by Ray Russell
Gregory sipped his coffee, then turned back a few pages of his notes and read:
Mrs. Farley would like me to support her belief that Garth was—is?—Diabolus. She doesn’t really hold with the heart condition explanation. I keep telling her that Garth’s physician—traced through the druggist—confirmed the coroner’s findings. I also point out that signs of his coronary condition were plentiful when Garth was alive—breathlessness and discomfort when excited, a disinclination to do anything physically taxing such as running (I believe he actually described himself to me as “not a well man” during that first interview). I tell her, too, that the fear of being accused and convicted of heinous crimes—incest and possibly murder—that the unpleasantness of that final argument, the closeness of the weather, the terror he must have felt at witnessing an exorcism (no Catholic, even a defected Catholic, could witness that ritual without a powerful response), that on top of this to have a bolt of lightning strike dangerously close to him—all this would be enough to destroy a heart sounder than Garth’s.
What I do not tell Mrs. Farley is that the heart condition, and even the bolt of lightning (though not in itself lethal since it did not hit him) might be called by some the Hand of God at work. I’m afraid this would only confuse her—as I confess it confuses me.
Gregory turned the pages, picked up the pencil and began writing again:
The week following the exorcism I visited Susan at her home, just before she left to live under the care of Father Halloran at Guardian Angel Orphanage. I saw the cross-shaped place on Garth’s bedroom wall, and I found myself speculating as to why he had removed the crucifix. He had done it after the death of his wife, and I had suggested to him that murder-guilt had made it impossible for him to sleep under the crucified Christ. Was this indeed the reason, or had the shame of incestuous thoughts and deeds made it unbearable for him to live in the sight of the cross? Had it been no more, perhaps, than the insidious propaganda of John Talbot that had so soured Garth on the Church that he had ripped down the crucifix as a gesture of his new line of thinking? Garth is not here to tell us. There is only that mute, ghostly cross on the wall of that empty flat. And when a new tenant moves in and cleans that wall, even the cross will disappear.
I will not allow myself to consider the possibility of its not disappearing, of its remaining there, a strange miraculous glow, through countless desperate washings and paintings. . . .
Gregory read over the last paragraph, then drew a large X through it. Even though these were only informal notes, there was no place in them for sensational speculations.
He returned the notebook to the desk drawer and picked up the telephone. It was Christmas time, time for phoning friends and relatives and proffering greetings of the season. Susan was strong in his thoughts, and he dialed the orphanage first. He talked to Father Halloran briefly, and then Susan came to the phone.
“Hello, Father,” he heard her say.
“Hello yourself, young lady. Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks. The same to you.”
“How are you?”
“Wonderful!” Her voice was bright with joy. “You have no idea how simply super Father Halloran is! If all orphanages were like this one . . .”
“Let’s hope they will be, some day.”
“And Father Halloran has been letting me help him a lot. In the dispensary, and doing some of the office work, typing and things like that. He keeps me pretty busy. And of course I’m ready to drop from all the Christmas fuss!”
“But you love it.”
“Yes. Yes, I do. When are you coming to see us again?”
“Oh . . . soon. I’ve been pretty busy, too, you know. Christmas keeps a parish priest on the go. But I’ll drop around again soon. Right after the first of the year.”
“Good. I’ll have something to tell you then.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, I’ll wait until I see you.”
“No, tell me now.”
“Well . . . in about a year and a half I’ll be eighteen, you know. I won’t be an orphan any more, technically. I can leave. And I’ll have to do something.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking; and I’ve talked it over with Father Halloran. I think I’ll become a med student. Be a doctor. What do you think?”
“It sounds fine. Only thing is, the few lady doctors I’ve ever known personally have been—not too easy on the eyes. It’s a bit of a strain on the imagination to picture you in that role. You’ll certainly be the prettiest lady doctor in these parts.”
Susan giggled. “But I may not be in these parts. I’ve been thinking about becoming a medical missionary, going off to Africa or something like that.”
“A splendid idea,” Gregory said. “But some young male med student might try to change your mind. If he does—don’t fight too hard.” Susan made a sound of scorn; Gregory laughed and said, “I have to sign off now. I’ll see you soon. God bless you, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Father. Bye-bye.”
He dialed his sister’s number. He heard her phone ring a few times, and when it was lifted from its cradle, he heard a background medley of childish shrieks, television, and groans from a harassed father. His sister’s voice greeted him, they chatted for a few minutes, and then his brother-in-law took the phone.
“Merry Christmas, Greg,” he said.
