But I had good cause. We were the only two children on the island. We had pricked our fingers with a hot needle and mixed our blood. We told each other everything. One time, just to make our bond even tighter, we showed each other our private parts. Every afternoon, Murmur and I played together, building sand castles or dressing up our Barbies in clothes we made ourselves, or cooking up mud pies and having fake teas.
Well, all of that came to a screeching halt once the adults decided Murmur was in touch with Jesus. My mother always baked cookies on Thursday mornings, and Murmur and I would reap the benefits of her labor as soon as they were out of the oven. She stopped baking as soon as Murmur got in touch with Jesus. Every Saturday morning of my life, my parents took me to town and we ate breakfast at Woolworth’s and then they took me to the park, where I rode the carousel and ate pink cotton candy. Sometimes I threw up. Well, all of that ended as soon as Murmur got in touch with Jesus. Murmur and I had a secret hideout. We discovered an old Indian oyster midden hidden in the oaks on the western end of the island. We’d go out there and say curse words and stuff like that. Well, all of that ended as soon as Murmur got in touch with Jesus. On Friday nights, Murmur would come to my house or I’d go to hers and our parents would order us pizza and we’d have a sleepover. Well, all of that ended as soon as Murmur got in touch with Jesus. The final straw was when my parents announced that my birthday party was to be postponed yet again—I’d had the mumps on my real birthday, so we’d chosen May 17 as the new date. Mother had taken on extra responsibilities at the parish—there were strangers to be hosted and greeted and fed, so no party for me, and no new date was announced—and all because Murmur had gotten in touch with Jesus.
It was a weekday. Iris Haven was overrun with miracle-seeking pilgrims. I waited until I was sure Murmur’s morning performance was over and the pilgrims had started to clear out. I remember so clearly what I was wearing—a mint green shorts set that Mother had bought for me at a department store in Jacksonville. The bottoms had an elastic band around the waist, which I didn’t like, and the cotton made a soft scratchy sound when I walked, which I did like. Scratch scratch.
Mother had returned home from Murmur’s place and was on the phone, gossiping about what had happened that morning. I guess a woman with a bad back from Hastings had been in attendance, and when she left, she claimed to be suddenly without pain. As I sneaked out the back door, I patted my pocket to make sure my secret weapon was still there.
I marched myself over to Murmur’s, full of confidence and resolve. She lived at the end of the lane, in a big windy house her great-great-grandfather had built. It was haunted. Everyone said so. But ghosts didn’t scare me. In fact, I liked them. I went to the kitchen side of the house and knocked pretty as you please. Mrs. Harp opened the door and didn’t even give me a chance to speak. That’s how little I mattered. She said, “Murmur Lee cannot play with you, Charlee. She’s resting.”
“But Mrs. Harp, I just have to see her. I won’t be long. Pleeeeeaaase?” I was cunning and mean and guiltless: I was on a mission.
She looked at me the way adults do when they don’t want to give in to a child’s demands but a voice in their head is saying, Oh, go on, what harm can it do?
“All right, Charlee. But make it fast.” She stepped aside and I shot in.
Murmur was on her bed, perched in repose like a perfect little angel. She didn’t fool me. She was a hellion. We both were. Saint, shmaint. I walked over and shook her shoulder.
“Leave me alone. You’re not supposed to be touching me.” She opened her eyes and stared at me with blank disdain.
“I’ll touch you whenever I want.”
“Nah-huh.”
“Uh-huh.”
I grabbed her hair and pulled as hard as I could.
“Ouch!” She dug her nails into my arm. “You’re not supposed to be here. Go away. Leave me alone! I have to rest.”
I pinched her skinny leg. I thought about tearing the scab off her knee.
“Stop it! I’m gonna call my mommy!”
“‘Stop it,’ ” I mimicked. I tried to grab her nonexistent titty—this is an innate move all girls are born knowing. “She’s not here. Hahahahaha!” I loved the lie. I jumped on the bed and pinned her down. “I hate you! You’re not my friend! You’ve never been my friend!”
