F Paul Wilson - Novel 03 (11 page)

           
 
"What's happened is I've become the
Prisoner of Zenda."

           
 
Charlie had never been a sturdy sort, but now
he looked positively gaunt. Arthur wanted to throw his arms around him and tell
him how much he'd missed him, but the look in Charlie's eyes stopped him cold.

           
 
He sat on the foot of the bed, carefully, so
as not to upset the tray.

           
 
"You know better than that. This is your
home."

           
 
"Not with turnkey Sanchez around."

           
 
"Charlie, I brought you back for your own
good. That's not the kind of life for you. For anybody. It's an abomination in
the eyes of God."

           
 
"It's
my
life." Charlie's eyes flashed. Arthur had never seen him so defiant.

           
 
"It's a sinful life."

           
 
"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of
happiness—isn't that what a
United States
senator is supposed to protect?"

           
 
"Don't be flip. I want to help you turn
your life around."

           
 
"By when? For the primaries in a few
years?"

           
 
If only it were that simple, Arthur thought.
If that was all there was to it . . .

           
 
He shuddered as old memories surged to the
fore. Violently he thrust them back down into the mire where they belonged.

           
 
No. This was not only for himself. Charlie's
sodomite urges were a test. If Arthur could help his son out of this moral
quagmire, he would prove himself, he would . . .
redeem
himself. And God would know what a weapon he had in Arthur
Crenshaw.

           
 
"Do you like the life you're living,
Charlie?"

           
 
"It's the only one I've got."

           
 
"That doesn't answer the question."

           
 
"It has its moments."

           
 
"In the wee small hours, Charlie . . .
when it's just you and God and the dark outside the window . . . how do you
feel?"

           
 
Charlie's gaze faltered for the first time. He
fiddled with a slice of toast on his breakfast tray.

           
"I wake up at three or four in
the morning, shaking and sweaty. And I sit there thinking about how I've failed
you. I remember how Mom never put me down, but every so often I'd catch her
watching me and there'd be this unreadable look in her eyes. I didn't know what
she was thinking, but I have to assume I disgusted her. And I know what
you
think, Dad—you've always been up
front about how you felt. So I sit there in the dark thinking about how
repulsive I am to the two most important people in my life." His voice
fell to a whisper. "And I feel like such a loser."

           
 
Arthur felt his throat tighten. He had to help
this boy. He reached out and put a hand on Charlie's arm. Dear Lord, it was so
thin.

           
 
"You can't be judged a loser until you've
given up trying, Charlie. And that's why I brought you home. I want you to
try."

           
 
Charlie looked up at him again. "Try
what?"

           
"To change."

           
 
He shook his head. 'That's not possible."

           
 
"It is, Charlie," he said, gently
squeezing his arm. "With God's help and the right doctors, you can do
it."

           
 
Charlie's laugh rang hollow against the walls.
"I think God must have lots of concerns more pressing than my sexual
orientation. And really, Dad, if it's the election you're worried about, relax.
No one will connect me with you. And even if they did, it could actually work
to your advantage. We're a pretty cohesive voting block now. We proved that in
the last election."

           
 
We . . .
Arthur shuddered at Charlie's casual alignment of himself with the likes of
Act Up and Queer Nation and the pathetic human mutants and aberrations that
marched in those Gay Pride parades. If getting elected depended on their votes,
he'd rather not run.

           
 
But public knowledge of Charlie's
homosexuality was only part of the real threat.

           
 
"I won't deny the election is important
to me," he told Charlie. "You know that. There's so much good I can
do for this country if they'll only let me. I have plans. I can make us great
again." He didn't just believe that—he
knew
it. "But if I can't help my own son back on the right path, how can I
expect to do it for an entire nation?"

           
 
"Dad—"

           
 
"Give me a year, Charlie. One year of
prayer and therapy. That's all I ask. You're young. One year out of the rest of
your life is not too much for your father to ask, is it? If there's been no
change at the end of that time, and if I see you've made a sincere effort, then
I'll accept your . . . the way you are and never bother you again about it."

