On the Third Day (10 page)

            Thomas considered her words.  He had a hard time wrapping his thoughts around it, but he replied uncertainly.

            “It’s Wednesday, then?” he asked.

            Gladys nodded.  She watched him with concern and shuffled her great feet along the edge of the bed, as though she was not sure what, exactly, to say.  Finally, she came to a decision.

            “I was afraid the Good Lord had taken you away from us, Father.   After the miracle, I mean.”

            Father Thomas shook his head again, foolishly shooting new sparks of pain through his skull, and frowned.  He tried desperately to remember what had happened.  He had no idea how he’d gotten into his bed, or who he might have offended, or hurt.

            “I’m not sure that it was a miracle, Gladys,” he said softly.  “Not sure at all what it was.”

            He fell silent for a moment, avoiding her eyes.  There was something itching at the back of his mind, something important, but it wouldn’t come to the surface.  Then it hit him, and he turned, eyes wide, and clutched her dress.

            “The Bishop,” he gasped.  “Bishop Michaels.  What happened with him?  He was there – he had a camera and . . .”

            Gladys pulled herself free gently and turned away, shuffling slowly toward Thomas’ dresser, where she began to re-arrange things, tidying and dusting aimlessly.

            Finally, snorting derisively, she answered.

            “Oh, he was there, that one,” she said.  “He was there with his driver, and his cameras and his hoo-haw.  He was there to the very end, Father, but I’ll tell you something.”

            She turned back then, fixing him with a stern, no-nonsense glare, “he was out of that cathedral before you’d even finished hitting the floor.  He put that camera over his shoulder, dangling cords and such, and he lit out like a scared rabbit.

            “I tried to catch him, to get him to bring help in that big, fancy car of his.”

            She glanced down, then lifted the hem of her dress and showed him a notched bruise on her left calf.

            “He lit out so fast he spit gravel at me.  I’m lucky I didn’t lose an eye, and no mistake.”

            Thomas heard her, but his mind was fixated on that last image, the camera, and the Bishop, far above him, the unwavering lens.  He knew that part or most of what had happened had to have been captured on film.

            “He left no messages for me?” Thomas asked softly.  “He said nothing at all, has not come to speak with me about the . . . incident?”

            “Incident?” Gladys snorted again.  “It was a miracle, Father, make no mistake.  And no.  That one hasn’t come within a country mile of here since Easter Sunday.”

            She hesitated, and then added, “I bet he comes around soon enough now, though.   Once he hears that you are up and around, he’ll be wanting to give you a rare and ill-wasted piece of his mind, I’m betting.  And there’s no sloth in that one, not after he sets his mind to a thing. “

            After another moment, she added, “I believe he’s set his mind on coming after you, Father.”

            There was little or no color remaining in his face, and Father Thomas suddenly felt ill.   He’d pinned a lot of hope on the Bishop and his camera.  He’d hoped that, despite the man’s unwillingness to listen to what Quentin had told him of the previous year’s experience, that being there first hand would tip the scales.  Now?

            Gladys stepped quickly back to the side of the bed.  Something had obviously been eating at her, and now it was going to break free, whether he, or she wanted it to do so.  She took his hand in both of hers again, and spoke earnestly.

            “I’m just a poor sinner, Father, and I know it ain’t for me to judge, but I want you to know . . . well, don’t take too much stock in that man’s words -- the Bishop.  He may be a man of God, but there’s no law says he’s to be right all the time.  He’s not the Pope, and if it were the Holy Father himself who told me I didn’t see what I saw, I’d feel the same as I do now.  You listen to me -- I saw what happened, and it was a sight.

            “I thought, for a time, that Jesus himself had come to read us the Mass -- to share the communion -- his body and blood.  It was a miracle, nothing less.  You should feel honored, Father . . . I know I do.”

            Embarrassed by her own outburst, Gladys spun as quickly as her bulky form would allow and shuffled off toward the door.  As she turned, she released Father Thomas’ hand reluctantly, as if the very touch of his skin might be blessed in some way.

            When she reached the doorway, she turned back.  She had recovered her composure, and her face bore its standard stern countenance.  This time, though, there was something more alive in that expression, younger perhaps.  She looked, just for an instant, almost girlish. 

