for you, for your place is in the third pouch.

How ironic, thought Carolyn. But I'm committed already. A secular humanist. A material girl. All I wanna do is have some fun. And I definitely can't be one of these Christians with their myriad insanities: God's
son,
of all things, ridiculous! So what does that leave? Nothing, I guess. All I can say at Saint Peter's Gate is, I'm sorry, I went with Mexico and science, Darwin and margaritas.

Carolyn picked up Ann's catechism and quickly rehearsed the Hail Mary, since it was very short, a few sentences. She made sure of it. She said it aloud. Then she grabbed her electric megaphone, slid open the van door, and set all the picking buckets on the roof. They were full of change and one-dollar bills with an occasional five or ten mixed in, and they made her feel clever and deceitful. She clambered up after them and said exultantly, addressing herself to two thousand people who waited in the deep damp part of the night, My friends, praise be to Mother Mary, hallelujah, hail thee, Immaculate Mary, all praises to thee, Ave Maria, Hail, Holy Queen, our life, our sweetness and our hope!

The gathering moved in her direction with the collective will of a school of fish and she paused for a moment of self-adulation and private congratulation. I'm good, she thought, and getting better. This mob of pilgrims is at my command. I've grown into the job, I guess. From this high vantage she could see to the street where deputies milled uneasily, two cars from the sheriff's department and three from the state patrol. Hallelujah! she called again. Hallelujah, hail thee! Our sweet and wondrous Mother Mary!

As if there was no need to give it thought she passed four picking buckets down from the van's roof and into the nearest outstretched hands desperate to be of service. Reserving the last bucket, she held it aloft with the drama of a torchbearer. A sea of people stood before her now, squeezed into the spaces between the cars, as mesmerized as the audience at a magic act. Looking up with wonder and hope and what Carolyn thought was adoration. Our Lady, she said, who is full of loving-kindness, asks us to build her church!

She reached into her own pocket, drew forth five twenties, and cast them into the bucket. She passed that bucket to the crowd too and said Now let us pray together. Hail Mary, full of grace, she began, and everybody joined in unison. It was frightening to Carolyn, robotic and fascist, as if they were all in a trance. The Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

Amen, repeated Carolyn. Amen to that, my friends. We have before us a set of grave circumstances. Circumstances brought on us by the Stinson Timber Company, which has chosen to deny us tomorrow's pilgrimage in the name of private ownership of land and in flagrant opposition to the will of Our Lady, who has called Our Ann to come forth tomorrow into the woods once again.

Praise Mother Mary! somebody yelled. Let Ann go to the woods!

This arrogant, cut-and-run timber corporation which is a subsidiary of a larger multinational conglomerate has opted to set itself against us, my friends, as it has set itself against the will of common people for I don't know how many years. Stinson doesn't care about you and me, only about its pocketbook and fat bloated bank accounts. Its CEO needs another swimming pool, the members of its board need estates on the Riviera. Friends, when the Blessed Mother talks about greed, she is talking about them—Stinson Timber.

There were chuckles of agreement, a ripple of mild laughter, and Carolyn paused, as if for effect, but in truth she didn't know where to go next or what she wanted to say. For the first time in her life she had an audience at hand—her own audience, in thrall to her voice—and all that occurred to her was to babble on long enough to make sure the buckets went around. God I'm an empty person, she thought. And so, she said, we are at an impasse. Irresistible force meets immovable object. Us against
NO TRESPASSING
signs. The people against our global oppressors. Carolyn knew her rhetoric was wrong but she seemed to have no choice in the matter; what came to her was what came. So we will have to make a decision tomorrow. Are we going to back down, back away, retreat, or will we protect our Ann of Oregon on her path to the place of apparitions, the place of healing waters? Will we do what is right by the laws of God or by the laws of man? I hate to speak such dangerous language and I am not advising a turn to violence, after all we're righteous Christians, we know it's good to turn the other cheek, walk peacefully in the name of Jesus, deeply respect these law-enforcement officers who are good men doing a difficult job, standing by in the street over there—Hello, you guys, we love you, peace!—but there is such a thing as disobedience, organized civil disobedience like Martin Luther King or Mahatma Gandhi, we can trespass tomorrow in orderly fashion, accept the inevitable arrest of the few in the name of the victory of the many. And in this I ask: Are you with me?

