"The Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rogers Mark E.)

Chapter 2: Father Ted

Gary and Linda taught at Delaware University in Newark, his field English, hers, history. Both were presiding over five-week summer cram-courses, and could ill afford to take three days off to go up to Bayside Point for the funeral; but luck smiled on them, and they found colleagues willing to handle the classes. They taught their Monday morning sections, packed up the car after lunch, and headed north on I-95, Gary behind the wheel. Crossing the Memorial Bridge, they swung over onto the Jersey Turnpike.

For a long time neither spoke. Gary was lost in his own thoughts, memories of his father, and worries about his mother, particularly whether she’d be able to handle the funeral arrangements. But just north of Camden, he was roused by the sight of a State Trooper parked just behind an overpass; he slowed immediately. It occurred to him that he had no recollection whatsoever of the forty miles they’d come since the bridge.

“Why do you always do that?” Linda asked.

“What?” he asked.

“Slow down when you see a speed trap. You weren’t even doing the limit.”

“Guilty conscience. I always get nervous when I see a cop.”

Gradually he sped back up.

After a while, he looked over at Linda. She had the window down, and her long dark hair was blowing in the wind; her high-cheekboned, pretty face was pensive.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Your mom,” Linda said.

“What about her?”

“How she kept loving your father.”

“He was a lovable guy.”

“I wouldn’t have been able to.”

“You weren’t married to him.”

“When you’re married, your husband’s supposed to act married-”

“That’s enough,” Gary said. “The man’s gone, and I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Okay,” Linda said.

In the silence that followed, Gary noticed the sign for the I-195 exit and swung into the far right hand lane.

“Why did all that piss you off so badly, anyway?” he asked angrily, almost without thinking. “It’s not as if he did anything to you.”

That’s it, jerk, he told himself. Start it up again…

“I have taken it awfully personally, haven’t I?” Linda admitted.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe it’s because I like your mother so such. Better each time I talk to her. She may be the only really good person I’ve ever met. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, if there’s a Heaven, your mother’s going.”

Linda said it innocently enough; still, it touched a nerve.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gary demanded.

“That it’s much worse when somebody like that gets abused,” Linda answered. “What did you think I meant?”

“I thought you were comparing her to my father.”

“What?”

“Saying he’s burning in Hell, or something.”

“No,” she said.

Despite his anger, he believed her; now that he thought about it, she’d certainly said nothing of the sort. Strange how that idea had popped into his mind…

He paid up at the toll booth, and they continued on their way.

“Hell’s just a fairy tale, anyway,” Gary said.

“Did I say it wasn’t?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t, did you? Guess all that 700 Club crap hasn’t sunk in.”

She laughed too. “I don’t watch the show that much.”

“Watching it at all is too much.”

“It’s not all that bad. The first part, with all the politics and stuff, is usually kind of interesting, even when I disagree with it-”

“Oh come on,” Gary broke in. “They also put on little old ladies who talk about God miraculously multiplying the leftover spaghetti in the refrigerator-” He paused. “What does Pat Robertson think about Hell, anyway?”

“Oh, he’s all for it,” Linda answered.

The white Pinto flew eastward, bound for the Jersey shore.

Taking the Squankum-Bayside Point exit, Gary drove south on Route 35. Lined with sandpits, defunct drive-ins, and fast food joints, 35 was punctuated every five miles or so by that murderous and peculiar Garden State phenomenon known as the traffic circle. Passing Squankum’s huge green River Rest Cemetery, Gary sped toward the Squankum Bridge, only to find that it was up. Bayside Point lay just across the river.

The Point was a small resort community located at the northern end of the long peninsula flanking Barragansett Bay. To the west, a canal courtesy of the Army Corps of Engineers formed the town’s boundary with Bayside Boro, connecting the Squankum River to the Bay; in effect, the peninsula was an island sliced off from the mainland.

Gary waited patiently for the bridge to come down. Finally the sailboat passed, and the span’s iron-grilled center descended slowly. The gate went back, and Gary and Linda were in Bayside Point a half-minute later.

On the left was a billboard reading, “Bayside Point, Crab Capital of the Jersey Shore.” The message had brought a smile to Gary’s lips ever since High School, when he had first learned about social diseases; he was of course smiling now.

Noticing his expression, Linda frowned as she always did when he had something nasty on his mind. He knew, however, that she secretly enjoyed a lot of his raunchier routines.

