On the Third Day (3 page)

            It worked, and it had continued to work wonderfully for both Father Thomas and the parish, right up to the preceding April.  Right up until the moment that his world, and theirs, had canted over on one side and poured things over and around them that they could not understand.

            Now Father Thomas stood, as he did every Sunday morning, evening, and at each Mass during the week, his feet planted firmly on the top step of the wide stone stair leading out and down toward the small courtyard below, greeting his parishioners as they arrived.

            In the parking lot below, two black and white San Valencez Police cruisers sat, parked at forty-five degree angles to one another.  There were four uniformed officers lined up across the base of the stairs leading up to the cathedral, but on Thomas’ insistence, they were not accosting his parishioners. Their job was to insure that the press did not slip cameras or broadcasting equipment into the cathedral, and Thomas had promised to give the nod to any suspicious or unknown worshippers, making a search of each individual unnecessary.

            This day was different from any in his memory, but he didn’t want to pass this presentiment on to those attending Mass, though he was aware that they felt it as well as he.  He saw it in their eyes.  Father Thomas knew those eyes, knew their expressions and their questions, and knew many of their hidden secrets and dreams.  He stayed by the door as long as he could and still leave himself time to prepare.  Of all days, he wanted this one to be as much like any morning Mass as possible, even more normal than normal.  With the police guards and the other oddities he knew were to come, the task was very likely not possible.

            The congregation knew it as well.  They watched him, as they filed past.  When they spoke, their voices were too polite, or too concerned.  None of it felt real.  Many had brought friends and relatives who would not regularly have attended, even on Easter.  It was going to be a large crowd – the largest he’d faced since coming to San Marcos.   There were faces he’d never seen before, and as these passed, feeling as if he were somehow betraying a trust, he nodded toward the police below.

            For one brief moment, Father Quentin Thomas considered not giving them a show to write home about.  He could tell the Bishop he didn’t feel up to it, take the weight of that man’s accusations onto his shoulders, and turn away.  Bishop Michaels could perform Easter Mass.  It hadn’t been that long since the man had presided over this very parish.

            The moment passed as quickly as it had come, and Father Thomas returned to shaking hands and smiling, asking after children and sick grandparents, ushering them in one and all to the Church.  San Marcos swallowed them hungrily.

            Down the coast road, a long black Cadillac wound it’s way upward.  It slipped in and out of sight as it rounded curves, one moment glittering in the sun, the next obscured by the cliffs, or overgrowths of small trees. 

            Father Thomas turned to watch it approach.   He knew the car, knew who was leaning back into the leather of the back seat, eyes stern and mouth set in a grim line.  Father Thomas knew what was in the trunk, as well, and what was planned.

            He hadn’t fully recovered from the moments in the Bishop’s office.  He hadn’t fully regained the composure and confidence he’d had when he believed that there was someone a step closer to God to turn to – someone with compassion and knowledge.  He’d seen things in Bishop Michaels’ eyes, but compassion wasn’t among them.  He’d seen confusion, fear – even a mild hatred.  He’d seen disbelief and scorn.  Now those eyes would be trained fully on the day’s worship and on Father Thomas himself.  They would seek, and record, but Quentin was no longer certain that what they sought was the truth.

            He snapped his attention back to the moment.  All but the last stragglers had entered the church, and in moments he’d be too late to slip around the rear of the rectory and get into position in time.  On this day, of all days, he wanted to be punctual.  He wanted everything to play out like an old, familiar movie with no surprises, and no guest appearances.

            Last to mount the steps was a formidable figure that brought the morning’s first genuine smile to Father Thomas’ lips. 

            Weighing in at 242 pounds, and seventy-four years, Gladys Multinerry hit the bottom step with the determined stride of a general getting ready to confront her troops.  Her huge arms quivered, and Father Thomas saw her grimace with pain as she lifted herself up the first step. 

            Without a further thought about being late for the Mass, or the black Cadillac, which had just cruised down the drive and stopped not fifty yards away, Father Thomas hurried down the stairs and offered the woman his arm.

