The Crash of Hennington (22 page)

Now imagine yourself in that tent. Imagine sitting in a crowd of people overheated on both humidity and rhetoric. The
Dulcinea
beached itself at around three in the afternoon. The revival meeting had begun at seven that morning. Imagine having listened to Merrill Eycham rant about the prophecy of the dark wind for eight hours. Imagine hearing doom foretold with salvation only coming later from an unnamed ‘light wind'. Imagine the sweat making your church clothes stick to the sides of your body, even here on the seashore where the sea breezes seem to have died. Imagine turning your head
at the great crashing sound of the
Dulcinea
hull plowing its way into the clay seabed, slamming great walls of mud out of the ground before coming to rest with a lurch up on dry sand itself. Now imagine seeing the dark tan skin of the Rumour fishermen scrambling around on deck, frantically trying to minimize the damage and do what they can to save the catch if at all possible. And now in this moment, you think to yourself, it’s the dark wind. And at the same time, your neighbor thinks it and his neighbor thinks it and his and his and so on and so on until it reaches the pulpit where Merrill Eycham stands and he says the words out loud: ‘It’s the dark wind'. And as if by silent command you stand. And you reach for something heavy to carry, your chair, a hymnal, even the Sacraments.

There were one hundred and twenty-one fishermen on the
Dulcinea.
There were more than one thousand churchgoers in that oven of a revival tent. History reports to us that thirty-eight fishermen were bludgeoned to death right there on the beach, eleven were forcibly drowned, and the remaining seventy-two were burned alive when the wreck of the
Dulcinea
was set afire by the mob. Fifty-eight revivalists were also killed; at first it was thought by fishermen fighting back, but that seems to have happened in only eight or nine instances. The fishermen were overwhelmed so quickly that they barely had time to fight at all. No, the bulk of the revivalist deaths were caused by other revivalists, settling old scores perhaps, getting caught up in the heat of the moment. There are even reports of revivalists being killed when trying to shield some of the fishermen from attack. So there were brief flashes of humanity even amidst that crowd, but that humanity was rubbed out along with the fishermen.

Blame the massacre on the economic climate of the day. Eycham’s light sentence afterwards would seem to be proof
enough of that. Blame it on the shakiness of society itself at the time. Blame it on a generation not yet quite removed from the purges and violence of Pistolet’s reign. Blame it on simple fear that the life they had built was going to shimmer away. Blame it on a deep-seated, inflamed racism. Blame it on the heat of that sweltering afternoon.

Perhaps it was all of these things. Certainly they each played a part. But the blame for those deaths, along with those of countless others who needlessly starved because the shipment never reached them, the
real
blame, I think can be rested squarely on the shoulders of Merrill Eycham who believed he was following the final words of the Sacraments, who built himself up to such a degree that he thought he was the vessel meant to fulfill a vague, obfuscatory prophecy, who ventured where he should not have and brought about the deaths of one hundred and seventy-nine people.

I offer no further comment on this cautionary tale except the obvious. There are parts of the Sacraments that are vague, sometimes impenetrable, as here, but this was done, I believe, so that they could be all things to all people who seek Our Lord. Our Lord is a loving Lord who has given us the Sacraments as a way of finding Him, as a path to His never-ending love, but this is not a gift given without attendant responsibility. Any use of the Sacraments that does not further this purpose of bringing ourselves closer to Our Lord is an abuse of His Gift to us. We must be ever-watchful that we do not twist the Word of Our Lord into what it is not, into what we would rather hear, into anything that takes power away from the Sacraments and places it into the hands of a man. We have seen the potential for disaster. If we keep our eyes open, it is my hope that we will be able to keep it from ever happening again. This is my hope and my prayer.

49. An Unexpected Intransigence.

As difficult as it had been to have Archie tell him not to come back to his office, Luther had held out hope that their relationship was not completely severed, but as time passed, he kept not having the courage to visit, not having the strength to face Archie’s fury and hurt. Of course, the longer it took, the harder it got. Somehow, two weeks went by, then three, the days and nights piling weight onto his immobility. On an occasion or two, he had called Archie but had only gotten machines or Jules, who was surprisingly sympathetic but similarly unable to get Archie to the phone. Luther leapt every time his own rang, but it was only ever Peter.

