by Edward Lee
"Come on. The ghost then? That's what you're telling me? I don't believe it and neither do you."
Dan kept looking out the window as he spoke, clearly at odds with something. "The figure continued down the stairs in total silence, but by the time it got to the bottom it was gone."
"You're a good actor, Dan, but not that good."
"I'm not bullsh- I'm not making it up," he said and finally looked at her. The disconcertion drew lines in his forehead. "I keep telling myself it was a dream but-"
"It felt real," Venetia said rather than asked. Same thing with me ...
"Yeah. Anyway, I'm off to the attic coves. If I'm not back by sundown, send a search party."
"'Bye," she said, and watched him shuffle off. Yeah, he's really bothered by something.
Only a minute later, more footsteps echoed through the atrium: Father Driscoll's. "Well done, Venetia," he said, admiring the perfectly taped windows. "I thought we'd be at it a few more hours before we could start painting."
"Hi, Father. I've been a busy bee, I guess."
"What's the old line? Idle hands?"
"Are the Devil's workshop," she finished.
"Exactly." A noise caught Driscoll's attention. He looked up to the second-story stair-hall and saw Dan on a ladder. Venetia did a double take when she noticed that Dan had removed his collar and black clerical shirt. He's in ... really good shape. The stray thought sifted in her head. It actually annoyed Venetia the way her eyes kept flicking up at Dan's muscled chest and abdomen. Stop staring at him-jeez!
Dan didn't look happy as he fiddled with a ceiling panel.
"Don't have too much fun up there, Dan," Driscoll's voice boomed. "And try not to get too hot."
Dan looked down from the ladder, started to say something, but thought better of it.
Driscoll half-smiled. "Oh, and keep an eye out for rats."
Dan grinned back. "Father Driscoll, sir? I will bag every single rat in this attic and bring them all down just for you."
"Peace be with you, my son."
At last Venetia remembered something. Oh, I guess I better tell him. "Do we have any plaster or spackle?"
"Yes," Driscoll said, a cant in his voice. "Why?"
"I damaged one of my bedroom walls last night. I bumped the floor lamp and it fell over."
"Don't worry about it. It's hard to do any serious damage to these walls anyway."
"I know. Feels like they re all solid brick."
The priest nodded. "We'll take care of that later. Today I'd rather get these windows painted since you've finished taping them all." An abrupt clattering sound made them both look to the drapeless window, which was full of sunlight.
John, the yard boy, was pushing a large lawn mower around a weedy path.
"On second thought," Driscoll said, "why don't you start the painting in here. I'll go out and mow for a while. That kid's working too hard-he needs a break."
"Oh, let me do it, Father." Venetia said without hesitation. "I haven't introduced myself to him yet, and I'd love to get some real exercise."
"Venetia, it's very hot out--
"I'm a big girl. I won't faint," she assured him. "Okay?"
Driscoll picked up a bucket full of brushes and a can of white enamel. "All right. But not more than an hour. God's got better things to do than protect the righteous from heatstroke."
Venetia laughed and rushed to the door.
But the heat was stifling. The instant she stepped outside, her skin began to mist with sweat. Her sneakers took her briskly around the cement path to the back of the building. Most of the grass was pale-green, and the huge area behind the house seemed paralyzed in heat and silence. "Hey, wait up!" she called out.
She jogged up. John froze in the middle of reaching for the mower's pull cord. He was taller than she remembered, and well-toned in spite of the overly thin physique. His blackish hair in need of a trim stuck out every which way.
"Hi, John. My name's Venetia," she said and stuck out her hand.
At once he seemed reserved, even shy. "Hi," he replied almost inaudibly. He shook her hand quickly and with barely any grip.
"It's nice to meet you. I only got here yesterday. Let me mow for a while-"
"You don't have to," he muttered.
"Father Driscoll wants you to take a break."
Now he seemed defensive. "Well, ititit's my job."
"I know that, John." She almost laughed. "But you're working really hard out here, so go take a break." She put her hands on his shoulders and guided him away from the mower. "You shouldn't have to do all the outside work yourself-we'll all chip in, okay? Go inside and relax, get a cool drink."
