Divine Inspiration

by Jane Langton

  It was no surprise when the music director at Annunciation cancelled the concert by Harold Oates, the one that was to have taken place on Palm Sunday. But it was a dismal shock when the vandal retaliated. Philip Tower fell from a high ladder inside the organ. The ladder had been sabotaged.

  Pip had been hired to sub for the regular organist, who was on vacation. Fortunately, although there was no service in progress, he wasn’t alone in the church. When he shouted for help he was taken to the emergency room at Mass General.

  Alan went to see him. He found Pip hobbling on crutches along the hospital corridor, accompanied by a nurse. “My God, Pip, what happened?”

  “Goddamn Oates anyway.” Pip looked at Alan, his eyes round in his pale face. “For God’s sake, get him locked up. He cut the ladder supports. I was climbing up to turn off the motor for the tremulant, you know, the vibrato paddle above the pipes. When I got to the top the ladder tipped backwards and I fell into the tracker rods. They busted under me, but, thank God, they broke my fall.”

  “Just a lot of cuts and scratches,” said the nurse cheerfully, turning Pip around and heading him back the other way. “He’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”

  Alan walked beside them. “You don’t know for certain it was Oates?”

  “Well, who the hell else would it be? They cancelled his concert, so he struck back. The man’s a menace.”

  Alan agreed glumly. “But I can’t believe he’d destroy an instrument he cares so much about.”

  “Well, what about Michelangelo?” Pip waved one of his crutches and almost fell down. “Michelangelo destroyed some of his own sculpture. What about that?”

  Alan went back to Rosie’s apartment to call Homer Kelly. It was true that the destruction of pipe organs in the Back Bay didn’t seem to have anything to do with the disappearance of Rosalind Hall, at least on the face of things, but to Alan everything had begun to seem entangled.

  This time Alan went boldly in the front door of 115 Commonwealth. When he unlocked the apartment door, he thought for a moment that the plumbing had gone berserk. There was a great splashing noise within. He ran to the bathroom and looked in the open door and laughed. Harold Oates was lounging in the tub in a luxurious foam of bubbles and scented bath salts. “Enjoying yourself, Harold?” said Alan, with a hint of sarcasm, thinking of poor Pip limping painfully down the hospital corridor.

  “Tub’s too goddamned short,” growled Oates.

  Alan went to the kitchen and held the phone close to his mouth and murmured his news to Homer Kelly.

  “I’ll come and take a look,” said Homer, interested at once. Alan hung up, smiling to himself. He had begun to think of Homer as a big dog sniffing the air, nosing at trees and bushes and telephone poles. For him the world must be a symphony of bizarre and curious smells.

  Homer had never seen the interior of the Church of the Annunciation. The place was even more medieval than the other Episcopal churches in the Back Bay. Every excuse for sacerdotal finery had been grasped. The suppliers of religious merchandise had done a land-office business. There were banners with lambs and crosses, rood screens and baptismal fonts, and a high pulpit shaped like a tulip. There were altars with candlesticks, needlepoint kneeling stools, and wooden figures in generic saintly robes, their classic features pursed in holy wonder. Homer supposed that if he were to sit down with the rector and grope his way past the liturgical trappings, they might find themselves more or less in agreement on fundamental things. It was just that there were so many layers to get out of the way first. You’d have to come in with a wheelbarrow and roll it all away, trailing gold fringe and purple velvet and the rattling chains of thuribles.

  “Hey, Homer, up here.” Alan was leaning out like an angel from a forest of organ pipes. Homer found his way up a side stairway and found Alan peering out of the great square case enclosing the pipes. “Follow me,” he whispered.

  Below them someone was rearranging the altar. There were thumps and clinkings. Homer wedged himself through the opening and edged after Alan along a narrow plank, fearful of bumping into something fragile. They found the ladder lying on its side behind the façade pipes at the front of the organ.

  “Look up there at the top,” said Alan. “See those clean cuts in the framework? Somebody sawed right through that two-by-four.”

