by Ruby Spinell
Bath, realizing his leg was being pulled, flushed a little. “Well, I got kinda interested in it all. They make pilgrimages to these mountains. The pilgrimages may take any form or shape as long as the individual knows it’s the one he should be making.”
“Or she,” John Fay interjected.
“Yeah. Whatever.” Brusquely … “Didn’t mean to get sidetracked. Father Polaski also speaks Vietnamese and Cambodian. The Cambodian dialect is one spoken in the Cardamom Mountain area near Battambang.”
Fay raised his head. “Another sacred mountain?”
Bath did not deign a reply. “Father Arturo Polaski also speaks Spanish. For a couple of years now, he’s been doing sanctuary work with the Nicaraguans. Danley, I hear, gave him the green light there.
“Then, I had some time left, so I took Mrs. Henry. No big deal,” he sloughed off Fay’s thanks. “Mrs. Henry lives over on Eighth Street within walking distance of the monastery. Fifty-seven years old, mother of four (who’ve all left home), she lives with her husband. He works for the phone company. Pleasant middle-aged woman, likes to keep busy. Once in a while she cleans for other people, but she always cleans the extern quarters and the church for the sisters. She was cleaning that Tuesday, but she had to leave early for a doctor’s appointment, so she missed our little delivery. I checked. She did have a doctors’s appointment. A matter of cancer her husband doesn’t know about … yet.
“Five ladies help her out, altar society or something. Flowers, decorations for feast days, that kind of stuff … but she insists on doing all the cleaning herself.” Bath stopped for a moment and looked at them. “Mr. and Mrs. Henry lost a son in the Cambodian conflict. From what I hear, she accepts it as the will of God. Her husband on the other hand, has some rough things to say. Phone company’s not the great twenty-first century integrated ideal … so he’s not exactly on the spot.” He looked first at one, then the other. “Says he’d rather kill the gooks than work with them, if it comes to that. He has ten years before retirement.”
Walt Bathesday cocked an eyebrow while he flipped his pad. “The good bishop. Fifty-nine years old, native New Yorker, Hayes High School.”
Eli smiled. “Went right into the seminary after graduation?”
“No.” Bath sucked saliva through his teeth. “He joined the Marines. Tough street punk from what I hear. An old teacher of his resides in the Upstate Home for Senior Priests. He remembers Blackbeard Danley, says he had red hair, but they called him Blackbeard.” Bath gave Eli a quizzical shrug.
“Superiors in the service thought Danley was going to make a life of it,” Bath continued. “Thirty years, and they remember him still. Say he had the makings of a great soldier. Three four-year tours … hand picked for Special Forces … Sent to Nam from Korea. When the powers that be did not want to, or could not bring themselves to, use guerilla tactics, he disappeared behind the scenes somewhere. Everyone’s hazy on just where Operational Assistant Danley went.
“He surprised them by asking for release at the end of his third tour to join the seminary of all things. You’re looking at cardinal material now.
“Religious conversion?” Bath pursed his lips. “Don’t know. Happens. Gad, thirty years is a long time to remember; some of these coots were real old!” He shook his head in disbelief.
John Fay’s contented face had long since waved good-bye to his plate when he felt Eli’s eyes on him. He cleared his throat. “The kid, Del Martin, cute little twerp. Asked if I wanted to trade playing cards with him. Do I look that young?”
Bath leaned forward, “Hey, I didn’t think kids did that anymore.”
Fay looked at him incredulously. He began again. “Del is eleven. Lives with his family just over the line into Incarnation parish. They used to live on Fifth. His dad misses his bagels.”
Eli interrupted, “Where do you get good bagels around here?”
“Breadstuffs.”
“Breadstuffs from Annunciation to Incarnation … bagels from Breadstuffs Bakery to Mr. Martin.” Eli grinned at his own witticism.
“Del is real pleased with himself, pockets three dollars a week, a veritable budding capitalist. He figured the route out all by himself. Teachers’ conference that afternoon … half day … he arrived at the monastery about one p.m. Didn’t see anything. Wishes he’d gone for the bagels first. Sure wishes he’d seen those hands and feet.”
