Day 23

[This will be the last post until I have finished the novel. I could finish it any time this week. But I will likely take the entire thirty days of November. I will publish the remainder on December 1st or 2nd. The reason is that I have figured out the ending. Unfortunately, the novel is not coming out sequentially any more. Sometimes part of the ending comes out. Then sometimes a middle piece comes out. So, the segments I would be posting would not be connected. In the next week, they should be pieced together properly for a first draft. Thanks to all of you who have been reading. I am enjoying this story. And having readers stay with me has made it a better story. No doubt in my mind about that.]




The vice chancellor adjusted his facial features. Rick had estimated correctly the benefit of pushing the man to the limits of his patience. Father Harding seemed unable to speak. He was accustomed to being in control of the situation. He did not function well unless he was applying the pressure. Rick sat staring at the older priest, letting the silence irritate his victim further. Soon, the need to break the tension of silence would cause the old man to say something.

Without saying a word, Father Harding stood and walked down the hall to the bathroom.

“Second door on the right,” Rick called lightly.

“I know!” the old priest growled. “I lived here for eleven years.”

The telephone rang. Rick answered it in his office. “Yes, he’s here,” he said.

“Did you piss him off?” Drive asked.

“No. We fell a-kissing and had wild, gay sex in the hallway.”

“Rick!”

“He’s in the bathroom.”

“So, you did piss him off.”

“It didn’t require an effort.”

“Oh, I’m sure you gave it some effort.”

“He’s had it coming.”

“Maybe so,” said Drive. “Just don’t screw things up too much.”

“This goes back a long way between him and me,” Rick said. “Most of it’s not about you.”

“Has he mentioned me?”

“He tried, but I kept interrupting him.”

“Rick!”

“I don’t see the point in kissing ass,” Rick said. “He’s been after me for years.”

“Well, I love you, and I don’t want you to be exiled to some Italian island for ten years.”

“It’s not like you think. Seriously, I was just making small talk. He gets his ass up about the simplest things,” Rick said. The bathroom door opened and the sound of the filling toilet tank floated down the hall. “How can I help you?” Rick said.

“He’s out of the bathroom, isn’t he?”

“Certainly!”

“I’m going to hit the road, Rick. I’ll be back every few weeks. I miss it. Summer’s a great time to be out there. And I want to be out of your way while you sort this thing out.”

“Very well,” said Rick. “That sounds quite reasonable. I’d like to discuss some of the details with you before we move forward. Are you available this evening around, say 7:30?”

“Sure.”

“Very good. See you then.”

“I love you, Rick.”

“I appreciate that. God be with you.”

“Bye”

Father Harding stumped past the office door and into the living room. Rick was smiling pleasantly as he entered the room. “Let me freshen that tea for you, Father.” He snatched the cup and was gone before the older man could say anything. When Rick returned, Harding seemed poised for the attack. Rick sat and waited.

“Richard, do you understand the purpose for my visit?” Father Harding asked from behind his briefcase.

Rick spread his hands. “You look like you’re selling life insurance. Ha-ha-ha-ha. Sorry, I don’t have any kids or wife to leave it to,” Rick said again, laughing expansively.

Harding smiled politely.

“Sorry,” said Rick. “Clergy joke.”

Harding smiled again, as though his face hurt. “Richard, the archbishop has sent me here to ask you some questions about a complaint.”

Yeah, Rick thought. Don’t even own up to your job. Blame the archbishop. “A complaint about what,” said Rick sipping his tea.

“You have been accused of inappropriate relations with a woman in this community.”

“Accused? Who’s accusing me?”

“That’s confidential,” said Father Harding.

Rick laughed. “In the criminal courts, a man has a right to face his accuser.”

“This is not a criminal matter, Richard. The diocese has no power to deprive you of life, liberty, or property, so due process has no bearing on this matter. This is simply an investigation. An internal investigation, if you will.”

“All right,” said Rick. “You said you had some questions for me.”

“Very well,” said Father Harding. “And, please, remember that the Lord rebukes those whom he loves.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Would there be any truth,” Father Harding asked, “to the accusation that you have had inappropriate relations with a woman in this community?”

“I’m sure I’d have to say yes,” said Rick. “There’s always something that people find objectionable. I’ve had inappropriate relations with men in this community, too?”

“Oh?”

“Well, there are some old guys who don’t like the way I hug men in public. It’s kind of ridiculous. Some of my parishioners had a fit last Easter when the paper published a front page photograph of two German Baptist men kissing on the lips. There’s a community about twenty miles from here. Oh, sure, you remember. Anyway, they take the English translation of Saint Paul’s instruction to “greet one another with a holy kiss” as literally as possible. I think it’s inappropriate myself. But I also don’t give a tinker’s damn if they do it.”

“Yes, I see,” said Father Harding. “But my question was about women.”

“Well, let’s see,” said Rick. “There are women who kiss me in public, right on the church steps. Some would see that as inappropriate. So, the answer to your—excuse me—to the archbishop’s question would be a qualified, ‘yes.’ There would be some grain of truth to the accusation that I have acted inappropriately toward people of both sexes in this community. Yes. Yes.” Rick sipped gravely at his tea once more.

Father Harding sighed heavily. “Have you acted inappropriately toward Mrs. Lori Park?”

“Why, yes,” said Rick. “It’s a coincidence that you mention her. Only last evening I gave her husband a kiss on the cheek.”

“Last evening? What was the occasion?”

“Well, he was in the bath, you see.”

“The bath!”

“Yes, he and Lori have a portable spa on their patio. Dr. Park was in the water, and I was fully dressed. I was saying my goodbyes, and did not want to get my clothes wet with an embrace. I had to ride my motorcycle home, see. And these June nights can be cool. You see?”

“Yes! Yes, I see!”

“So, I just reached over the side of the tub and kissed him. He is a dear old friend is Alfie.”

“Was his wife present?”

“Certainly?”

“And did she receive a similar embrace?”

“Yes, of course! I didn’t want her to feel left out.”

“It’s time you understood the direction of this questioning, Richard.”

“Yes, I would have to agree with that.”

“Have you had sexual relations with Lori Park?”

“The archbishop wants to know that?”

“You professed vows of chastity and obedience to the archbishop, Richard. Now you are being asked questions regarding those vows. Honor would require frankness on your part.”

“Honor,” Rick repeated the word. He went on quietly, reflectively, almost to himself. “’What is that honor? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon: and so ends my catechism.’”

“Your catechism?” said Father Harding. “What catechism?”

“Just the ranting of an old drunk named Falstaff, Father,” said Rick. “I will, however, be frank regarding the archbishop’s question about my friends the Parks. If I were guilty of having consensual sex with Mrs. Park, I would dishonor her to tell anyone. So, the attaching of her name in a confession of such an act would simply be another sin each time it’s repeated. Furthermore, the archbishop dishonors the name of a fine lady by asking his question. If he were here I would tell him so. Therefore, I will not answer it.”

Rick set his tea cup on the end table and stared at Father Harding who grew quickly uncomfortable. Rick went on, gentling his voice a little. “I will, however, make this confession to you if you will hear it, Father.”

“Yes, my son?”

