A Ruling Passion

by Judith Michael

  Floyd felt a surge of power. With Sybille's small, sharp chin trembling slightly in his fingers, he exulted in his superiority, his strength, his brilliance. "I'll help you, Sybille," he said, his voice resonant and deep. "If that was what you called me for tonight, to ask me that, my answer is yes. I would be privileged to help you, and no one will accuse us of overweening pride or ambition, because what we do will

  be for the good of others, not for our own satisfaction or to line our pockets."

  "Oh, no. Not that. Never." She let out her breath in a long sigh. "I don't know what I would have done if you had refused to come tonight or refused to help me."

  Potency coursed through Floyd; he could not contain it. "I'll never rehise you," he boomed. "I'm here; I'll always be here." His arms went around her, engulfing her, smothering her against his tweed jacket.

  "No," Sybille gasped, pushing against him to come up for air. "No, I can't, Floyd."

  "Can't? There's nothing we can't do, Sybille, as long as we're together. Trust me; I understand you."

  "No, you don't know... oh, damn..." She put her face in her hands.

  "What? What? What the heU... ?"

  "Floyd." Her face came up, streaked with tears. "I don't enjoy sex. I never have. I've tried, I want to. I know there's something wrong with me, but—"

  "Not you!" he burst out. "Nothing wrong with you! It's the men you've known! You poor little girl, you musfve hooked up with the damndest bunch of wimps this side of the Himalayas. You need a man who knows what he's doing, and knows women, and knows you." He pulled her to him again and began unbuttoning her blouse. "I'll take care of you, baby. Sweet baby, poor little baby, you've been waiting for Floyd for a long, long time."

  Sybille shuddered and lay back against his arm as his short fingers laid open her blouse and slid beneath the wisp of silk that covered her breasts to grasp her nipple. A faint smile trembled on her lips.

  She lay passively as Floyd pulled off her clothes, and his own, and then brought her with him to the thick rug before the sofa. She lay quiedy as his hands rubbed over her and his fingers slid into her, and then, slowly, she began to move her hips. "Floyd," she whispered. She pulled his head to hers. Her lips were closed; she let him force them open with his mouth, and then, as if suddenly discovering passion, she thrust her tongue sharply against his. He reared up. "See?" he cried hoarsely. "See what you can do?" He swung a leg over her. "Sybille!" he cried jubilandy. "You're mine!"

  Lily's white dress glowed like a beacon on the altar of the Cathedral of Joy. Her small face was pale, her hands fluttered like tiny birds when

  she gestured to emphasize a point. She stood on a box behind the marble pulpit. Sybille had told her to do that so everyone could see more of her. "They must feel your power," she said, and showed Lily how to lean forward toward the audience: shining in her white dress like a brilliant sun above them.

  "What we are searching for," Lily proclaimed, her voice high and youthful in the cavernous, still-unfinished church, "is ourselves, the hidden selves buried inside us—buried, invisible, inaccessible for the moment —waiting to be discovered."

  The church was full: a thousand men, women and children who came from as far away as Maryland, Pennsylvania and West Virginia to hear Lily preach. Those who could not come watched the service on television; still others saw it on tape, during the week. Lily knew they were watching: they sent letters, postcards, small gifts, and money.

  Cameramen trained their television cameras on Lily, and on her parishioners, from four strategic unobtrusive spots. In the studio in Fairfax, the director chose which of the four should be broadcast at each moment of "The Hour of Grace." Most of the time, Lily was on the screen, devout and virginal, her makeup giving her a scrubbed, sweedy pretty look. But when the director saw a parishioner touch a handkerchief to tearful eyes, or a face openmouthed in admiration, or a man nodding agreement, he would issue a command to the technical director, who punched a button which brought that picture to the screens of milUons of viewers, making them feel they too were in those pews, listening, absorbing, nodding, worshiping, weeping.

  "What can you do?" Lily asked her congregation. "In this confusing world of contradictory signals—contradictory and often dangerous if you misunderstand them—from your employers, your friends, and those who govern, even from your relatives... what can you do to make sense of the world?