“Bloodthirsty little goblin.”
“Naw. All male kids are like that.
“Father William Strisbel,” Fay continued, “mid-forties. Kinda your average activist. Has been warned to cool it. Been in jail twice for pouring blood on Selective Service files. Diocesan.” This last came out with a perplexed grunt that said in John Fay’s experience only Jesuits poured blood. “Danley sent him to St. Hilary’s. Been there two years now. Parishioners like him. Does more than his share of work, no complaints. Doesn’t seem to harbor antipathy, anti-Asian that is. Quiet guy, writes poetry on the side.”
Fay flipped his pad. “Father Jeff Allen seems very close to Father Stephen Elias. Same size, same build.” Walt did a Groucho imitation with his left eyebrow. “No, not like that at all, like brothers. They get along real well; everyone says so.”
Eli interjected, “Father Allen is the one who takes over Father Elias’ work when he’s out of town.”
“Allen is thirty-five,” Fay said, referring to his notes. “Long Island kid, large family. Real sports freak. Coaches the boys’ basketball, soccer, and baseball.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Kids at the elementary school say he’s good.”
“How tall is Father Strisbel?” Eli asked.
“About five eight.” Eli wrote it down in his notebook. “Cheery guy, sure can’t see him dashing around with freezer bags of cow’s blood. Never know, though.”
Eli nodded. “You’ve been thorough, both of you.” He raised a finger for more coffee.
John Fay stood for a moment, turned his chair around and sat down, straddling it. When Sebastian Molinari had gone back to the counter with the coffee pot, he resumed talking. “Father Stephen Elias, fifty-one years old, Diocesan priest, another native New Yorker. Been at St. Hilary’s fifteen years now. A flake, I’m afraid. A loser. Barely made it through seminary. It was St. Hilary’s or the loony bin for priests.” He enjoyed the curious looks of the other two. “Sorry, but he was in a bad way. From all I hear, nerves completely shot. A pacifist at one time. Marched. Demonstrated. Never had the guts to sprinkle the blood of the lamb on the doorposts …” His voice trailed off.
The old monsignor, O’Reilly it was, asked to have him sent to St. Hilary’s. Thought he could help him. Guess he thought he was having some sort of vocational crisis. Seems to have worked; he’s found his non-threatening niche. Parishioners say he’s easy to get along with. Really enjoys servicing the monastery.”
A blast of air escaped forcefully from Bath, who then pounded the table, “Haw, haw, haw … the bull on demand huh?”
John Fay looked at his partner in disgust before continuing. “Oh, yeah, he was a twin. Not identical. But old teachers say it was hard to tell the brothers apart, on the surface, that is. There the resemblance ended. Father Elias had a brother who was darn good at everything … girls, sports, grades …” Eli took note of the order. “Stephen Elias was not too good with women.” From the expression on his face they could tell that the cleric had been a perfect dolt, as far as John Fay was concerned. “He couldn’t graze a football held eight inches from his toe. And he failed, failed, failed.
“He studied medicine, barely made the internship, then flunked out. He ended up joining the priesthood. At about the same time, his brother de-railed a proposed law career to join the Marines as a fighter pilot in Nam. He crashed his Phantom II. Some feel that Father Elias’ breakdown, if not caused by, was at the very least exacerbated by his brother’s disappearance and death.
“That old Monsignor O’Reilly must have been quite the devil on wheels from what I heard, ran the rectory like boot ca
mp. Evidently helped Elias.” Fay’s eyebrows were quizzical. “Haven’t met the Father, from all I hear he’s no longer slated for the loony bin.” Eli, musing to himself, was noncommittal. The person Fay was describing and the man he had spoken with did not seem like one and the same. Curious.
By late afternoon, Bath and Fay, caught up on their paperwork, were on their way back to the neighborhood of middle-class homes abutting the Annunciation, in hopes of catching certain individuals home. Eli spent nearly an hour with the lieutenant sketching in the investigation. Answering Morley’s questions took longer than he had expected. The lieutenant didn’t cite the pressures he was under, but Eli knew they were still there; Morley was too thorough. And he was complimentary. He was only openly appreciative when he agreed with what you were doing and when he wanted to make you feel easy and clear about the job you were on so you could do even better.