  Homer stared upward. “I see what you mean. Why did they bother with a saw? They could have unscrewed it with a screwdriver.” Cautiously he turned around on the plank and looked at the wreckage of the tracker rods into which Pip Tower had fallen.

  “They broke his fall,” said Alan, “but it must have been painful. That’s a fifteen-foot drop.”

  Moving carefully, they worked their way out. At the opening Alan gave Homer a brisk shove, and he popped out on the other side. Downstairs they found a priestly person in an embroidered cope arranging articles on the altar. Women bustled about with flowers, genuflecting as they crossed the center aisle.

  “It’s vespers,” whispered Alan, “in honor of Saint Etheldweeda or somebody.”

  “Martyred in the year 500,” murmured Homer, “for protecting her virtue from the godless barbarian.”

  They escaped, and went outside. Homer looked up at the amethyst sky of late afternoon rising over the brownstones across the way, with the crystal shaft of the Hancock tower soaring behind them. “So what about Oates? Did you talk to him? What did he say?”

  “He said he didn’t do any of this stuff.” Alan looked at Homer defiantly. “And I believe him. Oh, by the way, Homer, Oates and I have moved into Rosie’s apartment. Oh, sure, I know we shouldn’t be there, but Oates has got a key, so I thought maybe I’d—I mean, I’m going to pay the rent.”

  “Well, it’s all right with me.”

  “What do you really think, Homer? You don’t really think it’s Oates—all this, I mean?”

  Homer tried to come up with a sensible reply, but instead of weighing the evidence against Oates, he thought of his concert in the Church of the Commonwealth. It had felt like a natural force. He had been reminded of the law of gravity, the rules governing the behavior of gases, the spidery intersecting lines of geometry, the physical constants of Planck and Avogadro and Newton. “No, I don’t,” he said, hoping he was right.

  CHAPTER 47

  A liar is far worse, and does greater mischief, than a murderer on the highway.

  Martin Luther

  “S end her away, Sonny, she’s all right now.”

  “Not until we find the goddamned baby.”

  “Tell her we need more money. She owes me, Sonny. I saved her life. She would have died.”

  “Oh, it was you, was it? You saved her life! You did it all by yourself!”

  “Of course it was me! Where were you when she was having convulsions?”

  “Mother, for Christ’s sake, don’t you give any credit to Helen? Who do you think restored her sanity?”

  “God! Is that what you think? You think Helen did it? Look at her, she’s insane herself. She’s a hysterical cripple.”

  “Christ, Mother, shut your fucking mouth!”

  Another voice, pleading: “Oh, stop it! My God, please stop it!”

  Marilynne Barker lolled back in her office chair, half asleep. It was two o’clock, a time when she often felt drowsy. When her phone rang, she sat bolt upright and stared at it. It rang a second time before she answered it, wary of the human misery about to pour out of the receiver.

  “Marilynne Barker speaking.”

  “Mrs. Barker, my name is Truesdale. I’m a physician at Boston City Hospital. I have here the results of a test conducted on an infant, Charles Hall, which indicate he should be receiving medication. We would like to deliver it to the foster home where he is in care, if you would kindly oblige us with the address.”

  Mrs. Barker twirled in her chair and looked out the window at the boys playing baseball in the schoolyard next door. Their thin cries came through the window. Smack, went the bat. “How is it that you don’t ha
ve the address, if you were doing tests?”

  “I have no idea. I can only tell you that if this child does not receive a dose of Haemoplateletsaroxin immediately, he will be in danger of asphyxiation from the collapse of his right lung.”

  The ball was a grounder. It went between the legs of the pitcher, while the hitter, a fat boy with red hair, lumbered to first base. “It’s strange,” said Mrs. Barker, “how many missing pieces of paper there have been lately. Well, all right, just a minute.” Reluctantly she went to her files and returned to read Deborah Buffington’s address to Dr. Truesdale.

  “Thank you,” he said, with formal gratitude, and hung up.

  Almost at once, Mrs. Barker had second thoughts. She called Boston City Hospital and asked for Dr. Truesdale.

  “Jussaminute,” said the woman at the switchboard. Well, at least Dr. Truesdale actually existed.