“Merry Christmas, Bill. Sounds hectic over there.”
“It is. Bah, humbug. But this too will pass. I’ll slip some phenobarb into the kids’ plum pudding. Say, tell me something . . .”
“Sure.”
“Remember that time last September when you called me to check out some stuff for a case you were writing up?”
“Yes . . .”
“What was the upshot of all that? Did they ever find out what was wrong with that girl?”
Gregory did not speak for a few seconds. His mind, a kaleidoscopic jumble in regard to this subject, balked for an instant. Then the kaleidoscope suddenly fell into a symmetrical pattern, and Gregory—more surprised than his auditor—heard himself say, “Yes, they did. She was possessed of the Devil. They cast him out. She’s fine now. Merry Christmas again, Bill . . .”
After he hung up, Gregory looked at the phone for many minutes, his own words echoing in his mind. “Just like that,” he muttered to himself. “‘She was possessed of the Devil. They cast him out.’ Just like that.”
Slowly, he dialed the Bishop.
• • •
His Excellency was laden with the special duties of the season and a few extra problems as well. A young couple who were to be married in January had asked their parish priest for permission to have the familiar Lohengrin and Mendelssohn music played before and after the ceremony. The priest had relayed the request to the Bishop. In the Bishop’s younger days as a parish priest, it had not been uncommon to hear that music at Catholic weddings—he had performed marriage services and had heard the music many times himself. But of more recent years, it had been decided that, in Catholic churches, music by Catholic composers only would be played and sung. It made good sense, but would it satisfy the young couple, to whom a wedding without those two familiar pieces might seem no proper wedding at all? Would they accept and understand that, thrilling as the Mendelssohn march is, it was written by a Jew converted to Protestantism, and hence had no real place in a Catholic church? And as for Wagner, the composer of Lohengrin—not only was he no Catholic, he was a near-mad anti-Semite besides. Though Catholics were by no means forbidden to hear his music in the opera house, it would not be fitting to play it in a Catholic church. The Bishop was mentally rehearsing the manner in which he would explain all this, when he heard his telephone ring. His housekeeper informed him that Father Sargent was on the line and wished to speak to him, and His Excellency took the call.
“Gregory? Merry Christm
as, my boy.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency. A Merry Christmas to you.”
“How are you getting along at St. Michael’s?”
“Pretty well. I’m on Mrs. Barlow’s permanent guest list.”
“Then you have made progress!” The Bishop chuckled.
“Yes. I should have that report ready for you soon, by the way. My notes are almost complete.”
“Fine. Take your time.”
“I talked to Susan on the phone just now. She sounds happy. I also talked to Father Halloran.”
“And did he sound—happy?”
“I know what you mean, Your Excellency, and I really can’t say for certain, but I believe he’s at least succeeded in burying those misgivings of his in a corner of his mind. I doubt if he will ever lose them entirely—that’s a little too much to ask.”
“I doubt if any of us will lose them entirely, my boy. Father Halloran planted a very disturbing seed in the minds of all of us that awful night. That a priest might violate the confessional unconsciously . . . that all of us are capable of such violation . . . how can any sensible man deny the possibility?”
“I suddenly recall a dream,” said Gregory. “A dream I had during the time of all this dreadful business, a ridiculous dream in which I seemed to be telling myself that damnation is not restricted to the perpetrators of evil deeds; that he who in his heart—or in his soul or in the labyrinth of his unconscious—desires an evil deed to come to pass is equally guilty, equally damned. Theologically, this is cant, I know. But it sticks in the mind.”
“Exactly. But I pray, Gregory. I pray for Father Halloran. I pray for us all.”
There was an awkward silence, then Gregory said, “I talked to my brother-in-law a moment ago also.”
“Your brother-in-law? . . .”
“The psychiatrist.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“And a rather odd thing happened.” Gregory briefly recounted the telephone conversation.
“Yes, Gregory, go on,” said the Bishop.
“I wonder if you might tell me something, Your Excellency.”
“If I can.”
“I can explain every strange thing that happened here in September,” said Gregory, slowly and thoughtfully. “Explain it naturally, I mean. The cross burning Susan’s arm? Psychosoma. The possession itself? Madness. The strange voice she used and the way she talked? Simply the method in her madness, a deception based on things she’d read and memorized—for, after all, she’s a bright girl. The illusion of knowing who was knocking at the door? Pure bluff, perhaps—she said no actual name, and maybe the entire accusation of her father was false. The way we apparently cured her? Who knows: some kind of catharsis due to shock—cruder things have cured disturbed minds, and perhaps she’s not really cured at all. And finally—the impressive storm we were treated to. Deliver us from the devil’s tyranny with great show—is that the explanation? Or was it coincidence, even though the newspapers didn’t predict it—the weather man has been wrong before!” He paused; then went on.
