I
n the gloomy hallway I paused for a moment as the knocking became louder and more insistent. It seemed to match the noise my own racing heart was making. Then I took a deep breath and, resigned to my fate, opened the front door with a shaking hand.
To my surprise and considerable relief it was not God’s angel of death standing on the porch in front of me, it was Bishop Eamon Coogan. But if I thought that opening the door would put an end to the banging, I was wrong. The banging seemed to be continuing ominously upstairs, as if some builders were working there oblivious to the effect that their effort was producing.
“Eamon,” I said. My relief was almost palpable.
“What the hell happened to you? Jesus. You’re covered in blood.”
Instinctively, I pulled down my shirtsleeves in an effort to cover the scratches on my arms.
“It’s a long story.” I glanced over his shoulder, but for the moment, the angel of death was gone from the street out front; I assumed that he was probably responsible for the muffled jackhammer sound that filled the house. “You’d better come in. If you can bear it.”
I showed Coogan into the sitting room, and he winced a little as more pounding from upstairs jolted the ceiling. Some dust fell from the plaster molding, tinkled against the light fixture, and then fell into the dust that already covered the wooden floor; dust to dust, just like it says in the prayer.
“What’s with all the noise?” he asked.
I saw little point in enlightening any normal person—even one such as the bishop who probably believed in such things as demons and angels of death—as to the real reason for the noise. Sara’s reaction proved that any normal person would have assumed I was mad. It was bad enough that I almost believed this myself without alienating someone who was possibly my last friend in the world—not to mention the one friend I had who might conceivably be able to help me.
“Plumbers,” I said glibly. “Toilet is blocked. They’re trying to fix it.”
Coogan nodded warily. “Plumbers, is it?” He didn’t look convinced. “Did you argue about the bill, perhaps?”
“I had an accident, that’s all. Nothing serious. I fell down the stairs. I slipped on a wrench that someone left on the floor.”
Coogan looked even more disbelieving.
“I’ve seen emergency rooms that looked better than you.”
“Leave it, will you, for fuck’s sake? I’m fine. I’ll find a Band-Aid in a minute, okay?”
“Sure, Gil. Whatever you say.”
I swallowed my fear—or as much of it as I could manage in one gulp—and smiled patiently. “What are you doing here, Eamon?”
“You telephoned me last night,” he explained. “Remember? I tried calling back on your cell and on the house phone, but with no result.”
“Yes, I think some of the lines are down because of the storm,” I said. “And there’s no cell reception here to speak of. At least not on my network.” I smiled. “But it’s a long drive from Houston just to find out why the phone isn’t working.”
“The message you left sounded rather peculiar,” said Coogan. “So I decided to come down here first thing this morning and see that everything is all right.” He glanced up at the ceiling as the steady banging seemed to grow even louder, shifting a small shower of dust onto his large head. He brushed it off irritably. “And now that I’m here, I’m not sure it is.”
“Everything is just fine.” I poured myself a drink. “Want one?”
“It’s a little early, but you know, I think I will, with all the terrible things that have been happening to me.” He shook his head.
“Oh, yes. How’s that thing going for you?”
“What thing?”
“The grand jury indictment.”
“Oh, I see. I wasn’t referring to that, Gil. Although, now you come to mention it, it seems they—they being the FBI—are now bringing charges against the diocese instead of me personally. I suppose that’s why you’ve been avoiding me.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I understand. It was a difficult situation. But it’s a tremendous relief to me that at least I won’t be going to prison.”
“Well, I guess that all worked out for you.”
“I swear I thought we were doing the right thing, Gil. For the sake of the Church, that is.”
It struck me as funny—almost—that my last friend in the world should be someone who had helped a pedophile escape justice.
“So what were you referring to?” I said, quickly changing the subject. “What you said just now, about all the terrible things that have been happening to you?”
“Well, perhaps it was just one terrible thing.”
I handed him the drink. He drank some scotch, lit a cigarette, and looked around. The guns caught his eye, but he didn’t mention them. He glanced up at the ceiling again as the light fixture began to sway.
“There was a terrible accident on the Galveston Causeway that slowed me down coming here. That’s all.”
