Conceived Without Sin (50 page)

Oh, what a clever lie.

The Mother Abbess Catherine had warned her and the other new girls about the clever lie of the evil one; a lie designed to
destroy their vocations.

"The evil one will always offer you a good thing to seduce you into abandoning your mission!"

She fought the lie.

Buzz needs me in here.

She prayed the Saint Michael Prayer. But the cloak still engulfed her, blocking all the light, as she entered the tiny chapel.

Construction for the expansion was scheduled to begin in a matter of days. In the meantime, they were filling
the aisles with makeshift benches, and this added to Donna's sudden sense of claustrophobia.

During the singing, she kept missing the notes, beginning when she knew she should end, singing low when she knew she needed to sing high.

Have I forgotten how to sing in just one day?

Her mind wandered again and again during the readings. She could not remember what she had heard moments earlier.

She
suppressed a desire to bolt to the screen and call out to the laymen: "Let me out of here! I'm suffocating."

Maybe Sam and Ellie are out there? Maybe Buzz or Bill are out there. They could help me escape.

She stood, kneeled, and sat like a marionette.

During the Eucharistic prayer, she had oppressive, horrible doubts about the True Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist.

She lost her voice completely
during the singing of the Our Father. She felt like a traitor, an interloper, a worthless pile of dung compared to these holy, faithful sisters.

I don't belong here.
She was too ashamed for tears.
Nothing matters. I'm wasting my time. I'm wasting God's time.

By the Lamb of God, she was mentally and emotionally beaten, and had given up the battle, content with taking blows until after Mass. She
vowed to tell the Mother Abbess that she would be leaving the monastery soon.

I'm worthless,
she believed with every ounce of her existence.

Then the priest raised the chalice and the wafer, intoning the sacred words: "This is the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are those who are called to his supper."

Donna raised her eyes, preparing to echo the pagan centurion whom Jesus
Christ said possessed the greatest faith in all of Israel. She knew that each word was utterly, undeniably true.

"Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word, and I shall be healed."

The Lord spoke the word. The cloak of doubt was lifted from Donna's soul.

She approached the altar with fear and trembling, and received the Word onto her tongue, as tears of sublime joy broke like
waves onto her cheeks.

Just another day at the office.

6

For the first time in years, Buzz missed Sunday Mass.

On Saturday night, he had stumbled back to his apartment, threw up in the toilet, then passed out.

Come to the water
greeted his mind when the pounding in his temples and the bile in his stomach woke him more surely than any alarm clock the next morning.

Well that takes care of the problem
with getting up in the morning,
he quipped sardonically.

He knew all about mornings after. Time to drink lots of water to stave off alcohol dehydration headaches.

He sat up, braced for the pain, dealt with it squarely, found his feet, stumbled into the kitchen and drank two quarts of water directly from the faucet, wondering all the while where his next shot of booze would come from.

It's like
riding a damn bike,
he thought darkly, pleased to have traded the anvil of depression for the relatively sedate pain of his hangover.

It made perfect sense to a madman.

Last night was not a blur. He was surprised that he remembered it. He had been thrown out of the bar after last call, laughing at and wildly taunting the barkeep. He smiled as he remembered.

He stuck his head under the shower,
toweled off his hair, dressed, packed a duffel bag, grabbed his box of audio tapes, checked his wallet for his credit card, and headed out the door for a brave new day in a cowardly old world.

He sat dumbly in his car, wondering where he should go next.

Here's your hat, what's your hurry, Mister? Are you running away?
a little boy in his head asked him.

I'm insulted that you would ask, dear little
boy. Of course I'm running away! I'm a drunk. Someday is right around the corner, and we mustn't let it catch up to us.

The stupid little boy persisted.
I've got a chainsaw here, Mister. We could cut down a few trees or Chevrolets…stay home. Stay home in Cleveland.

Buzz felt like smacking the boy, if he could only see him.

Now my conscience shows up!
He laughed out loud, exacerbating his pounding
headache.