“Mad at me?” he asked, as he turned left onto fishery-lined Miami Boulevard.

“For what?” Linda replied. “Smirking at that stupid sign like you always do?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope. It’s just so boring, that’s all.”

“Love me anyway?”

“I suppose.”

He turned right on Atlanta Avenue. Bungalows and two-story houses slipped by on either side.

“I’m sorry I brought up that business about your dad,” Linda said.

“Forgot all about it.”

“I was really looking forward to giving him his first grandchild. I suppose I really loved him too.”

“As I said…”

She nodded. “He was a lovable guy.”

He turned left on Seattle Street, went half a block and pulled over just behind Max Jr.’s red Ford junker. Climbing out, they got their suitcases and went up the slate-paved walk toward the big two-story lemon-yellow house. The screen-door was locked; after knocking on it, Gary checked the mailbox, as he habitually did. There was the habitual nothing inside.

Max Jr. appeared, snickering when he saw his brother, opening the door. He towered over Gary by a full head.

“How you doing, jerk?” he asked, extending his hand.

“Just fine, wack-off,” Gary replied, shaking it. He smelled liquor on Max’s breath. “Feeling no pain?”

“Haven’t had that much, “ Max replied. “But Jack Daniels was made for days like this.”

“Yeah.”

“Of course,” Max went on, “Jack or no, it’s hard to be solemn when I see your foolish little face.” He turned to Linda. “Hi, Sis.” He wrapped his massive arms around her, bringing a gasp to her lips. She kissed him on the cheek.

They followed him into the living room and laid their bags down. The TV was on; a slightly overweight man with slicked-back dark hair and wearing a garish checkered suit was reading from a loose-leaf folder.

“The Holy Bible itself includes eroticism. Sex is depicted in the Song of Songs. Breasts are specifically mentioned…”

“Amen,” said Max.

“Isn’t that Mr. MacAleer?” Gary asked. “What’s he doing on TV?”

“Bought the local cable outfit,” Max said. “Mom told me last time I was up. He’s been making money hand over fist, but he’s also catching flak from his buddies in the Christian Businessmen’s Roundtable. Been running too many hot movies, etc. So he comes on between flicks sometimes, explaining why bringing Shannon Tweed to the viewing public is really very upright and biblical.” Max laughed. “The poor old Song of Songs. The sex peddlers always trot it out. I mean, if they’re going to do that, they should at least show babes with teeth like ewes pregnant with twins.”

“I always hated that line,” Linda said.

“How about those does feeding among the lilies…”

“Where’s mom?” Gary asked.

“Bedroom. Asleep.”

“How’s she been?”

“Not too bad. Today at least.”

“She take care of the arrangements?”

“Before I got here.”

“Mr. Van Nuys push her around?”

“Tried to sell her all the bells and whistles. Didn’t work. Mom’s pretty tough.”

“Is there going to be a viewing?” Linda asked. “I hate viewings.”

Gary felt his throat tighten. After that dream, he wasn’t particularly up for a viewing either.

“Two, Wednesday,” Max answered. “The funeral’s Thursday morning.”

“Uncle Buddy going to make it?”

“Absolutely.”

Gary winced.

“You don’t seem too delighted,” Max observed.

“You’re looking forward to seeing him?”

“I’d rather have a root canal. You can always count on old Uncle Buddy to do something stupid. As a matter of fact, I know exactly what it’s going to be.”

“What?” Gary asked.

“You know those flowers Dad hated? The ones that look like they’re sticking their tongues out?”

“Anthuriums,” Gary said, nodding, suddenly remembering that detail of his dream very clearly.

“He’s going to send a bunch of those.”

“Have I ever met Uncle Buddy?” Linda asked.

“You’d know if you had,” Max said.

“I can’t wait.”

“Just don’t let him feel you up,” Gary said.

“He’s that kind of uncle?”

“He’s all kinds,” Max put in. “All of them really unpleasant.”

Off to the side, Mr. MacAleer droned from the television:

“Then there’s the story of Susannah and the Elders…”

“I remember it well,” Max said. “The ivory globes of her breasts gleaming with a fine mist of sweat, Susannah strode lithely into the water, looking just like Shannon Tweed-”

“Shut your brother up, Gary,” Linda said.

“Shut up,” Gary said.

“Ah, don’t listen to her,” Max said. “She loves it.”

There was a rap at the screen door. They turned.