Rick leaned forward in his chair and went on to recite Hamlet’s confession to Ophelia. “’I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offenses at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves, all. Believe none of us.’”

Father Harding blinked again without taking his eyes off the younger priest. “Son, I believe you have just confessed for the entire race of men.” Quickly, he ducked behind his briefcase again searching for a paper. He emerged very businesslike “If you were seeking absolution, you have it.”

“What are you seeking Father Harding?”

“The truth, Son,” said the older man closing his briefcase and snapping the clasps. “And you have been nothing but evasive.”

“Have I not been truthful?”

“Perhaps, but overly evasive. That is what I will have to write in my report.”

“That I was evasive with you? How about writing that I was also truthful?”

Father Harding appeared to have come to the end of his strength. His voice sounded strained. Almost pleading. “Then why not just tell me the truth, Son? And accept a loving correction.”

Rick stood and walked to the window overlooking the lawn of the rectory. “Because you aren’t really looking for truth, Sir,” he said. “You’re looking for scandal.”

“I’m investigating a complaint.”

“With a presumption of guilt.”

“We’re all guilty, Richard.”

Rick turned and looked at the older man. Harding’s eyes shifted, avoiding Rick’s. He was trying the good cop thing. Trying to get his confession. Trying to make his job easier. Rick was not going to fall for it. Maybe Rick was too tall. Maybe Harding had grown old and weak. The vice chancellor’s eyes fell to the floor.

“You don’t even need the truth, Sir,” Rick said. “You need facts. You’ve come here to get a confession because you have no facts. You have the accusation of a backbiting busybody; God forgive whoever it is. A real man is safe among a thousand such people, Father Harding. You will never find a single fact regarding sexual intercourse between me and Mrs. Park nor between me and any other woman alive.

Harding blinked defensively at that word alive.

“Now, I will repeat that very carefully, Father Harding. You will never find a single fact regarding sexual intercourse between me and Lori Park, wife of Doctor Alvin Park, nor between me and any other woman alive. Now, if you insist on reporting to the archbishop that I have been evasive, then you will be deceiving his Excellency.

“Very well, Father Daniels,” said the vice chancellor. “You leave me no choice. I have not brought the formal complaints with me this trip. I had presumed that you would be more reasonable.”

“How could I be more reasonable?” Rick said.

“The reports in my office contain dates, times, photographs.”

Rick whistled. “Sounds expensive.”

"His Excellency has determined to spare no expense to avoid the costly scandals that have bankrupted other archdioceses around the country. You must understand. I will give you three days to think over your answer. The next time you see me, I will be presenting facts. You have three days to decide whether you want to see such things graphically.”

Father Harding made a retreat to the door. Rick kept smiling as though showing the man out, although the man was actually showing himself out. “I hope this Dick Tracy of yours got my good side.”

“We have not hired a detective. These complaints came to us from one of your own parishioners.”

“Now that really was a waste of money,” said Rick. “There are private investigators right along the same street as your office. And they would have done the job right.”

“Three days, Richard!” Father Harding walked down the steps and dropped his keys walking to the car.

“Ta-ta,” Rick called

Father Harding dropped the keys again unlocking the car door. Rick went inside to laugh. Nobody locked their cars in this town. Not yet anyway.

Day 22

Rick peered through the blinds in his office and saw Father Louis Harding walking toward the porch of the rectory. "Father Harding," he said upon opening the front door. "Come in, Sir." The vice chancellor carried a thin black brief case to match his austere black clerical clothes complete with the brief square of white collar in the front. Rick wore black slacks and a comfortable soft green plaid shirt, the kind priests wear when they are secluded and hard at work writing sermons or paying bills.


Rick showed the visitor to the living room and seated him at the coffee table where he could set the brief case. "Coffee? Tea?" Rick said to his guest.

"Whatever you're having," said Father Harding.

Rick turned to the kitchen and rolled his eyes at the painting of Richard the Lionheart behind the rocking chair. The old crusader seemed to sympathize. When Rick returned with hot tea and oatmeal cookies, Father Harding still sat with the briefcase closed on the coffee table.

"Why don't you keep a housekeeper, Richard? She could tend to that."

"A little too much independent spirit in me, Father," Rick said goodnaturedly. "It's a vice I've never been able to conquer. Besides, my parishioners don't need the extra expense."

"Nonsense. They never complained about my housekeeper when I was stationed here. And people are much wealthier now than they were then."

"That's true, Father, but they are nowhere near as religious."

Father Harding raised an eyebrow and gazed down into his tea. "Why do you think that is, Richard?"

Rick knew he had stepped right into the manure pile that Father Harding had carried in the door with him. This was the part where he was supposed to confess his errata. It was his own fault, his own dearth of piety that caused the flock to stray. Then Father Harding would list the complaints he had heard from whomever. Then Rick would become contrite and penitent and promise to mend his ways. Then Harding would announce his new assignment and the whole affair would be swept under the rug while Rick remained to adjust his underwear.

"Hmm," Rick said. "I was just discussing that same issue with my old friend Doctor Alvin Park this past week. You know him, I believe, Father."

Harding looked surprised. "Alfie? Why yes, I've known him for years. He served at mass when he was a boy. I-- I didn't know he moved back home." Alfie's presence in this episode was not anticipated by Father Harding. He had heard complaints about Richard and Alfie Park's wife. He sat puzzled at the mention of Alfie and the words "old friend." Had he heard wrong? Was the informant wrong? Was Richard carrying on homosexually with Dr. Park instead of with Mrs. Park?

"He's home on vacation right now," said Rick. "Wonderful conversationalist. Anyway, he and I were discussing the relationship between religion and science." Rick frowned. "Or lack of relationship, really. He was of the opinion that they were complementary, and I disagreed. I said that they are completely independent of each other.

Harding set his tea on the table and slouched back against the couch. "What?"

Rick saw that his opponent was on his heels, so he drove in with straight punches, going for distance. "Yeah, old Alfie and I were going at it," Rick said, enjoying himself and trying to keep talking without leaving gaps for Harding to jab in. “I was saying that science is a lot of guesswork based on data gathered from experimentation. Then when new data come in, the guesswork is modified.”

“Yes, but--”

"It’s causing one of the big problems religion has nowadays,” Rick went on. “People are becoming more scientific, so they are allowing for uncertainty in thinking. But religion is staying rigid. It’s very unhealthy for religion. We just don’t have leaders with enough faith to bend under the winds of change."

“What? How?” Father Harding spluttered. “What do you mean science is full of uncertainty?”

Rick shrugged to make himself appear more and more relaxed. “Well, three hundred years ago, scientists taught that mass is a constant. For example, a bullet flying through the air has the same mass as one that is at rest. But we know now, since the beginning of the twentieth century in fact, that mass is relative to velocity and energy.”

Father Harding blinked dumbly.

“As a bullet, or anything with mass, approaches the speed of light, its mass changes. It’s only by billionths of a gram at normal speeds, but we know that it changes. That’s what E=mc2 is all about.”

Father Harding’s lips moved as his gaze trailed from Rick’s face to the rug and then to the sunny lawn outside the window. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes. Of course.”