           
 
Charlie was staring at him. "Accept me? I
don't think you can."

           
 
"If you can try, I can try. One
year." He thrust out his hand. "What do you say?"

           
 
"One year . . . that's too long."

           
 
"Half
a year then. Six months.
Please!"

           
 
Charlie hesitated and Arthur sent up a prayer:
Please make him accept, Lord. Between the
two of us I know we can make him normal.

           
 
Tentatively Charlie reached out and grasped
his father's hand.

           
 
"All right. Six months. As long as you
understand that I'm not promising you results, just to give it the old college
try."

           
 
Arthur blinked back the tears that surged into
his eyes. He pulled Charlie close and embraced him.

           
 
"That's all I ask, son. That's all a
father can ask."

           
 
Thank you, Lord, he said in silent prayer. I
know this is going to work. If I can teach my boy to pray, if he can learn as I
have learned, if he can find for himself just one tenth of the peace I find in
you, he will be saved. I trust in you, Lord, and I know that you will help me
in this.

           
 
But as he held his son, Arthur was alarmed at
how frail he seemed. He could feel the corduroy ridges of ribs through
Charlie's sweatshirt. Weight loss, night sweats . . . Charlie couldn't possibly
have . . .

           
 
No. That was impossible. God wouldn't do that
to him. Arthur didn't know if he could handle that. Not after Olivia. He was
strong, but he had his limits. He wasn't cut out to be a modern-day Job.

           
 
He cast the thought from his mind and held his
son tighter.

           
 
"Everything's going to be all right,
Charlie. God will make it so."

           
I
swore to all present that I would guard her until my last breath. I told the
brother, I will kill to keep her safe.

           
 
But he said to me. No, you must not kill.

           
 
And then I swore I would die to keep her safe.
But within I promised that if the need arose I would gladly kill to keep her
secret. It is the least I can do.

           
 
I do not fear killing. I have killed before,
slipping through the crowds in
Jerusalem
,
stabbing with my knife. And I fear not damnation. Indeed, I am already
thrice-damned.

           
 
FROM THE GLASS SCROLL

           
 
ROCKEFELLER MUSEUM TRANSLATION

Manhattan

           
 
As Sister Caroline Ferris reached behind the
scratched and dented dresser in her room at the Convent of St. Ann, she caught
sight of herself in the mirror on the wall behind it.

           
 
You're twenty-eight, she thought, and you
still look like a child. When are you going to get wrinkled so men won't stare
at you?

           
 
Maybe if she'd spent her teenage years
worshiping the sun instead of God, she'd have at least a few wrinkles to show.
But she'd entered the convent at fourteen, and as a result her skin was pale
and flawlessly smooth. She kept her thick, dark, hair cut in a bob-—straight,
functional, easy to care for. She wore no makeup—never a trace of mascara or
shadow for her large blue eyes, never even a touch of color to her thin lips,
and when out in public she tried to look as serious as possible. Yet despite
her shapeless clothing and carefully cultured Plain Jane look, men still
approached her. Even in habit!

           
 
Maybe I should put on forty or fifty pounds.
That would stop them.

           
 
But no matter how much she ate, her body
burned it off. She seemed doomed to remain 120 pounds forever.

           
 
She removed the compact-like case from under
the rear lip of the bureau top and opened it. Inside was a foil and plastic
card with twenty-one clear bubbles, one for each of the contraceptive pills the
pack contained. The label inside the lid read Ortho-Novum
7-7-7
and gave the patient's name as Margaret
Jones. Half the pills were gone. Quickly Carrie pushed the next light-peach
tablet in line through the foil and popped it into her mouth, dry swallowing it
as she shut the case and returned it to its hiding place.

           
 
Good. The daily risk of taking her pill was
out of the way. With no locks on the doors within the Convent of the Blessed
Virgin, someone could pop in at any time.

