The Circle of Sodom

by Pat Mullan

  They were already rising to give him a standing ovation as he concluded his remarks the way he had begun:

  "Are you afraid or are you excited tonight? Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to 'The Future'!"

  TEN

  It was the night after the GMA dinner and Owen MacDara was still coaxing his body into recovery. Too much wine, too much of everything. Experience told him that only time and his liver would get rid of the poison. He was in Kate's apartment at Madison and 92nd, fourth floor walk-up in an old sturdy stone building, built to last. Kate had asked him to stay over last night and it seemed the sensible thing to do at three in the morning. Kate had left to teach her art class at the New School and Owen found himself, still in pajamas and still unshaven, lapsing in and out of consciousness on the living room couch. It was a comfortable room with an old , unused, fireplace set in the gable wall. Books were piled high on shelves in the alcoves at each side of the fireplace. A hi-fi system sat where the fire used to be and CDs and cassette tapes were stacked around the hearth. A few of Kate's own pastels and charcoal sketches crowded each other in a corner of one wall and a large Claude Monet print, Sur La Plage a Trouville, in a bluish wooden frame, took center stage on the opposite wall. Owen realized that this was the first time that he had been alone in Kate's apartment and, as he looked around, he felt a sense of voyeurism.

  He forced himself to get up, went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Then he went to the kitchen and brewed himself a large pot of tea. It was the drink he still preferred to coffee at times like this. He checked his watch. Eight o'clock. Kate would be home about ten-thirty. That gave him two hours. Two hours with the Major's journal. He had had the journal for three weeks and had delved into it, as time permitted, to read and peruse the Major's notes and entries. Some of it was in a 'shorthand' that only the Major would have been able to decipher. Reminds me of the unintelligible scribbles I see on most doctor's prescriptions, reflected Owen. Other entries were quite descriptive and legible, written in a flowing hand. He moved the tea into the living room, located the journal, and positioned himself in a chair in the corner under the big reading lamp. He opened the journal where he had last placed the bookmark and looked at the entry for the day:

  April 23rd, 1994......Spent the day in Charleston with Rev. Andrew Magee of the Free Universal Church. He was Colonel (now General!) Zachary Walker's family pastor......knew that Zach had joined a religious sept, The Followers of God, in his late teens.......stopped attending Sunday services after that........within next five years two ministers of The Followers of God were charged with pedophilia......it was a big scandal at the time........one got ten years........Rev. Magee never heard of The Followers of God again...........well, nearly never..........that is, until his fellow minister, Rev. Roy Sinclair, started to get senile prematurely. He said that Roy had a mission of his own : to convert every soul he could away from these cults. Roy felt that these religious cults were the devil's instrument.......anyway, during his last six months in South Carolina, Rev. Sinclair suffered many episodes of total memory loss. Rev. Sinclair was a pastor in the Free Universal Church in Ulster (Northern Ireland). He had been on a five year ministry in the U.S. ................Follow-up note to myself: visit Roy Sinclair in Ireland.

  Major Whiteside never lived to make that visit. Owen MacDara decided that he would make it for him. But, first, he needed to talk with the Rev. Andrew Magee.

  From the airport in Charleston, it was only a twenty minute drive to Reverend Andrew Magee's Cape Cod ranch style home. MacDara had called ahead and Rev. Magee was expecting him. Andrew Magee was a large frame man with a big open face. He had a shock of white hair and the most soothing Southern accent that MacDara had ever heard. He didn't waste time. His handshake was firm and sincere. He ushered MacDara into his sitting room. His wife, an inconspicuous woman, appeared and disappeared just as quickly, leaving a pot of coffee and a plate of home-made cookies behind.

  MacDara explained to Rev. Magee that he was retracing Major Whiteside's movements in the months before his disappearance and presumed death. Just to see if he could shed any light on the Major's disappearance. MacDara described Ruth Whiteside, her faith and her sense that the Major was still with her.

  "Mr. MacDara, I only met Major Whiteside once. But I liked him."