  ^'To make sense of the world. It sounds so simple, but it's so difficult, when you are already burdened with finding enough time for home and family and job, for a night out with friends, for reading a newspaper or watching a television newscast to give you clues about the world you live in. You are so busy.., there are so many demands on you... how can you make sense of the world?

  'Tou begin to think you can't; you think you must leave it to the experts. You think they have more time than you to look around, to learn. You think they know more than you. And after a while you just let them run things. You think you're not as good as they are; they run the world; you just live in it.

  "That is not true! You are every bit as good as they are! God has made you every bit as smart; every bit as wise as any other person in the world! Listen to me! I know you! I've met you and talked with you in your homes; I've held your children in my lap; I've eaten at your tables. You are strong and good; there is so much in you to love; there is so much wisdom and thoughtfulness in you that you could do any job, fill any position in the world! But you do not know this.

  ^Tou are afraid to know it.

  "Why are you afraid? What keeps you from going inside yourself and discovering and unlockin£f that other, hidden self that I know is there because I have seen it?

  "You are afraid of the unknown. You are afraid that what you discover may change your life, and it seems more comfortable to stay with what you know. Or you are afraid that the person hidden within you is not the wise person you long for, but an ignorant person; perhaps even an evil one. You do not trust yourself, the self you have not yet met."

  Lily held out her hands to her parishioners. They were absolutely silent, holding their breath, waiting.

  "Trust yourselves! Believe in yourselves, in the wisdom and goodness within you that God puts in all His creatures! And if you cannot yet beheve, if you cannot yet trust yourself, trust me! Believe in me! I know what you are capable of! I know what lies ahead for you—self-discovery, joy, wisdom, love! I know there is nothing you cannot do or understand or share with another! Trust me, believe in me, help me to help you!"

  A young man in the audience rose to his feet and stumbled down the aisle. "Reverend!" he sobbed. "Reverend Lily, I trust you, I believe in you, I love you!" He fell on his knees at the base of the marble steps, holding out his hands to Lily, as hers were held out to him, and all one thousand parishioners.

  In the Fairfax studios, the director snapped out camera numbers and the screen flickered with images: Lily stretching out her arms, smiling, tears in her eyes; the young man reaching up to her, tears streaking his cheeks; others standing in their pews, making their way to the aisles, and down the aisles, to kneel on the marble steps. Some were crying, others were excited, a few were ecstatic.

  "I'll help you!" cried an elderly woman. She began to climb the marble steps, but in that instant two dark-suited young men, clean-cut and handsome, stepped forward and firmly took her by the arms, moving her back with the others. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she cried. "I got

  carried away..." She opened her purse. "I wanted to give Reverend Lily money, to help her finish the cathedral and visit people and do good! It's all right, isn't it. Reverend Lily.> You won't say no! I want to help!"

  Lily's color rose; this was the part she hated. "You are blessed," she said, her voice reverberating almost sadly through the church. She gestured with her hand to a carved column about three feet high and open at the top. "For those who wish to help..." she whispered.

  "Thank you!" exclaimed the woman. "God bless you!" She dropped her money into the column. Others followed
. Lily turned to speak direcdy into one of the cameras; her voice was a Uttle higher than usual, and a little mechanical. "It is good to help; it is the first step in unlocking the self within you. And it is good to receive. I cannot refuse your help, not the youngest one who would help, or the oldest, not the smallest contribution or the largest. Each is precious; each is to me like a hand held out from you to take my hand, to become my partner, to become my beloved friend. It doesn't matter how little or how much you send; you send what you can spare; you must not take from your families. Everything you send touches my heart and helps me bring to everyone the joy of finding that self you long for, and pray for, and dream of, and love ... as I love you. Good night, my beloved fi-iends; I send you my blessings, God's blessings, for the days until we touch each other again."