            “Gladys,” he said, half-chiding, half-greeting the woman.  “Here – let me help you up the stairs.  Where is Norman?”

            She glanced up at him.  Relief flashed across her features, then gratitude, but they flickered across the broad expanse of her face so quickly that only one who knew her well would have noticed them at all.  Her brow furrowed in pain and concentration, Gladys took his arm.

            “You’d just better help me, young man.”  She said querulously.   “I haven’t missed an Easter Mass at San Marcos in the past fifty years, and I don’t aim to make this the first.  Been coming here longer than you’ve been alive.                          

            “Norman, now, he wouldn’t come here on Easter any more than any other Sunday.  But you know that, Father.” 

            Father Thomas nodded.  He’d heard the speech before, and he fought to suppress the grin that rose to greet it.

            “I know, Gladys,” he replied, smiling.  “I believe the Lord would send one of his Archangels to check on you if you didn’t make an appearance, and that’s a fact.”  He didn’t ask after her son again.  Norman Multinerry was not fond of Mass, or of Father Thomas, for that matter.

            Gladys glanced at him sharply, and then grinned.

            “I’ve seen priests come and go, Father,” she said, turning back to her laborious effort at climbing the stairs.  “I was here when that one was young,” she nodded over at Bishop Michaels, who had exited his car and stood staring up at Father Thomas sternly while the Cadillac’s driver emptied equipment out of the trunk.

            Father Thomas only nodded, helping her up another few steps.  When they’d almost crested the top, she hesitated, and he turned to her, questioning.

            “Never seen anything like last year,” she said softly.  Father Thomas gazed thoughtfully into her eyes for a moment, reading the concern there – the compassion he’d thought he might find in Bishop Michaels, and, again, he smiled.

            “Neither have I, Gladys.  Neither have any of us.”

            They reached the summit, and Gladys rested there for a moment, still searching Father Thomas’ face for something.  He wondered if she was finding it.

            “I mean it, Father,” she insisted.  “I’ve never seen a thing like it.”

            “Now Gladys,” Father Thomas replied, trying to keep the slightly annoyed, slightly pained expression off his face.   He needed to get inside before Bishop Michaels had something else to hold against him, but somehow this moment needed completion.

            “Let’s not make more of this than it actually is,” he said at last.  “We’re here to celebrate the day our Lord arose from death into the light of a new day.  A day, I sometimes think, was much like this one.  Let’s keep ourselves focused on that, and see where the Lord leads us.”

            It was Gladys’ turn to nod, but she wasn’t quite finished.  She looked him up and down a last time; then she reached out and gripped his shoulder in one meaty palm, giving him an encouraging squeeze.

            “I’ve seen a lot of things, Father. I’ve done a lot of things as well; make no mistake of that. Some I admire, some I regret, and you could get some tales if you could bring back all the priests I’ve confessed them to, but I’ll tell you one thing.  I’m blessed to have attended your Mass, and that’s a fact.”

            Father Thomas’ throat constricted very suddenly, and his eyes burned with the threat of tears.  He tried to speak, but no words came, so he gently gripped Gladys Multinerry, eldest member of his Parish and speaker of truth by both her chubby shoulders and spun her toward the doors.

He shooed her with a wave of his hand, and turned away, slipping off around the wall and out of sight.  Beneath him Bishop Michaels had mounted the stairs himself, a heavy case in one hand.  With every passing moment the sun grew brighter and rose closer to the center of the sky.

~Three~

            The glow from high stained glass windows drenched the polished wood of the altar rail, the ornate pews, the lush carpets and heavy tapestries hanging on the walls in deep rich color.  The daylight blended with the dim brilliance of sconces lining the walls.  The two sources of illumination joined to create a mellow glow of light that suffused the room.

