The Surrogate, The Sudarium Trilogy - Book one

by Leonard Foglia

“What?”

  She reached into her backpack, pulled out a stack of photos and handed them to him. “These.”

  On top was a picture of a young boy with an ice cream cone, standing by a lamppost. The other photos, Polaroids, were less innocuous. He shuffled through them quickly.

  “Where did you get them? What are they?”

  “I think the top one is Jolene Whitfield’s son. I don’t know what the others are. I found them in her studio. They look like someone’s being tortured. Why would she have photographs like that in her possession?”

  Father Jimmy ran through them again, more slowly this time, before framing his answer carefully. “You said she is an artist. Maybe they have something to do with her paintings?”

  “She doesn’t paint people, Father. She does these weird, abstract things. They could be anything else, but they’re definitely not people..”

  “Well, these could be pictures of some avant-garde performance, or maybe a protest. Off-hand, I can’t tell. So much crazy stuff goes on these days in the arts. The National Endowment got into terrible trouble a while ago because of it. Some woman smearing her body with chocolate sauce, wasn’t it? My point is the pictures are probably not what they seem.”

  The explanation, he realized, was unlikely to satisfy her. It didn’t satisfy himself. He could easily comprehend why Hannah was shaken by these images. “Can you leave these pictures with me? Give me some time to study them? I’ll see what I can make of them.”

  Hannah’s mood changed immediately. “Then you will help me? Oh, thank you. There’s nobody else I can talk to.” Impetuously, she threw her arms around the priest and hugged him. The gesture startled him, but not wishing to upset her further, he waited before disentangling himself.

  “Of course, I’ll help you. That’s why I’m here. It’s my work,” he said, self-consciously, putting his hands on her shoulders and gently easing her away from him. He hoped she didn’t interpret the gesture as a rebuttal. He liked having her close.

  “My friend Teri says that pregnant women have a God-given right to be emotional.”

  “I’m not sure that’s in the Bible,” he replied. “But most likely Jesus would have agreed with her.”

  Father Jimmy was unable to sleep that night, thinking about the troubled girl and how much she counted on him to help sort out her life. He contemplated talking to Monsignor Gallagher. Maybe this situation was beyond his own abilities. He didn’t want to give any advice that would result in a wrong decision. He still believed Hannah should follow through on her commitment, but the important thing was for her to believe it. In the end, any decision would be hers and she would be the one to live with the consequences, good or bad.

  That wasn’t all that was bothering him. He realized he was developing strong feelings for this young woman, but he couldn’t define them. He was drawn to her, although he was sure the attraction wasn’t sexual. He had dealt with his sexual feelings before, prayed to be freed of their tyranny and had seen his prayers granted. He valued his celibacy deeply. This was different, this impulse, this urge, to take care of Hannah. He wanted to encircle her with his arms and comfort her and assure her that she was safe.

  Somehow she had known to seek him out. And he somehow sensed that she had been right to do so. They were destined - no, destined was too big a word - they were attached in some elementary fashion. What she needed, he needed to give. Each one completed the other.

  He sat up and turned on his bedside lamp. On the table were the pictures she had left with him. He thumbed through the pile. Whatever their explanation, they were upsetting. A human being, stripped of his identity, deprived of his ability to see, talk and hear. Terrorists did this to their hostages to break their will and reduce them to animals. Except … except … he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The photos had a sterile quality about them. They didn’t look quite real, frankly.

  And this equipment? The mannequin’s head? What was that all about? It appeared to be some kind of laboratory experiment. Father Jimmy went back to the picture of the man in the hood with his arms over his head. Was he part of an experiment, too? If so, what was being tested? Muscle strength? Endurance? A drug?

  The man’s hands were not visible in the picture, but the tension in the arm and the way the head fell to one side, indicated that he had been pushed (or pulled) close to his physical limits. Was the man young? Old? Probably younger rather than older, judging from the musculature. If only his face hadn’t been covered.

  Baffled, Father Jimmy put the photographs down and stared at the wall in front of him. It was bare, except for the two-foot crucifix, carved out of ebony by an anonymous craftsman in Salamanca, which hung to the right of the room’s only window. He let his eyes rest on it, forcing himself to empty his mind of the swirling thoughts. All at once, his heart jumped!

  He adjusted the shade of the bed lamp so that the light fell directly on the photos. His eyes weren’t deceiving him. The tilt of the head was similar. So was the angle of the extended arms.

  And unless he was terribly mistaken, the other photos - the body being carried, fireman-style, by a second person; the inert body laid out on the ground - told the rest of the story.

  What was being re-enacted for the benefit of the Polaroid camera was the crucifixion and its aftermath.

  1:29

  Hannah had to strain hard to make out the tiny letters, but she was pretty sure she had them correct. They were on the building in the background of the photo. Over the left shoulder of the boy eating the ice cream.

  She compared it to the photo of Jolene and the boy - was he her son? - standing in front of a cathedral that looked as if it were made of melting wax. That one could have been taken anyplace. Cathedrals weren’t exactly in short supply in the world. But the photo of the boy with the ice cream cone was another matter.

