He seemed to realize what he was doing all at once, ceased to shake her, dropped back into his chair and buried his face in his hands.
I am going to get my mouth sewn shut.
She went to stand behind him and massaged his shoulders gently. "I'm sorry, Louis, I shouldn't have said that. You know what happens when I start to talk before I think. Forgive me?"
He nodded and leaned back, head tilted to look at her face.
"Of course, Chris. It's all right. I understand." He reached up and ran trembling fingertips along the scars that traversed her face. The knot of tension that had formed in her belly loosened and began to unravel.
That's enough words for tonight. I'm falling back on what I know best.
She pulled him out of his chair and led him up the stairs and into their bedroom. Boomer rose, looked once longingly at the uneaten chicken, and followed them, settling by the foot of the bed.
They undressed one another and made love for hours, entirely in silence. Neither wanted to stop. He was first to fall asleep. Before the darkness claimed her, she studied his face awhile. It had gone slack with surrender to fatigue: her achievement for the night.
What has he done to me? This is like nothing I've ever known.
Have I done it to him, too?
For a long time she lay awake, her arms a loose circle around him in the warmth and the darkness. From the foot of the bed, Boomer emitted a foghorn-like snore.
Christine had known pleasure. Under Helen Davenport's tutelage, she had learned tenderness. At first, her encounters with Louis had seemed familiar enough that she could count them as more of the same, but no longer.
Even at the beginning, it wasn't just the same old thing. I should have realized, but I was worrying about other things too much.
He has given me life. He has given me freedom and knowledge. He has given me...what? What's the name for this?
A phrase whose meaning she had never understood rose from the depths of her mind. It fit into the hole in her thoughts like a key into the lock for which it was made.
Yes, that's it. No wonder Helen couldn't explain it.
No wonder he never tried.
"I love you, Louis," she whispered as softly as she could. He stirred, resettled himself against her, but did not wake.
You seemed so ordinary when we met. I hadn't learned to see. If you had walked past, five minutes later I wouldn't have remembered you at all. What was it you saw that made you decide to sit and talk with me?
He had never said anything more about that first meeting. Perhaps he didn't know, himself. If any woman had ever had a greater stroke of luck in the history of the world, no one had recorded it. Gently, so as not to wake him, she pulled him close to her.
Even now, I can't imagine what it is you see in me, Louis Dylan Aloysius Redmond, but I know what I see in you. There has never been strength like yours, never been goodness like yours, or I know nothing at all. And the greatest of all the things you have taught me is to see you for what you are, and to love you.
She fell asleep holding him, as the first rays of the pallid October sun pierced the east-facing window.
==
Chapter 29
Christine put her coffee cup in the sink and hefted her purse.
"Time to flip bits for bucks."
She would have leaned over and kissed Louis on the forehead, as had become their custom, but he rose from his seat and embraced her.
Warmth rose in her as his arms tightened around her. He'd hardly been willing to let her out of bed that morning. They'd showered together, dried one another, watched one another shave. He'd even sat and watched as she dressed and made herself up.
She squeezed him gently. He squeezed her hard.
If he keeps this up, we'll be back in bed in about three seconds.
"I might be out late again tonight, okay?" he said.
"Sure. Another old obligation?"
"Yeah." His voice was husky. "I mean, really late. If you feel like going to sleep before I get home, do it."
She started to ask what would be keeping him, then checked herself.
If he wanted me to know, he'd tell me.
"You have a good day, Louis."
"Yeah, you too." He released her and stepped back. She hesitated a moment, then leaned over to pet Boomer, and headed out to her car and her day of work.
***
Louis waited until the sound of the Chrysler's engine had faded completely away, then fetched a sealed envelope from his office. The envelope bore no marks. He returned to the kitchen, dried the coffeemaker's water tank with great care, and slipped the envelope inside.
He turned to find Boomer watching him.
"You know something's up, don't you, boy?" He squatted to pet the giant dog. "Well, it is. I'm off to a better world, I hope. You be a good dog and take care of Chris for me, okay?"
The Newfoundland licked his hand, lay back down, and covered his head with his forepaws.
***
Helen picked up the phone on the first ring.
"Albrecht's, women's fashions."
"Hello, Helen, this is Louis Redmond."
"Louis! What a nice surprise. How are you, dear?"
"As well as could be expected. Are you free tonight?"
"So far I am. Did you and Christine want to come visit? It seems an eternity since the last time."
"I'd like to come by, if it's all right with you."
Helen noted the wording. "Just you, Louis? Is Chris mad at me?"
"No, it's not that. I just have a few things I have to talk to you about in private, if you have the time."
This does not sound good. "Of course, dear. When should I expect you?"
"How about seven?"
"Will you have had dinner already, or should I lay something out for us?"
"Don't worry about anything like that, Helen. I'll see you at seven, okay?"
She paused. "All right."
"Good-bye."
