Our Lady of the Forest (24 page)

We'll wait, Father.

I don't want you to.

It isn't a problem.

It is a problem. For Ann and me, we both feel this, it's a problem, a definite, serious problem. You're making us nervous. Sitting here. You're making us feel uncomfortable. We can't concentrate on our important discussion. Because we keep thinking of you out here. Just sitting here doing nothing.

Don't think about us.

That's impossible.

We're committed to providing security, Father. We can't leave our visionary exposed.

Exposed to what, though? Have you thought about that?

Danger, said the man in the passenger seat. Any kind of possible danger.

What kind of danger worries you?

All kinds, said the driver.

The priest tipped his umbrella back and leaned aggressively into the window. He smelled aftershave and pine car freshener. Understand, he said. You'll be here all night. I'm not going to let her go back to that tent. That damp little tent in the campground.

She has a cold, so that's kind of you.

Anyway we're fine with all night.

But, said the priest, how can you be? A miserable night in your car?

We have a cell phone. We'll do it in shifts. In fact, it's already been organized. Twenty-four-hour protection.

Who are you anyway? asked the priest. I don't understand where you come from.

I'm Mike, said the driver. This is Bill. I'm from Butte, Montana, and he's from Boise, Idaho.

That's not what I meant.

Then what did you mean?

I mean, how did you come to be sitting here like this? Don't you have jobs? Families?

I came because of the sighting, said Mike. And then—then I felt I knew. That I was called to provide protection.

Me too, said Bill. I felt called.

People are differently called, said Mike. This is what I feel I have to do. Come to the defense of those in need. Provide for their security. I guess you could say I'm a Christian soldier. Same with Bill here. A soldier in Christ. We're willing to put up with the rain and whatnot. With sitting here all night if we have to. Second Timothy Two, verse three. Thou therefore endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.

If we suffer, we shall also reign with him, said Bill. If we deny him, he also will deny us.

Think not that I am come to send peace on earth, said Mike. I come not to send peace, but a sword.

Dangerous language, warned the priest.

It's just that sometimes the wicked rise up. And the righteous must answer with arms, said Mike. And we're the guys for that.

Nay, said the priest. I'll pray for you. Because I don't think our Lord indeed wants violence. Violence of any sort.

Neither do we, they both answered.

The priest went inside. He took three deep breaths. Dinner, he said to Ann, pumping dry his umbrella. We're going to eat now. Something healthy, good for your cold. Or your flu—forgive me. Your flu.

What did they say?

They're fine where they are.

In the car like that?

They say they're fine.

What are they doing?

Reconnaissance, they say. I don't really follow it. They're on the lookout, on watch.

Lookout for what?

Dragons, I guess. Or infidels. The British, maybe. Or Bigfoot.

The visionary sat poised on the edge of the couch, her hands stuffed between her knees, her feet pointing toward one another. I don't understand, she told the priest.

Nor I.

Is there some kind of danger?

There's absolutely no danger.

Is it, maybe—someone is after me?

No one is after you.

I feel like there is.

Who could be after you?

I don't know. Someone.

What you need, I think, is dinner, Ann. Dinner and a little downtime, rest. How are the clothes. Okay?

Great.

You're comfortable enough?

I feel good. Clean.

I'm sorry I didn't have anything better.

These are fine. I'm great.

I have, said the priest, a nice piece of halibut. Halibut, rice, and a tossed green salad. It'll take about thirty minutes.

I can't eat, though. I'm not even hungry.

You have to eat.

I can't.