Peter. Lovely, lovely Peter. It was just possible that Peter was the only reason he was still alive. Certainly, the physical contact they shared was enough, once in a while, to remind him that he wasn’t alone, and Peter fed him and clothed him like a convalescent child, which in a sense was exactly right. All of the burdens that were supposed to have been lifted by making this decision had instead gained in gravity. Luther was wrong, totally, utterly, completely, absolutely wrong to think that he had a right to do this to Archie, and the painfully obvious results bore this out. Instead of solving his problem and giving himself a life filled with options and possibilities, he had destroyed his past in one fell swoop and left himself unable to enjoy or even greet his future.

Peter, naturally, disagreed.

—This is only a challenge. That’s all, nothing more. A big challenge, yes, but I know you. You can face it.

—You don’t know me, Peter.

—I learn more about you every day.

—I’ve ruined everything.

—If everything was ruined, I wouldn’t be here. I love you.

I know you don’t quite believe me, but if we ever had a chance, here it is.

The thing was, despite wanting to do so quite badly, Luther
couldn’t
believe him. He loved Peter, it was true, there was a small part of him that rejoiced at Peter’s presence, but that too was sullied and blackened by his destruction of Archie. Even taking the smallest joy from Peter seemed almost obscenely selfish. They had sex, of course, but Luther could barely bring himself to come and was often impotent. Some nights, he would have Peter fuck him and not even get an erection, doing it more for the pain at the beginning than for any pleasure that might come later. Not surprisingly, Peter caught on, and now he just held Luther when he couldn’t sleep, which by now had become every night.

Finally, late into one evening, Peter wore him down.

—You can’t go on like this. Some change has to be made or you’ll die.

—What if I want to die?

—You can’t talk like that either. This is just a period of time. It will pass, and you’ll feel better. But you have to do something about it.

—I can’t face him now. It’s been too long.

—That’s not a choice you can make. You have to see him. You can’t move on without a resolution one way or the other.

—Maybe.

Which all eventually led to here, now, a shaved and showered Luther standing like a penitent before Jules’ desk and sweating waterfalls into a clean shirt that Peter had pressed.

—Land o’ Goshen, look who’s here.

—I need to see Archie.

—I think that’s a terrific idea, but I’m not sure he’ll agree.

—Could you tell him I’m here, please?

—Yes, and for all of our sakes, I hope it goes well.

Jules rang Archie in his office. Thomas heard Archie’s voice crackle over the speaker.

—Yes?

—Mr Banyon?

—What is it, Jules?

—Um—

—Spit it out, I haven’t got all day.

—Luther’s here to see you.

—Luther.

—Yes, sir, shall I send him in?

The weeks, for Archie, had been nearly as bad. He told the Board Luther had departed for ‘personal reasons’ and then steadfastly refused to elaborate. There was no worry, he told them, he would merely stay on as Chairman for a bit longer until he could find a suitable replacement. He knew this didn’t wash, the
Board
knew this didn’t wash, but they also had never seen Archie so forcibly cheerful before, so terrifyingly
large
, a remarkable achievement from a man who had made a career out of largeness. They let the matter rest and privately speculated that the two men had had a falling out, one that, given Archie’s hot temper and Luther’s cool demeanor, had probably been a long time in coming and would work itself out sooner or later. Until then, they were resigned to curious watchfulness.

A work tempest then commenced wherein Archie demoted fourteen different people; researched, initiated, took over, dismantled and sold a small car dealership conglomerate at a 34 per cent profit; changed the investment strategy for Banyon Enterprises Pension Funds twice at a .015 per cent loss; switched the name of his line of salad dressings from Green Valley Gardens to The Delighted Palate, against the advice of
his Marketing Department, all of whom he summarily fired; and started a foundation in memory of his mother to help provide sporting equipment to financially strapped local schools. He was in the office late every night and every day on weekends, avoiding a house that was suddenly oppressive. Sitting there on his own, he could do nothing but think about Luther, and he just wasn’t ready to have any of that. God only knew when, but not yet.

