He checked his digital watch. It was 7:23. It was also Tuesday. He had a heavy day up ahead, a day of hassles and arrangements and complications. For starters, he needed to rent a new car. He rolled out of bed, walked over to the cracked washbasin, and splashed some water in his face. Then, still dripping, he went to his bureau drawer and took out two hundred-dollar bills from the untidy heap of bills that was crammed in there.
He saw his face in the bureau mirror. His eyes looked dark and introspective, and his cheeks were deeply engraved with lines. He stared at himself, not moving, for a long time, and then he turned his head and blinked as if he had been dreaming.
His M.14 rifle was waiting for him, propped in the corner. He looked across at it, and smiled, as an indulgent father might smile at his son.
‘How are you, old buddy?’ he whispered.
Nineteen
She would always remember, almost to the second, the moment she had fallen in love. He came down the steps of the Catholic mission on Merchant Street that Wednesday morning, surrounded by dancing, laughing black children, and even in his shabby black jacket and his unpolished shoes he looked like a man of dedication and sacrifice. But he was handsome, too, with a kind of bruised, sad-looking, fallen-angel face, with curly black Italian hair and a short Michelangelo nose.
The smoggy sun radiated over the street, and there on the broken-down steps, against a background of slummy bars and peeling houses, amidst the chatter and hooting of children, she understood that she was actually in love with him, as a woman loves a man, and not a priest.
He waved shyly, and said, ‘How are you?’
‘I came by to see if you wanted any help with the talk-in tonight,’ she said. Her words sounded like someone else’s, like stilted lines from a play. She wondered why he didn’t stare at her and ask her why she was lying.
‘Well, that’s very kind,’ he told her. ‘There’s always room for one of our more vocal ladies.’
She smiled. ‘Is that what you think of me? A vocal lady?’
‘That’s only one of your attributes,’ he said. ‘You’re active, as well as vocal, and that’s what really counts.’
‘Why, thank you, good priest.’
He said, ‘I have a couple of minutes to spare. Would you like some coffee? There’s a place two blocks up that does a pretty honest doughnut.’
‘Do you judge doughnuts as well as people by their honesty?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t judge people. God will do that when the time comes.’
They walked past rusty, dilapidated cars and abandoned garbage. A wino sitting on a dusty step across the street gave a jerky, spastic wave and called, ‘Hey, father!’
They reached Sal’s Coffee House, a noisy, cheap, corner premise with worn linoleum floors and sticky tables. Most of the customers were old experts at stretching out the consumption of one doughnut and one cup of coffee to last the whole morning. Sal himself bustled around behind the smeary stainless-steel counter with a paper hat on his head and a burned-down stogie permanently clamped between his teeth, and was tolerant of poverty.
Father Leonard bought two coffees and two doughnuts, and came across to the table balancing them carefully.
‘I really should watch my weight,’ she said, as he sat them down.
‘Your weight? You’re as slim as a traffic signal. And in any case, you don’t have to be thin to get into the Kingdom of Heaven. Just humble.’
She stirred her coffee. ‘I’m not even sure if I’m that.’
She was twenty-three, but it was only now that she was beginning to look as young as she really was. She was very petite, with a sharp triangular face and short straight hair that was bleached by the sun into a shinning blend of platinum and gold. Her eyes were wide, violet-blue like a midday sky, and her mouth always seemed to have the first traces of a smile.
Perri Shaw’s twenty-second year had been lost, like pages wrenched from a calendar, to her estranged husband, Rick. She had admired Rick from afar during her freshman year at UCLA. He had been a junior then – long-haired, sultry, rebellious. During her sophomore year, she had dared (on the strength of two rum collins) to approach him, and tell him how much she desired him, and within a week they had become lovers. He had been strong, occasionally brutal, but always exciting. She had adored him, and almost loved him.
