by Karen Hall
For the rest of the night, the insane laughter rang in his head.
Michael picked Bob up at seven o’clock the next morning. The traffic wasn’t overly miserable, and they made it to Plandome in an hour and fifteen minutes.
When he turned the car onto the Ingrams’ street, Michael immediately stopped. The street was filled with police cars. The Ingrams’ house was cordoned off by yellow tape and uniformed officers. Two ambulances were parked in front, but their lights were off and no one seemed to be in a hurry. There was a station wagon from the coroner’s office.
Bob and Michael looked at each other. They knew.
It took them about five minutes to find an Irish cop who was happy to supply the details. Around five o’clock in the morning, Danny had taken a shotgun he’d stolen from a neighbor’s house and shot his parents and brother while they slept. Neighbors had heard the shots and called the police. The Ingrams had been found in their beds, lying in pools of blood, all dead.
When the cops had arrived, Danny was sitting on the front porch, waiting, with a smile on his face. He laughed the whole time they were reading him his rights.
For Michael, the circus was only beginning. Danny’s court-appointed attorneys found out about the Ingrams’ belief that their son was possessed, and they decided it was as good a defense as they were going to come by. They contacted Bob and Michael, who both agreed to testify. They were both ill (not to mention furious) over what had happened, and they wanted to help any way they could. Bob could corroborate facts, but he wasn’t going to be an impeccable witness. He’d performed too many exorcisms; the jury would figure he was obsessed with demons and saw them everywhere he looked. Michael, on the other hand, was a highly educated, levelheaded magazine editor who hadn’t even believed in possession until Danny Ingram had made him a believer. He was the defense team’s star witness.
When Danny’s attorneys made their strategy known, the story became instant national news. The press launched into their feeding-frenzy mode, and Michael couldn’t walk out the front door of the residence without tripping over reporters. He waved them off with “No comment” until he felt as if someone should be briefing him on foreign policy.
A week before the trial began, Michael received a call to meet with his provincial. Michael had expected it; he knew those on high would want him to be careful about the way he worded certain things. But he had not been expecting what happened. Frank Worland informed him that he was not to testify at the trial. He was to maintain complete confidentiality about the Church’s involvement in the Danny Ingram affair. Michael couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Frank, even if I agreed, they would subpoena me. What am I supposed to do, lie?”
“You’re supposed to maintain confidentiality. How you do that is up to you.”
“This is insane!”
“Whether it is or it isn’t, Michael, I’m just the messenger. This is coming from higher up.”
“Higher up than what? God?”
“All I can tell you is, it’s coming from higher up.”
“How high?”
“You’d need a passport to go there,” Frank said.
Michael was astonished. “What, they don’t have enough to worry about?”
“Look at it, Michael. You were denied permission to perform an exorcism on a kid you claim was genuinely possessed. What do you think the press is going to do with that?”
“The press? Frank, three people are dead and a child is on trial for something he doesn’t even remember, and they’re worried about being embarrassed ?”
“Michael, the credibility of the magazine is at stake. You leave me no choice but to order you, under virtue of obedience—”
“I will testify and then appeal your order.”
“There will be severe consequences if you do that.”
“Fine.”
Michael had taken the witness stand and told the truth, every crumb of it he could remember. Danny got a twenty-five-year sentence, with a chance for parole after fifteen. His attorneys assured Michael that his testimony had a lot to do with keeping Danny from getting a life sentence. Michael was grateful for that much.
The press had the predicted field day. Michael’s picture was everywhere, from Newsweek to Christianity Today, along with sidebar stories on other Satan-related murder cases and surveys on people’s beliefs about the Devil. All of which was met by a deafening silence from on high. Michael knew they were waiting for everything to die down, so as not to invite further criticism or more bad publicity.
It was the New Yorker article that had sealed Michael’s fate. Two days after the article hit the newsstands, Frank Worland received an irate phone call from the bishop. Michael had “disregarded authority, created a scandal, and publicly humiliated him, the cardinal, and, in fact, the entire diocese.” Frank was ordered to do something about it immediately. The next thing Michael knew, he was on his way to Butcher Holler.
Before leaving New York, Michael had gone to the prison to visit Danny. The kid in the visitation room was the same lost kid who had asked Michael for help the first day they’d met. Danny could barely talk about his family for crying, but he managed to reconfirm everything he’d said at the trial—that he didn’t remember a thing about the night of the crime, and that there were large holes in his memory in the six months before it. He did remember hearing voices in his head. The voices had told him to hurt people, that they deserved it, that it was what God wanted him to do. The voices had become louder and more insistent as time went on. They’d driven him crazy, and he hadn’t been able to get them to shut up. He also said he didn’t hear the voices anymore. He hadn’t heard them since the night of the crime.
Danny Ingram’s face haunted Michael’s dreams. So did the faces of Kevin, Maureen, and Chris, who had once confided to Michael that he was afraid Danny was going to kill them all in their sleep. Michael had told Chris not to worry. “No one is going to let it go that far.” At least once a week, Michael woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, with those words pounding in his brain, those faces tearing at his heart.
