August glanced toward the kitchen, the opening above the counter.
" 'But any suspicion of kinship is forgotten immediately once you see the way they talk to each other with "inside" straight-faced remarks, and notice their lingering looks and glances.' Did you know we did that?"
"I didn't think anyone noticed," Juvenal said from the kitchen.
August looked that way again, then back to Lynn. He saw the glass had been picked up.
"You want mustard?"
"A little," Lynn said.
"The lettuce isn't any good."
"Just mustard's fine."
August listened to it: Juvenal in the kitchen; she sits on her ass letting him wait on her, because she can make him do anything she wants. Raises up her dress and makes him do things.
Juvenal came in from the kitchen carrying a plate of sandwiches and a bowl of potato chips.
He stopped. After a moment he said to August, "What you have there, that's more than disturbing the peace, even if you're kidding."
"I'm not kidding," August said.
Lynn said, "Oh, my God," looking around, and August swung the gun back to her, seeing her scrambling to her feet. He yelled, "Don't move!" But too late. She was standing, holding her hands against her thighs. Now Juvenal was moving.
August swung the revolver on him, not wanting to but had to. "Stay where you are!" They were too far apart; yet he didn't want them close together.
Juvenal placed the sandwiches and potato chips on the counter and walked past August, not looking at him, to Lynn and said something to her--August unable to hear the words--and put his hand on her shoulder. It was easier to cover them, but they were too close together, standing by the glass coffee table. August could see her falling, smashing the table, and began to think, What's wrong with that? In fact, good, smash it. Found in broken glass in a pool of blood-- A burglar, someone caught in her apartment, killing her spontaneously, wouldn't worry about being neat.
Juvenal said, "August?"
August said, "You don't have to explain anything to me. I know what's going on, I can see what she's doing to you."
Juvenal said, "All right," showing August he was calm and relaxed so August would be calm and relaxed. "Tell me what you have in mind?"
A question along the line of questions August had anticipated. He had rehearsed several replies, but liked his first one as well as "Rid your life of a malignancy," or any of the others. He said, "I'm gonna get her out of the way once and for all." Plain and simple.
Lynn said, "Out of the way? Out of whose way?"
"His," August said.
"How am I in his way? He can do anything he wants."
Juvenal said, "August, I think you've got a mistaken idea about what's going on. We haven't done anything wrong. Or else I'd realize it, wouldn't I?"
"You've examined your conscience?" August said. "I doubt it. I don't see how you could as long as you remain in an occasion of sin. It's impossible."
"That's what I mean," Juvenal said. "We're talking about my conscience, aren't we?"
"Not hers," August said. "She's past having a conscience."
"Well, just to keep it simple," Juvenal said, "if we're talking about mine, then let me say, let me assure you my conscience is in good shape and isn't trying to beat on me or tell me anything."
"That's what happens," August said. "Ignore your conscience and after a while it ceases to function and you're cut off from your moral guidelines. I've seen it happen, a good, scrupulous conscience becoming lax, then losing every bit of its fiber and finally it becomes limp, worthless."
"For Christ sake," Lynn said, "why don't you think I have a conscience?"
"You don't," August said. "You're . . . hollow, without a spark of spiritual life left in you."
"How do you know?"
"You can protest all you want, it won't do you any good. But what you're looking at now is the summation and conclusion of your life." He extended the revolver. "This is what it's added up to."
"Jesus, August, come on," Lynn said. She felt helpless and wasn't even sure she understood what August was talking about. She said to Juvenal, "Tell him we're okay. We're really nice and we're not doing anything bad. Christ--"
Juvenal said to him, "You're talking ethics with a gun in your hand. You realize that?"
"I certainly do," August said. "We can talk about it later. I'm taking you up to Almont for a few days of recollection; a retreat, you might say. You can talk to Father Nestor or myself, or not speak at all if you feel silence, contemplation, might be better. I'll give you some pamphlets."
Juvenal said, "August, why don't we sit down and talk now?"
"After, we can talk all you want."
Juvenal started toward him. "Put the gun down, okay?"