Their first affair hadn’t lasted long. Rick had dropped out of his economics course early in his senior year, and disappeared out of Perri’s life, too. She had heard later that he was fire-watching up in the Wenatchee Forest, in Washington. Two years went by, and she had been dating a serious young English student named Garth. In a distant way, like a train whistle on the other side of the mountain, Garth had been quite loving.
But forcefully and accidentally, she had met Rick again, at a party in Venice a year and a day after her graduation in political science. They had small-talked over their drinks with cagey lust, and then, without a word, he had claimed her again by taking her out on the balcony, tugging up her skirt, and rutting with her like a fierce male elk.
Despite the vivid unease of her parents (whom Rick always described as Brentwood Park’s answer to Grant Wood) they had gotten engaged, and married, and moved with his guitar and her embroidered bedspread into a small duplex in Westwood Village.
The marriage was hell. She had found out, too late, that Rick was heavily addicted to cocaine, and he would spend hours in the bathroom snorting and gagging. He was violent, too, and used to hit her unexpectedly almost every day, seemingly without any provocation. He would disappear for nights on end, and then return for sex and food, unwashed, foul-mouthed, and almost mad with drugs.
It was during this year, at a university seminar on marriage guidance, which she had attended with patient hopelessness, that she had met Father Leonard. He wasn’t much older than she was, but he befriended her and counselled her through weeks of beatings and fear, and given her such a direct window onto the possibilities of life without pain and without desperation that she had gathered the strength to challenge Rick on his own ground, to make him face up to what he was. He had punched her almost senseless, then left her without money, without a goodbye, with nothing to remind her of their marriage but bruises and torn-out hair.
She had continued to visit Father Leonard, however, and help him occasionally in his mission work in the slums of Los Angeles. It wasn’t until this hazy Tuesday morning, however, that she began to understand how much she felt for him, and how much her seemingly selfless help for the battered wives of the 12th Street district was inspired by her need to be close to him.
He was godly, quiet and beautiful; with that kind of gaunt figure which she could imagine hanging on a cross, or pierced, like St Sebastian, with arrows. She watched him stir two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, and she felt such a surge of affection for him, and such a sexual stirring for him as well, that she hardly knew what to say to him.
He looked up. His eyes were dark brown, emotional, and full of warmth.
He said, ‘I believe these talk-ins are doing some good. At least, some of the women are beginning to understand that they have a right to their own identity. They’re not just ribs taken out of their husbands’ chests; they’re people in their own right, and in the eyes of God.’
‘How do their husbands feel about it?’ she asked him. ‘Don’t they get angry at having their manhood questioned?’
He bit into his doughnut, and chewed it carefully. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, taking a sip of coffee. ‘But it doesn’t usually last for long. Once they realise that their wives are people, but that they still love them, then they usually come to terms with it. Of course, we’ve had one or two incidents. Quite a serious beating on Industrial Street. But I think most of the women know that it has to get worse before it gets better.’
‘I wish you’d go to the Women’s Liberation Conference instead of me,’ she said. ‘You could explain what you’ve been doing here so much better.’
He shook his head. ‘You’re the de
legate, not me. And in any case, they don’t want to hear a man talking about women’s consciousness-raising. Even worse, they don’t want to hear a man making a case for women’s sexual equality instead of women’s sexual dominance. It needs someone like you to tell them that. If I started to argue that many husbands are reacting badly because they feel they’re getting the thin end of the wedge these days, why, they’d tear me to pieces, limb from limb.’ She looked at him softly. ‘I wouldn’t let that happen,’ she said.
‘Anyway, I don’t want to go before the Lord chooses to take me,’ he said. ‘I have better things to do than sacrifice myself to Hilary Nestor Hunter and her feminist horde.’
She smiled. ‘I never heard you talk so sharply about anyone before. I thought you were always so saintly.’
‘It’s difficult to be saintly about Ms. Hunter, I’m afraid. Even the bishop admits to a certain feeling that he’d rather be somewhere else when she’s around.’