            Quentin nearly shook his head again, caught himself and groaned softly.

            “You need anything, you know to call me.  I’ve been staying in the guest quarters downstairs.  I reckon in a day or so I’ll feel right movin’ back home.  You rest yourself, and I’ll be back with some supper, then we’ll see about gettin’ the doctor out here to pronounce you ‘risen.’”

            Father Thomas frowned.  “What about Norman?  Surely he isn’t staying here too…”

            Gladys laughed.  “Norman’s a big boy, father.  It’s about time he started taking care of himself.  I’ll be home soon enough to get the laundry I’m sure he’s left me and clear away the dishes.  It isn’t Norman who needs me just now.”

            Gladys turned and bustled out the door without a backward glance, and Father Thomas was left to stare after her in wonder.  A small smile played across his lips, and he laughed softly.  Then the moment passed, and he frowned, staring off at the wall.

* * *

            Leaning forward very suddenly, Bishop Michaels yanked the chain on his decorative desk lamp, turning it on and bathing the room in its light.  The sound, and the sudden flash of light, snapped Father Thomas from his reverie.

            He had the expression of someone awakened from a dream, or caught by surprise with his hand in a cookie jar.  The startled expression would have been comical under other circumstances, but it was obvious from the set of his jaw, and the flash of anger in his eyes, that the Bishop did not see the humor.

            Father Thomas’ eyes went wide as he thought back over the tale he’d just told.  Gladys Multinerry’s words about the Bishop flashed through his thoughts, and he started apologize.  The Bishop cut him off.

            “I don’t know about you, Father Prescott, but I’ve heard about enough of this nonsense for a lifetime.  It is not my habit to allow myself to be spoken of as if I’m not present, and I don’t believe that I must sit here and be insulted.”

            “Excellency,” Thomas began contritely, “I . . .”

            Father Prescott rose and held up both hands for silence.  His features were a mask of controlled emotion, as smooth and unfathomable as the slick surface of the ocean before a storm.  Only his eyes gave away his intensity, and they flashed dangerously between frustration and anger.

            “This is not the time to air personal grievances,” he said softly.  “Father Thomas, I thank you for your time.  You may go, for now.  I will be speaking to you again soon – probably several times.  I’ll also be speaking with members of the parish, and the deacons, if they are available. You may go with the assurance that, whatever they may be, and however this may work out – we will find your answers for you.”

            Father Thomas rose and met Father Prescott’s gaze.  Both of them ignored the Bishop, for the moment.  The screen behind Father Prescott was silent, and pushed aside as well.  Something passed between them, some understanding beyond words, and a modicum of the tension in Father Thomas’ shoulders eased.  His shoulders straightened, just a bit, and he nodded slowly.

            He turned without another word and bowed to the Bishop.  Without waiting for acknowledgement, he spun again and walked steadily to the door.  He slipped through and into the outer room, where the pool of light from Martha Shengle’s desk lamp still leaked in, lurking and waiting like a furtive spy tucked around the corner.  She looked up as Father Thomas entered the outer office, and frowned slightly as he closed the door to the Bishop’s office behind him with a loud, echoing Click!

* * *

            On the other side of the door, Father Prescott’s temper finally broke.  He turned on the Bishop with a scowl, and stared hard into the older man’s impassive, almost petulant smirk.

            “Tony,” Father Prescott said, skipping all formalities, “I am going to have to ask you, respectfully, to allow me to conduct my own investigation here, and to do so on my own terms.”

            The Bishop’s features darken, matching Father Prescott’s scowl.

            “But surely, Donovan, you can . . .”

            Father Prescott raised a hand, palm facing the Bishop and lowered his gaze to the floor.  His lips pressed tightly together for a moment, and he didn’t lift his gaze until the room was deadly silent.

            “I already know how you feel on the subject of Father Thomas and the Stigmata,” he said in a quiet level voice.  “You made your own observations and conclusions very clear when you called Cardinal O’Brien.  I have no problem with you holding your opinions, Tony, but you have to understand something from the start here.