August backed up a step. "You have nothing to do with this; stay out of it."
Juvenal continued toward him. "If I weren't here, you wouldn't be either."
August moved back again. "You have nothing to do with this, right now. Your time's coming and we'll prepare for it."
Juvenal, stepping toward him, almost within reach, said, "Let me have the gun, August. Okay?"
August moved back again and stopped as his left shoulder bumped against the edge of the sliding door. He put the gun on Juvenal, aiming pointblank at his chest.
Lynn said, "August, for God sake, give him the fucking gun, will you?"
She saw August past Juvenal, part of him; saw him look toward her and then at Juvenal and then saw him push Juvenal hard with his left hand and swing the gun toward her in the moment that he was able to aim directly at her.
And fired--the noise, the awful sound ringing close in the room--and fired again and fired again, the third shot into the ceiling as Juvenal came in under August's arm, raising it with one hand, grabbing August's collar in his fist and twisting the fist into August's throat as he rushed him backward onto the balcony, drove him against the rail and over the rail, arms and then legs in the air, August screaming, and then gone.
Lynn could still hear the ringing, her eyes on Juvenal. His back was to her, hands on the iron railing, looking down. When he didn't turn she went out to him and stood close, taking his arm and pressing her body against his hip.
"He hasn't moved," Juvenal said.
She looked over the railing to see August lying at the edge of the cement-slab patio below. Two metal porch chairs, tipped over, were on either side of him where he lay on his back, arms spread above his head, as if looking up at them with a gesture of surrender.
Juvenal said, "I think I killed him."
Chapter 24
HOWARD HART spoke for twelve minutes on chicanery, legerdemain, apparent miracles, oracles, sensitives, Lourdes, Fatima, faith healing, bending spoons, Uri Geller, the old Oral Roberts, God--using the words psychogenesis, psychobiological, psycho-physiological, psychosomatic, almost every psych but psychedelic to give his remarks little rings of authority; though none of it made much sense to anyone listening for a topic sentence.
There was a packed house of more than 150 people in the studio audience, including the "miracle crowd" sitting down front: Lynn Faulkner and Bill Hill; Antoinette Baker and Richie's doctor from Children's Hospital (where Richie was still under observation and, Antoinette hoped, watching on TV); Kathy Worthington and Kathy's theology expert from U of D, Father Dillon; Dr. Kaplan, author of Psychoanalysis: Trick or Treatment; twenty-seven young men from the Gray Army of the Holy Ghost, in white shirts but without arm-bands; Father Nestor, sitting in the last row, on the aisle; about forty parishioners from Saint John Bosco; and the rest, fans of "Hartline," sitting, standing, extending out into the WQRD hallway and lobby.
All those people in the studio audience and "all you out there" watching Howard Hart rub the side of his nose and talk about psycho-hyphenated things, half of Howard showing behind the giant Mediterranean desk--bookshelves in the background--the buttoned-up top half in double-breasted silk and big Windsor; the nationally televised star a
cting natural, caressing the side of his nose, touching his hairpiece. Look at the smile; a regular guy but, hey, brilliant . . .
". . . as we attempt to reconcile our guest's mystical claims with metaphysical reality . . ."
The psychiatrist sitting behind Lynn and Bill Hill said, "He doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about."
Lynn was looking way up at the grid of lights and cables high against the studio ceiling, crisscrossed rows of at least a hundred lights to shine down on Howard Hart's little fake-library set in the corner of the studio.
Bill Hill said, "He doesn't know how to smile either. Look at him, he clenches his jaw and shows his teeth."
"As opposed to his natural shit-eating grin," Lynn said. "He's a honey."
"I'm told," Howard Hart was saying, "the boys at the network expect this evening the biggest audience response we've had since a son of a . . . famous singer"--pause, shit-eating grin--"walked off the show a few weeks ago." Pause, smile. "Now, if you've got questions for our guest, keep your phone handy and call them in. Or if you have comments to make, come on, let's hear from you. I guarantee our guest is going to be controversial, to say the least. I've put a dozen extra operators on duty just to handle your calls and I know, at least my regulars out there"--pause, smile--"won't let me down. So right now, let's bring on our guest."