           
 
Carrie had noted she had two refills left on
her pills. After that, the fictitious Margaret Jones would need another
appointment at the West Side Planned Parenthood clinic. She shuddered at the
thought. She hated pelvic exams and lived in fear of the chance that someone in
the waiting room might recognize her as Sister Carrie. But she put up with the
indignities and the fear to avoid the greater terror of pregnancy.

           
 
Since she'd be traveling alone, she'd leave
her habit behind. She adjusted the collar of her starched white blouse and
straightened the jacket of her black gabardine suit. "Sensible"
shoes—black pumps with one-inch heels—completed the picture.

           
 
She checked the rest of her room to make sure
it was neat. A bed, a nightstand with a handpainted statue of the Blessed
Virgin, a reading lamp, a dresser, a crucifix, and a closet— not much to take
care of. Everything was in place. One last thing to do . . .

           
 
She knelt by her nightstand and gazed at her
Virgin Mary statuette. She repeated the same prayer she said every time she was
about to sin:

           
 
Forgive
me, Mary. I wish I could have been like you, but I was never given the choice.
And though I sin with full knowledge and forethought, please know that I am
devoted to you and always shall be. Yet despite all my devotion, I know I'm
still a sinner. But in just this one thing. In everything else I gladly deny
myself to do your work, do your bidding. Yet a small part of my heart remains
unruly. I hope, I trust, I pray that in your own heart you will find room to
forgive this sinner.

           
 
Sister Carrie crossed herself, rose, and
headed for the first floor.

           
 
On the way out she checked in with Mother
Superior to let her know she was leaving and told her when to expect her back.

           
 
The older woman smiled and looked up at her
over the tops of her reading glasses. "Tell your father our prayers are
with him."

           
 
"Thank you, Sister. I'm sure that will
give him comfort."

           
 
If you knew that monster as I do, Carrie thought,
you'd withhold your prayers. Or perhaps you wouldn't. She stared a moment at
Mother Superior's kindly face. Perhaps you'd pray for even the most ungodly
sinner.

           
 
Not me, Carrie thought, turning and heading
for the street. Not for that man. Not even an "Amen."

           
 
Supposedly she was visiting him at the nursing
home. Usually the sisters traveled in pairs or more if shopping or making house
calls to the sick or shut-ins, but since this was a parental nursing home
visit, Carrie was allowed to travel alone.

           
 
She'd never been to the nursing home. Not
once. The very thought of being in the same room with that man sickened her.

           
 
Brad took care of the visits. Her brother saw
to all that man's needs. The cost of keeping him in the Concordia, which its
director had described as "the Mercedes Benz of nursing homes," was
no burden for Brad. Her investment banker brother's Christmas bonus alone last
year had come to over a million dollars.

           
 
Brad traveled a lot to earn that kind of
money. Many of his clients were headquartered on the West Coast and he spent
almost as much time in
California
as he did here in
Manhattan
. So whenever he headed west he'd call and leave word that he'd be out
of town. That meant his condo was hers to use whenever she wanted a change from
the convent. Carrie availed herself of that offer by saying that her brother's
absence made it necessary for her to attend to her father more often at the
nursing home.

           
 
And when she visited the condo, she did not
visit it alone.

           
 
Poverty, chastity, and obedience, she thought
as a cab pulled up outside the convent. This afternoon I'm breaking all my vows
at once.

           
 
A wave of self-loathing rose from her belly
into her chest, reaching for her throat, momentarily suffocating her. But it
receded as quickly as it had come. She had hated herself for so long that she
barely noticed those waves anymore. They felt like ripples now.

           
She descended the convent steps and
slipped into the cab.

           
 
As the cab rounded
Columbus Circle
and headed up Central Park West, Carrie
gazed through the side window at the newborn leaves erupting from the trees in
the park, pale, pale green in the fading light. Spring. The city's charms
became most apparent in spring. Nice to live up here, far from the squalor of
downtown.

           
 
She spotted a homeless man, trudging uptown on
the park side, wheeling all his worldly possessions ahead of him in a shopping
cart.