The priest sat down in his reading chair.
The Ginger Man
lay on the table beside him, a symbol of his own transgressions if a book can be a symbol of something,
the throb of his groin pumping the teeming fluid into her throat
and other episodes of poetic pornography, Donleavy on the back of the book looking dapper in knickers and carrying a walking stick, the priest had the complete and unexpurgated edition sold for ninety-five cents by Dell, and now as if by casual caprice he picked up his hardback
Ship of Fools
with its black-and-white photo of Porter at her desk, wearing pearls and clutching her typewriter, and set it on top of the Donleavy. The priest felt a little like Ichabod Crane, agitated by hormones and racing nerves, though not quite so hyperthyroidal. He held his chin between his fingers in order to pose as an intellectual and said I'm sorry I have to slow down I'm acting like your father or something it's just that I don't have visitors too often I don't really know how to be a proper host of course we'll eat when you're hungry Ann and not a moment before you're hungry and in the meantime we can just relax I have a collection of cassettes over there I'll put one on say Gorecki or Brahms or maybe chamber music classics do you have a preference?

No.

He put on the Gorecki, symphony number 3, the Symphony of Sorrowful Songs with its Lamentation of the Holy Cross dominating the first movement. Its stairway of fifths, its eight-part polyphony, its eerie Goreckian tempo. An antagonist for his Id, he hoped. There was nothing like Gorecki's Number 3 except perhaps intestinal distress to induce a shriveling woe.

That's sad music, Ann said.

Shall I change it then?

I want to be sad.

How come?

I don't really know.

Well I won't invade your privacy. I won't pick or probe. I'll just say that in about twenty minutes I can put your clothes in the dryer.

Or I could do it, answered Ann.

And I've saved all your pocket things. Your flu pills and shells and candy.

Thank you.

So in the meantime there's tea which I'll warm up for you and please help yourself to biscuits. The priest sat down and delicately sipped. Your confession, he said. Earlier. I'm thinking of the mushrooms you mentioned. The hallucinatory psilocybin mushrooms and of what a committee of inquiry might want to make of them.

I haven't done any mushrooms for a while. If that's what you're thinking—I haven't done them.

As I understand it, nevertheless, there's a phenomenon commonly known as the flashback which attaches to hallucinogens like LSD or peyote buttons or psilocybin mushrooms. Are you aware of this? The flashback?

Sort of.

Well how can I explain it?

I don't know.

Someone uses a hallucinogenic drug. They experience an episode of immediate effects that subside within say twenty-four hours. Arbitrary. It could be twelve hours. Who knows? That's not the point. Well a flashback would be an episode of effects occurring sometime afterward. The next week. The next month. A year later or two years later. You're going about your normal business, eating a sandwich and reading a magazine, when the sandwich turns into a little bird and the magazine grows little hands and feet—this is what's called a flashback.

That's not what's happening.

How do you know?

I know cuz I know. That's not what's happening.

How long has it been since you used psilocybin? How many weeks or months?

Our Lady is real so it doesn't matter.

But how long?

Like a month maybe.

What about dope?

I don't smoke dope.

But how long?

You know. Weeks.

So not too long.

A couple weeks. At least two weeks before I saw her.

The priest sipped his tea and arched one eyebrow, his little finger bent and held aloft. He felt comically smug. He felt villainous. What do you think? he asked the visionary. Could I have maybe been a celebrity interrogator during the Inquisition?

She didn't answer, didn't smile or laugh, so that he felt, next, like a pompous cleric full of sanctimonious ridicule. Forgive me, said the priest. It's an absurd line of thought. You haven't used dope in at least fourteen days. You haven't used mushrooms in at least a month. And this doesn't sound, to me, like a flashback. It's too concrete. Too vivid for that. But maybe; I don't know.

Ann fingered the nap of his cardigan sweater. Before, she said. What did you mean by a committee of something? Like a minute ago? When you said that?

A committee of inquiry. Of investigation. Into this episode of Marian apparitions. A process known in the Church as discernment. To discern the validity of your visions, Ann. To discern their legitimacy.

The Church has that?

It has for centuries. Because what if someone was faking it or was out of balance mentally? Or consciously manipulating followers for the selfish purpose of material gain? What if their visions were false in some way? It is the duty of the Church to ferret this out. To determine if it can sanction an apparition or deem it worthy of belief.

Well I haven't used anything for like a few weeks. So it isn't that. Not mushrooms, Father. Not mushrooms or marijuana.