The floor manager, wearing a headset, standing midway between the two Ampex cameras on the stage, turned to the audience clapping his hands. The audience picked it up, maintaining the applause as Juvenal came out from somewhere, took Howard's extended hand--Howard reaching across his giant desk--and sat down in a swivel chair that was a scooped plastic shell on a chrome base.
Bill Hill said, "Jesus, he looks like he just got out of the hospital."
"It's from the Center," Lynn said, "the clothes room."
The suit, a gray-striped seersucker, hung on him, lifeless, at least a size too large.
"I tried to get him to buy a new one. He likes it."
Howard Hart was leaning on his desk staring at Juvenal, letting the silence lengthen dramatically. Finally he said, "Your name is Charlie Lawson and you're sometimes referred to, affectionately I presume, as Juvie. Well, I'm going to be noncommittal this evening and call you Juvenal. How'll that be?"
"The only way he could be noncommittal," Lynn said, "is if you cut his tongue out." In a moment, staring at Juvenal, her mood changed and she said, "Awww, look at him. Isn't he neat?"
Howard Hart was saying, "What I'd like you to do first is explain your stigmata in your own words, exactly what it is, and then tell us how you do it. But first, this word from one of our sponsors."
Lynn said, "You see what he's doing? The first thing he says, for God's sake."
"Just take it easy," Bill Hill said.
"I don't do it," Juvenal said. "It just happens. I'd like to add that I don't say it's mystical, either, as opposed to your reference to metaphysical reality. What do you mean by that?"
"You believe in God," Howard said, ignoring the question.
"Yes."
"You believe in miracles."
Juvenal settled back, resigned. "Yes."
"You were a Franciscan, which is a particularly . . . mystic-orientated order, weren't you?"
"I was a Franciscan brother. I don't know how mystical they are."
"You believe God can work wonders, if He chooses, through you."
"If He wants to."
"Would you say you're quite impressionable . . . suggestable, perhaps naive?"
"I probably am," Juvenal said.
"So that your five so-called wounds are not a miraculous mystical representation of Jesus Christ's wounds, divinely given to you by God, but are very probably caused by your own psychic suggestion."
"It could be," Juvenal said.
"What do you do, squeeze your eyes closed, concentrate on a crucifix, and hold your mouth a certain way?"
"No, I don't do any of that."
"You pray? Say, come on, God, give it to me? Let's show 'em I'm a holy Joe, a living, breathing saint, a miracle-working mystic right out of the Middle Ages?" Howard Hart waited. "Well?"
"Would you repeat the question?"
(Lynn laughed.)
"Why do you think God would single you out for this . . . wondrous gift? What's so special about you?"
"I don't know that He does."
Howard Hart smiled at the camera. "Well, you're modest. Is that part of the image? Oh, my goodness gracious, why me, Lord? Let me ask you a question. Why'd you come on my show?"
Juvenal hesitated. "You invited me. I thought it might be a good opportunity . . . well, I thought, why should I hide? If I have this . . . it isn't something I'm ashamed of."
"Wait a minute," Howard said. "Hold it just a cotton-pickin' minute. "I invited you? I seem to have the impression your manager came to me."
"He's not my manager."
"--and made a deal stating that you, a so-called servant of God, self-proclaimed instrument of His mercy, would not appear on this show for less than"--looking directly at the camera--"one million dollars."
Juvenal was sitting erect in his chair, holding onto the curved sides. "I'm supposed to be paid for this?"
"You didn't sign a contract?"
"I signed something, I don't know what it was."
"You didn't read it?"
"No. I glanced at it."
"So you're telling me you know nothing about receiving one . . . million . . . dollars? You want people to believe you're appearing here as a public service, an act of charity?" A laugh came out of Howard Hart's shit-eating grin. "We'll be right back after this message."
Lynn said, "You son of a bitch."
Bill Hill glanced around, putting his hand on her arm. "Take it easy, okay? How many times did I try to talk to you? You refused to hear anything about it, right?"