Eli hadn’t changed from the old work clothes. They gave him a devil-may-care attitude he thought, catching sight of himself leaving the office at the end of the hall.
The temperature had risen abruptly into the low thirties. Rain pelted the accumulated snow, glazing the surface. A glare of ice formed on all the cleared thoroughfares. It was going to be slosh, slosh, slide, slosh for a while. He decided to call Marion.
She was pleased, her voice was light. “Well, I’m playing homebody today. I thought I was coming down with a cold, so I decided to cook myself chicken stew and dumplings.” She took a deep sniff. “Smells great. If you’re not afraid of germs and you’re not fussy, you’re welcome. I’m working on a blueberry pie, the blueberries are big as thumbnails. I got them at the market before the snow hit. They’re really beautiful. I wonder where they came from.” Her voice deepened. “I’d like company.”
She must have run to buzz the door open with her hands covered with flour. The wall was smudged white; a trail of powder led into the kitchen. Eli followed. It was a modern apartment, very pleasant, very bright. She had accentuated the kitchens’ single saffron wall with bright red pots and pans which hung in helter-skelter angular fashion from an overhead rack. Below this, not quite in the center of the floor but close to one counter, a large chop block stood on squat red legs.
She turned from the wooden chop block to wave him in, a streak of white across her forehead. Gesturing to a cabinet over the sink she said, “Help yourself to a drink.” She turned back, then stretched full across the surface of the block—rounding the paisley print of her skirt so that thousands of geometric swirls loomed loud and clear—and uncurled a pie crust from the roller in her hand onto the counter where there was room for it to lie unbroken.
She wore a soft white knit top with a low scoop neck. A tiny white apron protected the front of the magenta skirt, inadequately. Her hair in damp tendrils at the base of her neck was almost the same color as the tail feathers of the cockatoo in the cage by the window. The crested parrot started talking wildly when Eli came up behind her and put his arms about her waist.
He intended to kiss her on the neck and go and make himself a drink. She was mixing flour and sugar with her hands in a big aluminum bowl full of deep purple, almost black, blueberries.
Intentions. Intentions. He watched himself slide the sweep of paisley slowly up over the dimpled backs of her knees … up the rounded thighs.
“No! Eli … my pie … let me finish the pie!”
The material inched up over her bare bottom, “Just checking.” His hands smoothed the firm flesh; it was silky and pink. There were no straps, no strap marks. Before she knew what was happening, he lifted her, bent her over, and spread her wide.
She fought him, her voice this time angry, very angry. In the scuffle that followed, the bowl under her breasts tipped over, emptied, rolling off the chop block falling clattering on the kitchen tile, scattering blue balls.
The bird jumped about crazily in its cage making tch-tch … tch-tch sounds. Keeping her pinned, he sucked saliva into the front of his mouth, collecting it on his tongue. Then picking her up to his face, he let all of the liquid pour out of his mouth onto her asshole. Gently … oh so gently … he started licking around and around, up and down. She went limp under his hands, a low guttural sound coming from deep within her. There was the taste of spices. Her whole back arched.
Dropping his right hand away from her buttock then, he unzipped his fly, literally popping out of the welcome opening, he brought her wet pussy down on the erect, hot rod cradled in his hand, putting it exactly where he knew she wanted it. Her elbows hit the chop block squirting blue back at him from either side.
He humped so hard her breasts flew out of the knit top. First one, then the other, they fell in the blueberries where they ground back and forth until there was a purple mash on the surface of the table. The pink nipples reflecting in the shine of the broiler across the way, grew darker and darker.
With his left hand, his whole body supporting her while she withdrew her arms, he drew the sweater down to her waist to give her more freedom to move. Seemingly oblivious of everything but what lay between, she flexed and rolled back and forth. Smooth, Frictionless. Blueberries squashed under her breasts, under his hands, under his penis, in the cleft of her body. Little rivulets of blue ran along each of her arms.