  An organ chord sounded and Lily began to sing; her voice was small and quavering, and a chorus behind her stood and sang with her. The camera pulled back to show her above the crowd at the foot of the marble steps. Enormous arrangements of flowers were everywhere on the altar, and glittering lights seemed to shed sparkles of gold throughout the Cathedral of Joy. Another camera turned to the crowds standing in the pews, singing with the chorus. Still singing, they slowly filed out of the church. An address appeared on the screen, and a sonorous male voice read it aloud, telling the audience to send money, or write to the Reverend Lilith Grace, saying or asking anything they wished. Then a short fist of towns appeared, and the voice read it aloud, saying that was where Reverend Grace would be in the next two weeks, and anyone who wished to have her visit their home should write to the same address. One person in each town would be chosen by lot to receive Reverend Grace, and would be notified the day before she arrived.

  Lily walked to the back of the altar and disappeared through a small

  door, where Sybille waited. She put her head on Sybille's shoulder. "I'm so tired," she murmured.

  "You were inspired," Sybille said. "You might have mentioned God a few more times, but ever^ing else was the best you've ever been."

  "Did you see them?" Lily asked, raising her head, her eyes shining. "They were happy! They loved me, they loved what I told them; Sybille, they do need me!"

  "Of course they do," Sybille said caressingly. "Their lives would be miserable without you. And there are millions of others, Lily, waiting for you. You mustn't stop now; wait until we have Graceville. All our dreams for it will come true. I promise you."

  Lily nodded. "I believe you. I just wish I didn't have to—"

  "But you do. And you've got to do it in a stronger voice. We can't build without money; we can't do good without money. You know that."

  "Yes. Thank you, Sybille. I'm not very practical; if it weren't for you I'd only be able to help a few people at a time. I'll do whatever you say. And I'll tr^ not to complain."

  They left the church through the back door and slipped into Sybille's limousine. Sybille kept her arm around Lily and let her drowse against her shoulder while she sipped a martini and the chauffeur drove them back to Washington. So simple; when had anything been so simple? She gazed absendy at the small towns and horse farms they passed. She had just that afternoon received from the accountant the total for what Lily had brought in in the first three quarters of the year. If the fourth quarter was the same—it should be better, but figure the same—the take for the year would be a nice round twenty-five million dollars.

  Enough to do a lot of good for the people who most deserve it, she thought. In the darkness of the car, she curved her hand around Lily's shoulder. "You're a treasure," she said, and Lily, drowsing, snuggled closer, with love.

  Tuesdays and most Fridays belonged to Carlton. He had rented the guest cottage on a friend's horse farm, and it was there that he and Sybille spent their time, from midafternoon to late at night. Once in a while, they flew in his plane to his house in the Adirondacks for a whole weekend, but only during those months when Carlton and Valerie never went to the mountains. That way he kept his two lives completely separate.

  Valerie thought he was in New York on those weekends, and on Tuesdays and Fridays, meeting with friends, other investment counselors, and clients whose portfohos he managed. In fact Carlton had given up most of his clients; it was enough to manage Valerie's money, her mother's and his own. He wanted the rest of the time for his horses, and for Sybille. He knew he was obsessed with her, but he didn't know what to do about it, and he didn't spend time looking for a way out. When they were apart his hunger for her was so powerftil it made him feel ill. He longed for her helplessness that contrasted so oddly with her business acumen, her soft adoration of him that made more fascinating her biting anecdotes about people in the television industry, her uninhibited sexuality that had grown over the months as she became confident he would not cause her pain.

  Valerie was stunningly beautiftil, the perfect hostess, the perfect wife. He loved her as much as he could love any woman, he told himself; after all, he knew he was a fairly selfish fellow, and it was difficult for him to care deeply about anyone—women had been telling him that all his life. But he was enthralled by Sybille.

  It was going so well that Sybille was beginning to take it for granted. But then, on a Tuesday morning in the last week of September, in the eleventh month of their affair, he was not at the guest cottage when she arrived, nor did he call or come at all that day. She still had not heard from him by Friday, and as she drove to the cottage that afternoon she was gripped by anger and fear. When she saw his car parked discreetly at the back, in its usual place, she was so relieved she almost ran into the cottage. "I thought you'd gone away without telling me," she said. "And I'd be alone again."