There was a chorus—
Yes!
—but not loud enough, and Carolyn, raised on eighties rock concerts, saw that a degree of repetition could contribute to her onrushing filibuster. Are you with me? she said again, emphatically, to which she received an emphatic
Yes!
, Are you with me? she repeated, and when they rejoined with more raucous power she said, softly, Then you're with Jesus, yes my friends, then you walk with God.

The buckets were filling. What else was there to say? Bail, said Carolyn. Our arrested martyrs will need to make bail. She displayed another twenty-dollar bill and waved it feeling like a game-show host. We're going to build that church, she said. With the Lord's help, and yours too, we're going to walk into the woods tomorrow to the place of healing waters!

Shouts of consent, a raising of hands, and Carolyn said, For tonight we must have patience, friends, while Our Ann keeps vigil inside the church, praying for a righteous outcome. Our Ann has sent me to tell you all that you must keep vigil and pray with her, offering your prayers up to Our Lord and to the Blessed Mother, Queen of Peace, that the woods will be open tomorrow!

Stay, said Carolyn. Keep watch. Bear witness. And be as generous as you can, please, in the name of Our Lady of the Forest.

She picked her way down from the roof of her van, where she was intercepted by a sentinel she recognized, the man in the blaze-orange hunting vest with the Slavic-looking Cro-Magnon cranium and the salt-and-pepper mustache. All the buckets are out there, she said. Still, I'm locking my van.

Is Ann safe? asked the sentinel. Inside there?

Come again? What was that?

Our Ann. Is she safe? In the church there?

Carolyn locked her door and tried to move away, but he took hold of her arm with painful force, squeezing it across the triceps. He was strong and she nearly dropped the bullhorn. Wait a minute, he said.

Carolyn looked at his fingers with disdain, as though he had warts or running sores. There are two possibilities here, she said grimly. The first is simple uncomplicated assault defined by your hand on my arm right there which is forcibly and illegally detaining me. The second is complicated sexual assault in which that hand is construed by me as a totally unwanted sexual advance—and believe me, guy, it's definitely unwanted, because not only are you completely disgusting and totally unpalatable as a sexual partner but that orange vest is completely pathetic, dude, and makes you look like Elmer Fudd.

The sentinel released her. I'm assuming, he said, she's endangered in there. Unless I hear you say otherwise.

Carolyn brushed her nails against her arm, whisking away his germs. Smiling, she stepped into the crowd, lost him, and blended in among the Christian lunatics with her beatific grin aglow, as if she wore a nimbus. Hail Mary, she said through the bullhorn, and kept moving, regal and patient.

Carolyn unlocked the door to the church with Father Collins' borrowed key, but when she turned to throw the bolt behind her a somber-looking man was there, appearing by stealth, it seemed, out of nowhere, as if he had tracked her path covertly, not a sentinel and probably not a pilgrim, someone she didn't even vaguely recognize, a guy who looked like the Marlboro Man minus the ten-gallon hat. He had those tacky long truck-driver sideburns, hollow cheeks, wet blue eyes—he looked a little like a wastrel, a vagabond, and that sent a thrill through her shoulders. But then she'd always been attracted to vagabonds and to men who were contained, aloof, and confidently impervious to her wit. The problem was that her preferred sort was mellow, whereas this guy looked just plain burned out, your average boozer in a North Fork tavern, a beer drinker with Country Western issues like domestic strife and debt. Mother Mary, she thought. What's wrong with me? Checking out material for a one-night debacle. If I fell back into slumming again. A dark mute cowboy in bad decline, emotionally bankrupt, in personal default, somebody miserable and interesting. Briefs, not boxers. Glow in the dark condoms. Everything smelling like nicotine. It was so attractively bleak and depressing. She'd slept with a guy like that only once. And he'd had trouble getting aroused. Otherwise, they never went for her. Bad guys don't like fat legs, she figured. No guys like fat legs.