Murmur’s lips pinched up and I knew what she was getting ready to do. She could spit like a boy. “Don’t you dare!” I slammed my hand over her mouth. She bit me. I grabbed for the weapon in my pocket. Since I no longer had her pinned, I lost all leverage. She tried to throw me off. I hung on. We slapped wildly and grunted and struggled—all of this done in a desperate hushed fury because, if the truth be told, we really didn’t want to get caught. Neither of us did. This death match had been long in the making. She bit my left arm. With my right hand, I scratched her throat. We went tumbling off the bed. Boom! I hit my head really hard on the nightstand.
Still we fought on, crying and scratching and slapping. I managed to get back on top of her. She reached up and tried to choke me. I said, “Eat this and die!” I pulled a plastic Baggie filled with an entire package of Ex-Lax pills out of my pocket and jammed them down her throat. She made some kind of awful noise, which scared me.
“What in heaven’s name!” Mrs. Harp was a small woman, but she pulled me off of her daughter with one arm. I never heard her coming.
Murmur spit out the Ex-Lax, wailing all the while. Her cheek bled from a cat scratch I’d gotten in as we fell onto the floor. “She—she—she tried to kill me!”
“Hush, Murmur Lee!” Mrs. Harp’s steel grip was not an enjoyable experience. I tried to squirm away, but she only squeezed harder. “Charleston, have you lost your mind? What are these pills?”
“Ex-Lax,” I mumbled.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Her grip tightened with each name. “Murmur Lee, did you swallow any of those?”
“I don’t know,” she whimpered.
Mrs. Harp’s pale freckled face was flaming red. “I want you to go home this very second and tell your parents what you did. You tell them they’d better punish you. You need a good spanking. I’d do it myself if I thought you were worth my time. And tonight after services, I am personally going to speak to them. You are in trouble, Charleston Mudd.” Then she shoved me and said through gritted teeth, “Now you get on home.”
I looked at Murmur as I made my way out the door. Her shirt was torn. Ex-Lax tablets clung to her chin like big fat zits. Her tears diluted the blood that slowly trailed down her cheek. I shot her the meanest smirk I had. Saint, shmaint.
Mother and father put me on restriction for a week. So what? No one was playing with me anyway.
Later that night, I heard them in their bedroom. They were laughing about what I’d done. Father said, “Mm mm mm, well at least there is one person around here who is unimpressed by little Miss Murmur Lee.”
I put my pillow over my face and sobbed. I mean huge, unladylike, convulsive sobs. My father was wrong. I was wildly impressed. Murmur was so special that the Pope himself was probably going to call her to Rome. All the evidence pointed to it. She’d never given me one hint about any of this God business. Maybe she hated my guts. When did she start hating me? I wondered. I didn’t want her to hate me. And I sure didn’t want God to make her a saint. It wasn’t fair. He needed to find some other little girl to make a saint, because without Murmur, I didn’t have a friend in the whole wide world.
A Letter Written by Father Matthew Jaeger to Bishop Haywood F. Carroll, which Father Jaeger Never Mailed, Opting to Hide It in a Secret Pocket He Whittled into the Cover of His Favorite Book, From Here to Eternity
Bishop Haywood F. Carroll
Miami Diocese
Pastoral Center
9401 Biscayne Boulevard
Miami Shores, Florida
Dear Bishop Carroll:
Please forgive me for contacting you directly (astonishingly presumptive of me, I know; hopefully after reading this
, you will agree I have no choice), but since Bishop Beaver isn’t expected back from Rome for another two weeks and because of the seriousness of what is occurring in my St. Augustine parish, and after much prayer, the Lord has directed me to speak to you—without the benefit of Dan’s wisdom—about a matter of urgent importance.
I offer this in a spirit of full humility and wonder.
A situation has arisen in my flock that necessitates our immediate and focused attention. It is a delicate matter, rooted in the purity of our Lord, and one about which I seek the full range of your counsel.
It is my opinion (offered humbly and with no small measure of trepidation, since I’ve been unable to speak to Dan about this at all—seems his Roman holiday is keeping him quite busy) that because of the nature of what I am about to reveal, the church must vigorously assert itself, bringing to bear all of its sanctified powers and rights in order to keep at bay the wolves who would otherwise inevitably close in, seeking profit and fed by Satan’s greed.
