"I'm curious about some things," Juvenal said.
"But if you're gonna be out there you'll want a true image of yourself preceding you, not sly rumors and accusations that you're some kind of freak."
Juvenal said, "Quinn suggested he and I go down and talk to them, make some kind of statement."
"That's fine, you're gonna have to do something like that just to be nice," Bill Hill said. "But then after they run their stories, that's when you get reactions. See, people will have a feeling it isn't the whole story--is this guy a fake or what?--or necessarily both sides of the story if it's controversial; because your great majority of people haven't heard it from you, what you feel and think."
"And you have a way to solve that," Juvenal said, sounding a little tired.
"Maybe," Bill Hill said. "See, you read a newspaper account, you say, 'Hey, I didn't say that. They turned it around.' Or they quote you out of context and you sound dumb. What I was thinking, what if you were in a position to tell your story personally to everybody, and I mean millions of people, and take as long as two hours if you want."
"What's my story?" Juvenal said.
"Touching people," Bill Hill said. "You touch people and they change. I don't mean just the sick and infirm." Bill Hill paused. "Didn't you know that? Take Lynn for instance--"
Chapter 18
TUESDAY, feature stories appeared in both the Detroit News and the Free Press. Lynn got out her scissors.
"Miracle at Almont?"
The basic story of what had taken place Sunday now emphasized the fact August Murray had distributed a pamphlet entitled "Stigmata" following the supposedly "unscheduled incident on the altar." The story cited August Murray's record of arrests as a right-wing religious activist, but did not delve into the purpose of traditionalist movement.
"Former Missionary Describes Mysterious Bleeding."
With a three-column cut of Juvenal, hands raised, eyes staring out from the photo. The news story was from the Sacred Heart Center press conference and interview. It presented the facts accurately, Lynn felt, though some of the quotes didn't sound as though they came from Juvenal. Words in there like viable and preternatural.
"Stigmata: The Church's View."
An interview with Father Dennis Dillon, SJ, Associate Professor of Theology at the University of Detroit. "There exists no intrinsic relationship between sanctity and stigmatization, though God can confer charisma on anyone He chooses, even one outside the Church or in the state of mortal sin . . . according to Pope Benedict XIV."
Lynn thought that was big of him.
". . . but is generally attributed to purely natural causes, as long as the contrary has not been proved." The Church, therefore is "cautious in attributing stigmatization to a miracle . . . for psycho-physiological sciences may, in the future, show such attribution to be untenable."
So that, Lynn decided, the guy really didn't say anything.
"Stigmata: A Psychiatrist's Appraisal."
An interview with Dr. Alan Kaplan, M.D., Ph.D., author of Psychoanalysis: Trick or Treatment. According to Kaplan stigmatization was the result of a highly emotional, hyper-ecstatic state. "Hey, the Catholics don't have a corner on stigmata," said Kaplan. "The wounds Mohammed received, battling for the spread of his faith, have appeared on Moslem ascetics. And how about, a few years ago, the little ten-year-old girl in Oakland, California? She woke up Good Friday morning with the stigmata, after reading about the crucifixion and seeing a TV movie on it. The little girl's a Baptist, and she's black." Kaplan cited other examples of spontaneous hemorrhaging, each case involving a person "of strong hysterical disposition." It was like saying, What else is new?
But Juvenal didn't have a hysterical disposition. Did he?
"'I Was Too Healed,' says Richie."
In the three-column photo Richie was touching the fuzz that covered his head, eyes raised, while his mother smiled proudly. "As soon as we saw Richie's hair we knew it was a miracle," said Mrs. Antoinette Baker of Clawson. "We got right down on our knees to thank the good Lord for what He had done for us." The news story told that Richie had returned to Children's Hospital, where a complete physical failed to reveal any trace of leukemia cells lurking in his blood or bone marrow. Said an attending physician in hematology, "We would not state categorically the impossibility of a remission not lasting indefinitely--"
Lynn read that part over three times.
