Bless the Child (49 page)

E
llie opened the door for Devlin and smiled when she saw the concern on his face. Obviously, he thought she’d called him because something was wrong with Maggie.

“Good of you to come, Dev,” she said, leading him into the living room where Peter was already seated on the couch. The priest rose hastily and extended his hand to the newcomer, but it was easy to see that the natural antipathy between them made cordiality forced.

“I asked you both to come here for a very special reason,” Ellie began. “I need to enlist your aid for Maggie, but I have to clear the air first.” She took a deep breath and sat down.

“I’ll come right to the point . . . there’s no time left for foolishness, and I’ve never seen any value in equivocation.” She looked directly at Peter, then at Devlin.

“I know you both love Maggie,” she said. “How much, or in what capacity, is none of my business. I also know you both want very much to help her. I have certain knowledge of what will transpire between now and the thirtieth, that makes the antagonism you both feel for each other dangerous.” They both began to ask questions, and she held up a hand to halt the barrage.

“No.
No!
I don’t know the final outcome, only a few scenes from the drama have been shown to me, but this much I do know: You each have a role to play that’s crucial to a good outcome. So, you can’t afford to let your antagonism for each other cloud your judgment, or your emotional stability. Wars have lost because of jealousies.

“You’re each strong, daring men—and you’re each her champion, in a unique way. Had you met under different circumstances, the odds are you would have recognized each other’s worth, and might even have been friends . . .”

She smiled suddenly, genuinely. “I’m well aware that you, Dev, think I’m slightly mad.” She turned her smile on the priest. “And you, Peter, think I’m a trifle suspect, because I see the Gods in a different perspective from yours. Yet, I believe if the truth were told, you both instinctively
like
me, and being good judges of character, you both probably intuit the integrity of my friendship for Maggie.

“What I’m asking you both, is that you give each other the same latitude you give me—and for pretty much the same reason.”

She was amused to see the sheepish look on both men’s faces.
A little boy sleeps in all men,
her Russian grandmother would have said, with consummate understanding. Ellie excused herself on the pretext of seeing something in the kitchen. What they needed to thrash out, needed privacy.

Devlin stood up, tension radiating like a force field.

“Look, Peter,” he said, deliberately not using the honorific Father, so as not to concede an edge. “I’m in love with her. I have no way of knowing if she’ll have me, now or ever. But I love her, and I’m going to do my damnedest to help her save Cody.” He paused, then plunged on.

“I don’t know what there is between the two of you . . . and I don’t want to. Because I don’t think anything
can
come of it. And, I sure as hell don’t think anything should. As I see it, the only thing you can offer her is some kind of endless, mind-fucking soul search that’ll tear her guts out, while it helps you carry your heavy conscience. She deserves better than that.

“I know you’re smart, and I respect that. I’m even willing to believe you’re well intentioned toward Maggie and Cody. But the bottom line is you’re a priest, not a man.” Peter frowned at the insult but said nothing. “And, even if you won her,” Devlin rushed on, “you wouldn’t know what to do with her. And I would. Because I’ve been there and back, where women are concerned. And I’m old enough to know what counts in this life, and how to take care of it—because I’ve seen how careless men can be with the women they claim to love. Christ, I’ve been that careless, myself. And I know how easy it is to take them for granted, and figure there’ll always be another one coming down the pike. But there aren’t any other Maggies on the pike. And if she’ll have me, I’ll take damned good care of her.” He looked Peter straight in the eye. “Can you say the same?” he asked, the huskiness of all the emotions he struggled with in his voice. “Because if you can, it’s a different ballgame.”

Ellie poised in the doorway with a tea pot in her hand, riveted to the spot.

Peter stood up, too agitated to remain seated, or perhaps it was an unconscious gesture of superiority. He towered over the detective, even though Devlin was not a small man. His eye caught Ellie’s and she saw the cacophony of emotions that rampaged in him.

“Come in, Ellie,” he said, his voice strained. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t hear what I have to say.”

She nodded and entered the room, sitting quietly out of the line of fire.

“As a
man,
Devlin, I’d like nothing in this world so much as to knock your teeth out,” Peter said in a tone that left no doubt about his sincerity. “Since you choose to make this a no-holds-barred contest, let’s take an honest look at
your
qualifications for suitor. From what Maggie’s told me, your track record with marriage and family is somewhat less than exemplary, and
your
profession seems to portend at least as much potential for suffering for Maggie as mine does.” He paused in his pacing to face Devlin.