            “I haven’t been sent here to vindicate your opinions.  I am here because I have special training, and special dispensation, to seek the truth in matters that fall outside the realm of day-to-day worship.  I am here to find the truth, Tony – you have to believe that if we are to work together at all.”

            Bishop Michaels rose slowly and turned away.  He walked to the window and slowly worked the mechanism that opened his blinds.  Bright, late afternoon sunlight striped his features, and the glow seeped around his form, giving him a silvery lining from where Donovan stood, waiting.  Both men remained silent for a time, and then Michaels spoke.

            His voice was low, controlled and modulated.   It was the voice of authority and experience, of years on the pulpit and in the offices of great men and women.  It was the voice of a man who knew the power of speech and wielded it like a weapon.

            “I have known Cardinal O’Brien – Sean – for a very long time, Donovan.  He and I attended seminary together.  We have spent more hours talking late into the night than I would guess most men have spent with their own families.  For whatever reason, and to whatever end it comes, Sean O’Brien recommended you and sent you to me.

            “You are correct in your assessment of my opinion.  I have not been obtuse, and I apologize if I have been overly zealous in the presentation of my feelings.  I have to say, I don’t see how any sane man could feel differently about this mess than I do.”

            “Faith,” Father Prescott said simply.

            Michaels grew still for a moment, then breathed easily again and smiled wanly.  He glanced over his shoulder at Donovan’s earnest face, and then returned his gaze to whatever it was that had captured his attention beyond the window.

            “It was a rhetorical question, but your point is taken. 

“I have been a part of this church for so long that the thought of the real world surrounding us -- and possibly of the heavenly world awaiting us -- have grown dim for me.  Things are black and white, and I am comfortable with that.  That is one of the dangers of allowing one’s self to be promoted too far in any endeavor.  The reality of a thing is at its roots, and it has been a long time since I have spent any time with the roots of my own faith.”

Leaving the blinds slitted, Bishop Michaels turned and walked slowly back to his seat.  He dropped into the comfortable leather with a deep, heavy sigh, and he glanced over at Donovan with an expression half of resignation, and half of a barely sparked curiosity.

“Find our answers, Father Prescott.  By whatever means necessary, follow this thing through to its end.  I won’t stand in your way, and any resources or aid I can provide are yours for the asking.”

Father Prescott nodded solemnly and turned away in silence. 

As he watched the younger man leaving, the Bishop called out to him.  Father Prescott hesitated, but did not turn back.

“Let’s hope, Donovan,” the Bishop said softly, “that it is not only my own mind that is made up from the start.  Let’s hope that the desire for a miracle doesn’t override the need for caution.”

            Father Prescott slipped out through the foyer and was gone.  Bishop Michaels rose, closed the door once more, and returned to his desk.  He reached into the bottom drawer and pulled out the flask and one of the tumblers.  He poured a generous splash of amber liquid into the glass, and sat back, sipping slowly.  The light slanting through the blinds shattered in the brandy and flickered like amber fire.

~ Twelve ~

            It was early morning when Father Prescott arrived at the Cathedral of San Marcos.  He drove up the coast at a leisurely pace, taking in the beauty of the dawn-washed sky and the waves crashing on stone and beach below.  He’d been up since before dawn, and the sun was only just tipping the horizon with the orange and gold promise of sunrise.  It had been many years since he’d been able to sleep late; his dreams were often intense, and the only way to avoid them was not to dream them.

            Winding his way up the road toward the cathedral he reflected on how very small this burden was.  He thought of the pained expression on Father Thomas’ face, and the all-too familiar bile he’d heard in the Bishop’s voice.  He tried to imagine standing at the altar, blood dripping down his forehead and his arms held by unseen forces to either side.  He shivered, and pressed a little harder on the gas.

            The rental was new and sleek.  It hugged the curves of the road tightly, transferring a sense of its power through Donovan’s hands and arms as if daring him to more speed.  He smiled, slowed, and finally made the turn into the parking lot below the cathedral.  It was a beautiful, imposing sight, and as he parked and turned, he caught the first sunlight of the day washing around the white stone as if placed as a backlight just for his pleasure.  It was a magical moment, and he wondered how many times Father Thomas had seen it this way, living as he did in the rear of the building.