Before Harding could recover and chide him for his ostentation, Rick went on. “It’s kind of sad, I think, that people use science as an excuse to disregard religion, as though science negates religion. It doesn’t. No law of physics impinges on the disciplines of ethics, morality, love, compassion, justice, mercy. It’s all about facts and knowledge. Useful facts and knowledge, yes. But not the only useful information for human life. It’s sad, to be sure, that people have made yet another excuse to avoid religion. But it’s a forgivable shortcoming. I mean, it’s not out of hard heartedness that they can’t reconcile the two. It’s just that religion and science are two different ways of thinking. A single way of thinking is difficult enough for our blessed laity,” Rick said. “But two ways of thinking is probably too much to ask of them. Their fault is laziness, not hard-heartedness.”

“That’s fine, Richard—“ Harding tried to cut in.

“I’m sorry to gas on like this, Father. But you asked. It’s not a simple answer. Sorry. You were saying?

Father Harding cleared his throat. He took a sip of tea to stall for time to gather his thoughts. Still not ready, he unsnapped the clasps on his briefcase and opened it. “Let’s see,” Harding said. He scratched his head. “What were we talking about?”

“My housekeeper,” said Rick. “Or lack of one. I said that it was an expense on my parishioners that was unnecessary. And it just went on from there.”

“No, no,” said Father Harding. “You said that religious leaders lack faith. What was that? Yes. Yes. You said that religion doesn’t have leaders with enough faith to bend under the winds of change.”

“. . . enough faith to bend under the winds of change,” Rick said, finishing the sentence with him. “Well, that’s kind of a separate issue,” Rick went on. He saw Father Harding sit up again and cross his legs. A prim expression set itself upon the older man’s face as he listened. Rick knew what was going on. Harding had lost it. He was going to let Rick talk until he screwed up again, then Harding would pounce. What the hell, thought Rick. Just as well have some fun with the godless old cocksucker. My ass is grass anyway. “Oh, I just meant that religion has grown rigid and brittle now. Religious people, laity and clergy alike, want things to be cut and dried. You know, as well as I, Father Harding, that doubt and uncertainty are part of religious life.”

Harding remained expressionless.

“Mother Theresa wrote about it specifically,” Rick went on. “But the people want hellfire and damnation. They want black and white with no gray. Alfie’s wife was raising hell with me the other day about the way religious people are reaching into politics.”

Father Harding flexed his buttocks at the mention of Alfie’s wife. Then he relaxed again. “What did she say?”

“She said that religious people have blamed gay marriage, which doesn’t really exist yet, on the problems of divorce and single-parent homes. I’ve got to agree with her. Something that doesn’t exist cannot cause something that does exist.”

“Same-sex marriage has been in existence for years,” said Father Harding

“It’s been struck down by popular vote in every state that passed it so far,” Rick said. “And in many other states that never had it. Thirty in all! Fact is,” said Rick. “People right here in Kansas blamed something that didn’t even exist!” Rick knew that he had thoroughly pissed off his superior, now, and he felt better. “I’m not saying that only religious people voted against it. But religious people are guilty of manipulating the general hatred of homosexuals to accomplish their political agenda.”

“Are you suggesting that the church should accept homosexuality as a licit relationship?”

Rick’s laughter was so loud that Father Harding’s ass cheeks flexed again. “No, Father, not in the least. One would have to do some fancy dancing through scriptures to pull that off. I’m saying that stirring up hatred and discord among people is an ungodly, despicable way to behave. You know, the Holy Father, Pope Benedict XVI has said that the biggest problem the church faces is a lack of truly Christian witness in the world. I’m not sure exactly what he means by that, but I can see it here in the U.S. in the way we have treated the homosexuals. The lost people in this world are looking for love. Not hatred. It’s no wonder people avoid church more and more these days. That’s why I don’t trouble the shrinking membership here about a bigger salary or about paying a housekeeper for me.

“This, ah, Lori Park you mentioned,” said Father Harding reaching into his briefcase.

“But rigid, brittle religion hurting itself is nothing new,” Rick interrupted. Might as well make one last jab, he thought. “Jesus faced the same thing,” he went on.

Harding stared, open-mouthed.

“Our Lord was flexible enough to forge a successful ministry under Roman martial law. It was the religious leadership of his own people who took him down. Of course, he always knew they would.”

Harding’s face reddened. He was about to lose it.

Rick smiled bitterly back at the older man.

Day 21

[Short entry today. But back on track]

In case any of you have guessed that I am Minerva, you’re wrong. It is only by coincidence that I, too, live in an old school house. I don’t know why. It was available, so I took it. I guess I saw no reason to engage carpenters, dry-wallers, roofers and the like just to make a brand new house for me to haunt. After all, I’m traveling to Iceland next year to teach at the University there.


In case any of you are wondering what I’m doing here, you’re right to ask. For one thing, I am here to warn you that no one will undergo reform in this story. No one will have a breakthrough. And the townspeople will not rally ‘round their priest to save his job. It never works that way anywhere else, and it doesn’t work that way in my world. For another thing, I am here because I will it. I love poking around into other people’s business, and no one seems to mind.

This is rather a miserable book you are reading. There is little or no suspense. No favorite character to root for. No villain but the vice-chancellor from the diocesan office. It would be quite reasonable of you to cease to expect anyone’s problems to be resolved by the end of this book.

It is not my job, nor anyone else’s job to resolve anyone’s life for him. Why? you ask. Because life is not a problem. It is a mystery that deepens the more you try to explore it.





Alfie ran his fingers up his wife’s naked back and into her hair. She turned toward him and draped a leg over his hips. “I think I’ll hit the road for a few months,” she said.

“What? Why? You don’t have to work anymore.”

“Oh, come on,” she said. “You haven’t got that much money.”

“What about the bar?”

“It can wait. It’s waited all these years. It can wait a few more months or years.”

Alfie looked into her peaceful eyes. She didn’t make decisions with him anymore. “Doesn’t Bethany want you close by for the next few months?”

Drive laughed. “Something you never realized about her and me. I embarrass the hell out of her.”

“She loves you.”

“Love has nothing to do with it. She’s got plenty of friends she likes better. If she wants me home, I’ll come home. That’s all. I just need to get out and run for a while. I’m not staying here and screwing up Rick’s life. He might be able to bring this Harding dog to heel if I’m not around.”

“Don’t run away just because of that.”

“I’m not running away,” she said calmly. “I’m running wild.” She mounted him and stuffed him inside her.

“What if he needs you?”

“I doubt that,” she said. “He needs to play their game. He needs a clear mind. If I’m here, he’ll be expecting me to leave. If I’m gone, he’ll be expecting me to come home. It’s better that way. He’ll have something positive to think about. And he’ll have his space to do his fighting with his bosses.”

“Superiors,” Alfie corrected.

“Bullshit!” she snapped, sliding down hard on his shaft. “I’M his superior. Yours, too, in case you haven't noticed.

Alfie indeed took notice and came to attention. Nowhere else in his life were acceptance and expectation so tightly woven. Whenever he was unable or just plain unwilling to meet her expectations, he always left. But he was always accepted upon his return. Only Drive could operate that way for him. She was the intimate, indestructible fabric that held his life together when everything else had fallen out of his control.