"--but we strongly advise the continuance of chemotherapy at this point in time. A relapse is usually fatal." That was plain enough. But Mrs. Baker insisted, no more treatments, convinced there was no need "for Richie and I to keep going down there every Thursday when he's been healed." She added yes, she would like to meet this Juvenal sometime and thank him personally for the precious gift of life he has given them.
Then a final word from the doctor stating that no, observing the amount of hair that grew in on Richie's head overnight could not be considered usual.
In the "Accent on Living" section of the News was a story Lynn read through twice--beneath a four-column shot of Antoinette Baker in a bikini striking some kind of a jivey pose.
"Go-go Dancing Pays . . . Barely."
How does the divorced mother of an eleven-year-old leukemia victim, with talent but no formal training in a profession, get by these days? "Barely," says Toni Baker, "but we make it and, gosh, now, it seems too good to be true. With Richie healed I'll be able to sleep in Thursdays, my day off, and get some much-needed rest." Toni dances at the popular Caprice Lounge on Grand River, "interpreting" today's disco beat as she feels it, to the hearty approval of the gentlemen in the audience. . . . But how does a go-go dancer feel about miracles and divine intervention? Can she handle it all right? "Easy as pie," says Toni. "God gave me my body, I'm not ashamed of it. As for miracles, well, who knows what God's plan is for us here on, you know, earth. I believe like if a certain person has the power, like in Star Wars, you know, the 'Force,' then they can do all these neat things to help humanity." Toni said she and Richie were supposed to meet Juvenal soon . . .
Which was different than the other story, Lynn noticed, where the mother had said she'd like to meet him.
. . . and she was looking forward to it. She thought he had nice eyes and was real cute, "especially for a person who performed miracles."
When Lynn read it the second time she made comments to herself. After ". . . no formal training in a profession . . . " she said, You didn't need training peddling your ass. "God gave me my body, I'm not ashamed of it." Lynn's thought was, And this mother's giving it to everybody else.
She was irritated, she thoroughly disliked the woman, and had to stop and analyze the feeling. Was it resentment? The book--one of the how-to-be-happy books--said if you were disturbed or felt resentment, it was your own fault. You didn't have to feel that way. No---
But how come all of a sudden this Antoinette Baker--Toni now, with everybody getting to know her and love her--was becoming the star of the show? She didn't have a thing to do with what was going on. Nothing. But there she was hanging out of her string bikini--way too old to be wearing something like that, she had to be thirty-two at least--on the front page of the Detroit News "Accent on Living" section.
It burned Lynn up.
It made August Murray sick to his stomach. He said, "Look at her."
Greg Czarnicki said, "She's a little old, but not too bad."
"Look at all this," August said. He swept the newspapers from his father's desk, sweeping with them the start of a pamphlet he was writing entitled "You Claim to Be a Catholic . . . Prove It!" and a twelve-inch plaster statue of the Infant of Prague.
August and Greg looked down at the broken figure, the crowned head rolling away from the robed body of baby Jesus.
"Look what she made me do!"
"Who?" Greg said.
"That cunt"--Richie's mom in the bikini--"and the other one, at the Free Press. I gave her everything, the entire story. Do you see one word about Outrage or Pius X?"
"I thought this Juvenal might mention it," Greg said, "if he's supposed to be so tuned in, or whatever you want to call it, and sympathetic."
"It's not his fault," August said, "you can't even get near him. That alcoholic priest, he actually pushed me away. I said, 'I have to talk to him.' He said, 'Come back some other time, he's got work to do.' I said, 'Yes, he's got work to do, for the Church, not for a bunch of drunks.' "
"What did he say?"
"I don't know--he walked out, took Juvie with him. Tomorrow you'll be reading all about Sacred Heart Rehabilitation Center and the great job they're doing--that guy Quinn, you can see it, he's gonna use Juvie, get all the publicity he can for his drunk tank."
Greg Czarnicki was picking up the newspapers, piling the sections neatly on the corner of the desk. "You want to save these?"
August wanted to but said no.
Greg was studying a section of the paper, holding it as he read something on the page. "There was a robbery at City Airport--you see it? They caught the guys."