Hey, he said. I'm coming in.

No you're not doing anything of the sort.

The man pushed through and into the vestibule. I don't need bullshit, he told her.

He didn't stop to address her further. She was clearly a bit player in his private drama. Whoa, she said, making use of the bullhorn. Halt right there. Immediately! But he didn't halt, he went into the sanctuary. She wondered if this was what the sentinels prophesied. An inexplicable madman, obsessed.

She followed him in and saw with relief that he'd stopped in his tracks and stood grooming his hair, caressing it into place with his palms, that Father Collins had risen already and stood uncertainly between him and Ann, halfway down the center aisle, his hands held forth beseechingly, palms high like the pope on Easter Sunday. Tom, he said. Tom, what is it? What are you doing here?

Her, said Tom. I came here for her.

Are you okay?

I'm here for her.

Wait, said the priest. Let's talk about this.

I didn't come down here to talk with you.

I mean for just a minute. Let's talk. What's wrong? Father Collins clasped his hands at his chin. He seemed to be praying for divine intervention. Tom, he said. Now please now.

Carolyn spoke from the sanctuary door with her hands set defiantly against her hips, feeling plump and ineffectual. This is a house of God, she said. I'm going out to find Sheriff Nelson to take care of this.

You go ahead, said Tom.

He resumed his aggressive advance toward the priest, who for his part kept his hands at his chin in a posture of utter religious submission and hapless passivity. I can't let you pass, said Father Collins. I'm sorry, Tom. I can't.

I'm coming through, answered Tom.

The visionary rose before them now. As though she was weightless, freed from the earth, despite her phlegmatic wheeze. Her face invisible inside its cowling. Her features were shrouded, unreadable, and she still had her blanket seized around her. It's okay, she said. Let him come.

The priest stepped aside to let Tom have the aisle but kept his hands clutched, fingers twined, as if entreating a conqueror and as a measure of self-protection. The Church loves you, he implored, as Tom went past. You're a child of God. You have a beautiful soul. Now let's not do anything rash.

Don't talk to me, answered Tom.

A few feet from the visionary he put his hands against his knees and tried to peer under her sweatshirt hood and the deep mantle of her blanket's hem, where he made out her face in shadow. Also that she was small, ill, and breathing like a lung-shot elk. That she was not much older or bigger than his daughter, that her left boot was split at the welt. He had the impression of rootless penury and smelled what he thought was rain on her clothes and a tincture of campfire smoke. I sent you one of those petitions, he said. Yesterday. On Sunday.

She didn't answer, but on the other hand, he hadn't asked her anything. Tom leaned in further to scrutinize her the way he'd at one time scrutinized children at the elementary school Halloween Fest when he was stumped by an effective costume. Back in the days of domestic bliss and silent desperation. Back when he could feel moderately happy to have won the Black Cat Cakewalk. Are you in there? he asked. Come out now.

I'm here. Yes.

Come on out.

I can't come out.

Why not?

I'm afraid to come out.

What are you afraid of?

I'm afraid of you.

You don't have to be afraid of me. I'm not going to kill you.

There was a pause and then Ann of Oregon said, I am anyway. Afraid of you. Especially when you mention killing me.

Take off your hood.

I can't.

Tom tapped a boot heel against the floor and a clot of mud dropped onto the floorboards. They say you do miracles, he said.

If there are miracles it's Our Lady who performs them.

So you don't claim any miracles then?

It's Our Lady who brings her grace to the world.

So you don't claim any miracles?

No.

You don't save people with holy water?

No. Our Lady does it. Not me.