“And yet, although the literal mind can explain every one of these things in natural terms, I told my brother-in-law she was possessed. That must mean I believe!”
Softly, the Bishop said, “I’ve wanted to hear that, my boy. I’ve been waiting to hear it.”
“I must believe,” Gregory repeated. “Do you understand? I must believe the Devil himself was in that girl and that we routed him. None of the evidence is unequivocably supernatural, and yet I believe it was. Why do I believe, then, I who doubted?”
The Bishop said, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Gregory. Accept it. It’s a difficult question to answer offhand. Perhaps you really believed all the time.”
“Would I have argued and hesitated and gotten you so angry with me if I had believed all the time?”
“Probably not. But, as I say, don’t let it worry you. When you come right down to it, you may already know the answer.”
“Already know it?”
“Yes. You may have known the answer some time ago and written it down, without fully knowing then what it meant. And perhaps I didn’t know what it meant, either. Until now.”
“What what meant?” asked Gregory.
“‘The Hand of God is quicker than the eye,’” said the Bishop. “Much quicker.” The conversation ended with a series of pleasant, seasonal trivialities. His Excellency hung up.
He walked to a window and watched the snow for a while. Then, although he had not spoken Gaelic since the days of his childhood, a door in his mind that had been closed for many years opened just long enough for his mouth to silently form the almost forgotten words Buiochas le Dia. Thank God.
A Footnote
Some of the incidents and inferences in this story may seem of a sensational nature. They are not, however, inventions of the author. A few readers—particularly non-Catholic readers—might ponder Father Sargent’s indulgent attitude toward Freudian analysis and think it contrary to official Catholic opinion. These readers need only be reminded of William J. Devlin, S.J., M.D., of Chicago’s Loyola University (mentioned briefly in the story), a Catholic priest and doctor who is also a Freudian therapist who has said, “Freud had the right idea operationally.” In this connection, it is interesting to quote from the book God and Freud by Leonard Gross (New York, 1959): “. . . Many Catholics still believe that psychiatry is a detour a sinner can take to avoid the consequences of his acts. Priests who know better deplore this tendency . . .”
Father Sargent’s alcoholism may be offensive to many readers, despite the fact that “whiskey priests” are not new to fiction (the protagonist of Graham Greene’s greatest novel, The Power and the Glory, is a priest who drinks to excess, and Mr. Greene is a Catholic). The attention of such readers is directed to Father Ralph Pfau, a member of Alcoholics Anonymous, whose struggle with liquor is recorded in his engrossing and instructive book, Prodigal Shepherd (New York, 1958).
The revelation, during the exorcism, of possible incest may strike some readers as gratuitously lurid. But this element, repulsive though it may be, is only one of several elements lifted almost bodily from the account of a 1928 exorcism in Earling, Iowa, documented in a Catholic booklet entitled Begone Satan! (English from German, Rev. Carl Vogl; tr. Rev. Celestine Kapsner, O.S.B.; Collegeville, Minnesota, 1935, under Imprimatur of Jos. F. Busch, Bishop of St. Cloud).
All the “documentation” notwithstanding, this book is a work of fiction, its characters and incidents imaginary and not intended to depict actual persons or events.
The following, however, is not fiction:
While I was working on Chapter XIII, in which the exorcism ritual culminates in the words “Begone, Satan!” I was annoyed by the sudden appearance in my study of a large horsefly, almost the size of a bee, which buzzed about my head and kept me from working. It was not yet “fly weather” and, in addition, my windows were tightly closed. I was forced to interrupt the writing of the chapter, roll up a newspaper, and take time out to kill the intruder. Settling down to resume work, I had scarcely typed a half dozen more lines of the ritual when I was “attacked” by a second fly of the same size. Stopping work again, I killed the pest as I had killed the first. There were to be four such flies in all, each presenting itself only after the preceding fly had been killed. The flies stopped coming after I had typed the words of exorcism, “Begone, Satan!”
The bothersome interlude amused me when it was over, but upon leaving my study after completing the chapter, I confess to experiencing an instant of superstitious fear: for suddenly I remembered a piece of information I had learned years before but had forgotten until that moment. Beelzebub is the name of Lucifer’s lieutenant. The name Beelzebub, in Hebrew, means Lord of the Flies.
Ray Russell
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