Touch

by Elmore Leonard

  "Tell me what he said to you."

  "He said lots of things. I mean in a way he did. But you look at it another way, he didn't say anything."

  "Well, can you talk to him some more?"

  "For what?" Lynn said. "What do you want me to do with him?"

  "Just tell me what his game is, okay? What's he doing there, hiding or what?"

  "It isn't something--" Lynn paused. "Look, I can usually relate to just about anybody, no matter what kind of trip they're on. You just sort of get involved and find out where their head is. But Juvenal isn't on any kind of trip that I know of. He isn't off somewhere or playing a role, trying to impress you, he's right here. But there's something . . . not strange, different about him."

  "Different how?"

  "It's like he's so natural he's different."

  "Natural, huh?" Bill Hill didn't sound too enthused.

  "He doesn't lay anything on you, any funny words or mystic-sounding bullshit you think about later, 'What was he talking about?' That's what I'm trying to say, he absolutely doesn't bullshit you or try to make you think he knows something you don't even though he does. Earlier today I thought he was putting a guy on, a real weird guy, a religious freak, but now I think about it--no, he was being straight with the guy. He knew I knew the guy was a little weird, maybe the way I rolled my eyes or something, but he accepted the guy. I mean this guy came across as a really serious asshole of the worst kind. You could see Juvenal didn't agree with the guy, but he seemed to be interested in him as a person and kidded with him. That's another thing; he doesn't seem to take serious things serious."

  "He doesn't, huh?"

  "Only one time Juvie tried to bullshit the guy a little, you could see he didn't know how--"

  "About what?"

  "Listen, I've got to get off the phone. Pick me up in forty minutes, okay? And get a bottle of Spumante--"

  Chapter 9

  LYNN WAITED about ten minutes. When Juvenal didn't come back she got up and walked down the hall again, past the empty chair.

  There was the sound of someone snoring now, a soft, faint sound; it made her aware of how quiet it was on the floor. People sleeping . . . people down on the second floor having coffee, watching television . . . she wondered if she should say good-bye to Edith and some of the others. If she did, she would have to make up a story, a crisis at home, or she couldn't take the program or she was going nuts cooped up here and they'd plead with her to sit down and talk, or talk to Juvie or Father Quinn. She wouldn't go down to two, she'd stay up here. She didn't have anything to pack---

  Arnold's door was still open. Juvenal wasn't in the room.

  Lynn stood in the opening, then moved aside to let the light from the hallway fall across the bed. Arnold was lying on his back, eyes closed, hands relaxed on the light chenille spread covering him. She could hear Arnold inhaling gently and letting his breath out in a wheeze that was not quite a snore. But no Juvenal. He could have gone to get Arnold a sleeping pill--no, Edith said they rarely use them here, or tranquilizers--but he could have gone to get him something. She began to turn away, still looking at Arnold, then turned back again and very carefully, quietly, approached the bed, moving aside, staying out of the light, so she could see Arnold's face clearly. There was something on his cheek, something dark. Lynn stooped, then went to one knee next to the bed, looking at the dark streak that crossed from Arnold's cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. Her hand went to the bed lamp, felt beneath the shade and found the button. Looking at Arnold she turned the lamp on--saw the mark on his face become red in the light, a smudge of something red, wiped and streaked; saw the stains on the pillow, blood red, and thought of Virginia, Bill Hill telling about the traces of blood on Virginia's face--and snapped off the lamp. She knelt there a moment, her hands on the edge of Arnold's bed, as though in prayer.

  Two doors away a light was on in the lab. No one was inside. Lynn moved past the lab and several rooms, looking at closed doors, to the end of the hall where the carpeted floor joined a short, perpendicular hallway with a door at each end. The overhead light was dim, not more than 75 watts, but she could make out the metal nameplate on the door to the left, JUVENAL--hesitant now approaching the door, afraid. She said to herself, Afraid of what? He's nice. He's a very nice guy. She knocked lightly on the door--God, and saw the mark, the stain on the knob, and almost drew back. The door was open several inches. She knocked again, holding back, tapping lightly the way she would enter a sickroom and said, "Juvenal?"

  Silence.

  Lynn pushed the door open. She stood looking in at a desk and soft light reflecting on French doors that were partly open and led to a rooftop porch. The light came from a reading lamp next to a dark leather couch. There were bookshelves to the ceiling and grass mats on the floor, a crucifix over the desk.