And it's a stupid little kid!

"A little late, ain't ya, God?" he taunted out loud.

It was a bright, cold day. A perfect day for a road trip.

Shut up, you dumb little piece of crap. This ain't my home. My home is…

He was struck stupid with blankness.

Come to the water,
the evil one taunted, having fun. It's so easy to talk to a madman. They're so reasonable, after a fashion, and open
to any fad.

New Jersey. Down the shore.

That was home.

That's the ticket.

He started the Festiva, finally relieved that he was no longer worried about having to get it fixed. When it broke down, he could just leave it somewhere, anywhere. But here.

He stocked up on supplies at the state liquor store in the strip mall on Center Ridge Road down from the Rini-Regos supermarket. Today's special friend:
Old Grand Dad. An old family favorite. Plus the unusual family pet, Wild Turkey.

A big hit with dear old departed dad, if I do recall. The king is gone, but he's not forgotten.

A sentimental favorite for such a beautiful day.

He fumbled the top off and took a swig. The false heat stung his tongue and almost brought tears to his happy eyes.

It won't be long now. Me and Mr. Visa Card are takin'
Grampa on a trip. The ocean is so lovely this time of year.

Freezing, cold, and deadly.

7

He was a good drunk driver, from years of practice and because he had been given the gift of quick reflexes. He was a professionally trained driver, too, of course.

Like most alcoholics, his tolerance level had dropped to a point where just a few swallows gave him a nice, easy driving buzz.

He played the
old drinking favorites during the ride across the badlands of Pennsylvania: the Rolling Stones, the Who, Mott the Hoople, and the king of the Buzzbands, the Kinks.

There was something about Ray Davies' voice that really made him melancholy. But it was a good melancholy, not the oppressive darkness that had hounded him during his sober interlude.

He found a tape by the Bay City Rollers in his box
on the passenger's seat, and tossed it out the window, not three miles from where he had crashed with Donna and Sam almost a year ago. He inserted another tape.

Michael Stipe of R.E.M. started bragging about losing his religion, and entertained Buzz for several miles with a snappy little tune about the end of the world as we know it.

I feel fine.

There weren't many troopers on this truck route
that passed exactly zero major cities in Pennsylvania.

He stopped for a Whopper near Mile Run. The sign on the road gave him a laugh, as it always did:
Mile Run: 2 Miles.

Bet their cross country team sucks,
he told himself the same old joke.
They're still trying to break the eight minute mile there.

After all, he was a happy drunk.

He pulled into a rest stop near Clearfield.

It won't be long now,
he told himself, setting back his seat. No need to waste precious Visa dollars on a motel when it was needed for family friends like Old Grand Dad.

What won't be long?
the little boy asked politely.

Shut up, kid. Go talk to the socket man you love so much.

The little boy went away, crying for his mommy.

Serves him right,
Buzz told himself.
Pain-in-the-ass kid. I'm not taking him down the shore.
No way, no siree. He'll just spoil all the fun.

He passed out in a stupor, feeling very adult.

8

It was late Sunday night when the phone rang in the Fisk home.

"Buzz is gone," Bill White told Sam over the phone.

"He is? Where?" Sam asked. The alarm in Bill's voice had transferred immediately to Sam's.

"What's the matter," Ellie asked, looking up from a cake she was baking. The child inside wanted
chocolate cake, so Ellie was baking one. "It's about Buzz, isn't it?"

Sam nodded, but waved her off to hear Bill. He listened intently for several minutes.

"Right. Mark's where? Atlantic City? Oh. Okay. Did you check the Y?" Sam frowned when he heard the answer.

He hung up the phone.

"What's the matter, honey? It is Buzz. Is he okay?"

"Bill's been all over town searching for him." Sam spoke clearly
and deliberately. "He wouldn't answer any phone calls yesterday or today. Mark got through to him and told Bill that Buzz sounded kinda crazy."

He saw the alarm spread to Ellie's eyes. A crease of worry set up shop on her forehead.