‘I guess she does tend to be kind of domineering.’
‘Domineering is an understatement. In Hilary Nestor Hunter’s universe, the middle-aged middle-class woman shall inherit everything, including her husband’s scalp and her lover’s income. That’s what you’re going to have to fight when you go to this conference, Perri, and you can bet it won’t be easy.’
Perri bit into her doughnut. It was surprisingly crisp, and good. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said. ‘It’s about time that someone stood up to those right-wing dykes.’
Father Leonard’s mouth twitched a little, but he didn’t censure her. Instead, he said, ‘All I ask is that you remember you are going as a representative of the church marriage guidance service, and that whatever you say will reflect back on all of us.’
‘I know, father. I won’t call her a dyke to her face.’ Father Leonard looked amused, and then laughed. They ate their doughnuts and drank their coffee in silence for a little while, and then she said, ‘I never asked you before – how long have you been here?’
He looked out of the grimy window at the derelict street.
‘Eight years, give or take a month.’
‘Haven’t you ever grown tired of it, or despaired of it?’
‘Many times. But each time, I’ve asked God to guide me, and for whatever purpose He has. He has always given me to feel that He wants me to remain here.’
‘You’ve never thought about a ministry up in the mountains? In Hollywood, maybe, or Bel-Air?’
He shook his head. ‘There is much more pressing work to be done down here.’
‘But the rich have souls, too.’
‘The rich are in a better position to save their own souls. They have the wherewithal to be holy, and to be charitable. These poor people have almost nothing except their faith, and very little of that.’
She drew a circular pattern on the formica tabletop with the tip of her finger, around and around and around.
She said, ‘You’ve never thought of giving up the priesthood altogether?’
He frowned. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t know. I just wondered if it had ever occurred to you.’
He sat back, perplexed by her question. ‘There was one time,’ he said slowly, ‘after I was attacked by a gang of black youths in the street and beaten. It did occur to me then. But the wounds healed, and so did my doubts.’
‘It hasn’t ever crossed your mind to give it up for any other reason?’
‘What other reason could there possibly be?’
She didn’t want to press him too hard, didn’t want to crowd him into a corner. But sitting there with that slight furrow in his brow and that questioning look on his face he was even more attractive than before, and she knew that her lips were going to say the words before her conscience could stop them.
‘Haven’t you ever fallen in love?’ she said quietly.
He was silent for a long time. She could see by the subtle expression of understanding in his eyes that he knew now why she was asking. He put his hand to his mouth and bit at his knuckle, his dark gaze never leaving her.
Unsettled, she said, ‘I’ve heard about it before. In the newspapers. Priests falling in love.’
He nodded, slowly. ‘Yes, it does occur.’
‘But not to you?’
He leaned forward on the table, pushing his plate to one side. In a very careful tone, he said, ‘Perri, have you been harbouring feelings about me?’
She laughed nervously. ‘You make me sound like a criminal.’
‘But I mean it,’ he said. ‘Have you had feelings about me? Feelings of affection?’
She drew her fingertip around faster and faster. ‘I suppose I have,’ she said, in a tight voice. ‘Well, I mean it’s more than just affection.’
‘You mean sexual attraction?’
‘More than that, father, I’ve fallen in love with you. Genuinely, deeply, and completely in love.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Father, you don’t have anything to be sorry for, and neither do I.’
‘I should have realised. It was stupid of me not to.’
‘How could you have realised? It’s been building up inside me for weeks. I’ve only just begun to realise it myself.’
Father Leonard took her hand across the table. He had long, pale fingers, like a violin player’s, except that his nails were broken from hard work.
‘As a man,’ he said, ‘I’m very flattered.’
She looked up into his eyes.
‘But as a priest,’ he said, ‘I have to tell you that any kind of wordly love you feel for me is hopeless.’