  She could hear running water.

  "Juvenal?"

  The sound of the water stopped. Lynn walked into the room. To the right was a short hallway. She waited; but she was curious and anxious again, with the same feeling she had experienced before, wanting to know what he was doing. She told herself he was good and wouldn't hurt her, he healed people---

  She stepped into the hallway. The light was on in the bathroom, on the left, and she glanced in. There were red stains on the rim of the basin, traces of red not washed into the drain.

  She said again, "Juvenal?"

  His voice came from the bedroom, tired, a quiet sound. "I'm in here."

  "Can I come in?"

  There was a silence.

  "If you want to."

  Lynn walked into the bedroom.

  He stood in white undershorts by a dresser, his chest and legs bare. He stood on a white towel, his feet bare.

  Lynn said, "Oh, my God--"

  She saw his mild expression, his eyes. She saw his hands raised at his sides, palms up, as if holding small pools of blood.

  She saw the crucifix on the wall in the coffee shop.

  She saw the blood on his hands. She saw the blood oozing out of his left side, staining the waistband of his shorts. She saw the blood on his bare feet, red gouge marks on his insteps, the blood trickling to the towel.

  She saw the crucifix again, the agonized figure of Christ on the cross.

  She saw Juvenal standing in his bedroom, bleeding from the same five wounds.

  Chapter 10

  ON FRIDAY Greg Czarnicki, member of the Gray Army of the Holy Ghost and Father Nestor's nephew, said to August, "Wait a minute. How many people you think ever heard of it?"

  August said, "Everybody's heard of it one time or another. Padre Pio--he just died. Theresa Neumann, they've been some very famous ones."

  "You've got Padre Pio and Theresa Neumann, but I'm saying outside of Catholics who ever heard of them?" Greg said.

  "Padre Pio got five thousand letters a week," August said. "They lined up, you had to wait two months to go to confession to him."

  "Yeah, devout people," Greg said. "But how many even Catholics are really devout?"

  "Saint Francis of Assisi," August said.

  "Okay, Saint Francis," Greg said, "but how many people know he had it?"

  "Maybe you're right," August said.

  "How do you know Juvie's even gonna get it?"

  "We don't," August said, "but you're right. Maybe I've been assuming too much. Greg? . . . Thanks." August sat down at his father's desk in the print shop and wrote a pamphlet that would be handed out Sunday in the event everything worked the way he hoped it would. The pamphlet was entitled:

  STIGMATA The Wounds of Christ Crucified . . . The Marks of Sainthood!

  And told the reader:

  The stigmata is a phenomenon observed in a number of Christian saints and mystics for which there is no natural explanation. Therefore it is assumed the stigmata is of supernatural origin or inspiration. It consists of the appearance, on the body of a living person, of wounds that correspond to our Lord Jesus Christ's wounds on the cross--the nail wounds in his hands an
d feet and the wound from the Roman soldier's spear thrust into His side. 321 Known Stigmatists A study conducted by Dr. A. Imbert-Gourbeyre (La Stigmasation, 2 v. Clermont-Ferrand, 1894-95; 2nd edition, 1908) contains the names of 321 people who have manifested the stigmata since the time of St. Francis of Assisi (1181-1226), the Church's first recorded stigmatist. Pope Pius XI has stated that the stigmata of St. Francis is an historical fact proved by irrefutable testimonies. The list includes a number of the more recent stigmatists who have been written about, such as: Catherine Emmerich of Muenster, Germany (1774-1824), Mary von Moerl of Kaltern, Tyrol (1812-1868), Louise Lateau of Bois de Haine, France (1850-1883), St. Gemma Galgani of Lucca, Italy (1878-1903). Bled from Her Eyes One of our most prominent stigmatists was Theresa Neumann of Konnersreuth, Germany, born on Good Friday, April 8, 1898. Her first stigmatization appeared on Good Friday, April 2, 1926, when her eyes began to bleed profusely, a phenomenon that would occur whenever she meditated on Christ's suffering. Theresa Neumann's stigmata brought pilgrims from all over the world. It was seen by thousands of people and subject to intensive investigation. She died in 1962 after virtually living on no other nourishment than Holy Communion. Padre Pio--Most Famous of All There is no question that the most celebrated stigmatist of any time is Padre Pio, the Capuchin monk of San Giovanni Rotondo in southern Italy, who received the stigmata one day in September 1918, three days after the feast of the stigmata of St. Francis. While at prayer in the chapel of Maria delle Grazie, he was found in a faint, blood pouring from his five wounds. He experienced fresh bleeding every day of his life for the next 50 years. Over 100 biographies have been written about Padre Pio, describing his wounds, the miracles performed through his intercession, and offering medically attested evidence that his stigmata was not a natural phenomenon. Odor of Violets Drs. Festa and Romanelli, who examined Padre Pio, stated that all five wounds had a characteristic odor of violets and that the one in the saintly man's side was in the form of a cross seven centimeters in length. Their report could offer no explanation of the cause of the lesions nor of their refusal to heal. Miracles Padre Pio was famous for performing miracles, curing the sick and infirm, and for his gift of "bilocation," being able to be in two places at once. There are accounts of his actually appearing to soldiers during World War II and saving them from death, while he remained in the monastery at San Giovanni Rotondo. "He received 5,000 letters a week and about 1,500,000 visitors a year. (National Review, Oct. 22, 1968) There is a library full of testimony by sane, well-educated, unprejudiced people to the effect that he was really gifted with an odor of sanctity, that he was often reported in two places at the same time, and that he continually, but especially in the confessional, displayed intimate knowledge of the secret thoughts, sins, prayers, temptations and devotional lives of the people he spoke to. . . . He died September 23, 1968, having carried the open wounds of the stigmata longer than anyone else in history; for 50 years he had not taken a step without the slow, painful gait of a crippled man. When they wanted to call a doctor he said, 'Be good fellows, don't call anybody. Those whom I ought to call, I have already called.' " And Now . . . A decade has passed since anyone has been blessed with the mystical gift of the stigmata . . . a period of time in which Holy Mother Church has been besieged and buffeted by false doctrines, liberal attempts to make the bastion of our Faith a lukewarm, lackadaisical, Protestant-like symbol of "all things to all men." One wonders if it is not now time for the stigmata to appear again on a person of devotion and dedication . . . a person bearing the Marks of Faith, the Symbols of Sanctity, who would stand before us as a present-day St. Francis . . . to lead us 'round the quicksand of heresy and reestablish, reaffirm the traditional teaching ministry of the Church of Jesus Christ and His Apostles. We await the Sign crying:

  ORGANIZATION UNIFYING TRADITIONAL RITES AS GOD EXPECTS !!!

  August read the pamphlet to Greg Czarnicki.

  Greg said, "How come you don't mention Juvie?"

  "Because nobody knows about him yet," August said. "Don't you see what I'm doing? I'm setting it up, like saying we need a symbol, a sign, and there he is. Can you imagine the impact? I still can't believe it--no, I don't mean that, I don't want to infer a lack of faith. But it gives me the chills thinking about it. Like there's no question God has His hand on me and is using me. Do you feel it?"

  Greg nodded, yes, he did. He would have felt it more, though, if August said "us" instead of "me." Like something miraculous was happening to August.

  Chapter 11

  "I HATE TO SAY IT," Lynn said, "but the last time I was in church was at Uni-Faith in Dalton. No, I take that back, I went with Doug when his sister got married in Fort Worth. But you know what I did today? I bought a dress. And I haven't owned a dress I bet since I was a little girl, a regular dress. At first I thought it was a housedress because it's just a print, you know. But, God, it was eighty dollars because it's a Diane Von Furstenburg." Lynn paused. "I guess it's kind of cute really."

  The phone rang inside, sounding far away.

  Lynn and Bill Hill were on the balcony, outside but private on the second floor, behind the railing and the hanging plants. Lynn didn't move, slumped low in a red canvas chair, bare legs stretched out. Bill Hill was on the matching red chaise looking down the quiet twilight fairway, seeing himself loft an approach to number seventeen that dropped within inches of the cup. He looked over at Lynn.

  "You don't have the phone with you."

  "Shit," Lynn said. She drew her legs under her, but didn't get up. "No, I quit carrying it around from room to room. Two days, I've pretty near forgotten all about the business."

  "How do you know it's business?"

