Father Lombardy went to the chair behind the desk, pulled out the right front drawer, sat back in the chair and propped his feet up, crossed, on the open drawer. He smiled broadly and unwaveringly, like a bright young business executive who had just pulled off an excellent deal.
Pomar felt more awkward than ever. On the very few occasions when Arturo had been to one of Father Lombardy’s Masses he had never seen the priest close up, because the Pomars always sat at the back of the church. Now he seemed terribly young, almost boyish. The mass of thick, black, curly hair which reached over the ears, the smile, and the bulk which suggested baby fat rather than muscle or paunch — all combined to give Arturo the feeling that he was about to discuss a very personal matter with someone who was younger than he was. But there was nothing he could do about it now, except carry on and see how it went. The priest lit up a long, thin cigarette.
‘How is your family?’
‘All right, Father, they’re all right.’
‘You have — is it two children?’
‘That’s right, Father.’
‘I’ve seen them on Thursday nights — right?’
‘Yes, Father, that’s right.’
‘They’re very attractive children.’ Father Lombardy’s beam reached even further across his face. He seemed to be all teeth and crinkled-up eyes.
‘Thank you. Father.’ Pomar took the priest’s remarks at face value and was pleased by them. He was proud of his children.
‘Is your family from Millville?’
‘No, Father, my family is mostly in Bridgeport and nearby.’ Pomar sat back in the chair for the first time, happy to talk about anything other than what had brought him to the rectory in the first place. ‘After high school I worked around a lot of places — here in Connecticut, New York, Massachusetts — all over. But I landed here, got married and been here ever since.’
Father Lombardy nodded several times while Pomar spoke. ‘I see. Like me, a little bit.’ The priest smiled confidentially. ‘I’ve been in four or five parishes already. St Jude’s is the longest so far, almost two years now. I’m from Trumbull originally.’
‘Oh yes.’ Pomar knew that Trumbull was a wealthy small town somewhere in the direction of New York, but nothing else about the place. He’s still so young — why did he leave so many parishes so quickly? Not very popular, maybe too modem. The young priests were always fighting about something or other — growing long hair, holding folk Masses, taking part in demonstrations. Not much scope for that in Millville, but Pomar nursed a worry in the back of his mind that Father Lombardy was of the same breed.
‘Now then, Mr —’
‘Call me Art, Father, everybody does.’
‘Okay, Art, how can I help you?’
Pomar studied the floor. ‘It’s about my children, Father.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, they’re very good children, Father.’ The priest nodded. ‘But this last week or so we’ve had this thing, this kind of problem with them.’
‘Problems are there to be solved,’ the priest said with quiet assurance. ‘Let’s hear about it.’
‘Well, it sounds silly or impossible…’
‘Art, there’s no need to feel silly about telling me what’s what. I hear everything, but everything.’
‘I know, Father.’
‘So just relax and let it come out.’ The priest smiled reflexively now, thinking he was about to hear another case of childhood shoplifting or some such delinquency.
‘Well,’ Pomar plunged in, his eyes widened, still staring at the floor, ‘my kids came home last Friday and said they saw the Virgin Mary in the woods after school’
‘What? The Virgin Mary?’ Father Lombardy’s smile seemed to stiffen a little.
‘That’s right, Father,’ Pomar replied, looking aggrieved and bending his head even lower.
‘Well —’ the priest started to speak.
‘And then they came home on Monday and said the same thing, and Tuesday, and they were quite sure of it, Father.’ The words came quickly to Pomar now. ‘And so I called last night and made an appointment to see you, and they came home again today and said they saw Her again, and this time the boy down the street, Philip Rowley, he was with them and he says yes, they saw Her. Father, they are good children and we have never had any kind of trouble with them before. Joey is a little carefree, but no more so than any other boy his age. They are good children, but I don’t know what to think.’