I don’t quite know how to approach this matter delicately, so I shall plunge ahead, asking forgiveness if my discourse appears brash. (Thank you, Bishop.)
We have here in St. Augustine a young female—a mere child, the offspring of a devout, observant, and working-class but tithing mother (the father, I’m afraid—well, frankly, I don’t know what he is)—who, simply put, is being blessed (evidently) by Christ and a fair number of saints with the most amazing visions. These wondrous moments (I shan’t call them miracles; that is for the church to decide) have resulted in what appear to be healings. Notice, Bishop, I say “appear to be,” for I in no way would proffer myself as an expert on such matters. And believe me, I understand quite thoroughly that these are delicate matters I speak of, but speak I must!
For the sake of this discourse, I will detail for you some of the mysteries that have resulted from being in the child’s presence.
A. A single male, age forty, after having shown no interest in the many lovely young ladies in our flock, has promised to find a suitable Catholic woman of similar age to marry. Since the start of the child’s “visions,” he has attended our singles’ Bible-study group regularly (no absences, not a single one).
B. A ten-year-old boy, upon witnessing the girl’s holy agony, informed his mother that he no longer needed his inhaler, and he hasn’t suffered an asthma attack since.
C. The cathedral’s janitor, a Negro who, if I venture to guess, must be seventy if a day, claims that after being in the presence of our subject, the arthritis that had plagued his hands for the past twelve years vanished. And I will personally attest to the fact that our floors have never looked better.
D. A young couple—married for well over a year and committed to their nuptial responsibilities—had been unable to have a child. After bearing witness to our subject’s agony, however, the wife is finally with child.
I have, of course, closely monitored the events taking place in St. Augustine. Indeed, I have kept copious notes (even some photographs), which I will share immediately upon request (forgive me for not sending them under this cover, but knowing how busy you are and the fact that a paper trail in these instances is most helpful, I thought it prudent to refrain from sending the material to you until you officially ask).
Bishop, here is a curious fact. The one detail I can confirm with righteous confidence is that all of our subject’s visions and agonies take place in conjunction with ecclesiastical music. Gregorian chants, to be exact. Each time she is exposed to these sacred strains—music that most certainly pleases the ear of God—she ascends to an altered state, during which time she appears to reside in the realm of Christ, the saints, and a choir of angels.
Her mother (a pious woman if ever there was one) is holding up the best she can, given the circumstances. And even though the mother limits how often the girl is exposed to the chants, I’m afraid the word is out. (As you know better than I, people have a longing, a hunger, a spirit-based craving to be in the presence of Christ.) So, despite the best efforts of both her mother and myself, I’m afraid the floodgates might soon break and we will be awash in pilgrims seeking all forms of spiritual and physical healing. And then there is that pesky aforementioned problem of wolves.
I think you will agree that the situation is urgent and demands immediate and wise guidance. Which is why I am consulting you, what with Dan off to Rome. Of course, this revelation would have come directly from Dan had he been around. As it is, with the good bishop away again, I am shouldering the full weight of this extraordinary series of events. The magnitude of what is occurring here in St. Augustine simply does not allow me the luxury of remaining silent or waiting for Dan’s return.
Bishop, I shall promote the status quo until hearing from you (and I shall pray that I’m able to keep things under control).
May God be full in the hearts of your South Florida flock. And congratulations on Miami being named an archdiocese. (Just between you and me, this is long overdue.)
Sincerely yours in Christ,
Father Matthew Jaeger
St. Augustine Cathedral
Disgrace: Murmur Lee Harp Reveals the Apex of Her Sainthood
I was a fat little kid until my mother, with the help of Father Jaeger, who so wanted a saint on his hands, turned me into a freak show. There’s nothing quite like regular doses of brain electricity zipping through your body, contracting every muscle, to turn the chubby into the buff.
But first, let me tell you about that letter: dribble, dribble, and more dribble. Keep the wolves at bay! Protect me from the blessed hordes! Ha! My dead ass!