"Well, if you're sure..."
"I'm sure, John. See you in a little while."
He shuffled off, looking over his shoulder a few times. "Buh-bye ..
'Bye-,,
Wow, he really is shy, she thought. Barely talks, and Betta doesn't talk at all. Was Dan right about a secret romance going on between the two?
The mower started on the first pull and seemed loud as a prop plane. It wasn't self-propelled but that was fine; Venetia was enthused for the opportunity to get some exercise. If only it weren't so hot! she thought. The rear grounds looked huge now but she wasn't thwarted. She just turned the mower and pushed forward.
The loud machine plowed swath after swath. She used the stout brick toolshed as her starting point. It stood in the center of the backyard. She worked her way outward, mowing the grounds from the inside out. This is even sort of fun. The heavier splotches of onion grass disintegrated under the blade; dandelions exploded in endless white tufts. Humidity compounded the heat; she hadn't even mowed a quarter of the back before she stopped for a moment, rolled her short sleeves all the way up, then unbuttoned her blouse and knotted it at the midriff. Dandelion seeds, pulverized grass, and sundry grit stuck to her exposed skin. Several times she had to stop and wait for a toad to hop out of the cutting lane, and later she even saw a bullfrog. Must be a pond around here, she reasoned.
An hour later, she was baking and drenched in sweat, yet she felt invigorated. There were no leftover doldrums from last night's inexplicable dream. Voices from Hell ... She grinned behind the mower's handle. Now that's a Catholic nightmare if there ever was one. And the writing beneath the plaster? Big deal.
When she approached the outer boundaries of the yard, she turned off the mower and pushed it into a cove within the front wood line. The sudden shade invigorated her. Just before she would sit down to rest, she heard a chorus of rrrrrribits, and then looked aside. There's the pond. Nestled right among the high trees and complete with lily pads, the small pond shimmered like a dark mirror. Pairs of round, gold-flake eyes from submerged bullfrogs made her feel like a trespasser. Minute dots from water bugs appeared atop the water and radiated outward in radarlike circles. At once, Venetia felt serene and lulled by the frog songs. It was refreshing to see a slice of nature like this, untouched by human meddling.
Then she frowned-so much for being untouched. In the trees, just off the rim of the pond, she spotted empty beer cans and various other litter. I'll get a bag later and pick it all up, she resolved. And-
What are those things?
She moved closer and noticed a number of long white plastic tubes that she thought must be pens.
But she was wrong.
Squinting, she read: oKrxo-0Pnoxs. Applicators for contraceptive foam ... Venetia knew about all the various birth control methods, but suddenly she felt naive for this was the first time she'd ever seen such a thing for real. She couldn't imagine anything less passionate. The woman has to dispense this stuff into herself before intercourse.... It seemed even less passionate than condoms, but then she reminded herself, These days, passion rarely has anything to do with it. It's just lust.
But did she really believe the Church's stance, that birth control devices circumvented God's intent?
Venetia wasn't sure how she felt about that one. No point arguing with the Pope....
She left the littered area and returned to the big ugly mower. She'd noted about a dozen of the emptied dispensers, plus lots of beer cans. Yeah, they've got quite a party going on out here. Of course, it wasn't her place to judge. But it did remind her of the deception of appearances. An eighteen-year-old introvert and a thirty-yearold mute woman couldn't have seemed more unlikely but then ... Love-and lust-will always find a way, she thought.
She couldn't even remember the last time she'd had a genuinely lustful thought herself. Her few extra glances at Dan's shirtless body upstairs hardly counted.
Another thought crept up: If I decide to not become a nun, what will my first sexual experience be like? And how grievous or venal a sin will it be if it's out of wedlock?
She started the mower and pushed it back out into the heat. The machine's racket and the scent of fresh-cut grass cleared her head.
But another thought sideswiped her; more of an image than a thought. She imagined cool shower water teeming down on her nude body, then-
Oh, jeez ...
A man's hands sliding up her sides and around to her breasts, a man standing behind her. She could also feel his nude hips against her buttocks, and the hard, warm col umn pressing against her. Then one of the hands slipped down slowly to caress her sex ...