           
 
Well, not too far. You couldn't escape the
homeless in
New York
. They were everywhere.
You can
run but you can't hide.

           
 
Brad had run to the
Upper West Side
, to Yuppy-ville. Or Dinc-ville, as some
folks were calling it these days. But Brad wasn't a dinc. Wasn't married, lived
alone. Carrie guessed that made him a sinc: single income, no children. He
could have lived anywhere—
Westchester
,
the Gold Coast,
Greenwich
, anywhere—but he seemed to like the ambience of the newly gentrified
neighborhoods, and he often spoke of the friends he'd made in the building.

           
 
The cabbie hung a mid-block U-turn on Central
Park West and let her off in front of Brad's building. Carrie counted up five
floors and saw a light in one of Brad's windows. Had to be one of Brad's
windows—his condo took up the entire fifth floor. She smiled as desire began to
spark within her. She was the latecomer this time. Usually it was the other way
around. Good. She wouldn't have to wait.

           
 
The doorman tipped his cap as he ushered her
through to the lobby. "Beautiful evening, isn't it, Sister."

           
 
"Yes, it is, Riccardo. A wonderful
evening."

           
 
Carrie had to use her key to make the elevator
stop on the fifth floor. The sparks from ground level had ignited a flame of
desire by the time she stepped out into a small atrium and unlocked the condo
door. Slowly she swung it open and slipped through as silently as possible.
Light leaked down the hall from the dining room. She removed her shoes and
padded toward it in her stockinged feet.

           
 
On an angle to her right she spotted him,
hunched at Brad's long dining room table, his back to her, his sandy-haired
head bowed over half a sheaf of typewritten sheets, so engrossed in them she
had no trouble entering the room unnoticed.

           
 
Desire grew to a molten heat as she crept up
behind him.

           
 
Closer now, she noticed the waves in his hair
as it edged over his collar and ears, the broad set of the shoulders under his
shirt. She loved this man, loved the scent of him, the feel of him, the sound
of his voice, the touch of his fingers and palms on her. She wanted him. Now.
Every day. Forever. The times they could sneak away to be together were too,
too few. So she made these times count, every minute, every second, every
racing, pounding heartbeat they were together.

           
She laid her hands on his shoulders
and gently squeezed.

           
 
"Hi there."

           
 
He jumped. Through the fabric of his shirt she
felt his shoulder muscles harden to rock then relax under her hands. He turned
in the chair and looked up at her.

           
 
"God, don't
do
that! My heart almost stopped."

           
 
Carrie tilted his head back and kissed him on
the lips. His skin carried a trace of Old Spice. She nodded toward the papers
on the table.

           
 
"What's so interesting?"

           
 
"The translation of an old scroll.
It's—"

           
 
"More interesting than me?"

           
 
She kissed the tip of his nose, then each eye
in turn.

           
 
"Are you kidding?" Father Daniel
Fitzpatrick rose, lifted her in his arms, and carried her toward the guest
bedroom. "Not even close."

           
 
Dan was dozing. He often nodded off as they
snuggled after their lovemaking. Carrie rose up on an elbow and stared at his
peaceful features.

           
 
I love
you, Danny boy.

           
 
They first met about five years ago when he
stepped in as the new associate pastor at St. Joe's, ran into each other
occasionally at parish affairs, and for the past three years or so had been
working side by side at Loaves and Fishes. They'd come to know each other well
during those years, discovering that they shared the ecclesiastically incorrect
notion that the Church should expend at least as much effort in nurturing minds
and bodies as saving souls, that the well-being of the last was dependent to a
large extent on the health of the first two.

           
 
Last year they became lovers.

           
 
Precipitously.

           
 
A strange courtship—long, slow, and tentative,
never kissing or even holding hands. An occasional bump of the shoulders, a
brush of a hand against an arm, long looks, slow smiles, growing warmth. Carrie
doubted it would have progressed beyond that stage if she hadn't take the
initiative last summer.