The Varsity was beginning to fill up with the early dinner crowd, and the noise brought Michael back to the present. Someone behind him dropped a tray and he jumped. He looked up to see the smarmy guy chuckle at him, which sent him spiraling into even more shame. He told himself to knock it off. The next couple of days were going to be difficult enough. He collected his trash and dumped it, then headed outside.
As he walked through the parking lot, Michael had a mental image of the creepy guy pulling a nine-caliber semiautomatic out from behind the leather jacket and blowing him away through the window of The Varsity. He could see it across the front page of the Atlanta Constitution: PRIEST GUNNED DOWN IN VARSITY PARKING LOT.
Michael realized how exposed and vulnerable he felt, and he knew it had to do with Vincent’s death. Even though they hadn’t been able to spend a lot of time together the last few years, just knowing Vincent was alive in the world had made Michael feel somehow protected. He realized, already, how much of a shield Vincent had been for him. Vincent and the Church. One gone, the other teetering on the brink.
And something vile lurking in the wings.
You’re imagining it. You’re turning into a theological hypochondriac.
He heard the vague sound of thunder in the distance, even though none of the clouds he could see looked threatening.
Look at the bright side. Maybe you’ll be struck by lightning.
As he drove out of the parking lot, the thought came to him that he should go to Emory and pick up a grad school catalogue. Maybe he could talk the Royals into letting him go back to school for a year or two.
The standard Jesuit answer to an emotional crisis: get another doctorate. Learn one more language, everything will fall into place.
What else am I supposed to do?
How about the radical concept of dealing with the actual problem?
I will deal with the p
roblem. As soon as I can figure out what the hell the problem is!
You know what the problem is.
No. He knew the symptoms. He had no idea what was really at the bottom of it all. Maybe nothing more than your basic midlife crisis. Maybe he’d become a living cliché. If he were a doctor, he’d be pricing red convertibles.
It was an appealing thought. If this was a midlife crisis, at least it would eventually pass. In his heart, though, he feared that whatever was happening to him was nothing so harmless. And nothing so temporary.
He drove aimlessly around the city for almost an hour. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t want to go home until he was sure Barbara was gone. For some reason, he felt compelled to make her believe he was all right, and he didn’t have the energy for any more of that today.
Something Danny had said to him that day at the prison was ringing in Michael’s head.
“I’m so tired, Father Kinney . . . and there’s no rest.”
Every time he tried to take his mind off Danny Ingram, it headed for another danger zone. Tess. He kept thinking about the safety he’d felt in her arms. Even if it was an illusion, it was a desperately comforting illusion.
He’d packed a bag to stay with Vincent for a few days after the operation. It was still in the trunk of the car. Delta had a seven o’clock flight to LaGuardia. He could catch it easily. With a little luck, he could be at Tess’s door by ten. Ten thirty, the latest.
He told himself he should be ashamed for even thinking such a thing at a time like this.
He told himself that all the way to the airport.
FOUR
Tess looked through the peephole, then unlocked the door and jerked it open.
“I don’t believe this,” she said.
“I should have called, but I didn’t want to give you a chance to say no.”
She moved aside to let him in. He closed the door behind him and locked it, as Tess was still too stunned to move. He tossed his bag to the floor.
“I really can’t believe this,” she said again. “I mean . . .” She didn’t try to go on. She was wearing a soft pink bathrobe and had her hair tied loosely back with a strip of white chiffon. She looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her. Tess usually looked as if she were in charge of a state dinner and no one could find the president.
“Can I hug you,” she asked, “or am I supposed to keep a safe distance?”
Michael reached for her and pulled her into his arms. “I didn’t fly all the way up here and risk my life in a cab for you to keep a safe distance,” he said. He held her tightly, for a long time. The familiar smell of her hair was a welcome comfort.
“Vincent died,” he finally whispered.
“Oh, Michael.” She held him tighter. “I’m so sorry.”
“I knew he was going to die. I just thought he had a little more time,” Michael said, trying to explain his emotional state.
“I’m so sorry.” She stepped back and looked at him. “I know how much you’re going to miss him.”
“I already do.”
“I know,” Tess said, rubbing his arm.
The empathy in her eyes was making it hard for him to keep from crying, and he didn’t want to cry.
“I had to tell someone,” he explained. “And you were the person I wanted to tell.”
“I wish I could do something to make it hurt less.”
“You just did,” he said, and pulled her to him again.
“And—were you going to stay here?” Her voice had the tentative tone the situation merited, and she pulled away from him.
“If it’s okay.”
“Of course it’s okay,” Tess said immediately, but she still sounded hesitant. “It’s just . . .”
“What?”
“Well, you know. I mean—am I supposed to make up the sofa bed?”
When he tried to answer, he felt himself start to cry. He pulled Tess back to him and felt the soothing warmth of her skin, the heat of her lips on his neck. He lifted her face and kissed her. It took him no time to lose himself. The guilt vanished as quickly as it would return.