Oh, come on! I don't need this! Suddenly she was tingling, the sweat coming out of her only increasing the obvious state of arousal. What had caused the brief fantasy? Finding used birth control applicators? Was the discovery of these things and the beer cans a symbol of revelry and abandon that her psyche was juxtaposing with hard-line Catholic beliefs? Just because I'm a Catholic virgin doesn't mean my sexual impulses are different from anyone else's. But harmless as the fantasy was it annoyed her. It made her feel out of control, at the mercy of primality.
Looks like I'm done, she thought a little later. She was at the edge of the yard now, and could see nothing left to be cut. She turned off the mower just as she noticed Danstill shirtless but now flecked with dust-striding across the yard.
"Driscoll wants you inside, says you've been out here too long. Come in and chug some water so you don't get dehydrated."
Venetia shook her head, mildly nettled. "I'm perfectly fine, Dan."
"Look, when a hundred and ten pound girl mows a half acre in this heat, she's going to be dehydrated."
"I'm actually a one hundred and twenty pound woman."
"Sure. Sorry. But just come in now. Boss's orders."
For the smallest moment, she caught Dan's eyes scanning her bare belly and glistening cleavage showing at the top of her blouse. Then he looked away.
"Where do I put the mower?" she asked.
Dan pointed to the brick shed in middle of the yard. "Right there. That's where the yard kid keeps everything."
For a second she toyed with the idea of telling him what she'd found near the pond. Too gossipy, she decided, thinking again of the importance of not making judgments about others.
"Come on, hurry up," Dan said.
"What's the rush!"
"Just come upstairs when you're back in." His expression changed to something half perplexed and half excited. "I found something pretty damn bizarre in the attic."
"What on earth is Dan so riled up about?" Mrs. Newlwyn remarked. Her old summer dress splotched by paint, she'd walked into the kitchen just as Venetia was getting a drink of water.
"Something he found while cleaning out the attic coves."
"Hmm," the tall woman contemplated. "But I wonder what they need brass polish for?"
"Brass polish?"
Mrs. Newlwyn pulled a can from the cupboard and grabbed a rag. "That's what they asked me to bring them."
"Let's go see."
They took the stairs up side by side. "You must be exhausted mowing all that grass."
"I don't know why everyone thinks I'm so fragile," Venetia joked. "I enjoyed it." She looked back down across the atrium. "Where's Betta?"
"She's out front, helping John."
Helping John? I'll bet she is.
The older woman glanced around with a satisfied gleam in her eye. "Slow but sure, we're getting this old place back to rights."
"I'll bet it doesn't take as long as Father Driscoll thinks."
"Down here," Driscoll's voice alerted them. He stood next to Dan beside the ladder. The ceiling panel up above had been taken down. The two men were inspecting something propped against the wall.
"What's that?" Venetia inquired.
"It's a very old painting," Driscoll said.
"It looks like..-. a painting of a Pope," Mrs. Newlwyn offered.
Dan got down on one knee to look closer. "Yeah, but which one? The raiments this guy's wearing look almost medieval."
Venetia knelt right next to him, then felt the oddest reaction when looking. Something like a chill?
A great miter adorned the Pope's rather bulbous face, and the eyes seemed disinterested within hooded lids. A gold cross emblazoned the hat, while another hung around the nameless Pope's neck. He wore a white cope over a black cassock, both of which were flamboyantly piped. Dan's right. It looks like the Middle Ages, Venetia thought.
"He doesn't look very happy," Mrs. Newlwyn pointed out.
"The history of the Papacy includes some very unhappy times," Driscoll said.
"And this was in the attic?" Venetia questioned.
"Yeah," Dan said. "Much to Father Driscoll's disappointment, the attic coves were all pretty much emptynot much for me to do. But I found this in the last one-"
"The oil paint's cracked," Venetia observed.
"Uh-huh. This is just how I found it. No box, no covering. So many years of hot summers and arctic winters ruined it. It might've been worth money. They should've stored it better."
But Venetia wondered who they might be. "I wonder why they didn't hang it downstairs. There are at least a dozen papal portraits in the atrium."
"That's why we need the brass polish," Driscoll said. "See the name plate?"