The bond grew suddenly tight between them as he felt a reckless pride swell and burst within. Drive's hard face, so soft behind the steady gaze, bore into him, knowing him deeper than he cared to look for himself. Slowly, she closed her own eyes and became most beautiful as her own power consumed the white flesh and lean muscle and guts hungering for completion.

She lay breathing after the collapse while Alfie stroked her hair. She laughed softly in his arms and turned her face to kiss him. She kissed the line of tears all the way up to his eyes. She turned and did the same to the other line of tears from the other eye. He lay calmly while she got up to go to the bathroom.

When she returned she said, "I always have someone check on things every day while I'm gone. Check on the horses. All that. If you think you want to stay, I'll just have you do it."

"Who do you ask to help out?" Alfie asked.

"Oh, the neighbor kids. I'll give you the phone numbers. You may want to take a trip or something. Just get somebody else to do it while you're gone. You thinking of going back to work?"

"Diane said to take the whole month. I guess I will. She said she'd call if she needed me. You're right about Rick. He's got a fight on his hands. I'll stick around in case he needs anything. When were you going to tell him about leaving?"

"Today. He'll understand. He knows I'm right. I guess I should call him. I wonder if they’ll bug his phone.”

Alfie laughed. “I don’t think so.”

“I wish I was there,” Drive said. “Or you were there. He hates this Harding guy. He’ll say something he shouldn’t.”

Day 20

[As of today, I am officially behind schedule. This is common when doing a novel under pressure. I think it’s harder when the novel is a good one like this because I’m afraid of screwing it up.]




Father Rick made himself hot tea and sat in the living room of the rectory with the notebook on his lap. These were the times when he thought he might need a housekeeper. Not necessarily to keep house. Just to have a woman around to make some woman noise. Even an old one would be fine.

Eighteen wheels ripped down the pavement a hundred feet from his fireplace at seventy miles an hour. The rubber on asphalt whined like saws grinding through meat and bone.

"To hell with this," he said getting up from the chair. He downed much of the tea and set the cup in the kitchen sink. He went to the side door of the rectory and crossed the breezeway to the church. He immediately felt better as he entered the sanctuary and saw the red light indicating the presence of the Blessed Sacrament. He crossed to a pew near the baptismal font and sat, laying the notebook beside him on the seat.

He closed his eyes and breathed. He listened to his breathing. He felt every sensation of filling and emptying with air. He emptied his mind of disturbance and discord. For a solid hour he sat. His muscles grew relaxed rather than tense with the sitting. He used his training to disregard any thought that intruded upon his consciousness. Thus did he become more conscious with every breath. He became like a mountain, stray thoughts no more than clouds drifting past, never touching the mountain, never perturbing it in any way.

In this very way did he sit and behold his God, his commander, his creator, his redeemer. His God looked back with measured radiance on Its beloved. The two beings, divine and human, supernatural and animal, transcendent and mundane sat in silence loving each other.

When he was ready, Rick opened his eyes feeling as though he had just slept his best sleep in a month. The constant stimulation of lovers and friends and activities and entertainment serve largely to jangle the soul, to prevent it from resting and growing still. Celibacy and solitude certainly have their own virtues. He took up the notebook and paged to the poem, "I Thirst." He read it over again and turned the page to the next poem.





Oh, Mother!



Oh, child mother of the Child,

living on your knees eternally

before a bed of straw,

did you really have a choice?

Augustus wanted his census.

Yahweh wanted his baby.

The world wanted its savior.

And you wanted to be needed.

Where is the choice,

if it's an offer you can't refuse?

What is the gift?

Where is the selflessness?



Oh, mother when your blood pressure dropped

and your veins collapsed, I came into this world

to find you gone to the next.



Who is this mighty God of whom you speak?

Who scatters the proud in their conceit?

Who fills the hungry with good things?

Who sends the rich away empty?





Rick looked up at the crucifix and wondered. He imagined the mother of the crucified man weeping at the foot of the cross. The beloved disciple next to her. Did she shriek in agony? Did she rend her garments? God, I hope not, he thought. The poem was okay. But not as dramatic as the others. More whiney than anything. He turned the page hoping for another bus stop poem.





Joy Under the Sun



The puppa-puppa-puppa of the tractor

draws the sickle through the meadow.

Blades of grass stand calm, unsuspecting,

then convulsing briefly as if shocked.

They fall in a soft sweeping motion

and land peacefully behind in the arms

of slain fellows to dry in the sun without

protest . . . save for the baby cottontail

sliced in half and kicking at death

under a soft green blanket.





Juxtapostion, Rick thought. Clearly the poem shocked through rhetorical technique. Violence and non-violence side-by-side. No. It was the different reactions to death. The means death was the same, neither violent nor non-violent. The senseless tractor and mower were as indifferent as Death itself. The grass did not protest, but the rabbit did. Each acted according to its nature. But clearly Rick felt the emotions of the rabbit fumbling for life and, kicking at death. The phrase branded itself in his mind as though forever indelible.

He turned the page thoroughly enjoying the peace of study and contemplation.





I Hunger



They say they found me climbing

the water tower on a night of lightning and snow.

I said there was manna at the top for those who believed.

They say I said that.

I also said that my baby was in Jesus' arms

at the top railing.

How ridiculous.

I was just hungry.

That's all.

Like when Walkin' Joe had diabetes

and didn't know it. He smelled like a distillery

standing on someone's porch who didn't know him.

He asked for a sandwich and they beat him with

a skillet. One of the heavy black ones. That's all.

That's what it's like to be hungry in a land of plenty.

Jesus doesn't need a goddamn railing.

I don't believe a word of it.





Rick made a mental note to ask Alfie tomorrow whether he had heard of this Walkin' Joe character. Perhaps this story of the diabetes and the skillet had been whispered around. If so, it would confirm some sort of connection between Minerva and this community.

He turned to the next page.





The Old School House



It was haunted by me. I lived there for two years

after they thought I had run away.

Oh, it was lovely. I slept in the daytime

and fried eggs stolen from Taylor Dalton's

chicken house by night. This truly is

a land of plenty. Don't you think it isn't.

In the summertime, I had all the juicy green beans,

salads, and sweet corn I could eat.

All the dogs in the countryside knew me on sight

and let me come and go as I pleased.

Young people came to fuck on my bed,

and I let them, watching from the

mulberry bush at the window.

and stroking my red face and hot moisture.

They were so stupid and beautiful.

When Darrel Vorhees’ old Saint Bernard, Jess,

got too old and arthritic one winter,

I led him away and ate him. I used the

cholesterol in his brain to tan his hide for a blanket.

He was such good dog, old Jess.

I had to help him walk part of the way.

Sometimes I boiled the eggs

and rubbed them with salt from Taylor's

range blocks.





Rick looked up at the interior of the church. The poem had enchanted him out onto the cold winter prairie momentarily. He looked around needing the reassurance of the warm wood, the Italian marble, the gold-plated candleholders, the leaded glass and heavy walls.

“Lord,” he said softly and turned the page.





Midnight Mass



It came upon the midnight clear.

Gloria in excelsis.