***
The Friday afternoon confessions were seldom well attended. Schliemann hadn't had a penitent in more than ten minutes. His mind was beginning to wander when a new shadow appeared on the confessional screen.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."
The old priest sat straight up.
"Louis?"
"I'm sorry it's been so long since I've been by, Father."
"I've been worried, Louis. Are you all right?"
There was a long silence.
"No. This will probably be my last confession."
A cold hand slipped around Schliemann's heart and squeezed.
Oh, my God.
The priest listened in silent agony as Louis recited a litany of minor faults and self-indulgences.
He always confesses to the same things. Never anything serious. He's about to face the Particular Judgement, and I have yet to hear anything about two killings committed in his front yard.
Louis fell silent, waiting to hear what his penance would be.
"Anything else, Louis?"
"No, Father, I'm done."
I can't let it pass!
"What about the two men you killed?"
A hiss came through the screen. The shadow head pulled itself a little higher.
"What about them, Father?"
Schliemann's throat was dry. "I seem to recall a commandment on the subject."
"As do I. But did it forbid killing, or murder?"
"The text says, 'Thou shalt not kill.' "
"That's the English text. What was the Aramaic? Or the Hebrew?"
Schliemann started to expostulate and stopped himself. A twitching was developing in his right elbow. It made him want to jerk his arm.
"Actually, Father, it isn't two men, it's four. And all for the same reason: because I caught them practicing the abuse of the helpless. I don't tolerate that sort of thing."
"You don't tolerate...when and where were the other two?"
"About eight years ago, on a back street on
the fringe of the city. They were raping a teenage girl, holding a knife to her throat." Louis's tone was conversational. "I killed them both and walked the girl home."
"How is it that a man of your size and gentility knows so much about violence as to be able to kill two men at will? You weren't carrying your shotgun that day, were you?"
"No, Father, I wasn't armed."
"Well?"
There was a pause.
"Call it a gift. I'm not exactly what I appear to be. I never have been."
"And you feel no remorse for any of this? My God, Louis, what kind of man are you? Have I ever known you at all?"
"I may not be exactly what I appear to be, Father, but I am a man." The words were droplets of molten iron. "Twice, when there was no one else to do it, I've acted in defense of my kind. To do so, it was necessary that I kill. Was it horrible? Yes, just as it should be. Did it leave me with nightmares? Yes, just as it should have. If the necessity were to recur, would I do it again? Yes, in a heartbeat. And that, too, is as it should be."
Schliemann had had all the words shocked out of him. The twitch had traveled down from his elbow to his hand, whose fingers were dancing beyond his control. Something seemed to be happening in his ribcage, too.
"The Church doesn't have much to say about earthly justice, Father. I've always wondered why. Maybe the notion of divine justice is as much as it has to give us. But justice in this world is a human artifact. Either it's made by individuals or it doesn't exist. I have made my share of it, and I don't regret it in the slightest. Now you've heard about all of it, though I never intended that you should. Does the Church cast me out for this?"
There was the faintest of tremors on the last few words. The old priest peered through the screen, but could see nothing of Louis's face save its silhouette.
To him, I am the Church.
The weight of the institution to which he had given his life pressed down on Schliemann's brow. Flames seemed to shoot through his chest. He knew what was happening.
I've been spared this long to perform this one duty. I have to get it right.
Rome has sanctified so many things for its own reasons. Sometimes the reasons were baldly temporal. Pius XII blessed the Allied war effort. Innocent III interdicted all of England over unpaid royal tithes. Julius II led troops in battle. The Church used to sell indulgences. That's over with, but it sells annulments, these days.
"I..."
This is not about you, Schliemann. Be as much a man as he is!
It was the voice he had heard after Christine's revelations, faint yet ringing in his head.
"The Church does not cast you out, my son." The priest closed his eyes and strove for calm. His chest was filled with all-consuming pain.
"You are a true son of the Church, and its love will be with you always. I absolve you of all your sins. There will be no penance. Go in peace."
"Father --"
"Go!"
The shadow disappeared from the screen. The priest doubled over, arms wrapped around his chest, as a diminishing patter of footsteps announced the departure of the last penitent he would ever shrive.
***
Louis knocked at Helen's door. As he waited, he battled the most powerful disruptive spasms he'd yet had to fight. Had he lost, all his limbs would have jerked and twitched as if he were a marionette under the control of an epileptic. Yet even more powerful was the urge to flee.
I've never been here without Christine before.
She let him in silently. The apartment was as it had always been: coolly, elegantly beautiful, too beautiful to be a human habitation. She looked much the same, petite and elegant in peach satin pajamas, but this time there was no smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
For an awkward moment he stood in the foyer, hands clasped before him, waiting for her to ask him to sit. She seemed confused by his discomfiture. She gestured him toward the couch and sat beside him.
"This is a first."
He nodded, not yet ready to speak.
"There's a problem, isn't there?"
He nodded. "You're very quick."
"It was no challenge. You've never been here without Christine before."
"Well, it isn't a problem, really."