"There robberies all around here," August said. "Look at them, they get their pictures in the paper with their big hats on, punk nigger kids grinning at you. You know why they're grinning? They know they'll be back on the street in a few days, looking around . . . what's a good place to break in next? You know what I hope? I hope they try to get in here sometime."
August pulled open the middle desk drawer, took out a revolver, and laid it on his writing paper, his notes and starts of pamphlets.
Greg looked at it.
"It's my dad's," August said. "Thirty-eight Smith and Wesson Commando. You think this wouldn't stop them?"
"Just scare them," Greg said. "You wouldn't actually shoot anybody, would you?"
"If he was coming in here to take something that belongs to me?" August said. "I'd shoot to kill. And if God wants to have mercy on his soul that's up to Him. You bet I'd shoot."
On Tuesday, Bill Hill went back to WQRD-TV and had to wait forty minutes this time to see the mighty Howard Hart, Bill Hill thinking, as he sat there, Go ahead, chickenfat, keep me waiting.
Boy, he hated to wait for people, especially a man who had a bloated opinion of himself, no sense of humor, and a fourth-place rating among Saturday night shows.
Howard Hart had newspapers open on his desk. Even the Michigan Catholic. He said, "Now what?"
"This Juvenal is a simple, honest man," Bill Hill said, "maybe even a little naive, not used to the bright lights."
"I think I'll have Richie and his mother on first," Howard Hart said, "then bring the doctor on. Maybe give a full hour to them. But that's something I'll feel as I go along. Then bring Juvenal on with the psychiatrist and let 'em tangle asses."
"He's a gentle person," Bill Hill said. "I think he deserves your full attention."
"The theologian, I don't know," Howard Hart said. "What side's he on, the guy's?"
"He's not on either side."
"Then I don't need him. I want to see the guy and the psychiatrist mano a mano."
"Why don't you leave the psychiatrist out of it," Bill Hill said, "just talk to Juvenal."
"Why don't we leave you out instead," Howard Hart said.
"No, I got it," Bill Hill said. "Why don't you talk to the kid and his go-go mom, the doctor, the psychiatrist, and the theologian all this Saturday. Set it up, set the stage. Then next Saturday have Juvie on for the entire two hours."
"What do I talk to him about for two hours?"
"Anything you want. But with about fifteen minutes to go, you know what happens?"
"Tell me."
"In front of you and fifty million people, if your network's any good and can do its promotional work . . . Juvie will get the stigmata, bleed from his five wounds, and heal a cripple of your choice . . . live on national television."
Howard Hart had to think about that a minute; he had to try to picture it.
As he did, Bill Hill said, "Queen for a night. The chance to see your ratings shoot up from fourth place to first. It wouldn't hurt you, would it?"
"What do you know about ratings?"
"Nothing. But I read in the TV column in the paper you're about to get canceled if your audience doesn't pick up."
"What if the guy doesn't produce?" Howard Hart said.
"What if you had Neil Diamond on and all of a sudden he couldn't sing a note?" Bill Hill said. "This is what Juvie does, he performs miracles. If you'd rather watch him on another network, let me know right now." Bill Hill started to get up.
"Let's say I agree," Howard Hart said, thoughtful, as though he were still undecided.
"Then you hand me one of your standard contracts," Bill Hill said, "stating you'll pay me one million and forty thousand dollars for the delivery of Juvenal the miracle worker."
Howard Hart threw his head back and laughed and laughed, then shook his head and pretended to wipe tears from his eyes.
Bill Hill waited until he was through.
He said, "You got a whole bunch of commercials on your two-hour show. I counted thirty-one times including the station breaks, and I understand the network sells its time for about a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars a minute. That's a lot of money. I want a million forty thousand of it."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Howard Hart said. "It isn't that simple."
"Then it's up to you to make it simple," Bill Hill said, "so I can understand it. We won't get into residuals on reruns, I'll talk to my lawyer and let you know what kind of a cut we want. But as it stands now, I sign for a million forty thousand or you don't get your miracle worker. Somebody else does. Or, if you try to tamper with Juvie or reach him except through me, the deal is automatically off and you're out. You want him or not?"