Let's not discount the flashback, Ann. It might go a considerable way toward explaining what you're experiencing.

But why don't you just believe me, Father? I'm telling you—Our Lady is real. I'm not hallucinating.

The priest interlaced his fingers slowly and set them in an attitude of child's prayer just beneath his chin. I'd honestly like to believe you, he said. Believing would make this so much easier. I don't want to be a skeptic or cynic. I'd like to make that leap of faith, but in all honesty I can't just yet. I just don't have enough information. So tomorrow morning I meet with a priest the bishop is sending out our way. And I think, given the numbers of people who seem to be attracted to this event, I think he will appoint a committee. A committee of investigation on which he will want me to sit. And then I'll approach it formally, if and when I'm called to the task. But until then, let's be tea drinkers.

I can't just sit here drinking tea though.

But this is soporific—chamomile. And highly therapeutic, too. For somebody with the flu.

I was trying to tell you before, Father. I'm here because I need to be cleansed of my sins. And we have to start building the church.

Sins, said the priest. Let's start with that one. I—

I mean I stole stuff constantly, okay? I stole a sleeping bag from the back of a truck. I told these two women I'd watch their stuff, then I took their cooler and their boom box. I pawned stuff left and right, Father. A chain saw once. An air compressor. I also pumped gas and drove off without paying. Many times I did that.

Before or after you stole the catechism?

Everything I did was before that point. Before I gave myself to Jesus.

I see.

But I already knew—everyone does—thou shalt not steal. It's wrong.

Yes.

So I need to be baptized.

You're back to that.

I can't be saved unless I'm baptized.

You didn't grow up with the Church, Ann?

I didn't grow up with anything, Father.

I suddenly have an idea, said the priest. Why don't you call your mother right now? You can use my telephone.

I'm not like one of those posters, answered Ann. One of those posters you see at the post office of somebody who's like official or something. An official runaway or something.

Well maybe you could just call socially. For no good reason. Just to say hello. Just to check in. A phone call.

No, said Ann. That's the last thing I want to do.

But why wouldn't someone want to call their mother?

I just don't want to. It's a long story, Father.

Long doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, does it? Because after all, we have all kinds of time here. We're sitting here talking, isn't that the case? And I'm a priest. A listener by nature. Not to mention an inveterate talker. So I don't mind if your story is long. I even kind of like that.

I didn't mean long the way you mean it. I mean: I just can't explain it.

You mean you can't explain to me why you don't want to call your mother? Or you can't explain what you mean by the word long? Or both? Maybe it's both.

I'm lost again.

Why don't you want to call your own mother?

I don't know. Can we leave it at that?

Tell me about it.

I can't.

The priest sighed. Okay, he said. It's just that you seemed in a mood of disclosure. Disclosure and contrition. Confession.

Ann drank her tea. His mind turned to that. A lissome teen with a teacup at her lips. Tell you what, the priest offered. You spend the night here. Don't go back to that damp tent of yours. Stay here tonight. Nurse your flu. The couch folds out into a comfortable bed. You'll be warm and clean. Please stay.

He tried to remember which corner of hell was reserved for sexual connivers. Was it the First Bolgia with its Panderers and Seducers like Jason of the Golden Fleece or the Second Circle where lustful souls are forever driven on the wind? Ann got up to use the bathroom and he closed the shades tightly, leaving no gaps, in order to prevent the spies outside from looking in on them. Then he waited in a heat of agitation while Ann washed, brushed her teeth, and peed—he heard the hard long stream of her urine rebounding off the porcelain only because he was listening for it—next he performed his own neurotic toilet, brushing his teeth, flossing carefully, massaging his gums, swallowing his multivitamin, lathering his face and hands with scented lotion, combing his hair, swilling with mouthwash, and sitting on the toilet like a woman to pee in order to make less noise about it, in case Ann was listening. Why did he care? He didn't know. Father Collins assessed himself critically in the mirror. I'm still okay, he decided.