During Pomar’s brief outburst the smile on Father Lombardy’s face had shifted into a look of serious concern. Pomar was clearly very upset and, for the first time, the priest understood it. Father Lombardy removed his feet from the desk drawer and leaned forward soberly. Pomar continued staring at the carpet, a worn, lifeless grey pile, casting frequent short glances up at the priest.
‘Well, Art,’ Father Lombardy began, speaking slowly, as if choosing each word as he came to it, ‘the first thing I would say is that it’s important to remember that many, many children, at one time or another during their youth, think they have a vision of some kind — the Virgin Mary, Our Lord, or some favourite saint. It is not at all uncommon, and I say they think they have a vision because in virtually all such cases that is exactly what happens: the child imagines the vision, it doesn’t actually take place. Something like that happened to me when I was seven or eight, this kind of intense religious experience. It’s not unhealthy, in fact it can be quite a good thing, as long as the child is made to understand that the vision or visitation is not real.’ Lombardy paused but Pomar said nothing, so the priest continued. ‘As I said, there are a great many cases like this every year, but you yourself know that the number of actual, genuine appearances is very, very, small.’
‘Lourdes, Fatima,’ Pomar said quickly, nodding his head.
‘That’s right, and a few questionable incidents that the Church hasn’t approved or disputed — there is a very strong Marianist cult in Garabandal in Spain that Rome has recently denounced, for example. In a few cases there may be room for doubt or uncertainty, and of course it is always possible that the incident is genuine. So where we have many people in the same place reporting a visitation, responsible people, where there is reason to believe that it may be real, then, naturally, the Church will look into it. But, for the most part, cases like this are simply hallucinations or dreams.’
‘Yes, Father, that is what I think, too.’ Pomar looked relieved. ‘But what do I do about Joey and Maria? How do I talk to them about it? They are just children.’ Pomar worried a loose button on his shirt.
‘I understand, and it’s not easy. I think you have to be firm with them, but above all, don’t be so firm as to discourage their faith as a whole. That is good, and must be nurtured. But you can tell them that they are just ordinary children, like any others they go to school with, and they shouldn’t expect that the Virgin Mary would appear to them. That’s pride, which was the cause of Lucifer’s fall from grace. And you can tell them that if it was Our Lady She would have spoken to them —’
‘But they say She has, Father.’
‘What? She has?’
‘Yes, they say so. I forgot to say that earlier.’
Father Lombardy looked at the nervous parent across the desk from him for a few seconds. He began to think he had made a mistake by trying to cut this whole matter short with a fast pep talk. Maybe there was more to it.
‘Where do your children say they had this visitation, Art?’
‘In the woods near Emerson School.’
‘Yes, I know the place. And what did they say Our Lady looks like?’
‘A fire, Father, a burning fire of blue, with Our Lady in the centre.’
‘I see. And She spoke to them? What does She say?’
‘Well, nothing, Father, at least nothing sensible, that is, from what they say. All they hear is a voice, or maybe voices, but Joey says you can’t hear it too good and you can’t understand what it’s saying.’
‘So it’
s just a noise that the children think is the voice of Our Lady?’
‘That’s right, Father, but they’re quite sure of it. I tried to tell them it was probably just the wind or something, but they say no, it’s Her.’
‘I see.’ That didn’t sound so bad, Father Lombardy thought. ‘What else? How long does She appear to them each time?’
‘I guess it differs, Father. The first time, last week, they came home at supper-time, which was hours after they should have been home. Their clothes were all dirty and wrinkled, their faces all dirty and their hair wild. I didn’t even listen to them then, I just assumed they had been fooling around in their school clothes and bawled them out, but good. The last couple of days they’ve been late, but not all that much.’
‘Mm-hmn. And you say they’re quite sure it’s Our Lady?’
‘Absolutely, Father. That’s why I come to see you. They don’t listen to anything I say. It’s like their own private thing now, neither my wife nor I can break through it to them, and we’re worried sick.’
‘Do they say that She has done anything while they see Her?’
‘What do you mean, Father?’
‘Well, anything remarkable, like a sign or signal, or something like, well, something miraculous? Is there any suggestion of that?’