Venetia saw it, at the bottom of the ornate but dustcaked frame. "Here, Mrs. Newlwyn, let me see that." She took the can of polish and rag.
She practically had her face to the floor. The small plate was black with tarnish. When Dan hunkered down right beside her, she received the impression that he'd stolen a glimpse down her cleavage, and when she glanced over to him, he quickly looked away.
"Be careful," he said. "Who knows how old the metal is. Too much polish might obliterate the name."
Venetia dabbed some polish on, let it sit a minute, then began to gently wipe.
"Can you read it?"
A name began to appear from left to right.
"It's ..." She squinted hard. "Boniface."
"There were a bunch of Bonifaces," Dan said. "Isn't there a number?"
"Don't rush me!" Venetia gently buffed off the rest of the plaque. Then, in a voice so low as to be grim, she said, "Boniface the Seventh."
Dan chuckled. "Isn't that the one who died from gout?"
Venetia turned around but remained seated on the floor. "No," was her only reply.
Driscoll talked deliberately loud, and with that ever-soslight smile of his. "Obviously Venetia got higher marks in her Papal history classes than you did, Dan. Venetia, enlighten our cocky seminarist as to the nature of Pope Boniface the Seventh."
Dan smirked.
"He was one of the worst anti-Popes," she said. "The worst, according to most historians. He murdered Pope Benedict the Sixth in order to be installed as Pope himself, but after only a month he was banished by the Holy Roman emperor, Otto the Second. When Otto died, Boniface-who was backed by corrupt, unscrupulous, and very anti-Christian Roman aristocrats-murdered the next Pope as well, John the Fourteenth-and was reinstalled. If ever a Pope was pure evil, it was Boniface. A glutton, a rapist, a slave trader, and a robber baron-he was all those things. This guy was as corrupt as Nero, yet he sat on the Papal throne twice. He was even reported to be part of a secret Satanic sect."
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"There you have it, Dan," " Father Driscoll said, amused by yet another opportunity to rib his assistant. "And I'd say that you've answered your own question, too, Venetia."
She let out a grim chuckle. "Yeah. Now we know why this portrait wasn't displayed downstairs with the real Popes."
"But ... why?" Mrs. Newlwyn asked now. "Why would there even be a portrait of this horrible man here?"
"Consider what Venetia said a moment ago," Driscoll commented. "Boniface was thought to be in a secret Satanic sect. Anyone?"
Venetia's eyes widened. "Amano Tessorio," she spoke up. "The architect for the prior house."
Dan nodded now. "Of course. For years while he was the Vatican's architect he lived a blasphemous double life
"As a member in a secret Satanic sect," Mrs. Newlwyn finished.
"So it's pretty easy to ascertain," Driscoll added, "that this portrait was something that Tessorio privately owned but never dared show anyone. I'll bet he came up to this attic to gloat over it every now and then while still on the Vatican payroll. Tessorio was a blasphemer hidden within the inner circles of the Vatican hierarchy itself-the ultimate offense to God."
A heavy silence hung in the stair-hall after Driscoll's bleak dissertation. Eventually, Mrs. Newlwyn uttered, "How ... awful."
"Great grist for detractors of Catholic thesis," Dan offered. "It's hard to support the infallibility of the Church after so many anti-Popes."
"It doesn't mean the Church is fallible, Dan," Driscoll asserted. "Just humankind." He pointed down. "Now show Venetia and Mrs. Newlwyn the other one."
"There's another painting?"
"Not a painting.'.. " Dan carefully slid the Boniface canvas aside to reveal a smaller frame of quality drawing paper.
"A sketch?" Mrs. Newlwyn guessed.
Driscoll nodded. "Probably drawn by Tessorio himself. Most architects are also excellent sketch artists, by ., necessity.
Venetia hunched forward again, then flinched. "It's ... hideous. And I'm not sure why? It almost looks like-"
"A different rendition of the Boniface portrait," " Dan said.
It was a fine-fine sketch, detailed as the most intricate engraving-and indeed seemed to mimic the painting: a similar portraiture and outline, complete with the great miter, only now the cross was upside down. But the "hideous" part?