“Do you think she has not seen enough loss and violence, so that sitting up nights waiting to hear if you’re alive or dead, wouldn’t ‘tear her guts out’ in your inelegant terminology, at least as much as sharing my conscience would? Has it occurred to you that perhaps she has not been as fortunate in her potential suitors, as you and I, in our arrogance, would like to believe?

“In answer to your unspoken question: Yes, I do love her. More, in fact, than I could have conceived possible. You’re quite right in suggesting that I do not have the experience of women that you do—but I’m not at all certain that’s such an indictment. Perhaps the love I could bring her would be less sullied than yours. And less selfish.

“But you are right, at least partially, Devlin, because beyond my love for her, I have nothing whatsoever to offer. I have no ‘chick nor child,’ as my Irish mother would have said. No home, no money, and no great prospects. My academic credentials would make me employable, I suspect, at some obscure college or university that would be willing to overlook my curiously circuitous route to them—and I could probably eke out a living from writing—but that’s it. I’ve had my fifteen minutes of fame and expect no more.

“Would I fight you for her? Would seem to be the question you’re really asking me. You have thrown down the gauntlet and have every right to an answer, so here is the best I can do to give you one.” His voice had lowered and he spoke almost reverently.

“For Maggie, I would fight you, or this world, or the next . . . if I truly believed that at the end of the battle, she would be well served by my victory. But you see, I don’t think that’s so. If all that was to be considered here were my own needs, my own selfish pleasures, my own frail hopes or dreams, I would give you a fight the likes of which you’ve never seen. But that is not all that’s at stake here.
Maggie
is at stake, and Cody. Maggie’s future, Maggie’s heart, maybe even Maggie’s soul. Does my loving her give me the right to jeopardize any part of her to satisfy my own needs? I think not.

“You’ve accused me of uncertainties. Well, you’re right on about that, at least—I am tormented by them. But this one thing I can tell you with absolute certainty: I will do anything in my power to help Maggie save this child.” He paused significantly. “Even if it means I must get along with you.”

Devlin looked nonplussed by the momentum, the forthrightness, the love that was obvious in Peter’s soliloquy. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said standing up, his face set in grim stone. He ran his finger through his hair, agitatedly, and finally met Peter’s eyes with his own. “I guess I take back my crack at your manhood, Peter,” he said with grudging apology. “What do you say we call a truce until after this is over? If only so I don’t have to feel like any more of a horse’s ass than I already do. I guess the truth of the matter is, this choice is going to be Maggie’s, not ours . . . and only if we keep her alive past April 30th.”

Peter nodded. “Agreed,” he said, accepting the hand Devlin offered him.
“Cras amet qui nunqum amavit,”
he murmured as he did so.

Devlin’s head snapped up in recognition, and he smiled crookedly.
“Quique amavit, cras amet,”
he responded.

Peter looked genuinely surprised. “It seems we admire the same poets,” he said amused.

“My Latin’s not up to yours,” Ellie said, walking them both to the door. “What did you each just say?”

“It’s a couplet from
Pervigilium Veneris,”
Peter answered. “I quoted, ‘May he love tomorrow who has never loved before’ and Devlin answered me, ‘And may he who has loved, love tomorrow as well.’”

Ellie shut the door and leaned against it with a small satisfied chuckle. It was hard to decide which of these two men she liked more.

F
ather James Kebede watched the interchange of ideas flow between Maggie and Peter. There was fluidity to it; a sort of reciprocal energy that enlivened each. He was returning to Rhinebeck today and had come to say good-bye to Maggie, surprised at how poignant this farewell seemed to him, as if he were parting from an old friend whom he might not meet again.

He’d grown strangely fond of her during the time he’d spent in New York, and he hadn’t intended that. There was no guile in Maggie, and there was a great deal of goodness that touched him. Having been the oldest of fourteen children, in one of the poorest countries on earth, he respected strength of character, particularly in women. He could recollect with visceral intensity of his mother’s courage and kindness in the face of unrelenting poverty, and a new pregnancy every year. Against appalling odds, she had borne them, loved them, nurtured them . . . nursing their ills, burying the four she couldn’t save; teaching them all the love of God, and a strict value system that still seemed to him the one the Almighty had in mind for humanity.

James watched the animated conversation intently, thinking he had never seen Peter so human. Maggie called forth in him a dimension that had not existed before, making him more than he had been. And, perhaps, less.