I frowned, already thinking the worse. “On the bridge?”
He nodded. “A young woman drove a sports car right over the edge of the northbound road into the bay just short of Virginia Point.”
I felt my blood slow down as if someone had locked me overnight in a meat freezer.
“Uh-huh.”
“I stopped at the scene to ask the Galveston police if there was anything I could do, but they said they thought the poor woman had already drowned.”
“Did they happen to say what kind of car it was?”
“A blue foreign convertible. Apparently a witness saw her traveling at almost a hundred miles an hour. She braked to avoid something in the outside lane, hit the central concrete barrier, and then lost control. The cops were still looking for the body when I left.” He toasted the air. “Well, here’s to her, whoever she was, poor lass. God rest her soul.” He crossed himself with the hand that was holding the cigarette, which seemed to add an almost infernal touch to his Catholicism.
“Yeah, here’s to her.”
With my eyes and throat filling up with tears and emotion, I sighed and sat down heavily on the arm of the sofa where less than ten hours before I had been sitting beside Sara. Her lipstick was still on a half-finished glass of Puligny-Montrachet. If I picked it up and put it to my lips, I could surely taste her again; so that’s exactly what I did, mingling the thick pink fingerprint of her mouth with the warm golden wine and for a second it really did feel as if I had kissed her again.
None of this mixed easily with the whiskey in my hand and, to Coogan, it must have looked like I was a hopeless alcoholic, but I hardly cared.
So, that was that. There’s nothing like the death of someone you love to make your own continuing existence a matter of small consequence. I expected nothing from the world now. Not from this world, nor from the one to come. And I understood the point of the pounding; it was the sound of doom.
“Did you know her, Gil?”
“She sounds very like a friend of mine who stayed here last night.”
“Merciful God,” he said.
I smiled at that one.
“We argued and then she lost her temper and drove off. I tried to stop her, but she pulled a gun on me and I had to let her go. It was let her go or get fucking shot, I think. At the time, it seemed like the right choice—to let her go, I mean. But now I’m not so sure.” I smiled bitterly. “I kind of wish it had been me and not her. She was so very clever and I think the world will miss her.”
I wiped my face with my forearm.
“That’s awful, Gil. Really awful. I’m sorry.” He shook his head sadly. “But if you don’t mind my asking, why did she threaten to shoot you?”
“Because she thought I was fucking crazy.”
“All this banging would make anyone crazy.” Coogan glanced angrily at the ceiling. “But why did she think that about you?”
“Simple. Because I told her I believed in God.”
“That’s no reason to shoot someone. Especially in Texas. But forgive me for asking, Gil, but I was under the impression that you’d become an atheist.”
“So was I. But I changed my mind. Or rather someone changed it for me.”
“For this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is found. I’m very glad to hear it, Gil.” He toasted me and swallowed some scotch.
“I wish I could agree with you, Eamon. But I’m afraid I can’t. Well, I’m afraid, anyway. That much is certainly true. Either way, I’m almost certain I’m as lost as you can get with a head still on your shoulders.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No. Well, let’s just leave it there for now, shall we?”
“All right, Gil. If that’s what you want. I can see you’ve had a shock, right enough. But you should really get some of those cuts and scratches seen to.” He glanced up at the ceiling as the banging seemed to become more persistent. “Look, do you think you could tell your plumbers to stop for a while. Just while I’m here. This is important, Gil. I can’t hear myself think.”
“Actually, that’s the point of it, I believe. To stop you from thinking. Or me.”
“If we’re talking about your soul, I’d rather not have this bloody racket to contend with.”
“Oh, me, too. But I’m afraid there’s not much I can do to prevent that, okay?”
“All right, all right. Take it easy.”
“There’s a lot of things I wish I could do. Like go back to my previous state of ignorance. These people who believe in God. Jesus, I wonder what they’d think if they found out what he’s really like. If God or one of his angels turned up at Lakewood or the cathedral one Sunday. If the Second Coming really did happen. Man, I’d love to see the look on their fucking faces. You take all kinds of things for granted when you’re in church: that God is your heavenly father and that he has the whole world in his hands and shit like that. All things bright and beautiful. Jesus loves you. Only it isn’t like that at all. Let me tell you it’s a lot easier to worship that God than the God who really exists. It takes more than fucking prayers to make things right with him.”