‘No, they haven’t said anything like that. Just that She appears there in a heavenly blue light No, they’ve said nothing about any miracles.’
‘I see. No messages, no miracles, just the apparition of Our Lady.’
‘Yes, Father.’
The priest leaned back in his chair again, toying idly with a pencil, as if he were about to write out some spiritual prescription for the Pomar children. Well, Art, it still sounds to me like a fairly typical case of strong faith pushed too far by overactive imaginations. In fact, it doesn’t even have the usual frills, such as an important message for mankind from Our Lady, or a miraculous sign. So I don’t think there’s anything to worry about on that account.’
‘No, I didn’t think so either, Father.’
‘But it is, as I said earlier, important that the children are handled properly. They have to be guided firmly but gently through this little episode.’
‘Will you talk to them, Father?’
‘If you think it’s necessary.’
‘Yes. Yes, please, Father.’
‘Yes, I think it’s important, too.’
On the sidewalk in front of the rectory, they shook hands again, awkwardly, and Father Lombardy watched the anxious parent stride away to his car. Makes a change from the routine, the priest thought to himself. He walked slowly back to the door, noticed that the front lawn needed mowing and made a mental note to remind Mr Parmentier, the school janitor and caretaker.
*
In his quiet Hoadley Street apartment, Jim Donner folded his sweaty socks in neat squares, placed them in the laundry hamper and stepped into his clean new slippers. The chess pieces stood ready, as always, and the postal clerk was anxious to settle down to it. The latest issues of Chess Life and Review had arrived that morning and there were many games to play through, as well as news and gossip to catch up on. Sitting on the toilet, Donner had already flipped through the magazine and seen that it contained a couple of games by Duncan Suttles, the unpredictable Canadian grandmaster. Donner would enjoy those. A year ago he had seen Suttles in person in a major tournament. Suttles had opened the game with P-QR3, which was almost the craziest move you could begin with, as far as Donner was concerned. Still, the man was a grandmaster and he won many games (including the one Donner witnessed).
Donner switched on the Sony; there was plenty of tape yet to run on that reel. He hummed along to himself as he went into the kitchen for a large tumbler of iced tea. The last couple of nights he had given himself a crash course in the King’s Gambit and had exorcised the spectre of that obnoxious child from his mind. The best reply to that opening had to be the Falkbeer Counter-Gambit, and Donner had played through every main variation until he had it down pat. Fischer’s refutation was too problematical for Donner’s taste and besides, that’s probably what the kids would have studied. The Falkbeer was solid, offered good chances for a counter-attack and had plenty of historical precedent to support it. Donner was confident he wouldn’t be caught off guard by the King’s Gambit again. He placed the pleasantly cool glass of amber liquid on his special chess coaster, stamped with a bishop’s mitre, to the right of the chessboard.
But he never got to sit down.
As Donner reached for his chair the room suddenly flared with blue light, a wind seized him and spun him across the floor. Books and magazines began to fly about, clumping against the walls, shredding into confetti-like swirls. The ceiling light shattered in its fixture and the glass sprayed through the air. Donner felt his right side pierced with broken shards, and when he touched it the pain grew much worse and his hand came away with bright red smears. He tried to stand up but the wind slammed him against a wall. Stunned, he collapsed to the floor. He could see everything in the room dancing about in a blur — the chessboard clattering into a corner and rattling there like some mad automaton, the thirty-two pieces flashing through the air randomly, bouncing off walls, the table hammering, jumping, lurching, the reels of tape all unravelling wildly. The blue light was dazzling, and there was a strong droning noise that filled the room, and Donner’s head. He leaned on one elbow and the wind took hold again, slamming him into the onrushing sofa. Rollers, he thought, and it was the last conscious word to form in his mind. His face caught the arm of the sofa almost squarely. The cartilage in his nose twisted horribly as his mouth erupted in a fount of blood and broken teeth. He began to scream, but convulsive gagging cut it off. The wind slammed him into the door and he blindly fumbled for the knob to escape. He turned it and pulled, but the door wouldn’t open more than a crack, as if dozens of other hands were pushing the door closed at the same time. His back was a crisscross of agony, with hundreds of invisible fingers pushing into it fiercely. The fingers lifted him and Donner whirled across the room. His right knee smashed into the tape recorder, cracking open the cabinet and slashing his pants and leg on electrical components. The hair on his head stood out in every direction and began to rip loose from the scalp. The room bulged with blue light, the wind, and a cacophony of snapping, rending, battering noises.