  "Yes, the Major was well liked. He visited you last April. Let me show you an entry he made in his journal for that day."

  "That's a good summary. The Major told me about his memoirs. He wanted to find out about young Zach Walker. Well, he's not 'young Zach' anymore, is he? He told me that General Walker had played an important role in Korea while he was there. And he wanted to learn more about the early influences on his life."

  "That's how you got into the Followers of God?"

  "True. But, not directly. Zach came from a fine family, was active in the scouts, and volunteered for a lot of charitable work in our Church. I feel that we had failed him when he left us and joined that cult. I knew the Major would probably find this out anyway and I'd rather he got it from me."

  "And Rev. Sinclair?"

  "Oh, yes. Roy. He had a vengeance against all cults. Roy felt they were agents of the Devil, cloaked in the trappings of Christendom. He believed they were a mockery of God. Just like the Black Mass."

  "He knew about Zachary Walker?"

  "Oh, yes. I told him. Roy is an Ulsterman. He was on an exchange ministry with us. And he spent all his spare time advising our youth on the inherent evils of these cults. I believe he tried to contact Zachary Walker. I don't know if he ever did. You see, his mind had begun to deteriorate. He had Alzheimer's disease. He went back to Ireland again."

  "When did he return?"

  "Oh, about seven years ago. But his mind must be gone entirely."

  "Did he ever discuss what he knew about these cults with you?"

  "Rarely. I had the feeling that Roy thought that what I didn't know wouldn't hurt me. You know the old joke: 'I can tell you. But, if I do, then I'll have to kill you'.'

  "Did he ever seem to be afraid?"

  "Not Roy! He was about the Lord's work. And he had great faith that the Lord would protect him. But I had a feeling towards the end that he was in danger."

  "How do you know?"

  "Well, I don't really know. Not exactly. It was just a feeling I had. A sense that something was wrong. Maybe I was misreading the signs."

  "What was happening?'"

  "It was during Roy's last year with us. He used to disappear for three or four days at a time. He would never tell us where he'd been. We didn't pry, of course. But we were worried about him. Each time he returned he seemed to be in a state of deep depression."

  "Did you try to find out what was troubling him?"

  "Many times. But he wouldn't say anything. Just said he was doing the Lord's work. Fighting the Devil. We knew he'd been out there fighting those cults but we never figured out what he was actually doing. Was he trying to convert them or was he out there trying to destroy them like the Lord destroyed Sodom & Gomorrah? Wait a minute. That reminds me. In those last days, when his mind began to go, I'd frequently hear him praying for the destruction of Sodom. I never knew if it meant anything or if it was just the ravings of the disease. You know, it's crazy of me to say this, but maybe that disease has been his salvation."

  Owen MacDara knew he would learn nothing further from the Rev. Andrew Magee. He had to go and see Rev. Roy Sinclair. It was the only link he might have with the cults of General Walker's past. He certainly couldn't walk up to the General and put the question to him. He was the General's past and, if he was right, the General was trying to bury that past. So he thanked Rev. Magee for his time, said a courteous goodbye to Mrs. Magee, and caught the next flight back to New York. At the Aer Lingus desk, he booked two round trip tickets to Shannon.

  ELEVEN

  Connemara, Ireland

  It was an unusually mild night as Owen MacDara picked up his glass of Chardonnay from the dinner table
and walked over to the large picture windows of Ardree House to look at the sunset. Sunsets in Connemara should be listed as the eighth wonder of the world, he thought. The mountains, the Twelve Bens, were transformed. As the sun set further into the lough, the marbled grays, greens and ochres on the hillside turned into shades of bronze and gold, very soon changing again to gentle mauves. The clouds had also changed into soft pink, warming the cold turquoise sky. MacDara never tired of it.