He awoke to the smell of coffee brewing. The room was light and he was alone. He’d left his glasses on the dresser across the room, and the numbers on the digital clock were a red blur, but there was a strong chance the first one was an eight. He forced himself out of bed and staggered to the bathroom.
He showered, shaved, and dressed, donning his standard jeans and a concession-to-New-York-City oxford cloth shirt, white with blue pinstripes. With his glasses on, he probably looked like a Columbia law professor. He studied himself in the mirror and wondered why, if he really loved being a priest as much as he thought he did, he hated looking like one.
He ventured out and found Tess in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. She was stirring eggs with one hand and pouring orange juice with the other. He watched her, thinking of all the people in the world who took such a scene for granted. For him, it was a forbidden form of poetry.
He pulled a chair back from the small table in the breakfast nook and sat down. “I don’t have a lot of time,” he said.
“You’re eating breakfast anyway. You’ve lost too much weight.” She brought a plate over and put it down in front of him. “Don’t they feed you down there?”
“I’ve become a vegetarian. It’s the only thing they don’t deep-fry.”
Tess sat down across from him with nothing but a cup of coffee. She had no business criticizing his eating habits. He didn’t know how she stayed alive, as little as she ate. But he wasn’t going to get into that one this morning. The air was already thick with undercurrents.
He crossed himself and started to bless the food. Tess frowned.
“Can’t you do that in your head?”
He looked at her, surprised by the hostility in her voice.
Tess asked. “You know I was a heathen.”
“I knew you were a lapsed Catholic.”
“But what? You thought I was a closet Christian?”
Michael couldn’t speak. As surprised as he was at the discovery, he was even more surprised at his reaction. Why did he feel like someone had just kicked him in the gut?
Tess smiled. “What, Michael? Is your superior going to be even more disappointed when he finds out you’re sleeping with an atheist?”
“You’re not even an agnostic?”
He felt like he was ten years old. What the hell difference did it make what Tess believed? Didn’t she have a right to believe anything she wanted? Why should it affect his life at all?
“So . . .” He couldn’t leave it alone.
“What?”
“So you’re one of those people who thinks Jesus was just a better-than-average rabbi?”
“No. I’m one of those people who thinks He probably didn’t exist.”
He put his fork down and stopped trying to be open-minded.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“I read a book; this guy made a very intelligent case of Jesus being a composite character.”
“What guy?”
“A Harvard professor.”
“Well, that settles it then. Great. Think how much money we’ll save next December.”
“Why do you care so much what I believe?”
“I don’t understand how you can be in love with me when you hate everything I stand for.”
“How can you claim to be in love with me when you work for people who go against everything I believe in?”
“I thought you didn’t believe in anything.”
“You know what I’m talking about. You are addicted to a Stone Age, misogynistic institution whose rules you don’t even believe in! Which, in my book, makes you a hypocrite with no right to look down on me!”
She left the room. He gave her a few minutes to calm down before following her.
He found her sitting on the bed, crying. He leaned in the doorway and waited.
“This is insane,” she said. “This isn’t about
Jesus.”
“I know,” he said.
She took a breath and dried her eyes with the tissue he’d handed her. Finally she spoke.
“I know you just lost Vincent and I shouldn’t be thinking about myself, but I think I’ve done this limbo thing for about as long as I can stand it.”
“I know.” He sat beside her and held her until she stopped crying.
“And I’m angry,” she said. “Because I just have to sit and wait until you’re ready to deliver the verdict.”
“I realize that,” Michael said. “But this isn’t a job you’re asking me to give up. It’s my life.”
“In exchange for a better one!”
“I didn’t vow to do this until something better came along.”
“Then why are you even here?”
He had no answer.
“And this is going to delay you making up your mind.”
“No, it won’t. I think it will help.”
At the airport, she let him off at the Delta curb. He kissed her, chasing away the thought that it might be the last time. Neither of them said good-bye as he got out and slammed the door behind him. He didn’t look back as she drove away.
FIVE
The wake service lasted for almost two hours, and the wake itself didn’t get under way until almost nine thirty. That didn’t dissuade anyone from heading to Vincent’s house with casserole dishes. The irony, Michael thought, was that what would really feel like consolation to him would be for everyone to go home and leave him alone. But since none of them were there for his sake, he knew that he and Barbara would be throwing them out at midnight, bar or no bar.
The gathering was rife with miseries Michael hadn’t even anticipated. On top of everything else, Monsignor Graham appointed himself Michael’s emotional guardian for the evening and dragged Michael all over the house, introducing people, telling stories that had been only mildly amusing the first dozen times Michael heard them. Now he had Michael and a couple of other hapless victims trapped in a corner, with no way out short of flagrant rudeness.
Michael scanned the crowd and found Barbara, who was positioned near the kitchen, directing the flow of incoming food. It took him a few minutes of diligent effort to catch her eye, but he finally succeeded. Using his hand to shield the side of his face, he mouthed “Help.” She nodded, excused herself from the cluster around her, and came over to him. Along the way, she picked up speed and a convincing look of urgency.