The world has rarely seen a duo such as my mother and Father Jaeger. Their egocentric piety, fed by a hunger for limelight and power, propelled them into a brand of ecclesiastical madness that my own vision-seeing insanity couldn’t hold a stick to.
For instance, they put me on display three times a day. “The people have a need and you have been gifted by God,” my mother said as Father Jaeger stood serenely by her side. Morning and noon sessions were held at my house. The evening gathering took place in the cathedral. The faithful would gather, their rosaries in constant movement, inching silently—like beaded snakes—through miracle-seeking fingers. Candlelight fed and sucked the dancing shadows. Prayers curled about, mingling with the ascending trails of incense and votive smoke. Lame adults, cross-eyed children, and people who should have known better waved crucifixes, crossed themselves like muttering medieval hermits, and doused their tear-stained cheeks with the cool burn of holy water—all of them kneeling and genuflecting and supplicating and crying and sloshing Hail Marys into the Christ-crowded air.
To this extent, I was a willing coconspirator: How astounding to be the focus of my mother’s ecstatic passion, how bone-breaking delicious to be the object of her approval! So participate I did, no whining, no squirming tantrums. With all the dignity and simplicity one fully expects from a blessed child, three times a day I dutifully pulled on my plastic underpants and frilly dress and lay down on a mattress covered in white silk—a rosary clutched in my tiny hand, eyes closed as if in prayer, listening to the faithful file in (some started sobbing as soon as they saw me lying there in my lace dress, holding rosary beads).
The sessions were eerily predictable. The insistent drone of prayers scratched the thick air as I, motionless, waited for someone to balance the needle in the proper groove of the vinyl album, waited for the polyphonic chords of plainsong to rise like fog, thus obliterating both prayer and smoke, waited for my veins to grow plump and wild on the juice of ancient chant, waited, yes, for my body to seize and for my soul to be stomped upon by angels.
Oh, how I remember those angels. Their wings sharp, their feather tips as finely hewn as scalpels.
I bled. I know I did.
For reasons I really can’t fathom, Father Jaeger never mailed that nauseating letter to the bishop. Why didn’t he send it? Wouldn’t he have gotten extra credit for having a child saint in his flock? Maybe he decided to catalog
more miracles (in the child’s presence, two bunions, one backache, and three warts were healed), build a stronger case, and it all got away from him. Or maybe he simply lost his nerve.
All I know for sure is that things changed once a certain Father Arturo Vincenzo Parisi arrived from Maryland—simply a short layover, a courtesy visit before continuing on to his new post at the newly created archdiocese in Miami.
Father Parisi was a skinny man—I liked that—and, according to the adults hovering about me, barely old enough to drink (now that I was virtually a saint, they held grown-up conversations in my presence). His deep-set blueberry eyes (nearly black, that’s what they were) glared out at the world as though he had been flogged as a boy and no amount of Christian forgiveness would wash away his need for revenge.
Children have crushes, you know. This idea that we don’t become sexual beings until puberty is hogwash. And I, in my rubber panties and sweet ruffles, took one look at Father Parisi and fell head over heels. I wanted him. And I wanted him bad, with all the passion that children possess but usually successfully hide from adults. His rakish blackbird hair, those glowering black-blue eyes, that sharp blackbird nose, his thick lower lip, which had nothing in common with a blackbird at all: He was my boyfriend. Crick, crack, easy as that!
What a fine saint I would be. And Parisi would love me with such true fire that he would wait for me to grow up, and then somehow God would allow us to marry and I would be so unbelievably beautiful (they would redo Barbie in my image) that we’d be graced with a houseful of sweet babies.
These were my thoughts as I laid there in the cathedral in my ruffles and lace and plastic panties—eyes closed, hands clasped, rosary wrapped tightly between my fingers. I knew Parisi was gazing at me. How could he not?
I could hear Father Jaeger scurrying about, whispering orders. And then my mother’s voice and her hand on my forehead: “Sweetheart, we’re ready.”
The Problem with Murmur Lee Page 8