  "Who's gonna call me eight o'clock Saturday night? The guys're out with their wives. It's Artie, from the Coast."

  The phone continued to ring.

  "I asked you one time, you never told me. How come all those guys sound like they're from New York?"

  "Like gangsters talk in the movies," Bill Hill said. "I don't know, I guess it's supposed to impress you. . . . You gonna answer it?"

  Lynn got up, barefoot in white shorts and a white shirt hanging out hiding the shorts, looking like a little girl, scrubbed clean and not wearing her eyelashes. She took her time going inside, hoping the phone would stop ringing.

  Bill Hill was always nice to Lynn. He liked her a lot. There was a time, after finding her divorced and living in Detroit--couple of old buddies up here six hundred miles from home--he'd thought about making the moves to get her in bed. But when he pictured himself doing it, he knew he'd be self-conscious and both of them would probably laugh. That was it, they were buddies--even with a twenty-year difference in their ages--they told each other things and confided; they were like kin.

  She had certainly been in a state Thursday night, come running out of the Sacred Heart Center, jumped in the car saying, "God, you're not gonna believe it," and hadn't told him clearly, in words that made sense, until they were out on the Chrysler Freeway and past the Ford interchange, midway through Detroit going north.

  He had tried to keep his eyes on the road and not ask questions, trying also to picture what she was telling him, finally saying, "You mean nails were in him?" And Lynn saying, "No, wounds like from nails and a cut in his side like he'd been stabbed."

  "Jesus."

  "Yes, Jesus," Lynn said. "Standing there like him. Honest to God, if he had a beard--you know like the pictures you see of him, the brown hair? His hair's the same color."

  "What did he say?"

  "Nothing. He just looked at me."

  "Was he in pain?"

  "No, I don't think so. He seemed, like he was sad. I don't know, he was just--quiet."

  "And he didn't say anything."

  "No. Well, yes, he did. He said my name, I remember now hearing it as I ran out. God, why'd I do that?"

  "I can understand," Bill Hill said.

  "He didn't yell it out I remember, going out, I heard him say it. 'Lynn?' " She tried it again-- " '
Lynn?' "--trying to get the right tone.

  "You think he wanted you to help him?"

  "Help him? Help him what, put Band-Aids on? He had the same wounds as Jesus on the cross and he hadn't been crucified and he didn't do it himself. There weren't any nails or a knife or anything; he wasn't showing it off, but--well, yes he was too--he was showing it to me." Lynn was silent. "You think he did want me to help him? God, and I ran out; turned and ran like a little kid."

  "He must know what to do," Bill Hill said, "if he had it before."

  "But why'd he show it to me?"

  Bill Hill said, "Maybe the people there know and he felt it didn't matter, one more. Remember my telling you I thought they were keeping him hidden? Very friendly and helpful, except they didn't tell you a thing. If a man wanted to remain anonymous that'd be the place, wouldn't it?"

  "But people leave there," Lynn said. "They'd tell; somebody would."

  "I mean the staff," Bill Hill said. "I can't imagine that priest not knowing."

  "Father Quinn," Lynn said, thoughtful. "I suppose the doctor--"

  Bill Hill said, "Did you happen to notice his hands before? I mean when you were talking to him earlier?"

  Lynn thought about it, picturing him in the coffee shop, then in the office, seeing his hand reaching for her breast. She hadn't told Bill Hill about that part and didn't think she would.

  "I didn't notice anything special. Like you mean if he had scars?"

  "I think he'd have to," Bill Hill said. "If a wound keeps opening up there's got to be a scar. Wouldn't you think?"

  "I don't know. If it's a miracle why does there have to be anything natural about it?"

  "Who says it's a miracle?"

  "That's right," Lynn said, "you see people every day walking around with crucifixion wounds."

  There had been a lot to think about in the dark interior of Bill Hill's Monte Carlo, heading out the Chrysler Freeway that night, the radio off, Lynn, for the first time not skipping around on the AM-FM to see if her records were getting any play. No, it was quiet, and the fluorescent glow of light beneath the overpasses added to the feeling--something happening they couldn't explain no matter how hard they thought about it. Juvenal's blood on Virginia's face and on the man with d.t.'s. Like it happened to him when he was healing somebody . . . maybe when he was in an emotional state, feeling compassion or something so intensely he began to bleed?