  He and Kate had arrived in Ireland that morning on an Aer Lingus flight from New York to Shannon. They made the two hour drive to Ardree House in record time. Ardree House was MacDara's sanctuary, his retreat from the world. It was country Georgian, standing on over twenty-three acres verging the lough. The house itself stood amid an acre of gardens. Eucalyptus trees fronted a stand of Chilean fire trees and yucca plants dwarfed the Japanese maples that grew close to their base. There were even rhododendrons that blossomed in January.

  They had come to Ireland to see Rev. Roy Sinclair. He lived alone in the old rectory in the village of Eglinton. The village was in Northern Ireland about seven miles outside the city of Derry. Rev. Roy Sinclair suffered from Alzheimer's disease

  "If the Rev. Sinclair has Alzheimer's, isn't this going to be a wasted trip?" asked Kate, wanting to be persuaded otherwise.

  "Well, Alzheimer's sufferers have been known to retain long-term memory but not short-term. That's our only hope," answered Owen.

  "What do we know about Alzheimer's?"

  "Not much. Very little is still known about the way our memory works. We only remember what we have stored in the first place. Even then we seem to store bits of memory in different locations in the brain. To retrieve the memory, we have to reconstruct it from these different locations."

  "Aren't there drugs that can help?"

  "Believe me, researchers have been working all over the world trying to develop a neuro-protective drug to fight disorders such as Alzheimer's disease. No luck so far."

  At eight the next morning, Owen and Kate drove through the gates of Ardree House and headed north. It was a six hour drive to Derry, their first destination. Derry was Northern Ireland's second city. The city lay just north of the border that separated the British governed Northern Ireland from the independent Republic of Ireland. They planned to drive north through counties Sligo and Donegal. No rain was forecast. This was Kate's first time in Ireland and she looked forward to the journey.

  Owen lapsed into silence as they got closer to Derry; Londonderry to those who considered themselves British. But it was always Derry to MacDara. He had a love-hate relationship with the place. He'd won a scholarship to St. Columb's College when he was eleven and spent four years there as a boarding student. St. Columb's was run by priests although half the teachers were lay. It was there that MacDara's reverence for priests and awe for the institution they represented had ended. Maybe it was there that the seeds of agnosticism, or even atheism, had been sown. MacDara preferred to think of himself as a secular humanist these days. Eccentric priests had dominated the classrooms. Father Toner, who taught mathematics, would often pick up the heavy bound Hall's algebra and whack an unsuspecting student across the side of the head. MacDara remembered one of many incidents.

  "MacDara, where's Doolan today?"

  Father Toner purposely mispronounced Dolan's name. Dolan was not a boarder. He was a day boy and lived at home in the city.

  "He's sick, Father."

  "How do you know that, MacDara?"

  "Well, he said he wasn't feeling well in class yesterday, Father. So I assumed he was sick today."

  "You assumed, MacDara! You have no proof!"

  "No, Father."

  "Q.E.D., quod erat demonstrandum. Proof, MacDara! In other words, you don't know and you lied to me."

  "Isn't that correct, MacDara?"

  "No, Father!"

  "I said, isn't that correct, MacDara?"

  "Yes, Father."

  "Come up here!"

  MacDara could still feel the sting in the palm of his hands from the six slaps that he received for lying from the leather strap that always hung threateningly just inside the side pocket of Father Toner's long, dark soutane. St. Columb's was Catholic to the core. Its original role had been to prepare boys for the priesthood and that was still a principal mission. The church controlled the education system. Newspapers and radios were banned at the College. Outside influences and distractions were to be avoided at all costs. All evidence of civil authority was absent. The authority of the Church was paramount. Small rebellions preserved the sanity of the few who refused to become brainwashed by the system. MacDara was one of those few. They used to draw lots to choose a volunteer who would risk scaling the high walls that surrounded the grounds and making it to Wee Johnny's in Bishop Street to buy a packet of Woodbine cigarettes, the cheapest available. They had a special hideout behind the walls where they smoked while someone kept a lookout for the prefects. They also made radio receivers, crystal sets they called them, MacDara recalled. He remembered the night that the Dean had entered his dormitory after lights out and tripped over a crystal set earthing wire he had tied to the metal leg of the adjoining bed. That got him twelve, six on each hand with a leather strap, outside the Dean's office the next morning. His hands had swollen to double their size after that; couldn't hold a pencil in class that day.