He knew exactly why the whole situation bothered him: he had no idea what to do. Fate had reared back and walloped him before – the deaths of his wives and daughters; the casual cruelty of his son; the surprise adoption of Luther – but he had been able to take all those in his stride. The things you couldn’t see coming were what made life life. For his wives and daughters, he had grieved. For Thomas, exile to the Country Club, where hopefully the damage he caused would be minimized by the smallness of his universe, a hope that hadn’t quite panned out. For the adoption, delight at discovering an able, bright replacement for Thomas who could be groomed and loved like a normal son. But this decision of Luther’s, this wasn’t fate, this was caprice. This was selfishness and misjudgment and egotism.

Or was it? Was it just willful blindness on his own part to ignore in Luther what he hadn’t wanted to see, to choose to believe in the future that would suit Archie best? Which was it? Was Archie wrong or was Luther? What was the right course of action? Should he try to bring Luther back, or should he cut him off completely? What was he supposed to do? What was the answer? He had no idea, and it scared the daylights out of him. Archie’s waking hours were spent in alternating anger and grief, and he couldn’t foresee an end to the cycle. He tossed and turned, turned and tossed, giving up sleep entirely in his inability to gather even the faintest notion
of the next move. He began to wonder whether he was finally too old to handle it all. Which confusion made him give the wrong answer, the answer that would haunt him until the very end of his days, the answer that would make him long for the finish to come even sooner than it eventually did.

—I told him I don’t want to see him.

—Don’t you think it’s time, sir?

—I’ll be the judge of that, Jules. No, it’s not time. Not now. Maybe not ever.

Jules looked at Luther. Luther could hear every word, including the last ones he ever heard Archie Banyon say.

—Tell him to go away. He’s not welcome here.

50. A Tentatively Happy Bleakness.

It was a simple split, really, almost laughable if the stakes weren’t so high. One Jacki, the new one, the seemingly (fingers crossed) stronger one, wanted to quit Forum, wanted to leave the clutches of Thomas and the whole impossibly degrading entertainment industry. The other Jacki wanted things back just the way they were, a thoroughly unpersuasive and obviously wrong argument, but this older Jacki was not without weapons, foremost among which were replays of the few positive seconds of Forum plus that old stand-by, hopelessness. The old Jacki knew she would never get out of this alive, so why not just give up, go back to Thomas with sincere apologies, and get what enjoyment there was (and there
was
enjoyment, can’t you remember?) out of the time she had left.

This was the Jacki that didn’t want to take the bath. Fortunately, the odor of detoxification sweat was almost like an extra presence in the room, and the new Jacki reached in the tub to turn on the tap.

Davis tapped lightly on the door and leaned her head into the bathroom.

—Are you doing all right in here?

Jacki nodded slowly. She knew what sort of a sight she was presenting, naked on the toilet seat. She had transformed in a few short weeks into a line drawing of her former self. She had lost nearly fifty pounds, and Dr Ketcham had been forced to put her on intravenous liquids to keep her kidneys from failing. She was covered in bruises as her blood vessels, angry at the disappearance of Forum, burst furiously at the slightest touch. Her breasts were empty pouches, weakly lactating a foul-smelling yellowish ooze instead of the rich milk she had produced for almost her entire adult life. She had also started a near-constant menstruation and was wracked with crippling stomach cramps that at times prevented her from breathing until she was on the verge of suffocation. Just this morning she had noticed that her hair had begun to fall out in handfuls.

And yet when she nodded at Davis’ question, she also managed a smile, meek but definitely present.

—That’s good. That’s so good. I’m so happy for you, Jacki.

Jacki nodded again.

—You’re looking better.

At this lie, Jacki nearly laughed, but it turned into a cough. Davis stood at the door with a questioning look on her face.

—All right, I’ll let you be. Give a knock if you need anything.

She was unbelievably grateful to Davis. She had to stay
somewhere,
and this was the most anonymous place she could think of, a place that might hold Thomas at bay for a good while, maybe even forever. That Davis, and Joanie, too, were putting themselves at such risk – for make no mistake, the risk was enormous – seemed inconceivable. Jacki had entertained
the idea of the Rumour Underground, as both women were Rumour, but her questions were laughed off. Still, their willingness both puzzled and touched her. She only met Davis and Joanie rarely in the hallways at work. She knew them well enough to say hello, but that was about it, the very fact that protected her here. If
she
would never have expected to be taken in by more or less perfect strangers, then certainly Thomas wouldn’t suspect them either. At least not for a while. She felt safe, that’s what it was. For the first time in who knows how long, she felt safe, no matter what danger she was in.