“But he ran into a dilemma when he tried to reconcile the horoscopes for a pair of identical twins who had lived through completely different fates and circumstances. Because he was disillusioned with astrology, and only because of it, he turned to Christianity. Something that required less scientific evidence and more blind faith. Without those twins, we may never have even heard the name, Augustine of Hippo. But with the typical zeal of the newly converted, he set about discrediting paganism in all its forms, and they made him a saint for his efforts. I mean, this was the same hedonist that put God in his place; ‘Grant me chastity and continence…but not yet.’ Which just goes to show you…if you really want to be in the favor of God, you must renounce something and then wage a blistering attack on what you are renouncing. You must renounce the nourishing fountains of the hedonistic life and live in the withered desert of ‘faith.’ God just loves that prodigal son routine. For those of us who are uninspired enough to simply toil in His service every day of our nondescript lives…well. I suppose that quiet desperation is its own cross.”
Isaac had assumed that he was going to have some dramatic effect on his friend’s mood, but it was turning out to be just the opposite. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing from this man of the cloth.
“Evan, please. I understand that you have gone through a disconcerting period and that your life is in transition. But that is not reason enough, surely, to abandon your life’s meaning? If you will just listen to what I have to say, and apply that wisdom of yours to helping me make some sense of it, perhaps we can both find some perspective.”
The priest leaned back in his chair, barely able to contain his sarcasm.
“Fine, Isaac. You talk, I’ll listen. Then I’ll dispense of that sage advice I have handed out to my congregation over the years like Halloween candy…or a tasty placebo.”
Isaac could only shake his head in frustrated confusion. They sat there with only the sound of the hissing logs between them. Two old men, consumed as they had always been with questions of faith and eternity.
Evan had kept his cancerous doubt inside of himself for too long. And in spite of Isaac’s annoyance, he was going to get some things off his chest for a change…while there was yet time.
“You know, the Jesuits have a saying: ‘To have sinned is good.’ Meaning, of course, that there are valuable lessons to be learned after the fact of sin. Life, then, can be seen as a series of transgressions and penance that ultimately will lead the flawed and the faithful to salvation.
“But where does that leave someone like myself? What does that say about the men and the women who just seem to make a habit of doing the right thing? I will never be a St. Augustine because I didn’t lead a life of debauchery and heresy before I ‘saw the light.’ I walked the same uninspired path all my life. There was no ‘crisis of conversion’ for me…no born-again awakening. It has all been so routine, like toiling away in some anonymous factory, stamping out the same, tired product…like a staple, or a bobby-pin…one of those necessary items that no one takes particular notice of. Then one day you’re seventy-five years old. They shake your hand and send you on your way. On your way out the door, you look back over your shoulder and see that the conveyor belt is moving right along. Everything is running quite smoothly without you. You weren’t vital at all. And you won’t be missed in the slightest.
“I forgive people every Saturday afternoon as my own spirit has declined into a moral tar-pit. I have taken the long, circular path to the same point I have allegedly steered so many others from. Now it is I who am the wayward and the misguided. I am lost and empty, and there is no going back—for I have already been there. I have led, and cannot follow.”
He walked to the bar and poured himself another healthy shot of Isaac’s brandy. After swallowing several times and refilling, he turned back to Isaac with his new world-view.
“I may be a little late to the dance, but there are still a few ticks left on this grandfather clock. I’m going to finish this bottle of brandy because I have only been drunk once in my entire life—and spent a week in prayer trying to atone for it—and I’m going to offer a back rub to the next woman I meet. I don’t even care if she’s married. I’ll even use the Lord’s name in vain, if I should take the notion.
“I survived a World War. I watched as the world became uglier than it did beautiful, christened hundreds of babies and married hundreds of couples who no longer speak to one another. But somewhere along that fine line I toed so dutifully, I lost something vital of myself. I buried, and kept burying, the questioning, passionate Evan Connor for the sake of a calling that I may never have actually been called to. What voice did I think I heard when I was still a lonely, misunderstood, Irish teenager? Why did I think that this is where I should end my days?”
“Evan!”
Isaac elbowed his way rudely into the priest’s monologue. It was time to bring Evan, kicking and screaming, into the present.
“I have met a vampire.”
“…and I may be feeling sorry for myself, but for once I am going to…uh. What did you just say, Isaac?”
Isaac felt the blood drain from his extremities. There was a potent shock associated with the utterance of those words. As though some residual blood-marriage with Julian yet remained.
“I said that I have met a vampire. I also had dinner, drinks, and conversation with him.”
“Well then. That’s just fine, Isaac. I understand that the church is forming a spring bowling league. Perhaps you and your new friend could work on your handicaps.”
“I am deadly serious about this, Evan. Now. Are you going to hear me out?”
Now he definitely had the priest’s attention. Even the tumbler hung slack in his hand. He offered his first advice of the day.
“I want you to take a healthy swig of that stuff, count to twenty, and tell me once more that you are serious.”