"What's the forty thousand for?" Howard Hart said.
"Waiting in the lobby while you read the paper. A thousand dollars a minute."
"Well--" Howard Hart sighed. "It's gonna take a few days."
"That's all I'm giving you," Bill Hill said. "Signed by Friday or no deal."
He walked out, certain of getting his contract. The secret, he'd tell Lynn, was knowing how to talk to big shots. Give them the same shit they gave everybody else.
Something else happened that Tuesday, August 16, 1977. Elvis Presley died.
Chapter 19
" 'STOP IT,' shrieked a grandmother in a wheat-colored pantsuit. 'I can't take any more.' The radio clicked off but her weeping didn't stop."
Bill Hill sat on the couch reading aloud from the paper.
"It says he was laid out in a simple white tuxedo with a silver tie."
Lynn was in the kitchen. She said, through the counter opening, "I read Harmony House sold out his albums, three hundred and fifty of 'em, by ten-fifteen yesterday morning."
It was 2:35 P.M. now, Thursday.
Lynn was trying to act natural: in the kitchen cutting up celery and carrot sticks, opening a bag of corn chips and putting some in a bowl . . . finishing what she had been doing when she heard the door buzz and jumped, then had gone in to buzz the downstairs door and waited, and must have looked surprised when she saw it was Bill Hill. ("No, I'm not mad at you. No, nothing's wrong. . . . Yes, as a matter of fact, I am expecting somebody. . . . None of your business, if you don't mind." With a snippy tone that didn't even sound like her. Then, trying to be nice, "You want to sit down for a minute?") Bill Hill had been sitting in there at least fifteen minutes now and it was almost twenty to three.
" 'Michele Leone, thirty-two, of East Detroit, called the White House and urged President Carter to decree a national day of mourning.' "
He wasn't dumb, Lynn was thinking. If he knew somebody was coming and she didn't want him here-- But he kept reading to her.
"Here's one. ' "I got goose pimples," said Jane Freels of Livonia. "I felt numb. But I didn't cry till I played 'Love Me Tender' and heard his voice. My little girl, Shannon, stared at me like she was frightened and kept saying, 'What's wrong, mummy?' " ' "
Jus
t tell him to leave, that's all.
" ' "I was talking to my other married girl friends today and they said nobody feels like doing anything. They're just numb. We just watch TV waiting to see if they're going to show anything about him. We just can't get over this." ' "
I can't either, Lynn thought, if he doesn't get the hell out of here. Doesn't call or anything, just walks in--
" ' "He was the king of rock and roll," Jane concluded, with tears in her blue eyes. "He started it all. He made us what we are today." ' Is that a tribute," Bill Hill said, "or is that a tribute? You imagine the money they're gonna make on his records and stuff? They're selling Elvis Presley memorial T-shirts, pennants--the guy that's making them says, 'I know he would've liked them.' "
"Too bad you're not down there." Lynn put the carrots and celery in the refrigerator, looked around the kitchen, and came out to the living room.
Bill Hill was saying, well, things were happening up here, too. "For us, anyway, you and I. But you better sit down if I'm gonna tell you about it, because you're not gonna believe it at first and when you do you're liable to faint."
"You didn't bring a hat, did you?"
"You're cute," Bill Hill said. "Call whoever it is and tell him you're busy. Jesus, I hope it isn't the guy with the hair on Channel Seven. You got more class than that."
"You mind if we don't discuss my personal affairs?" With the snippy tone again that she didn't like. It was hard to keep her voice natural.
"If you want to be that way," Bill Hill said. He watched her walk over to the sliding glass door and look out at the fairway, then turn, restless, gather up the newspapers from the coffee table, then not know what to do with them. "If you don't want to be partners again--"
"We were never partners before."
"--and together find success and happiness, not to mention a whole lot of money."
"Leave him alone," Lynn said. "That's all I've got time to say to you right now. Leave the poor guy alone and let him do what he wants."
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