I walked the two miles from the schoolhouse

to the stone church and hid in the bathroom.

I hung out in the altar boys' sacristy during mass

and wept with joy to hear

old Tanner Ronnebaum belting out the high notes

of "O Holy Night" standing on the balls of his feet

as if he were reaching up to heaven.

Maybe he was.

Religion is man reaching up to God.

Salvation is God reaching down to man.

Still, I would give all the gold and silver in the world

to hear old Tanner sing again and hear Dorothy

play that organ for him the while.

He drank enough whiskey to float the battleship Missouri.

And his years were one and eighty.

And he died blessed in the eyes of God.

After everyone left for breakfast, I stole into the sanctuary,

peering into shadows and smelling the smells.

The negro scientist king looked up at me and winked.

He knew it wasn't my fault.





Okay, Rick thought. If this was real, it could have happened right in front of me. His legs and hips had grown tense again, just from reading the poems. He stood and shook his legs and arms to ease them. He tucked the notebook under his arm and strolled about the church stopping and looking up, around, down into dark corners. This truly was a place of peace and beauty. He wondered how many spirits lived here. Perhaps Minerva was here right now, watching him read her poetry. She did seem to love the place so.

Rick knew it was foolish to grow attached to temporal things like a building. Or a woman’s body? Yet, we are still human. We long for place. Place with meaning. What is a man after all but a lonely particle, charged with attracting and repelling forces, longing for a place of stability? Some spring into gasses, light and volatile. Others, into minerals hard, heavy, and strong. And in rare states men become radioactive, decaying quickly, and burning out.

Rick stood at the back of the church, savoring the perspective from the pews. So much of his time was spent at the altar any more, that he hardly felt like one of the people. He ran his hands over the massive iron radiator, cool now, in the summer. He opened the cry room door and went in. A Popeye night light gave enough illumination that he could see a baby blanket someone had left. It was a soft blue with friendly-faced stars and moons on it and plump, smiling rocket ships happily on their way to other worlds. Rick touched the blanket. Gripped it with his hands, now starting to shake. His face grew hot. He sat on the pew and buried his face into the blanket and wept.

He didn’t even know why he was weeping. Yes, he had sinned, but he was not sorry. Perhaps that was it. A God so good kept a priest so unworthy. It is hard for a man to fathom such a thing with reason. Impossible. He can only be overwhelmed. Nothing more.

Day 19

[No post on Day 18]

The sun had set, and only twilight remained by the time they removed the cover from the spa and the clothing from their bodies. They lay naked in the warm swirling waters watching the evening planets emerge on the ecliptic. The brightest stars were next, followed soon by a beam of lonely headlights threading their way home. Alfie parked his pickup and walked toward the house with a notebook in his hand. He heard the purring motor of the spa and smiled. He came toward them in the deepening darkness.


He gazed at them in silence. They stared back calmly. No one spoke. The same ritual was repeated nearly every time they converged in the bedroom. That stage of silent tension had become the moment of synchronization for all of them as their minds entered a program that would operate nowhere else in their lives. Within ten seconds, an unseen signal coursed through all three people, relaxing and reassuring each that he or she was welcome and wished for.

Alfie spoke first. “Knock, knock.”

Drive took up the joke. “Who’s there?”

“Fornication.”

“Fornication, who?”

Rick interrupted. “I know.”

Drive and Alfie looked at Rick waiting. “Fornication like this, you’re a little over dressed.”

“What?” said Drive. “Oh, god, you guys! That sucks, so hard!”

Alfie had his clothes removed and was settling into the water by the time Drive was nearly finished complaining about the joke.

“You guys do realize what a turn-off that joke is,” Drive said. “Right?”

“Sorry,” said Alfie.

“We’re full of repentance,” Rick added.

“How many times did you wreck that tractor?” Drive asked.

“Only three or four,” Alfie said, lying back in the water and stirring it with his arms. “But we made it okay. Ah, gahd. I’m never drinkin’ again. For at least five or ten minutes.”

“What else did you do?” asked Rick.

“Hauled a little hay with some boys. Went to see my brother. What did you guys do after the horsey-ride?”

With his eyes closed, Alfie didn’t see Rick shake his head and signal Drive to wave off the question. “How did it go with your brother?”

“Had steaks for dinner.”

“That’s it?”

“Talked.”

Rick rolled his eyes and shook his head sadly. Coaxing such men to express meaningful affection for one another was like writing their names on water. “Tom’s a good man,” said Rick.

“They don’t get much better,” Alfie said in near monotone.

“You walked up here with a spiral notebook,” Rick observed. “Did your brother assign you homework, or something?”

“Oh,” said Alfie, opening his eyes. “Yeah.” He raised his head. “I mean, no.” Sliding his ass back on the spa seat, he sat up. He looked over to the picnic table and pointed at the notebook lying on it. “That is the most amazing poetry I’ve ever read.”

“Woo-woo,” said Drive. “Tom writing poetry, now?”

“That’s saying a lot,” Rick said, “considering that Dante and Milton are still in print.”

“Well, yeah, okay,” Alfie said. “What I mean is, you open this spiral notebook, right. And you expect the old blue-haired, rocking chair stuff. No way. This will blow your shoes off.”

“What? Did old Tom write 'Ode to a Calf with Coccidiosis'?”

“What?” said Alfie squinting at Drive. “No. It’s not Tom’s. It’s by some friend of theirs who just died. Some lady. And she either had one fucked up life or she had one hell of an imagination. Names Minnie, or something. Minerva! That’s it.”

Drive got up from the water and went to the picnic table. She opened the book and looked at it. She brought it back to the spa where the light from the laundry room window spilled out into the patio. She read the first poem about waiting for the school bus. “Well, that’s nice,” she said. “I like it.” She handed the book to Rick. Alfie watched apprehensively lest they drop the only extant copy into the water. He didn’t say anything. He knew he was already acting uncool enough.

“Nice,” said Rick after reading the first page. “Very nice.” He turned the page and read the next poem. After a minute, he said, “Whoa. Now, wait a minute. I see what you mean.”

“Which one is it?” Alfie asked.

“Mmm. It says ‘No Reason to Lie’. It’s the second poem. It’s about the serpent and being naked and the three dollars.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Alfie. “Well, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Read on.”

Rick sidled close to Drive and held the page between them so they could read together. The next poem was “Pope Gregory.”

After a few minutes, Drive said, “Who the hell’s Pope Gregory?”

Alfie looked at Rick questioningly. Rick said gravely, “I have no idea. This will make you sick.” He read it again.

“Who are the kings and scientists?” Drive asked after another perusal.

“That’s the wise men in the crib scene,” Alfie said. “See the shepherds up in this part?”

“Well what’s so sick about that?” she said. “I love fucking in front of a crib scene. It's nice.”

“No,” Rick explained. “This was in a storage closet of a church. See here.” He pointed to the lines.

Drive read again more carefully. “Oh,” she said. “Ew. That ain’t right.”

“This is remarkable,” Rick said.

“Poets are sick anyway,” Drive said, cringing away and sliding back to her seat in the spa. “God. What’s an old bat writing crap like that for?”