  It showed the plaza in front of the cathedral from a different angle and one of the burnished stone buildings had words on it. She copied them onto a piece of paper,

  Oficina de Turismo de Asturias

  stared at them for a while and wondered what to do next. It was, after all, only five words over the entrance of an old building.

  Still, she had to start somewhere.

  She took a last look at the photograph of the smiling figures in front of the melting cathedral and slipped out the door.

  At the East Acton library, she went directly to the Encyclopedia Americana. It didn’t take her long to learn that Asturias was a province in northern Spain. In the stacks, the librarian pointed out where the travel guides were shelved. Several were devoted to Spain. Hannah looked up “Asturias” in the index of the thickest one, turned to page 167, as directed, and blinked in surprise. There was a full color picture of the very same cathedral she’d been staring at an hour earlier. It was located in Oviedo, the cultural capital of Asturias. The melting structure with its lacey spire, the caption said, was the city’s most famous landmark.

  Hannah hastened down the library steps, eager to share the information with Father Jimmy, but running required more effort than she could summon and after a few steps she was winded. As she paused to catch her breath, she realized she was hurrying for nothing.

  Or very little.

  Jolene and Marshall (she assumed Marshall had taken the photos) had been to Spain. So what? Hadn’t Letitia Greene told her as much the very first day they’d all met, when she described them enviously as world travelers. And there was nothing very unusual about their posing before an old cathedral. It’s what tourists had done forever or at least for as long as cameras were standard tourist gear. They planted themselves in front of the church or the statue or the waterfall, smiled frozen smiles, and had their picture taken. It was a bid for instant immortality, proof that they, like Kilroy, had been there.

  Even the sign on the building that Hannah had taken such care to decipher had turned out to be a disappointment. The “Oficina de Turismo de Asturias,” it was obvious to her now, was nothing more than the loc
al tourist office.

  She slowed her pace to an easy stroll. There was nothing to share with Father Jimmy that couldn’t wait until the Saturday night social hour.

  Monsignor Gallagher looked down at the Polaroids that Father Jimmy had spread before him on the kitchen table in the rectory, looked and sighed quietly. Father Jimmy hadn’t even given him time to finish his lunch and he was supposed to comment on this mystery.

  He liked the young man, but as with most young men, patience was not his strong suit. It would come with age - after he’d said a thousand masses and heard as many confessions. For now, he was filled with the urgency of what Monsignor Gallagher could only consider a rather fantastic and complicated story.

  It had to do with that young pregnant woman, who was new to the parish. She was, he had just been informed in rather too much detail, a surrogate mother, who had found these photographs somewhere, photographs that were unusual, granted, Monsignor Gallagher was willing to admit that much. But the conclusion that Father Jimmy had drawn from them, no, that he could not accept.

  A crucifixion in this day and age? It was, to put it plainly, preposterous.

  For a moment, the Monsignor felt old and tired. Saying what had to be said, saying it in a way that brooked no compromise, yet didn’t sound autocratic, was a difficult enough feat with the parishioners. With the man he considered his charge, it was even harder. He valued the trust and the openness of the young priest, who came to him with all his problems, and didn’t want to jeopardize it with an ill-considered reflection.

  He continued to contemplate the strange Polaroids, mindful of the pair of eyes on the other side of the table.

  “What do you think?” Father Jimmy asked.

  “I think…that this is none of our business, James,” he finally said. “You’re not a policeman. You’re a priest.” He pushed his plate away, his appetite gone.

  “But she believes she is in real danger. She wants my help.”

  “Does she?”

  “She believes her baby is in danger.”

  “I see. I see.” The monsignor rubbed his chin. “It would appear to me that we have a far graver problem that merits our attention. And that is your relationship with Mrs. Manning.”

  Startled by a response he had not been expecting, Father Jimmy answered lamely, “She is not married, Father.”

  “And the ring?”

  “She just wears it to deflect questions.”

  The Monsignor took a moment to digest this information, which only magnified his conviction that Father James stood at a far more perilous crossroads than this woman did.

  “Married or not, it makes little difference.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The Monsignor got up from the table and placed his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “We are tested all the time, James. As servants of the Lord, we are tested every day. And there is no greater test for us than that presented by a desirable woman. Miss Manning, if that is indeed the case, comes to you for help. Why should you not respond? She is very appealing. She seems confused, vulnerable. But you must not let her confusion become your confusion.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Hear me out, James. I am not saying this girl is evil. But she is weak and the devil works through the weak. I know that is an old-fashioned idea - the devil, leading mankind astray. No one gives him much credit anymore. So perhaps we should talk of desire, instead. Desire, which can take so many forms and disguises. Have you considered that your wish to protect her, may mask intentions of a different sort? Even this desire of yours to believe that she is an innocent at peril has blinded you to a far less exceptional reality -that she is a neurotic young girl, who seems to deeply regret a choice she has made. You have an auspicious future ahead of you. Do not let this girl spoil it for you.”

  Father Jimmy was quiet. What was there to say? He gathered up the Polaroids sheepishly.

  The Monsignor was right. He was always right.

  Social hour in the church basement was packed. Even the Monsignor had seen fit to attend. Above the buzz of conversation, Hannah could hear Mrs. Lutz touting to whomever would listen the virtues of her sunshine cake with special chocolate almond frosting.