He’d pondered the metamorphosis throughout the course of the ten days he’d been here in New York, probing at Maggie, teaching her, pushing her, questioning her, trying to intuit what it was in her that had worked such potent alchemy in Peter.

Now, he thought he finally understood the chemistry—but, what was he to do with this knowledge? And what did this newfound intuition require of his conscience?

He watched the easy camaraderie of the man and woman, pondering as often before, the strange and terrible ways by which God worked His Mysteries.

He needed to go home to pray. There was a fragile balance, here, and he felt inept for the task of holding the scales. If only he were holier, and wiser, and more full of grace, perhaps he could more skillfully do whatever it was that God required of him . . .

A question Maggie had asked him pulled him back from his reverie, into the conversation.

“Forgive me, Maggie,” he said with a shy smile. “I fear I was wool-gathering. What was it you asked of me?”

She smiled, and repeated the question. It was impossible not to love James, she’d told Peter; he was one of God’s own. “I asked how it is you’re able to believe that the soul of one who is Possessed is worth the risk of your own?” he said.

“Ah, Maggie . . .” he answered, full attention immediately back on center. “Let me try to explain this important point.” He thought a moment before continuing.

“It is my belief that there are countless—perhaps even millions—of souls on this earth already Possessed by the Evil One, but they are content with the bargain they have made! Whether they sold their souls knowingly, or merely let them slip away through spiritual laziness, these people enjoy their evil and its spoils to the fullest. They are content to be legionnaires in the Devil’s army—never would they dream of asking for exorcism. But the
others,
Maggie—the ones who come to us begging for help—it is because they
do
struggle so desperately with the Great Foe, that they suffer! It is because they battle with all of their frail human strength against the Immortal Enemy of mankind that they are beset by demons.

“They cry out to God not to forsake them in their extremity, and as priests, we have been given the great privilege of coming to their aid. If we did
not
go to their rescue, it would not be they, but we, who would be on the road to damnation.”

“You’re a lovely man, James,” Maggie said, touched by the vehemence of his response. “I’ll always be glad to have known you.” She reached out to take his hand. “If I ever need an exorcism, I hope you’ll be in the neighborhood.”

His eyes softened. “That moment will never come, Maggie,” he said gently. “The Adversary always knows who fights on the side of the angels. He might destroy you . . . but he would know he could never seduce you. ‘He who abides in love,’ Saint John tells us, ‘abides in God, and God in him.’”

Maggie heard something in his voice—a kind of tender admiration—that made her wonder. “Thank you, James,” she said, moved by his confidence. “I’d still like to know you were on my side.”

The look in his eyes was so sad when she stood on tiptoe to kiss him good-bye, that she wondered if she might have inadvertently offended him.

FATHER James hung the purple chasuble on its hanger, and placed it carefully into the armoire that held the priestly vestments for the Mass. His moves were more deliberate and reverent; the grace of the Holy Sacrifice he’d just performed still filled his heart.

He turned at a small sound behind him and was surprised to see Peter standing near the door.

“I didn’t wish to disturb you, James,” the older priest said, aware of the piety of the younger man. “But I received a message that you wished to see me.”

James nodded; he seemed unwilling to speak.

“I could come back later . . .” Peter began.

“No, no, my friend,” James responded, with a reassuring smile. “I have something to say to you, Peter—it has been preying on my mind.”

The two men left the sacristy behind and began to walk down the long marble corridor toward the kitchen.

“When we first spoke of your dilemma,” James began, “you asked of me that I remain close to you in this upheaval of the soul. And I agreed.”

Peter nodded acquiescence.

“This agreement has laid a great obligation upon my own conscience, Peter, for it demands of me honesty that goes beyond the dictates of friendship. Indeed, it demands an honesty that may ultimately undermine our friendship, which would be, for me, a most terrible loss.” The large Ethiopian stopped speaking for a moment; his face was creased with the frown of one who must voice an unwanted truth. Peter, understanding, placed his hand on the other man’s arm reassuringly.

“Let us hope our friendship is not so frail that truth can destroy it,” he said with a sinking heart.

“I have prayed for the grace to be your mirror in this conflict, my friend,” James said sadly. “Whatever I can tell you, you already know, of course . . . and yet, the obligation you have laid upon me demands that I be the one to speak the words aloud. When I saw you and Maggie together this last time, I knew there was no other course for me, but to say what is in my heart.”