“Good question,” said Rick. “Why, indeed?”

"It seems she wasn't such an old bat after all," Alfie said. "She was about Terri's age. Terri knew her when she worked at the state hospital."

"Was this lady some kind of nurse or something?"

"No," said Alfie. "She was a resident."

"A doctor?" said Rick.

"An inmate!" said Alfie. "They call them residents now."

Oh," said Rick. "Oh, yeah. I knew that. What did you say her name was? Annie?"

"Minnie," Alfie said. "Her real name was Minerva. I thought you might have heard of her."

Rick shrugged. "I don't think so. Was she a member of the parish? Baptized here? Anything?"

"We don't know," said Alfie. "Can you check?"

"Sure," said Rick. "It'll take time, but yeah."

"You guys gonna get Scooby and Shaggy on the case with you?" Drive asked

"No, smartass," said Rick. "I thought we'd call Harry, Ron, and Hermione."

Alfie looked back and forth between his friends. "Who the fuck are they?"

"Harry Potter and his friends," said Drive. "Watch a movie once in a while, Dammit. Try to keep up here."

"Oh, yeah," said Alfie. "Anyway, this lady had some sort of problems and lived in the state hospital when Terri worked there. Somehow they got to be friends. She died of a brain tumor, like, a month ago."

"Why was she in the state hospital?" Drive asked.

"No idea," said Alfie. "But it wasn't mental retardation."

They heard Rick whistle. "Wow," said the priest. "An abortion."

"What?" said Drive. "Let me see."

Drive slid over to Rick and read the poem titled "I Thirst." After a minute, her hand went to her mouth. She sniffed. "God!" she said softly and looked up wide-eyed at the men. "Do you think that really happened?"

"I don't know what to think," Rick said. "I'd like to read the rest."

Drive cleared her throat. "Okay. I just thought of something kinky. What if Terri dreamed this all up on her own?"

"What?" said Alfie, laughing.

"What if she just thought this whole thing up and wrote these things herself? Come on,” Drive urged. “Even the name Minerva sounds made up."

Rick looked expectantly at Alfie.

Alfie thought for a moment and then burst into more laughter. "Sorry," he said. "I love Terri to pieces. But if she's written anything more than a bank check or a grocery list in the last thirty years, I'll buy us all tickets to Tahiti. She doesn't even read the gas gauge on the car, according to Tom. I don't see her delving into literary pursuits."

"Damn," said Rick. "I've always wanted to go to Tahiti."

“Don’t you guys think it’s awful?”

“I’m curious, Alf,” Rick said. “Why do you have it?”

“Well, it’s like I said. Terri’s not a reader. Tom reads technical and trade stuff by the stack. But this just isn’t up their street. I told them I’d like to borrow it. They want it back, though. Does the church have a copier?”

“Yes,” said Rick. “I think another copy of this would be in order. In the mean time, we’d better keep it out of the water. It sailed expertly from his hands and came to a gentle rest on the picnic table. I’ll read it tonight and copy it tomorrow.” He turned toward Lori and kissed her. “I ought to be going,” he said.

“Hold on,” she said. “When will you be back? What are they going to do? We haven’t talked about this, yet.”

“Talked about what? Who do you mean by ‘they’?” Alfie asked.

“Oh, the chancery office has a hard-on for me.”

“Literally,” said Lori.

“Lori will tell you,” said Rick. “I’d like to go and read this book and forget about it for the night.”

Alfie stared intently at his friend for a few seconds as he reflected on how complicated all their lives had grown in the last few days. “Okay,” he said. “I understand.”

Rick’s long body rose from the water and kicked one leg over the side of the spa. His long cock hung flaccid in the cool spring night as he stood dripping and gazing silently at one friend, then at the other.

Alfie marveled at the other man’s body and resolved again to take better care of his own. He might never quite measure up, but there were still certain things he could see to. Rick toweled off and dressed in silence with Drive watching stoically. The priest leaned over the edge of the tub and kissed her on the lips and bade her goodnight. Walking past Alfie, he took the man’s head and kissed him on the cheek. “I love you both,” he said as he picked up the notebook from the picnic table. “Peace.”

“Night, Rick,” said Alfie. “Love you, too.”

“I love you, Rick,” Drive called out. Rick froze in his tracks and turned. It was not a word she used often.

“I know you do, Lori. Thanks.”

The motorcycle’s starter snarled and kicked the engine into life. Rick rode carefully out of the yard and onto the gravel driveway searching carefully for the firm surface, avoiding the loose gravel. The single headlight turned east, away from Dead Man’s Hill.

“He’s taking the long way back to town,” said Alfie.

“He always does,” Drive said.

The married couple looked at each other and sighed.

Day 17

After Sister Anne Marie left, Rick sat gazing contemplatively across the clover patch on the other side of the road.


“What are you thinking about?” Drive asked softly.

“Oh, I was just remembering that night when that semi ran off the highway and smashed into that oak tree on the church property.”

“Smashed into it?” Drive said laughing. “Took it up, roots and all.”

“Right,” said Rick. “I remember how scared the driver was.”

“And lucky to be alive. I found him a hundred fifty feet away. Dumbass fell asleep and wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. Truck spit him out the window when it dropped into the ditch.”

“I hated to lose that oak. It actually saved the church from a lot of damage. I also remember how nice you were to that driver. He was so scared. Just a young black kid from Arkansas somewhere. You made him lie still until the medics could check him out. You held his black hand in your white one. You touched his hair to calm him. It was so beautiful.”

“He was okay. It wasn’t necessary. He could have gotten up and walked right then,” Drive said.

“But you didn’t know that then. Besides, it was necessary. He was dazed. It was ten o’clock at night. He could have wandered out into traffic and gotten plowed,” said Rick.

“What’s your point?” Drive asked a little gruffly.

Rick knew that Drive employed multiple methods in order to preserve a tough exterior. The tattoos, the leather, the mullet, and probably the screwing of a consecrated man were all part of her toughening regimen. And she was not above feigning contempt for minority races for added effect. And she didn’t like to be pushed around to admit it was largely an act.

“Oh, nothing,” said Rick. “It’s just that, I’ve never felt safe in that rectory after that night. The oak that protected me isn’t there anymore.”

“Well, shit, you’ve got forty-ton trucks going seventy miles an hour on a two-lane road a hundred feet from your fireplace. I wouldn’t have slept there even before the tree got knocked down. I don’t really fuck you out here because I’m afraid of what people think.” She winked and smiled at him. “I just don’t want to wake up with an eighteen-speed double-overdrive transmission up my ass some fine morning. Jeezus!” Again, her husky giggle. “You’re a better man than I, Gunga Din,” said Drive.

Rick gave in to laughter at her clowning around. “Actually, I’m not. I’m scared. I’m scared of everything.”

“You said earlier that you were lazy.”

“Yeah, well, there’s not much between scared and lazy.”

Drive nodded her understanding. “Do you know what fear is really?” she asked.

Rick shrugged. “Cowardice? Dread? Worry? Sometimes it’s a good thing. You should be afraid of danger. And like that.”

“Come on,” said Drive. “You just named a bunch of other words that people use for fear. But what is it? Really?”