  “Ophthalmology,” said another voice.

  “Ophthalmology? Is this Dr. Truesdale’s office?”

  “This is the office of Dr. Truesdale and Dr. Clementine.”

  “But ophthalmology, that’s eyes, isn’t it? Not lungs?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “May I speak to Dr. Truesdale?”

  “Dr. Truesdale is attending a conference in Barcelona.”

  “In Barcelona! Oh, damn it all!”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, God, never mind.”

  Marilynne Barker hung up, furious with herself. She had been hornswoggled. It was just another example of male supremacy. A male doctor, even a phony one, could get his way. All he had to do was throw out a few bogus medical terms and she grovelled at his feet.

  Mrs. Barker looked out the window at the boys playing baseball. They looked healthy and happy, they weren’t abandoned, they weren’t pregnant, they were not about to require the services of the Department of Social Services, and she was grateful for it.

  CHAPTER 48

  Love is the cause of his sickness.

  Martin Luther

  Dear Rosie,

  Charley’s vocabulary is larger every day. He says guck for truck and Aree for Charley. That’s ten words altogether.

  Actually it was eleven, but Alan didn’t add the eleventh, which was Daddy. Without thinking about it, he had begun saying, “Give it to Daddy,” and “Daddy wants you to go to sleep now,” so it wasn’t surprising that Charley picked it up. But it would be presumptuous and embarrassing to write about it in a letter to Charley’s mother.

  Alan sat at the counter in Rosie’s kitchen and looked up through the south window at the Baptist church across the street. The trumpeting angels on the corners of the tower were blowing up a wind that tossed the leafy branches of the trees in the park. Cars drifted silently past, heading west. Oates would be getting home any minute. Alan’s peaceful communion with Rosie would be over. Hastily he went on writing:

  I can’t bring him here any more, not with Harold Oates living here now. I’ve been taking him to my place on Russell Street. Charley doesn’t seem to mind. The poor kid doesn’t know the difference between splendor and squalor.

  Oates’s key was rattling in the lock. Swiftly Alan scrawled three foolish words at the bottom of the page. Then he slapped the notebook shut and jumped up and shut it in the desk drawer.

  Oates came in, his thin hair windblown, his eyes watering from the blustering wind. He looked keenly at Alan, and then at the desk drawer, as if he knew every word Alan had been writing to his fried girlfriend.

  Alan retreated innocently from the desk. “How was the concert at the Church of the Covenant?”

  Oates snorted. “They fell on their knees, naturally. They slaughtered lambs and laid them before me as bloody sacrifices. It was fine.”

  Charley Hall woke up in his crib in Deborah Buffington’s apartment on Bowdoin Street. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the window and lay in splashes on the floor.

  There were noises in the next room. Charley rolled over on his back and looked across at Wanda, napping beside him in the next crib. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open, her pale hair frowzy around her face.

  He craned his neck as someone pushed open the door and hurried to him across the room. “Mama,” whispered Charley.

  Rosie swept him up and held him close. “Oh, Charley, you’re so big. Oh, Charley, Charley.”

  CHAPTER 49

  I never thought the world had been so wicked.

  Martin Luther

  “Gone?” Alan stared at Debbie Buffington.

  “What do you mean, gone?”

  Debbie’s eyes were rimmed with red. “Just what I said. The kid’s gone. He’s disappeared.” She was braiding Wanda’s hair, jerking it this way and that.

  Alan strode past her into the room Charley shared with Wanda. His crib was empty. There was no small boy clambering over the railing. He went back to Debbie and shouted at her, “For Christ’s sake, tell me what happened.”

  Debbie wrenched at Wanda’s hair, making the little girl cry. “Well, Jesus, I just got back. I had this, you know, doctor’s appointment. I was only gone half an hour. He’s right down the street.”

  “You mean you left them alone?”

  “Of course I left them alone. They were both sound asleep. Oh, shut up, Wanda.”

  Alan couldn’t believe it. “You left two babies alone, all alone?”

  Debbie let go of Wanda’s pigtail and began to sob. “You don’t know what it’s like. I had to get out. I just had to get away for a few minutes. This shitty apartment, nothing but kids all day, kids all night.”