"You made a deal?"
"It's not anything like he's saying it is."
"How much?"
"He's using it, trying to make him look dumb, that's all."
"How much?"
"Guaranteed four hundred thousand," Bill Hill said. "Juvie signed the contract in Howard's office; I saw him looking at it."
"But you didn't tell him about the money," Lynn said. "You didn't say, 'You're getting four hundred thousand dollars.' Did you?"
"The amount isn't definite till we find out how many stations put it on. So . . . we get the check, I was gonna surprise him."
"We--" Lynn said.
"You're in on it."
"I don't want to be in on it." Very tense, biting off the words.
"I'll tell you the whole thing after. Have we had a chance to talk? You go away, you don't even tell me you're going."
"How much do you get out of it? Since it's his money."
"Well, I set it up and everything. I had to sell Howard."
"How much?"
"Half sound about right?"
"Tell me," Howard Hart said, "how much have you made so far as a professional stigmatic and miracle worker?"
"Nothing," Juvenal said.
"This'll be your first million then. What're you going to do with it?"
"I didn't know I was getting anything."
"Uh-huh," Howard said. "Well, now that you know, what'll you do with it? A million dollars. By the way, as a religious miracle worker, are you a tax-free entity?"
Juvenal was frowning a little, thoughtful, swinging very slowly from side to side on the swivel.
"I don't know what I am."
"Well, I'd say you're rich, for one thing. So what do you do with all your money . . . spend it on your girl friend? Which brings up an interesting facet . . . the miracle worker's what, lady friend? I'd like to know a little more about that side of your life--what do you call her, your mistress? The stigmata's inamorata?"
("Oh, my God," Lynn said.)
As Juvenal said, "Lynn?"
"Lynn Marie Faulkner, who, I believe, lives out in sin city, I mean Somerset Park."
&nbs
p; ("Jesus," Bill Hill said.)
("Rotten son of a bitch," Lynn said.)
"But first--let's save that," Howard said. "I don't want to get ahead of myself and open up too many cans of worms at once, uh?" Pause. "Off the record though, you aren't by any chance working on some kind of a religious sex manual, are you? I understand that's a lucrative new field."
(Lynn stood up.)
"But first--as I mentioned--I want to bring out someone whose appearance alone will give testimony to still another facet of your life-style and very mysterious, I might add, personality . . . right after this message."
* * *
Bill Hill said, "Where you going?"
Lynn didn't answer, she pushed past him to the aisle. Bill Hill thought she was leaving and got up to follow, thinking she was going to run out, emotionally unstrung or something, and he'd have to calm her down and try to get her back in.
But Lynn wasn't running out. God no--as Bill Hill stood watching--she was marching up on the stage past the cameras and the floor manager over to Howard Hart's fake-library set. Now Lynn was talking a mile a minute, Howard standing, trying to calm her down, and the floor manager was bringing over another swivel chair.
In a close-shot of Howard Hart, leaning comfortably on his desk, confiding straight out to his millions of viewers, he said, "Well, if you haven't come to expect the unexpected on 'Hartline' by now . . . we were speaking about a young lady by the name of Lynn Marie Faulkner . . . well, speak of the devil"--grin--"and I mean that figuratively, because here she is live, and I might add, very much alive . . . Miss Faulkner."
As the second camera was cut in, Howard Hart's millions of viewers saw Lynn sitting right there next to Juvenal in the same kind of chair, legs crossed--nice legs--arms folded, jaw clenched? Maybe. The viewers saw a good-looking girl who was doing everything she could to remain in control and not go over the top of that giant desk for Howard Hart's throat.
Great stuff. Howard had two rings going here, on his library desk set. He rose, the camera following him, and took his viewers over to the third ring at center stage, to a figure encased in plaster lying on a narrow, mobile hospital bed. Curtains served as a backdrop.
Howard said, "If Lynn Marie can hang on just a minute, first I want to introduce somebody to you--" Howard began turning a crank at the foot of the bed. As he did, the head of the bed began to rise, bringing with it . . .
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