“Gil, Gil, what on earth are you talking about, man? You’re making no sense.”
“Oh, I’m making sense, you just don’t realize it. Actually, it’s good you’re here, Eamon. I’m glad you came. Even if you are kind of a dirty priest, you know? I mean, tipping off a jacko that he was about to get busted. That was just wrong, Eamon.”
“Hey. I told you. I thought we were—”
“Doing the right thing, right. Well, that’s what I’d like to do now. I’m sorry I brought that other thing up. I apologize.” I grinned at him. “Look, I really do need your fucking help here, Eamon. Some urgent spiritual advice?”
“Well then, just tell me what the problem is.”
“Eamon. How would I go about being received back in the Roman Catholic Church?”
“You never left, Gil. Once you’re baptized into the Roman Catholic Church, you remain a Catholic forever. The only thing that can stop you from being a Catholic is if you are excommunicated. And I hardly think you’ve done anything bad enough for that. No, as far as the Catholic Church is concerned, once a Catholic always a Catholic. That’s one of the great things about being a Catholic. The Church can forgive all sorts of iniquity.”
“So it would seem,” I said pointedly.
“Just because you might have called yourself an evangelical Christian, or even an atheist, for a while, it really makes no real difference to the Catholic Church.”
“Then how do I make my peace with God?”
“The same way as always. The sacrament of penance. Scripture tells us that three things are required of the penitent. Contrition, confession, and an act of penance and the making of amends for your sins. It’s as simple as that, Gil. This sacrament—which is also called the sacrament of reconciliation—is the outward sign of an inward grace and reconciles the penitent to Almighty God.” He nodded firmly. “Yes, it wouldn’t be a bad idea at all for you to take that sacrament. You must receive the Holy Spirit, as it says in the Gospel according to St. John.”
“Would you hear my confession, Eamon?”
“Of course.”
“I should like to be reconciled to God. If it’s possible. I’m not sure it is. But I should like to try.”
I do his will. As it was of old, in the beginning and in the Bible.
More muffled banging from upstairs. Coogan paled a little. “Is that what this is about? Oh, Jesus, Gil. What the—? It’s not the devil you’ve raised up there, is it?”
In all other circumstances I might have laughed, but now his question seemed to serve my purpose. In Coogan’s world it was only the devil and not God who was capable of creating terrible suffering in this world. Telling him that God’s angel was going to destroy me would surely have encouraged some ridiculous theological argument; but telling him that the devil was planning to do it was just what was required. And ultimately, what’s the fucking difference?
“Yes,” I said quietly. “It is, I’m afraid.”
Coogan crossed himself hurriedly and finished his drink.
“Look, I’m sorry, Eamon, but a great evil has descended upon me and this house.”
“Holy Mother of God,” he said. “What’s been going on here?”
“I can’t explain. It would take too long. A lot of it you would hardly believe anyway. But that’s why my friend with the sports car took off in such a hurry. Because she was terrified of a demon, Eamon. The demon in this house.”
“I’m not sure I even know how to do an exorcism,” said Coogan.
“No, an exorcism is not required.” I took hold of Coogan’s enormous shoulders and shook him. “I need to find that state of inward grace you were talking about, Eamon. I need you to hear my confession. And quickly. All right? Could you do that, please?”
He lit a nervous cigarette and glanced anxiously at the ceiling as the banging persisted.
“Is that him? The devil?”
“No, not the devil but certainly one of his demons. Azrael, I think.”
Coogan crossed himself again. I grabbed the big man by the lapels of his black jacket and hauled him roughly toward me.
“Will you please stop crossing yourself and listen to me, you stupid Boston Irish fuck? I need you to confess me.” I shouted into his face. “Will you confess me?”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Yes, I will.”
“But not here, I think,” I said. “Somewhere else.”
“No problem,” said Coogan. “I have the keys to the old cathedral. We can go there right now if you like. In fact, I insist upon it.”