It was such a strange feeling, holding this man’s hand, and looking so deeply into this man’s eyes, and yet knowing that his love of God made him impervious to her sexuality. It gave her an extraordinary urge to do something to shock him, like tear open her blouse and bare her breasts. Or reach under the table and grasp his genitals through his shabby black pants.
‘Haven’t you ever loved a woman?’ she asked him. ‘Not ever?’
He nodded. ‘Once, when I was very young.’
‘Was that why you decided to become a priest?’
‘No,’ he smiled. ‘I decided to become a priest because God called me, and because I love God, and Jesus Christ, and Mary the Mother of Christ, above all.’
‘And you never even feel the urge to—’
‘The urge to what? You can say it, you know. I’ve worked in downtown Los Angeles for eight years. The only words that can still shock me are words of hate.’ She leaned towards him. ‘The urge to make love to a woman,’ she whispered. ‘I mean, if I said to you now, you can have me, you can make love to me, wouldn’t you feel even the slightest thing?’
He kept hold of her hand. ‘Of course I would. You’re a pretty girl. But years of self-discipline have given me the strength to say no.’
‘But I don’t understand why you should want to say no.’
‘It’s not a question of wanting to. I would say no because of what I am, a servant of God who can best serve his Lord by remaining celibate.’
She sat back, and gently tugged her hand away from his. She didn’t even notice, but there were tears in her eyes. He stayed where he was, leaning forward on the table, the unfallen angel of Merchant Street.
She whispered, ‘You saved my life once. You rescued me from hell.’
‘I hope I shall save many more,’ he said quietly. ‘Can’t I rescue you?’ she asked.
‘I don’t need to be rescued, except from my human failings, and I shall be rescued from those by Jesus Christ who redeemed the sins of the world by His crucifixion.’
‘But it’s such a waste,’ she said. ‘You don’t even realise how beautiful you are! You don’t even realise what you’re missing out of life!’
He took out a leather purse, and shook out a dime, which he laid on the table, under his saucer.
He smiled at her.
‘I know what I’m missing, believe me. But I also have faith in what is waiting for me in th
e life hereafter.’
‘But you don’t have to be celibate to go to Heaven.’
‘No.’
‘Then why? You could still do all this social work as a layman, couldn’t you, instead of being a priest? Then you could be just as dedicated to the will of God, and have a woman, too.’
‘You don’t understand, do you? Unless I dedicate myself completely to God, body and soul, I have no strength to do this work at all. I find my strength in self-denial and frugality. They bring me close to the power of my belief, without personal comfort, or erotic pleasure, or earthly love, to insulate me from the charge that my belief can give me.’
‘You make yourself sound like a household appliance.’
‘I am, in a way. An appliance through which the current of God’s holy will continuously flows.’
‘Oh, Jesus.’
They left the coffee shop, and went out again into the humid street. A police patrol car drove slowly past, and tooted its horn at Father Leonard. Father Leonard waved back.
He said to Perri, ‘I have to go now. I’m visiting Mrs Paloma in the hospital. She fell down a flight of stairs last night. At least, that’s Mr Paloma’s story. Fractured collarbone, broken hip.’
Perri wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘I guess I should say that I’m sorry,’ she said.
He put his hand on her shoulder, and shook his head. ‘You’re full of love, Perri, and you’re a pretty girl. You won’t find it hard to meet the right man.’
‘I thought I’d met him twice,’ she said, with a lump in her throat. ‘But the first time he turned out to be a devil, and that was no good, and the second time he turned out to be a saint, and that was no good, either.’ He said, ‘Still friends?’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘sure.’
‘Well, give me a call this evening, and we’ll talk about the Women’s Conference. I have a friend who works for CBS, and he says that if we come up with a real challenge to Hilary Nestor Hunter, he’ll try to make sure we get some television coverage. And you know what prime time exposure would mean to what we’re doing down here.’
‘So you have a human weakness,’ grinned Perri. ‘You want to be famous.’
The Sweetman Curve Page 13