She waited in silence. The moment had come. He forced himself to speak.
"I'm saying my goodbyes."
"What?"
"This is the last time we'll be seeing one another."
"What? Why? Where are you going?"
"I'm dying."
Shock raced across her delicate features. "Louis, what's wrong?"
"Cancer. It started on my lower spine, but it's well metastasized now. At most, I have a few days left."
She started to reach for him, stopped, and clasped her hands together tightly. She pressed them down into her lap with such force that he could see her arm muscles tremble even through the sleeves of her pajama blouse.
"How long have you known?"
It was the question he had dreaded most, but he would not evade it. "Since about two months before we met."
She gaped in horrified astonishment. "And this is how you choose to let me know? Someone who loves you and cherishes your existence? My God, Louis, tell me you haven't done this to Christine!"
Without his willing it, his voice rose in the whipcrack of command. "Helen, I was diagnosed terminal two months before we met. One does not normally begin an acquaintance by announcing a terminal disease. And Christine does not yet know. So get hold of yourself."
She flinched at that, but appeared to regain her composure. He tried to force his muscles to stay loose, despite the surges of pain from his guts.
"There's really no hope?"
He shook his head. "None at all. Chemotherapy failed. It rarely works on abdominal cancers. And surgery's no option. They'd have to remove my whole body."
He startled himself with his own laughter. It was an ordinary chuckle, light and unforced, as if in reaction to someone else's witticism.
Have I adjusted, then? Is this resignation, or acceptance?
"But what do you plan to do?"
"I'm going to drive out into the woods. I've lived my whole life in Onteora. I'll find somewhere else to die."
"Why, Louis?" Her voice cracked. "Why leave the people that love you, to end your life alone in some place where you have no ties?"
Her face was a study in confusion and pain. He doubted that her composure would hold for long.
You'd better come up with something good.
"What do we leave behind when we die, Helen? Our physical possessions crumble. Our achievements are soon surpassed. Even the ideas we've given birth to -- as if I were fortunate enough to have had any -- are diminished, disproved, or twisted into lunacy. All that remains true is the memory of us.
"I have only days, maybe hours, before I'm reduced to helplessness and the special squalor of terminal suffering. From that point to the end, I will not be Louis Redmond, the man I am now, the man whose qualities you've admired. And I will not permit your memories of me to be marred by any overlay of him."
She shook her head violently. "Don't you do that. Don't you dare say this is for us. We would do anything on Earth to keep you here with us to the end. Do you think so little of us? Do you really think we couldn't remember you in your prime?"
He smiled wistfully. "It's not entirely for you, Helen. It's also for me. It's the way I want it. What I take with me into eternity will not be the memory of your face twisted in grief."
Like now, genius? This was not one of your better ideas.
"I can just hear you saying that to Christine." Tears were running down her face.
Yeah, right. She'd kick my ass off.
She had begun to cry. It began as a thin wail, but it built to a full-throated howl of stunning power. He would never have imagined that so small a body could emit so shattering a sound. He took her into his arms, and she buried her face against his chest.
She wept and shook in his embrace for
what seemed an hour. He realized that a part of him was enjoying the evidence of his importance to her, and sternly put it down.
This pain I have caused. This pain should be mine to carry. Not this good and gentle woman who has given me so much.
After a long while she quieted, though she would not raise her face to him. He tried to pull her up straight, and she resisted. Her slender arms, clasped around his waist, were surprisingly strong. They sat in silence.
He had lost track of time, was even beginning to drift off to sleep, when she spoke.
"Come to bed with me."
He looked down into her face in surprise. "Why?"
"Can you really be that thick? To make love."
"But why, Helen? I told you, I'm dying. What could you possibly want with the body of a dying man?"
Her face twisted into a violent scowl. "My God, you are that thick, aren't you? I want you. I've wanted you for months. If I'm about to lose you forever, I mean to have you tonight. There are no more nights left."
It was his turn to quake with confusion and fear. He could find neither words nor voice.
"Louis, I know you've bedded Christine. She told me. Why do you fear me so?"
"I don't know." Her eyes were relentless upon him. He screamed inside from the need to avert her gaze, and forced himself to endure it.
You do know, schmuck. And the least you can do for her is to tell her.
"Because I love you." He could not keep the tremor out of his voice. "I lived thirty-six years dreaming of you. I fell in love with you on the instant we met. To me, you are life itself, and I have nothing to offer you but dust and ashes."
He cringed in readiness for a furious backblast. But the frustration drained from her face and was replaced by something else.
"You mean it." It was not a question.
He said nothing.
With infinite gentleness, she raised her hands to his face. She traced his features with her fingertips, as if she were trying to memorize them.
"Louis, I am forty-one years old. I've known hundreds of men, perhaps thousands. Many men have shared my bed for a night or two. A few for somewhat longer. I've had several proposals of marriage. And if any of my suitors had been even a tenth of what you are, I'd have jumped at him."
On Broken Wings Page 22