"Mark had to go to the East Coast for some FBI thing, so he's not available. He flew to Newark this morning. He told Bill they have to wait seventy-two hours to file
a missing persons report."

"Could he just be on a day trip? Maybe he took a ride somewhere–"

"There's more," Sam cut her off. "Bill went to Buzz's apartment building this morning, hoping to go to Mass with him, and when there was no answer on the buzzer, he got the landlord to let him into Buzz's apartment…"

Ellie closed her eyes, bracing herself.

"…and there was vomit in the bathroom. The place
reeked of alcohol. His clothes, his bag–gone. Nothing."

She came to him. He took her into his arms.

"We saw his car last night–at the bar," she said weakly.

"Honey, don't. Don't do that to yourself. Last night is gone. We'll help Bill look around town. Check the churches, the bars. We'll find him, get him into a rehab center."

She began to weep, softly. She remembered her dreams clearly.

"But
first we have to let Donna know, somehow," he finished. "Because she can pray," he heard himself adding with a perfect kind of agnostic faith.

9

Buzz woke up with a hangover and promptly threw up on the audio tapes on the passenger seat.

"Riding a bike, my ass," he commented, sticky saliva dripping off his lips. He wiped his hands and mouth on his shirt.

Back in the old days, you woulda barfed
out the window like a proper drunk.

He followed with a string of foul words that would have made a New Jersey schoolboy proud on a playground–Catholic or public.

He started the car, and before pulling out, reached frantically for the two bottles of Wild Turkey he had stashed in the back seat.

One was left. Enough for the last leg to the beach, down the shore, on the ocean. His sudden anxiety subsided.

He checked his watch. Ten o'clock.
Old Pig Norm is probably filling out my pink slip just about now.

This made him feel exuberant, despite his physical state. He lurched out of the car.

The car still running, he ignored his headache and drank deeply from the water fountain supplied to the rest area by the good citizens of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. That helped knock down the pounding in
his head, but didn't slake his thirst.

He imagined the sound of breakers, and it brought an ugly smile to his face. He wiped his sweaty head with his hands, then drove off.

He stopped at a diner off the next exit and filled up on flapjacks and bacon. It settled his stomach. At the register, he caught himself thanking God that the diner took credit cards, then laughed hideously, giving the waitress
a chill.

One more leg.

The badlands were behind him. Thunderclouds appeared on the horizon. He turned on the radio and flipped through channels until he heard a weather report. A big storm was going to slam the East Coast for the next three days.

He found another station, and the Talking Head's "Take Me to the River" flowed into the little car, filling his head with painful sound.

Good,
he thought
serenely.
Perfect weather for swimming.

That made sense to a madman.

10

The extern of the Poor Clare Monastery opened the large wooden door and saw a tall man and his striking young wife. His arm was around her waist, and he had an open umbrella lowered now that they stood beneath the eave. She quickly observed that Ellen Fisk was pregnant.

Lines of concern were etched on their faces.

"May I help
you?" Sister Elizabeth asked politely.

"We need to see Postulant Regina right away," Ellie blurted.

They saw surprise cover the peaceful gleam in the nun's eyes, quickly followed by a certain kind of knowing. She recognized Sam and Ellie from their attendance at Mass. (Externs are the sisters assigned to deal with the outside world for practical matters.)

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that is not
possible."

"Surely there's some kind of exception for emergencies?" Ellen pressed, her tone rising.

"What is the nature of the emergency?" Sister's poise was unnerving.

"Her best friend is in trouble," Sam explained calmly. "He's missing, and we think he's on a drinking binge. He was a reformed alcoholic. His name is Buzz Woodward."

Empathy dawned on Sister Elizabeth's face. How many thousands
of people had brought their worst fears and woes to these steps by voice, letter, or phone call since the monastery had been built?

She was a veteran of these kinds of wars.

"It's not within my authority to grant you permission–"

"–then can we speak to someone who is in authority!" Ellie cried out. "I have to see Donna! We helped build your chapel!"