*
On the ground floor below in Dom’s Apizza, Mrs Ruggieri, owner, proprietor and landlady for the rest of the building, was the first to hear the racket. But Tony, her cook, and the half-dozen or so customers in the shop all looked up at the ceiling within seconds.
‘Mother of God what is that man up to?’ Mrs Ruggieri exclaimed.
‘Bombed out,’ Tony said with a shrug.
‘I don’t think so,’ the elderly woman answered. She started for the rear exit. Mr Donner didn’t get drunk, she thought. He never did anything. Quietest man in the world. Neat, fussy, polite, a bit dull, maybe even a bit odd, always sitting in his room, but he never got drunk, and he never, never made noise. She knew he played music on the machine but she hardly ever heard a stray bar of it, it was turned down so low and what with the traffic and all.
But now, such a noise.
She ascended the back porch stairs as quickly as she could. The door to Dormer’s apartment was open and Mrs Ruggieri waddled through the kitchen towards the front room. The door there was closed, but the noise coming from behind it was fearsome now and she backed away a step or two as she thought she saw the woodwork pressing out towards her.
‘Tony,’ she said in a whisper, and then she repeated it as a hoarse cry. ‘Tony, Tony!’ She hastened out of the apartment and back down the stairs.
Tony stood nervously by the back door of the restaurant. ‘His front windows just blew out,’ he said. ‘What’s going on up there?’
‘I don’t know, Tony, it sounds terrible and I couldn’t get in the room. Call the police, quickly, quickly.’
Dom’s Apizza was empty when she and To
ny hurried back inside. The customers stood out on the street with a growing crowd of passers-by. Suddenly Mrs Ruggieri realised that the infernal noise from above had ceased.
‘Tony, go watch the door. Don’t let that fellow get away.’ She wrenched the phone from the young fellow’s grasp and rushed towards the rear exit again. ‘Hurry, hurry, I’ll call the police.’
Tony took up a station at the foot of the back porch stairs, none too happy about it. Donner’s door, the only one into or out of the small apartment, remained shut.
CHAPTER FOUR
Al Sturdevent was tying the laces of his bowling shoes at the Valley Lanes on Weston Turnpike when Bernie Jackson, the proprietor, tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Call for you, Chief.’
‘Damn.’ Sturdevent looked up briefly. ‘All right, Bernie, I’ll be right there.’
‘Okay.’ Jackson returned to the front desk.
‘Damn,’ Sturdevent muttered to himself again. He finished tying his shoes and went to the phone. He picked up the receiver but didn’t say anything for a few seconds as he watched an attractive young girl in tight white shorts and flimsy tee-shirt enter the front door and stride across the lobby. ‘Yeah,’ he spoke into the phone. ‘Sturdevent here.’
‘Chief, this is Dave Corwin.’
‘Yes, Dave.’
‘I’m at Hoadley Street and we have some trouble here.’
‘What is it, Dave?’ Sturdevent could see his teammates at lane nine. They were getting ready to bowl ‘Fellow here’s been killed.’
‘Killed?’
‘That’s right, Chief, and it doesn’t look right. Not one bit.’
Sturdevent sighed. ‘Is Hanley there? Can’t he take care of it?’
‘He asked me to phone you, Chief.’
‘He wants me there?’
‘That’s right. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen, Chief,’ Corwin added.
‘Okay, I’ll be along in a few minutes.’
‘We’re on the first floor over Dom’s pizza joint. You have to come in through the shop, Chief.’
The Fates Page 5