Again, Rick shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m a little scared right now. You’re trying to speak ontologically, you know, talking about the nature of fear, but I’m not in a thinking mood. Just tell me.”

“Fear,” said Drive, “is the expectation of something bad, like pain or death. Anything negative.”

“Chastisement, suffering, ridicule,” Rick added.

“Right,” said Drive. “Can you see where this is heading?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe not,” said Drive. “What I’m driving at is the opposite of fear. I’ll bet you’ve never thought of it. If fear is the expectation of something bad, then its opposite is the expectation of something good.”

“Hope,” said Rick.

“Maybe,” said Drive. “But sometimes hope is a little hard to come by. Sometimes all you have is faith. Faith is the expectation of something good. It’s like the opposite of fear. It is the antidote.”

Rick stared at his lover, unable to believe his ears. She was offering him, a priest of the almighty God, instruction on faith. How could this happen? He ran through the catalog of his mind wondering whether he had ever heard such a definition of faith. He couldn’t remember. He remembered the old standard. Faith is a gift from God. But is that all?

“Faith is a gift from God,” he said. It was all he could think of.

“Oh, that’s gonna beat you every time, Boy!” said Drive straightening up on the bench and leaning forward slightly. “That is exactly how religion keeps people hopeless.”

Rick felt himself flinch inside, almost as if he had been struck. He fought back weakly. “That’s just a cliché,” he said. “People who never go to church say that all the time.”

“No, Rick,” she said, softening her voice and backing off a little. “You’re just used to living faith and not thinking about it. You’ve always had plenty of faith. But you and I both know that this Father Hardass or whatever is going to tell you that don’t have enough. Guys like that think they know how much faith you have. They can convince other people that they know. It’s like they dish out faith from an ATM or something. You gotta have some in your account or you can’t withdraw funds.”

“What if he’s right?” said Rick. “Maybe I wouldn’t have broken my vows if I had faith.”

“Do you really think that God gives a squirt of hot piss for your vows? God doesn’t want your vows. He wants your heart.”

Rick dropped his eyes to the table top.

“Come on,” she said softly. “Your vows are a bunch of pride. That’s exactly what Father Hardass is going to beat you with. Your own pride. It’s a sin, Rick.”

“You think I should leave the priesthood?”

“Not even close,” she said. “I’m talking about an adventure of faith here. You are going to search deep inside yourself for your own source of faith. I’m not going to argue with you about whether faith is a gift of God. I don’t know. But it sure as hell is not measured out by any priest anywhere. You’re going to have to face this Harding creep up in Kansas City soon. And he’s going to try to beat you down, accuse you of your lack of faith. If you are afraid, then he’ll be able to say what he wants about your faith. But if you set aside fear, you can determine your own amount of faith. If you expect good things, then he can’t touch you.”

“He can take away my job. Well, he can’t. But he writes reports to people who can.”

“’For whosoever would save his own job, will lose it. And whosoever would lose his job, for my sake, will find it’,” said Drive.

Rick laughed in surprise at the bastardized verse. “How the hell do you know that passage?”

“Oh, I heard it on a tape last time I was out on the road. These preachers record their sermons and then leave the tapes in the pissers in truck stops. It can be entertaining.”

“I don’t know,” Rick said. “It’s time to straighten up and fly right, I think.”

“You didn’t care about flying right until that chancellor guy showed up,” said Drive. “It’s almost like being a priest is just another source of pride for you,” she said. “Doesn’t God hate that? I thought He did.”

“You don’t understand,” Rick began to plead. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Oh, no doubt,” said Drive. “It’s more complicated to a bunch of men. But not to a God.”

Rick knew enough about combative situations to realize when it was time to stop resisting and to use the opponent’s advantage against him. “Okay,” he said. “I’m guilty as charged. I’m prideful. I’m scared. I’ve got no faith. What next?”

“Now, I guess you tell God you’re sorry for all that.”

Rick stared open-mouthed at her. “Are you going to give me absolution and assign a penance, too?”

“Maybe later, in bed,” she said. “Now, I’m hungry. I’m going in the house and make us some sandwiches. I want you to sit out here and spend some time with that God of yours. Be honest. And drop your pride. Drop your paranoia. Drop your pants if that will help you build up your faith. And remember. Faith is the expectation of good things.”

“. . . of good things,” Rick said finishing the sentence with her.

Drive leaned forward and took his head in her hands, kissing him on his forehead. The skin was salty and warm from their day’s ride in the sun. A tear formed in the corner of her eye and she sniffed quickly before she could stop herself. Rick reached up to her face and read the betraying redness gathering in her eyes. “What will happen to us?” he said. “What will you do? What if I have to leave?”

“Come on, Rick,” she said. “Be honest. We always knew it was likely anyway. We’ll get through it.”

“I feel like such a damned fool getting us into this,” he said.

“Into what?” Lori asked. “I love it.”

“Love this? All this pain?” he said.

“All this good stuff,” she said. “It’s a wonderful thing to love a man like you.”

“But didn’t you just say we always knew this would happen? It’s like we’ve been dreading it.”

“Not me,” said Drive. “Knowing it and dreading it are two different things. If you’ve been dreading it, you’ve been wasting your time. That’s what life without faith is, a waste of time. Seriously, Dude, you’ve got to work on your faith. Do whatever it takes.” She ran her firm hand over his hair and patted his shoulder. He watched her walked confidently into the house and begin preparing supper.

She wasn’t suggesting that he pray. She was telling him to pray. She was right about the pride, of course. And that bit about faith was making more and more sense all the time. God doesn’t give a squirt of hot piss for your vows, her words ran through his head again. They were so much like Psalm 51: “For you do not desire sacrifice; a burnt offering you would not accept. My sacrifice, God is a broken spirit; God do not spurn a broken, humbled heart.”

Then, as always, when in need of comfort, he reached into his memory for Psalm 139.



Where can I hide from you spirit?

From your presence, where can I flee?

If I ascend to the heavens, you are there;

if I lie down in Sheol, you are there too.

If I fly with the wings of dawn

and alight beyond the sea,

Even there your hand will guide me,

your right hand hold me fast.

If I say, “Surely darkness shall hide me,

and night shall be my light”—

Darkness is not dark for you,

and night shines as the day.

Darkness and light are but one.

You formed my inmost being;

you knit me in my mother’s womb.

I praise you, so wonderfully you made me;

wonderful are you works!

My very self you knew;

my bones were not hidden from you,

when I was being made in secret,

fashioned as in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes foresaw my actions;

in your book all are written down;

my days were shaped, before one came to be.



Usually, Rick’s eyes closed during deep contemplation. He now opened them slowly and surveyed the quieting world of a summer evening. Three hundred yards away, at the base of the sloping clover patch, a white-tailed doe emerged cautiously and sniffed at the air. She lowered her muzzle into the deep green growth at her feet and sniffed. Again, her head came up and she sniffed in an arc from east to west like a radar antenna. Presently, she dropped her head to browse the legume of the field, a signal to the next arrival. A spring fawn followed her out of the tree-cover and came to her side. Holding two loose fists, end-to-end, up to one eye, Rick was able to see the fawn better through his crude but surprisingly effective telescope. The young one kicked playfully and nuzzled under its mother to nurse.