Isaac filled his glass and began with his walk in the park in Atlanta. Over the course of the next two hours he covered every detail, his voice alternating from matter-of-fact monotone to excited exuberance. The priest sat very still throughout, revealing nothing of his thoughts, moving only to refill his glass. But try as he might, he could no longer hope for inebriation.
Isaac finished his story with his vampire walking away through the unsuspecting populace of Jackson Square. He sighed deeply, like a man suddenly pronounced innocent on the steps of the guillotine.
Evan finally broke the lengthy silence that followed Isaac’s story.
“We are both old, my friend, and may therefore be suspect in the matters of memory and the recall of details. We might well be forgiven for embellishment…a little garnish to spruce up the stale dish of our days. I will admit that, in all the years I have known and conversed with you, I have rarely seen more conviction. You speak the truth as you know it. I understand your hesitancy with this matter. And I sincerely appreciate your confidence in relating it to me now. But you must also appreciate my skepticism. The man that you describe is obviously insane. Convincing, perhaps. But most insane.”
“That was precisely my own reaction to it all, Evan. But I can assure you that he is…perhaps it is now ‘was’…not insane. However, if it will make it more palatable to you, we may speak of him hypothetically. Because I simply must have your opinions on some questions that are vexing me.”
“If you will humor me…and let us assume that the man I met was, indeed, a vampire…if such a creature does exist, and if he has spent some six hundred years trying to become better than his nature dictates, despite tragedy after heartbreak after betrayal…then might this not imply a divine spark in ourselves that is worthy of our efforts to fan it into full flame? The man has suffered disproportionately. Yet he clings stubbornly to a faith in the salvation of love.”
“This may be a little complicated, but try to follow me here.” He smiled broadly to assure the priest that
he wasn’t usurping his omniscience. “Julian, the vampire, related to me many fantastic stories that rang of truth, but there was one in the cathedral in New Orleans that you might find of interest. It was an experience that convinced him we live in a love-driven universe. He had certainty that his individual soul was of the deepest value. And it became his greatest motivation to share that with me…the ultimate skeptic.”
Isaac walked to the fireplace mantle and picked up the amber sphere, rolling it gently between his fingers. He debated sharing its secret with Evan, but something restrained him.
“If we assume that he was telling the truth—and I have many reasons to believe that he was—wouldn’t his faith be a kind of indicator…a sort of proof of God’s existence?”
Evan waved his hands in an expression of his annoyance.
“You still don’t understand, do you, my friend? There is no ‘proof.’ You have wanted this from the beginning. When you first came to me so desperate and lost, and I thought that I could assure you. We were both so very naive. And we are just as naive now. Even a bona fide vampire would offer no proof, no matter how pious he might be. He would be no different than any mortal. Perhaps he would have experiences that he couldn’t explain, which, when combined with his fervent desire for proof, he would be too eager to attribute to the hand of some grey-bearded being who sits around just waiting for our prayers to arrive so that he can leap into action on our behalf…and on behalf of the other seven billion souls down here wallowing in our own filth. His entire delusion could well be some deranged need to experience what he thinks is the ‘eternal.’ He kills, goes into denial, and then sees some divine intervention that forgives and reassures. Pretty common stuff for the psychopath, I’m afraid. Whatever he is, he has to struggle right along with the rest of us. As do you, my dear friend. I’m sorry. But there is nothing here to give you any more hope than anything else, Isaac.”
Isaac was crestfallen. He had expected so much more than this out-of-hand dismissal.
“I can’t believe that this is the same Evan Connor I have known and admired for most of my adult life. There was a time when you would have been the one admonishing me for my narrow-minded skepticism. You would have at least been intrigued. And whether or not you were convinced of the man’s identity, you would have been curious about the details of his faith, and perhaps pursued it all for the sake of another lost soul’s comfort. You are offering the sort of understanding that I offered the man myself…which was little.
“It is reflection that has shown me how I failed him. I have to believe that Julian is who he claimed to be. But he is also more than he claimed. And this is what has possessed me for the past several months. What was it that he wanted me to understand? Not believe…but understand.”
“Alright, Isaac, take it easy. You have become too emotionally involved in this man’s affairs. I suspect that, in telling him the details of your life with Lessa, you may have unearthed some rather persistent and potent ghosts.”
“That may be true, Evan. But there is something I am missing here that I feel certain could bring me a better understanding of this eternity question. Time and again, Julian showed me a compassion I have rarely witnessed. In the process he summed up his entire history…a sort of putting affairs in order. It was crucial to him that I comprehend his motives, that I see it all from his perspective. In the end, he was so very certain of some benevolent hand behind all that had transpired.”
“Maybe,” Evan spoke softly, kindly, “what he needed was your forgiveness. You obviously harbored some vicarious hatred for the man, left over from the bitter dregs you swallowed under the Nazis. For him, your forgiveness may well have been as valuable as God’s. I sense some truth in that.”
“You are right, to a point. That is enough to show me that I have missed yet another opportunity to do something noble. Will my anger forever sentence me to coldness? The man was no Nazi. I knew this. But he was the best thing going on the hate parade. It was too easy to lay some of my loss at his doorstep. Damn.”