She looked like she was wearing blue war paint. Every part of her was streaked except her bottom. He turned her over and sat her down squarely on the fruit pulp, while kissing her on the mouth long and hard. Her breasts were sticky and there were blueberry stains on her chin. Laying her gently back on the table, he drew her naked buttocks forward, doctor-like to the edge of it, then lay her legs, one after the other, up against his chest.
She swore later that he stuffed her with blueberries, that there were blueberries falling from her vagina the rest of the night.
They took a bath in lieu of pie and cleaned blueberries from her ass, laughing. That started it up all over again in the jacuzzi.
“Janah, we have to stop this.”
“Why?”
Late that night, Eliaphus D. Janah let himself into his apartment, walked unerringly in the dark to the swollen armchair and dropped. He sat there for about twenty minutes. Then he got up, put on a light, looked at his watch, and dialed Walt Bathesday’s number.
“Walt, sorry, I know it’s late.” Bath didn’t sound as if he had been asleep. “Can you find out how many times Polaski’s been overseas? Southeast Asia for a start. Oh, I would think with his background he would be able to travel anywhere over there. I’d also like the computer printout on Danley’s overseas travel for ten years. No, go back farther on Danley. While you’re dealing with passports and visas, check Strisbel and Allen. Yeah, they’re quite an interesting group. I’m curious about the old Monsignor’s routes … got a feeling it started with him. Not sure yet.
“What do you really think about Arthur Danley dropping the service all those years ago … his religious conversion?” He listened to Bath. “But we always fight the old war, so what’s new? They couldn’t see it wasn’t going to work in Nam. The Marines told them. Special Forces told them.” There was a stream of crisp, salient expletives from the man on the other end.
“Hell, I can see the bitterness … watching the stupidity of it all … yeah.” There was a long silence between them.
“Walt, imagine you’re a street-wise punk who’s found his nook, his hole, his corner of the world … you’re in a situation like Danley’s … what do you do? You join the Church?” He nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
They talked for about ten more minutes. Then Eli asked, “One last thing, could I have the names of the rest of the sacred mountains? No, I’m not kidding.”
On the pad of paper by the phone he wrote: East—Tai-shan in Shantung. South—Heng-shan in Hunan. West—Hua-shan in Shensi. North—Heng-shan in Hopei. The spelling of the Northern and Southern mountains appears identical to us, but the Chinese characters are entirely different.
He thanked Bathesday, hung up and wrote the one he already
knew at the end of the list … Central—Sung-shan in Honan.
Chapter Eleven
The vest was a reddish-brown in color. She picked it up wondering, bay or chestnut? Wondering also if the people who sewed them in the reputable little dress factory knew where they were going, the vests. Almost certainly the people did not know where they themselves were going. Such confusion among us all she thought.
Sister Damian of Mary stood in her cell at the top of the house, fresh from the allowed weekly bath. Her hair, short and wet, clung to her head. Most of her length was from the waist down. Strong haunches, her father had once remarked before mother cut him off. She patted her naked thighs. It had been years since she raced around the paths in the enclosure garden for the sheer joy of moving fast, but she felt she could still cover them in less than three minutes.
Hurriedly, for the room was none too warm, she threw the opening of the hair shirt over her head, pulled it down on her warm, still slightly moist, breasts and back, and tied the loops apron-like, at the sides. She then drew the heavy, unbleached wool undergarment, cut like a tunic, on over it.
Immediately, the flesh protested. Pricks by the hundreds bit into her soft skin. After three days, one did not feel it as much, but coming straight from the bath, skin revved up, pores open, ultra-sensitive and softened, the hair shirts were very hard to take. Their shorter cousins, the cinch-belts, were like fire ants eating into your waist. Reverend Mother Michaels did not like any one wearing either of them—or the different types of arm bands and metal chain bracelets—for more than a week at a time. She preferred three days. Damian chose those three following bath-day.
She would wear it longer right now if Michaels would only relent … especially now … living with this foreboding, this awful waiting for the thing to out.
A gust of wind blew on her from the dormer that had never been fitted for a storm window. She gave a little gasp and grabbed up the heavy wool habit. Each movement dug the short cropped horse hairs into her soft skin. A pain shot through her right breast to her back as a rigid hair slid up one of the ducts in the nipple.