  Father Jimmy was already surrounded by several chattering ladies, so Hannah wandered up to the punch table and let Janet Webster from the hardware store pour her a glass.

  She made polite conversation, answered the usual questions from the curious about when the “little one” was due, and confessed that no, she didn’t have any names picked out yet.

  “I’ve always thought Grace was a beautiful name,” said a jolly man who brushed his few strands of hair sideways across his bald head, so that he appeared to be wearing head phones. “Gloria, too. For a girl, of course.”

  Hannah managed to catch Father Jimmy’s eye, but Mrs. Lutz was besieging him loudly to try her sunshine cake and he looked away. There would be no getting his attention now. She would talk to him when the crowd thinned out.

  A half hour later, she was still waiting.

  “Miss Manning? Good to see you this evening.” It was the Monsignor.

  “Oh, how are you, Monsignor?”

  There was an awkward pause.

  “I thought it my duty to monitor this week’s confectionary concoctions and prevent any sugar highs, if I could,” he said. Levity did not come easily to him. “You are well? You and the….” He made a vague gesture that encompassed her ballooning stomach.

  “Very well, thank you.”

  “No problems?”

  “None.”

  “That’s good.” He started to say something, then changed his mind. “Pregnancy should be a joyous time in the life of a woman.”

  At last, several parishioners began to clear the dessert table, while the rest made their way up the stairs into the night. All that remained were a few stragglers, when Father Jimmy came over to Hannah. He seemed more reticent than usual.

  “I saw you talking to the Monsignor.”

  “Yes.”

  “About anything special?”

  “Just small talk.”

  He slipped his hand into his pocket and took out the Poloraids. “I’m afraid I don’t have very encouraging news for you, Hannah. I couldn’t make head nor tails of these.”

  “Nothing…?”

  “I’m sorry, no.”

  “But what about the message on the answering machine? From Jolene’s son?”

  “If it’s important to you, you’re going to have to ask them about it yourself. Remember Hannah, it’s not your place to judge the future parents of this child.”

  He was acting strangely, avoiding her.

  “I guess you think I’ve been making this all up?”

  “No, not that. I think… you’ve put yourself under a lot of unnecessary pressure.”

  Her spirits were sinking fast. He was supposed to be her ally.

  “In that case, I’m sorry I bothered you, father.”

  “You didn’t bother me. It’s my job to help.”

  She took the Polaroids from him with a helpless shrug. “I suppose it really is nothing. All I was able to find out was that the photo of Jolene and the boy was taken in a town in Spain. Some place called Oviedo.”

  Father Jimmy’s demeanor changed instantly. His eyes were suddenly black with reawakened interest and they were bracketed directly on her face. She found herself backing off under the unexpected intensity of his gaze.

  “What did you say?”

  “Oviedo,” she mumbled. “Why?

  1:30

  A crescent moon was high in the sky, when Hannah and Father Jimmy crossed the garden to the rectory.

  “Oviedo is famous for its cathedral. The sudarium is housed there,” he said.

  “What’s the sudarium?”

  “You’ll see. It’s starting to make sense to me now.”

  The study was on the first floor off the kitchen in what had been a large pantry, back in the days when four priests had actuall
y lived in the rectory. On shelves, which had once housed canned goods, there were reference books, philosophical treatises and the odd, approved novel. In a corner stood an outdated globe of the world that still showed most of Africa as belonging to the colonial powers. A long pine table in front of the window served as a desk, although it looked as if it really belonged in the kitchen itself with a large bowl of fruit on it, instead of the Macintosh computer that sat there now.

  Father Jimmy took his place on the straight-backed desk chair, flipped the computer on, and did a search for “sudarium.” A list of sites popped up on the screen. He scrolled down then clicked on HISTORY OF THE SUDARIUM.

  “You’ve heard of the Shroud of Turin, haven’t you,” he asked Hannah.

  “I think so.”

  “It’s an ancient piece of linen cloth with the imprint of a man on it. Many people believe that it is the burial cloth of Jesus and the imprint is that of the Jesus Himself. It’s in the cathedral in Turin, Italy, and is one of the most venerated relics of the Catholic Church.”

  “I remember now,” Hannah said, drawing a chair up to the screen. “What’s the connection?”

  “Well, the sudarium is sometimes called ‘the other shroud’ and it’s thought to be the cloth that covered Jesus’ face, after he died on the cross. The word comes from ‘sudor,’ Latin for ‘sweat.’ It literally means ‘sweat cloth.'’

  “Why would they put a cloth over his face?”

  “Jewish custom. Back then, if someone died an agonizing death, and the face was contorted with pain, it was masked from public view. That could well have been the case with Jesus. If so, the sudarium could be that cloth. Believers say so, anyway.”

  “How does that explain the photos?”

  Father Jimmy held up out one of the Polaroids of the man whose head was swathed in cloth. “It’s a little complicated. Look at the crucifix over there.” He pointed to the wall opposite her. “See?”

  “See what?”

  “The similarity. Between the man in these pictures and Jesus on the cross.”