“Excuse me, “ said the man outside, an elderly priest wearing a short-sleeved black shirt. His hair was an unnatural lustrous black, sculpted in what must have been a very expensive piece of barbering.

“I’m Father Ted,” he said. “Father Ted Maracek? I’m here to see Mrs. Holland.”

“Come on in,” Max said, in a tone that Gary thought something less than welcoming.

Father Ted entered. A large crucifix hung from his neck on multicolored beads; as the priest drew closer, Gary noticed that the figure languishing on it was a black woman in a dashiki. Father Ted squinted at Gary and the others.

Needs glasses, Gary thought. Probably thinks they’d make him look too old. It seemed a fair enough deduction, considering the dye job and the ludicrous trendiness of the crucifix. Gary didn’t care much for priests under any circumstances, but he liked the trendy ones least. There was something so bogus about them.

“Have we met?” Father Ted asked him.

Gary hadn’t seen him before; he never went to mass on his visits home, not even to please Mom. But Mom had mentioned the priest several times, once with a remarkable bitterness which she hadn’t been willing to explain.

Gary introduced himself.

“Your mother’s spoken of you,” Father Ted said. “Very proudly.”

I wonder if she mentioned that I think the Catholic Church is a crock of medieval horseshit? Gary thought. But immediately it occurred to him that there was something very un-medieval about Father Ted.

“My wife, Linda,” Gary said.

The priest exchanged pleasantries with her, then turned to Max. Gary eyed his brother. There was a subtly contemptuous look on Max’s face-Gary wondered if Father Ted noticed.

“I’ve heard a half-dozen of your sermons,” Max said. “They really stuck with me.”

Father Ted beamed, apparently oblivious to Max’s expression.

“Mom also wrote me about you,” Max went on.

“I’m flattered,” Father Ted said, and looked at Max sidelong. “Aren’t you the one who teaches history at that school in Maryland?”

“Military history,” Max said, almost as if he hoped that particular detail would make the priest like him less.

“Ah,” Father Ted said, shifting his gaze from him. “I hadn’t realized I’d made such an impression on your mother.”

“Actually, what concerned her was the impression you made on my father,” Max went on. “You were his confessor, weren’t you?”

“I had that honor.”

Max smiled coldly. “You’re the son of a bitch who told him it was okay to cheat on my Mom, aren’t you?”

Father Ted’s whole face went slack.

“Max!” came a voice from across the room. Celia Holland stood there, a graying middle-aged woman on the thin side, looking absolutely appalled.

“Actually, I… I…” the priest sputtered.

“What, Father?” Max asked, undaunted by his mother’s disapproval.

“I was only trying to persuade him to forgive himself.”

“Oh?”

“He thought God didn’t love him anymore, so I was attempting to show how a lack of self-acceptance is the greatest sin of all.”

“I’m okay, you’re okay?” Max asked. “On this rests the whole Law and the Prophets?”

“I can see your mind is closed, young man,” Father Ted huffed.

“I’d like to apologize for my son,” Celia broke in, before Max could say anything else.

“Mrs. Holland,” Father Ted said, “what exactly did you tell Max about me?”

“Well…” she began uncomfortably, “I did write him about what you told my husband. That is, Max Senior’s version.”

“Which was?”

“That, among other things, you thought no sin of the flesh could be considered mortal.”

“I don’t believe I’d express myself so unequivocally,” Father Ted answered.

“Didn’t you just say that ‘lack of self-acceptance is the greatest sin of all?’” Max asked. “That sounded pretty unequivocal to me.”

“Would you please let me continue?” Father Ted replied.

“Sure.”

“What I probably told him is that some theologians no longer consider adultery a serious matter,” the priest told Celia. “Now if your husband decided I was condoning infidelity because of that, he was very badly mistaken. I was only suggesting that if he couldn’t stop, he should try not to punish himself with guilt.”

Max immediately went back on the offensive: “Because a handful of theologians in the fever-swamps have decided the Church has been wrong for two thousand years?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way, but yes.”

“Then why should he have stopped at all?”

“He was in such pain.”

“But his guilt was irrational?”

“Yes.”

“And you tried to persuade him it was irrational?”

“Yes, but…”

Max pounced. “How exactly does that differ from condoning infidelity?”

“I don’t feel any need to stand here and chop logic with you, young man,” Father Ted blustered.