            A balcony ran across the back of the Cathedral, about twenty feet up from the floor, and curled around the sides of the room toward the front like a theatre.  Nearly every seat on the main floor was filled.   Colorful hats and intricate hairstyles glittered.  Diamonds and pearls captured splinters of light and flashed them back toward the walls and the ceiling.  A dull roar of voices vibrated the air.  The sound echoed off the walls, rustled among the shuffling feet and slipped in and out of tune like a radio stuck on scan, first one station, then the next, never staying with one voice long enough to truly make sense.

            The air rippled with tension. 

            Father Thomas stood just out of sight, not quite ready to enter.  He watched the sea of faces beneath him, as he had watched them a thousand times before, and he shivered.  He took several deep breaths and closed his eyes, centering on the next few moments.  He knew that once he had started, once the ancient words rolled off his tongue, that he would be fine.  They were a part of him – the Mass was a part of him, and he knew that it would not let him down once he had the chance to release it.  A lot of what he faced frightened him, but the Mass itself was not among them.  This was where he had always been meant to be.

            He stepped out from the shadows and a sigh rippled through the congregation.  He strode forward in silence, concentrating on each footstep.  He put the past out of his mind and spoke, welcoming them all to San Marcos, and to another Easter.  He spoke briefly and pointedly of the day, and its meaning.  Then, without further preamble, he launched into the opening words of the liturgy.  He felt the palms of his hand go clammy with sweat, and for a panicked moment mistook the sweat for the blood he’d felt the previous year.  He thought, just for that second, that the itch had returned, and it was all he could do to keep himself in motion and overcome the illusion.  He managed a glance at his left hand to reassure himself and took a quick gulp of air as he saw nothing but smooth skin and the deep rich material of his vestments.

            Something winked at him from far above, and he realized the unfamiliar gleam must be the lens of Bishop Michaels’ camera.  It should have distracted him, and he’d prepared himself for somewhat of a bout of stage fright, but it never happened.  He glanced up once, silent acknowledgement of the scrutiny, and the man and the Church behind it, and then fell into the easy rhythm and tonal cadence of practiced ritual.  Though he sweated profusely, he found that his hands did not shake, and his voice was loud, clear, and resonant.

            He hoped, briefly, that none of the others had managed to breach security.  Reporters frightened him, and they were the least of those who had made his life miserable over the past year.  There were fanatical members of other sects, mystics, and a menagerie of the worst the world had to offer, all waiting just outside Father Thomas’ personal sphere of influence for him to do something they could use to their advantage.  He saw nothing out of the ordinary.

            For the first time since he’d awakened after the preceding year’s debacle, Father Thomas allowed himself to believe it was possible that everything was going to be just fine.

* * *

            Through the lens of the camera, Father Thomas’ figure glowed in the soft light.  Bishop Michaels squinted, placed his eye over the viewfinder and worked the focus slowly.  The altar, and the young priest standing before it, blurred, and then focused sharply.  In that instant, Father Thomas glanced up at the balcony, and the Bishop had the impression their gazes locked.  Then Father Thomas turned away, and the whirr of the camera intruded, dragging Michaels back to the present.

            The Bishop had chosen to set up dead center in the balcony.  His driver had carried the heavy case up for him, helping him to unfold the tripod and attach the camera to the mount.  There was plenty of tape – it was a VHS model, and he had set the record button on extended play.  Whatever happened this morning, even if it stretched well into the afternoon, Bishop Michaels was ready.

            Or, more precisely, his camera was ready.  The Bishop had never felt less ready for anything in his life.  He had borne the weight of stares and mumbled comments as he climbed stoically up the stairs and into the balcony.  He had felt the curiosity, animosity, and outright hatred of those he passed burning into his back.  He had an idea that the camera, poised between the aisles like Big Brother’s eye materializing from the pages of Orwell’s
1984
, was not going to go a long way in easing the bad feelings.

            It had been a long morning for the Bishop.  He’d risen at 5:00 am, unable to sleep, and had begun his morning rituals an hour earlier than usual.  He’d had tea, meditated for half an hour, gone over and over the equipment to be certain he knew how to operate it, that the battery pack was charged and the tape was fresh, new, and loaded.