“Was I wrong in thinking you liked her, James? I distinctly felt a simpatico between the two of you, these past few days.”

“Not only do I like her, Peter, but I care for her. The fact that I see her virtue so clearly is what forces me to speak.”

“And what, old friend, is it you feel you must say?”

James looked at Peter with immense compassion, but his words were stern.

“A priestly vocation is as monumental a work of God’s, as any I can conceive . . . and you, Peter, are the most complex of men. Your intellect alone positions you within the circle in the spiral . . . and the convolutions of your emotions are surely no simpler.

“I do not believe that Maggie is your problem—but rather, that she is a symptom of a far greater ill. I believe you have collapsed into this woman’s arms, Peter, when it is Christ’s arms you seek, but have not found.” He paused to let that potent thought sink in.

“You feel your Church has failed you, my friend, with its doublespeak, and its punitive attitude toward your work—and you think you have failed
yourself,
in not finding an acceptable answer to the anguished questions you have placed before the Throne of God. The gravity of these failures has put your priesthood into crisis, and the only place you have found comfort is in this woman, who has become, for you, the transcendental truth beyond reason.

“I believe, Peter, you have collapsed into the comfort of Maggie’s absolute, unencumbered faith. It is not the
woman,
Peter . . . it is her understanding of God, which is greater than your own, that seduces you!” Peter stood still as stone, the magnitude of what James was saying reverberating through him, like a gong struck in his soul.

James’s voice softened. “As a
man,
Peter, I understand your loneliness. As a
priest,
I understand your disillusionment with your Church, and your sense of abandonment. As your comrade, I understand your love for a woman worthy of it.

“But as your confessor, and the friend who is the mirror of your conscience—none of these understandings has ultimate relevancy.” James’s voice had become firm.

“When you entered the priesthood, Peter, you were already a man—as such, you made a solemn commitment to eternal chastity. You entered into a sacred trust with God, my friend. Now you may say, Ah! But in my youth I did not know the hardship my vow would bring! And I would ask you, does the man who takes a woman in marriage for better or worse, truly comprehend how bitter the hardships may be that are demanded by that vow? Certainly not.

“Because of your great and wondrous gifts from the Father, and because of your own extraordinary love for Him, you have always considered yourself the specially chosen of God, Peter. So, too, did Lucifer. Now, you seek to renegotiate your contract—and you must not presume you can do so, with impunity. You must not embrace the deadly illusion that you can have them both, Peter.
You
cannot. Perhaps, another man could . . . but
you
cannot.

“You are jousting with God and you are not His match! Brilliant, well meaning, pious, gifted beyond mere mortals—you are still no match for God.

“The Devil in the Sixth Circle, Peter! The cosmic paradox: to love Maggie is to destroy yourself.”

Peter stood still as death, his head bent to his chest.

“God is pursuing you, Peter,” James said with finality. “He must want you very badly. Do not flee Him at the crossroads.”

Peter
walked along the water’s edge, the deserted river a gray comfort. He was lost in a morass of explosive emotions. Just a few days ago, he had brooded over his confrontation with Devlin, plumbing his conscience for absolutes, replaying the dialogue again and again, to sift for missed threads. But at the end of it, he’d felt relieved . . . that their antagonism was out in the open and neutralized . . . that Ellie’d had the good sense and conscience to make them face each other, squarely . . . but most of all, that it had been a draw. Neither had vanquished the other, each had left with his dignity intact.

But the confrontation with James was a different story. There were no winners here, and there had been no draw. Maybe confrontation wasn’t even the word for what had happened between them, yet some sort of clarion battle cry had been sounded. Could it be that James was only the courier, sent to announce the upcoming battle . . . and the confrontation must be with his own soul?

Deus meus, Deus meus, ut quid dereliquisti me? My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?

Peter picked up a handful of pebbles and skipped the first one out across the dirt gray-green water.

He felt rebellious. Just because James had said what he had, didn’t make it true. Or at least, not the only truth.

What if it was merely time to go? What if Peter Messenguer’s long struggle to remain in the Church had finally ground to an end. Not with a bang, but a whimper.
We don’t receive wisdom,
Proust had said.
We must discover it for ourselves, after a journey that no one can take for us or spare us.
What if his own journey was meant to be at Maggie’s side? Or what if he was blocked, like the man in Kafka’s parable, by a door that could never open? Was the Church the block? Or was Maggie?