Lucky for you, Gary thought. Max was a very formidable logic-chopper. Gary remembered an episode from his late teens, when he and Max had been beset down at the boardwalk by a group of young Baptists looking for converts. It took two hours, but ultimately Max had reduced all seven of them to tears. And that was before he co-majored in philosophy at college.

Conan the Apologist, Gary thought.

“The Bible even goes so far as to describe how the men of Egypt have ‘members like donkeys,’” said Mr. MacAleer from the TV. “Ezekiel, Chap-”

Gary shut the set off.

“I certainly didn’t encourage your husband to make a habit of it,” Father Ted continued to Celia.

“But Father,” she answered, sadly but firmly, “When he kept doing it, you kept saying how God probably didn’t mind.”

“That’s hardly an endorsement of adultery, Mrs. Holland.”

“But it’s hardly surprising that he stopped worrying about it, is it?” she pressed. “Especially when he respected your opinion so much. Especially when his girlfriend-” A choke rose in her voice- “was so much younger and prettier than me.”

“Since that’s how you feel, Mrs. Holland, do you still want me to celebrate the funeral mass?”

“Max would’ve wanted you to.”

“Very well then,” Father Ted said, forcing a smile. “I’ll be going. Good-bye.”

He turned on his heel and went out.

“Max, Max,” Celia said, once the priest was well out of earshot, “Wasn’t the day sad enough?”

“I just couldn’t stand there and keep my mouth shut,” Max answered. “He hurt us all too badly. And what about Dad? Where’s he now, mom? That bastard convinced him that no matter how much he cheated on you, he had nothing to fear from God. What do you bet Dad’s gotten a very nasty surprise?”

“Jesus,” Gary said. “I don’t believe you said that.”

Max ignored him. Celia looked at Max as though she were horrified by his suggestion, but couldn’t bring herself to upbraid him because she thought it might be true. Gary was shaken as he studied her face.

“Be that as it may,” she said at last, “Father Teddy-I mean Father Ted-is a priest, and his office deserves respect. You of all people should believe that, Max.”

Max cocked his head, apparently weighing her point. Gary thought it was a good one, but Max finally replied:

“I do respect his office. I’d take communion from him without a second thought. He’s a true priest, a special channel of God’s grace. But I don’t respect his opinions any more than you do. And I don’t respect him. There’s nothing in the dogmas of the Church that says a priest can’t be a son of a bitch. Getting into Torquemada’s face would’ve been obligatory, I think.”

Celia pondered this. “Jesus said anyone who’s angry with his brother will be liable to judgment,” she answered at last.

“Who’s angry?” Max grinned.

“You were. At Father Ted just now.”

“No, Ma. I was furious.”

“He’s no Torquemada in any case.”

“I’d like him better if he were,” Max said. “But as for that quote, it really depends on what manuscript you read. Some versions read ‘angry without good reason.’ And since that reading fits more with common sense, I prefer it. Jesus gets mad in the gospels all the time, anyway. Calls his opponents ‘whited sepulchers’ and ‘knots of vipers.’ Carries a whip and uses it-”

“You know what you are?” Celia demanded, pointing a finger at him in frustration.

“What?”

“A… A Philadelphia lawyer!” she answered, very seriously.

“So how come I’m not rich?”

She bit her lip, then laughed in spite of herself.

A strange silence followed, as if everyone had suddenly become aware that such levity (if it could be called that) and the argument that had preceded it, were inappropriate, under the circumstances; Gary was amazed that his mother had laughed at all. But he was always surprised at how people behaved after a death in the family, at least the way they behaved in his family, pouring out tears one moment, cracking jokes the next. It always seemed that one’s sense of humor should be completely submerged, that all enjoyment should cease, that normal life should halt entirely. But it was never that way.

“Anyone care for some leftover roast beef?” Celia said presently.

“It’s gone,” Max said.

“You ate it all?”

“You didn’t tell me not to. There’s a lot of that ham still.”

“Ham’ll be just fine,” Gary said, Linda seconding him with a nod.

“I could cook up some of those steaks, I suppose,” Celia said. “And there are the noodles…”

“Leftovers’ll be just fine, Mom,” Gary said.

“Cooking’ll take my mind off things,” Celia answered.

“I’ll help,” Linda offered.

“No, really, it’ll do me good.”

They went into the kitchen. In the end, Linda helped. And afterward, midway through the dishes, Celia suddenly burst into tears, clutched Linda and hugged her tightly as Gary and Max looked on.