In the small field of his vision, Rick detected another blur of motion in the trees. Soon another doe entered the open field followed by a fawn of the same size and color as the first. Not half a minute later, a third doe and fawn joined the first two and fell to grazing and nursing. Lilies of the field, he thought. Not even Solomon in all his glory was clothed as one of them . . . oh ye of little faith. So do not say ‘What are we to eat? or ‘What are we to wear?’.

He was still gazing through his hand-telescope when Drive brought baked sandwiches and beer to the table. She looked off in the same direction and saw the grazing deer. “That’s a good sign,” she said. “Right?”

Day 16

[I changed a significant detail in yesterday's entry. Anyone who can tell what the change was will win a brand new 2010 Cadillac Escalade . . . windshield . . . wiper . . . blade .  .  . boxtop.]

Alfie took a sip of beer and settled into the old metal chair. It was one of those sheet metal chairs on a frame of pipe that gave a certain lively spring to itself. The sitter could even rock up and down a little in it. It was designed for outside use and had a little groove at the middle and back of the seat draining into a hole like an anus through which dew and raindrops could drip onto the ground, unless it became clogged with soil or rust. The poem on the next page was titled thus:




No Reason to Lie



No one had to tell me I was naked.

The serpent deceived me and I did eat

and now I am banished to live and suffer and die.

No clothing of skins was offered me,

nor did I sew together clothes of my own.

I remained naked all my days, pointed at,

whispered about. "That's her.

There she goes. Ivan Torrance paid her

three dollars once." It wasn't true.

I never accepted money. Although some of them

offered, . . . afterward.



Alfie looked up and stared through the window. He had never heard of anyone named Ivan Torrance. There was no family named Torrance in the county when he had grown up here. Minerva had been about his age, so they would have known the same people. Either, that happened somewhere else or she made up the name. Decent poem, though. He read it again.

He read the poem a third time. She was no T.S. Eliot or anything, but she certainly could handle the language okay. The poem was, in fact, rather homely. Kind of like Minnie, he thought. He had seen pictures. But despite the plainness, the language showed a fair degree of mastery. Whatever she was doing in a state hospital, it wasn't due to low cognitive functioning.

Each page had a single poem on it. He turned the page and read the next one.





Pope Gregory



I counted the missalettes in the stack

and wrote the number with the stubby pencil

they had given me. So annoying,

the stump of wood that never conformed

correctly to one's hand, to one's soul,

for doing a holy job.

I turned, and he was there.

But he did not give two shits

how many missalettes were stacked

on the tiny, niggard, little table by the side entrance.

Organ pipes should be spread out and hung on the wall

in Pythagorean beauty like the crucified Christ.

Ours were tucked in a closet

behind cloth walls to let the sound out.

There was a blanket in there too,

to protect my ass from the hard wood floor.

He came and left quickly.

I lay alongside the ceramic Christ in the manger

and shepherds and scientist kings

who stared unblinking at me in my nakedness.

I stared at the beams in the roof.

We were all so crowded in there.



Alfie stared at the floor in contemplation. Pope Gregory? No. Some priest? Some guy? Someone named Greg? Greg Pope? There was a Pope family around. But that guy's name was Gene. Not Greg. He read again.

When he finished reading, Alfie took a deep drink of beer and heard his own voice laugh weirdly. It had just dawned on him that Tom had no idea what was in those pages. Only a couple of possibilities could explain Tom's innocence. Either Tom had read the book and not understood it. True, he was more comfortable with a grain futures chart than with poetry, but he was sharp enough to decipher these poems half asleep. The other possibility was that he had not read them. Alfie also deduced that Terri had not read them, either. She would have told Tom what was in them. In fact she may have hidden them or burned them if she knew what they contained. Oh, gawd, he thought. I may be the second human being ever to read these poems. There was, of course, the possibility that Minnie's therapists at the hospital had read them. But that remained a possibility without probability.

Whatever the circumstance, Alfie realized that he had begun reading things that Terri would prefer he did not know. Oh, gawd. Nevertheless, Alfie could not resist reading farther. He turned the page and continued.



So What?



So what if I was bigger than some of them?

They didn’t care. They didn’t care

if I stuttered—a merely unintelligible protest anyway—

in a voice like a frightened goose.

Or that one eye looked at them and the other

gazed to heaven.

Lying back on a bale of hay is much better

than getting knocked against the sink

and letting the nosebleed run into the bathtub

while, on all fours, the lord giveth

and the lord taketh away.







In There



In their magazines, in there,

the ladies smiled, grimaced,

pouted and posed. Small breasts,

compared to my great bags of

sorrow staring down.

In their magazines, in there,

Tiny waists, fragile feet,

lipstick and leather,

not a freckle from front to back,

from cover to cover.

When they stripped me of my garments,

in there, and acted all the pictures,

in there, I don’t recall smiling,

pouting, or even grimacing.

I chanced to catch my

bulky, speckled frame

in a stray mirror and wondered.

How could they see me?

In there?









His Little Sin



I saw his tiny forepaws digging furtively

in the soft dirt of the landscape bed.

Only the top curve of his red bushy tail

betrayed him, and only to me.

He removed the tulip bulb and

sprinted for his oak tree

with the cat in hot pursuit.

Far out on a high twig,

he scolded and mocked the cat

who could come no closer as the branches

gave under her weight.

I watched him peel the bulb

and eat with gusto.

Then, departing by a telephone wire,

he left the angry cat stuck on its branch

yowling for an hour until it climbed and fell

unhurt onto the soft grass below.





Alfie smiled at the little drama. Was it possible that this outcast, unwanted by society, was placing comic relief into her ponderous book of sorrows for some undeserving audience? Sure. He turned the page.





I Thirst



I knew the day my breasts grew tender.

I had milk nearly from the first month.

Doctor Mose’ cold speculum

betrayed my secret.

And then the stupid questions,

the man’s name? I laughed in my way,

but it sounded like a sob to them.

To me as well, though I was filled with joy.

I didn’t care whose it was;

they didn’t have to take it out of me,

to rob me of the love I thirsted for.

It was too much trouble for them.

Not for me.





“Oh, god. Not that,” Alfie said softly as he finished the poem. “Was she making it up?” He shrugged. “God alone knows now.” He stood and retrieved another beer from the cabinet. It had been a long day already. Now, he faced the task of discovering what his brother and sister-in-law already knew about these extraordinary poems. He wanted to leave a note that he had to get back to Lori’s, but he couldn’t just take the notebook without asking. The box was full of stuff. Would it be missed? Tom knew he had been reading the notebook.

He decided to play it cool. He would have dinner and talk about family. Then, at the end of the meal, he would talk about how good the poems were. He would lay on a bunch of crap like “imagery” and “metaphor” and “syncopated rhythm” so that they would recoil in horror lest he try to read some of them out loud. It should not be too hard to get Terri to agree to let him take the notebook. Perhaps Rick could make him a copy at the rectory office.

He heard the tires of a car crunch up the gravel driveway. When he came out of the shed, he saw Terri sitting in her car looking questioningly at the strange pickup.