  “It wasn’t a doctor’s appointment, was it?” said Alan cruelly.

  She sobbed and sobbed. His rage subsided. “Well, who could have taken him? Did you see anybody? How did they get in?”

  “Oh, I always leave the door unlocked,” sniffled Debbie. “This neighbor downstairs, I knew she’d look in if they really screamed.”

  “So you’ve done this before?” There were more sobs. “Well, listen, did the neighbor see anybody? Did she know anything had happened?”

  “Oh, shit, she wasn’t home either.”

  Alan gasped, and forbore to say, You mean you went out without checking whether or not she was home? “Well, look, have you told Mrs. Barker? Have you called the police?”

  Debbie merely shook her head miserably, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Alan stopped his furious inquisition. Putting an arm around her, he patted her shoulder. “Well, it’s okay, it’s okay. Don’t cry.”

  Debbie responded violently. She threw her skinny arms around his neck and clung to him and kissed him wildly.

  Alan took her wrists and thrust her from him. “No, Debbie. No, no.”

  She stared at him with streaming eyes, her face patchy from crying. “Asshole,” she hissed. “You goddamned asshole.”

  CHAPTER 50

  I may compare the state of a Christian to a goose, tied up over a … pit to catch wolves.

  Martin Luther

  “What do you think,” Homer asked Mary, “should I slick down my hair and part it in the middle and wear thick glasses, like an undertaker in the movies?”

  “No, no, they’d catch on right away. Undertakers don’t really look like that. They’re ordinary people. It’s a service industry, like running a garage or fixing teeth.”

  Homer was ready for a day of body snatching. With the help of George Bienbower’s electronic home-publishing equipment he had acquired a piece of paper with the logo of a phony funeral home printed at the top. And then genial Boozer Brown had loaned him his hearse.

  It was luxurious. The shock absorbers made a smooth ride, the engine was almost inaudible. Homer sang all the way to Boston about his merry Oldsmobile, although actually it was a Buick.

  At the Mallory Institute of Pathology he drove into the parking lot and paused to scan the situation. Another hearse was standing beside a big open door. Homer thought it best to wait until it was gone, fearing the driver might engage him in shop talk. “Hey,
fella, have you tried the Wozzick system yet? You know, the new way of congealing the vitals? Recommended in Mortician’s Monthly?” “Sorry,” Homer would have to say, flapping his hands, “I’m just transport. I deliver stiffs, that’s all. Don’t ask me.” But it would look bad. Homer turned off the engine and hid his face in the Boston Globe.

  Not until the other hearse left the parking lot did Homer drop the newspaper and back Boozer’s limo around so that the rear end faced the door, which was now closed. He got out and rang the bell.

  Someone flung up a window and said, “Just a sec, okay?” The window crashed down. An attendant in a green cotton jacket stood looking at him. “Who you here for?”

  Homer looked at his phony release order. The name Horace Roland Danby had appeared in yesterday’s obituaries. Wordlessly he held out the piece of paper, which was artfully decorated with some of George Bienbower’s cleverest oversize fonts.

  The attendant snatched the piece of paper and raced away down a sloping corridor, a long sad tunnel leading to the room where the bodies were stacked in refrigerated drawers. Homer had seen it. The room was windowless and lined with tile. He opened the back doors of the hearse and flicked a speck from the floor of the interior. Before long the attendant was back, rolling before him a gurney on which lay an object loosely wrapped in cloth. He brought it to a stop at the door and whisked another piece of paper out of his pocket.

  Homer took it carelessly as though after tedious years of cadaver transport, glanced at it, scribbled his name at the bottom, and handed it back.

  “Give me a hand, okay?” said the attendant.

  “Oh, sure.” Homer got a grip on the wrapped feet. He was shocked by the chill, which sucked the warmth from his fingers. Shivering, he dropped the feet and backed away. “Look, never mind. I just wanted to find out if I could extract a corpse with phony papers. My name’s Kelly, Homer Kelly. I’m investigating a criminal matter.”