  He was sitting in a wicker armchair, slumped in its depths. "You know I wouldn't do that," he muttered.

  Sybille stopped short, in the center of the room. "What happened?" Usually, within thirty seconds of arriving, they would be on their way to bed. This time he did not even look at her. "Well?" she demanded. "Are you going to tell me?"

  He looked up at her. "You don't like to hear people's problems," he said shrewdly.

  "Not everybody's, but I want to hear yours. Maybe I can help. Carl, what happened?"

  After a moment, he shrugged and forced out the words. "I lost... some money. In the market. Got careless, didn't pay attention; thinking of you—" He saw her stiffen, and said quickly, "Not your fault;

  Fm not blaming you. There isn't anybody to blame; just me. Thafs the worst, you know: nobody to dump on; it was all me. I made some stupid half-ass moves, my timing was off. I thought I had a sure thing, but it was bad information... and then the stock took a dive..."

  "When?"

  "Monday afternoon. That's where I was Tuesday: in New York, watching my money go down the fucking drain."

  "How much?"

  ''Not only mine. Christ, that would have been bad enough. But it was Valerie's and her mother's too; their whole goddam motherfuck-ing portfolios blown to hell and gone."

  Sybille felt a high-pitched thrill of excitement. "Valerie's? All Valerie's money? Gone?"

  "Don't overdo it," he snapped.

  "How much was it?"

  "All together, hers, her mother's and mine, almost fifteen million."

  A long silence fell in the cottage. Sybille began to walk back and forth in the small room. All her money. Ifs £fone. She doesn't have any money. Ifs£ione. She's£fOt nothin£f.

  "Can't you sit down?" demanded Carlton.

  She shook her head, pacing and pacing, so excited she could not stop. Glee bubbled in her throat. "I'm thinking about what we can do."

  "For Chrisfs sake, we can find me fifteen million to replace what I lost." His voice rose; his eyes were burning. "There's nothing you can do, and all I can do is start selling everything I own. And tell Val. How the hell do I tell Val?" He slumped deeper in the chair. "Her father trusted me; I managed his money. Did a damn good job, too. Everybody trusted me. Everybody thought I was the cat's fat ass when it came to money; never let anything b
y me. Christ. How the fuck— how xhtfuck? —could I do that? Lost my touch, lost the money; shit, I'll have to sell the horses, the farm, my plane... and tell Val. The apartment in New York, the paintings, Christ, a goddam fortune in paintings... I had everything—you know? everythin£f! —and now most of it'll be gone. And I have to tell Val."

  Sybille paced. She was hot and cold, intoxicated, rapturous. Her gaze darted everywhere, as if she were seeing the world for the first time. At the windows, she paused. Don't £fo too fast. Think about this. She's in my power; I can decide her future. She gazed through the windows. There were the pastures and fields of Virginia, green-gold in the

  morning light. Acres of land, stretching to the horizon. Stretching to Culpeper, where, beside the Cathedral of Joy, there would be a town called Graceville.

  "Carl," said Sybille softly. An idea was growing in her mind, growing, spreading like a great tree. There was no limit to how far it could grow.

  She pulled a wicker chair close to Carlton and sat down, her knees almost touching his. "Carl, you haven't lost me. I'm here. I'm going to help you."

  He shook his head.

  "Carl, listen to me. Look at me. I have an idea."

  He looked at her from beneath reddened lids. He was unshaven, and it occurred to her that he had probably been up all night.

  "Are you listening?" she asked.

  He nodded.

  "You know my cathedral; you've been there." She waited. "Yes?"

  "For Christ's sake, of course I know it. You were there."

  "I haven't told you about Graceville."

  He looked at her. "Never heard of it."

  "It doesn't exist yet. Now listen. Do you know how the cathedral was built?"

  "Donations. You said seven million—three more to come."

  "Good; you remember. The money was given to the Hour of Grace Foundation. Tax-deductible contributions to a nonprofit religious institution run by a board of directors headed by a retired minister, a very respectable man named Floyd Bassington."