“Well. It is done now, Isaac. The poor creature has moved on to another chapter of his life. You can learn something from that and do the same. And I think you should start with a call to the police. I still believe that what you have described is a deeply disturbed human being…a man. Not a monster. They might be able to find him and get him some help.”
A mocking laugh broke from Isaac’s throat.
“If he is a vampire, Evan, they will never find him. And if he isn’t…well. They certainly won’t be interested in helping him.”
“Hmmm. I will leave that to your better judgment. But I will remind you of one thing. In spite of the ghastly scene in Birmingham, you never actually witnessed this man doing any of the morbid things that mythological vampires are supposed to do. The thing with the girl in the club, Erica, could easily have been staged. The simple transference of twenty dollars could accomplish the trick. Be wary, Isaac. You know as well as anyone that this species is capable of almost any horror. And it will go to as many lengths to justify them.”
“As always, Evan, I respect your opinions. But you lack my experience with the man.”
“Well, you sleep on it, Isaac. I have to be on my way. I am sorry that I wasn’t more of a comfort to you. And I am sorry that I can’t seem to take it all more seriously. Now, I will wish you a pleasant evening. I am feeling suddenly quite tired.”
Isaac walked his friend to the door. As Evan passed into the chill, night air, Isaac had a sudden thought to call him back. But Evan walked on determinedly, and Isaac bolted the door behind him. He walked back to the fire, then settled heavily into his chair. He watched the last embers go singly out.
Chapter Eighteen
Evan Connor leaned back against the porcelain incline of his tub. He watched the steam vapors rise and curl above the surface of the water, then spiral lazily toward the ceiling. Everything was moist heat and careless intention. Everything but the cold, malevolent wafer of steel balanced between his thumb and forefinger.
He had read that this was the best way. The warm water would coax open the pores and the blood would flow freely, painlessly, with a minimum of mess for those who would come later. One only needed to pull the plug from the drain, and Evan Connor would flow into the sewers of the world.
It was an intriguing thought, this death…and how his life would swirl above the drain…the little whirlpool of what he had once been, now rushing among secret rusty places, mingling with the offal and waste of a thousand lives, a thousand dreary dreams…the flushing and the rinsing of filth and refuse. What he had once been…what he had once been. And now, what he was about to become.
Would they wrap the dangling ends of his exhausted body against the curious eyes of his neighbors, the strange men and women in various uniforms and badges that gave them privilege over his dignity? Would someone say, “Here, cover him with this. He was a priest, after all?”
Would there be whisperings and nods of silent understanding? Would someone offer that the cancer was too much for him to bear? Would anyone wonder that it might be something more than that? Would a pretty, young woman look at the wounds on his wrists and wonder at what longings might once have pulsed there?
The priest ran his hands along the length of his body. It was an odd sensation. For a moment, they lingered on his genitals. He had never known the physical ecstasies that so many other men had known with women. He never would. And he guessed, now, that it would not have mattered in the greater scheme of things if he had, just once, responded to one of those warm squeezings of the hands, or the suggestive hugs against full, lonely bosoms.
Would it have been so damned damnable if he had dared to indulge in that peculiar pleasure that God’s own poets have written so eloquently of? Would it have cast him into the fiery pits, forever, without pardon? Or would it have been the crisis that, like St. Augustine, would have moved him to a deeper relationship with the
divine?
It hardly seemed to matter now. He sighed deeply and watched the steam move upon his breath. Everyone had regrets. Everyone had need and motive, desire and impetus…and everyone, in the end, created their own morality. His best friend had, just tonight, shown him that.
It had pained him to listen to the sad, desperate pleas as they fell like prayers from Isaac’s lips. Was God so far removed from Man that he was forced to create fantasies of angels and demons to fill in? It had been a pitiful display of the species’ unfulfilled longing to know the elusive entity called “God.” Vampires. A man who had survived the atrocity of all atrocities, only to come to a delusional dead-end where murderers create entire narratives devoid of salvation.
It was enough. Evan didn’t need to see any more. He was seventy-eight years old and could offer proof of nothing. Nor, for that matter, a halfway-firm conviction. All he had learned had eventually been proven wrong. Now there was only the vaguest sort of sorrow associated with that realization. And even that, even sorrow, was something he had never experienced at the level so many others had.
Well. This death, waiting there just beyond the next whisper of the clock, was something that would be uniquely his. The orchestration of it, at any rate, would be his.
If there had been any doubt about robbing the cancer of its victory, it had been removed by Isaac’s troubling dialogue. The razor blade that waited there like an indifferent servant would soon become his one and only act of defiant independence. This was his call, his decision. There was no more wondering at what God or the Church would want from him. Those things had mattered too much, for too long. They had mattered to Isaac, too. What good had it done either of them? His friend was senile and he, the decrepit priest, was faithless.
“Oh, God…why do you lead us, like cripples of hopelessness, to such despair? Do you require our abject surrender before you will save us?”
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