  His reverie was broken by Kate.

  "Where are we now"?

  Looking around, MacDara could see that they had entered the Strand Road and were heading uptown towards the Guildhall and Shipquay Street, a very steep street that led up to the Diamond, the center of Derry's shopping district. A British war memorial dominated the center of the Diamond. The Bogside lay on the low flatland beyond the Diamond, land outside the walls of the City, land where the poor and the powerless lived. The Bogside was fertile breeding ground for militant Irish republicans. It was the center of Civil Rights rebellion and protest against the British authorities in the sixties and seventies. One of the most photographed gables of a house in the Bogside still proclaimed 'You are now entering Free Derry.'

  Once again, MacDara's reverie was broken by Kate.

  "Owen, where are you? What are you thinking about?"

  "Oh, nothing deep, believe me", MacDara lied, "just an old tongue twister; say this quickly : 'Shipquay Street's a slippy street to slide upon."

  "I think you've regressed to your childhood. Is that what this place does to you?"

  MacDara didn't respond. Kate's question was rhetorical. They weren't staying in Derry. They were only passing through on their way to Eglinton. But MacDara couldn't resist giving the old city a lookover. Circling the Diamond he headed back down Shipquay Street, around the Guildhall and towards Craigavon Bridge. They crossed Lough Foyle and took the road to Eglinton.

  Eglinton is a small village easily accessible to the main road. It wasn't difficult to find the former Church of Ireland rectory that was now the home of the Rev. Roy Sinclair. Mostly red brick Tudor with ivy clambering everywhere, it stood in the midst of a grove of ancient oak trees. MacDara lifted the black cast iron knocker on the weather-beaten front door and knocked twice. It sounded very loud. At least three or four minutes passed and they were beginning to wonder if anyone was home when they heard the sound of a key in the lock. As they turned to face the door it opened and they were greeted by a prim-looking woman. She wore a simple navy dress, sensible shoes and her dark hair, streaked with gray, was combed severely back from her forehead into a bun.

  "Good afternoon, I'm Jean Smythe. I'm Rev. Sinclair's nurse. You must be Mr. MacDara and Ms. Whiteside."

  "Good afternoon, Nurse Smythe," responded MacDara, "we're so grateful that you could arrange our visit with Rev. Sinclair."

  "Not at all, Mr. MacDara. But, as we told you on the telephone, Rev. Sinclair will not be able to appreciate your visit. He has moments of lucidity but they are very rare."

  "We understand that, Nurse Smythe, and we realize that our visit may be a futil
e one. But we felt compelled to see him in any case."

  "Very well, then. Do come in. Please wait in the drawing room and I'll bring Rev. Sinclair to see you. Would you like tea?"

  "Thank you, Nurse Smythe. That would be perfect."

  Nurse Smythe opened the paneled teak door to the right of the entrance hallway and ushered them into the drawing room. A turf fire was blazing in the grate and a large gray cat lay purring on a rug in front of the fire. The drawing room furniture was old with a patina earned from years of use. It was the kind of furniture that antique dealers scoured the country to find. Owen and Kate chose two high-backed chairs by the fireplace. Looking around they observed a drawing room that had been lived in, one that reflected the interests and personality of the inhabitants. A chaise-longue nestled under a big bay window overshadowed by a tall brass reading lamp. On either side of the window a variety of books of all sizes bulged from the shelves of two floor to ceiling bookcases. A piano sat unobtrusive, and they imagined unused, in the farthest corner. Renoir's Dance at Bougival hung in a gilt frame on the opposite wall near a mahogany sideboard that served as a pedestal for family photographs; ancient tintypes in metal frames on one side and modern portraits in carved wooden frames on the other side.