No, she wanted to remember-to remember his face, his name, anything about him that would help Mike get him behind bars.
But if it was a cult Mike would never catch enough of them, no matter how hard he tried. That was why she was afraid of a cult-they would be unstoppable.
She wanted to be safe. Safe and normal and happy. That was what was so sad. It was so little to want.
Now the tears were starting. She cried so easily these days. She battled with her feelings. Jonathan's hand came out, touched her cheek. She couldn't bear it right now. She turned her head away.
"I'm ready," she said, trying to ignore the hurt in his face. He began to wheel her in.
The big doors swept open as they approached. They had been watched, of course. Eager people clustered around. Somebody found a Saint Joseph Missalette and held it out before her. She smiled up at the grinning face. "I have my missal," she said. The grin widened, the head nodded furi-ously. Other volunteers wheeled her; Jonathan walked be-side.
Oh, my Lord, there is the altar where most of me died.
I am so afraid. Black, ugly altar. Why is it black, anyway? Other churches don't have black altars. But there also is the vigil candle, that red glow that tells us why this place matters, because it houses the fabulous enigma of the Blessed Sacrament.
Come on, girl, suppress that overwhelming urge to lunge out of this chair and crawl away like a soldier escaping from a battlefield. You knew coming here was going to be hard, yes, you did. She wanted his touch, raised her left hand. He was always ready, her beloved, and his warm, slender fingers soon surrounded hers.
There were a lot of cops in the church. Six or seven in uniform, and another five clustering around Mike Banion and Mary. Patricia recognized Lieutenant Maxwell, the sex-crimes specialist with the bedside manner of a friendly old doctor.
Father Goodwin lurched abruptly out of the sacristy fol-lowed by a plump boy of perhaps eleven in a surplice at least three sizes too small. Father had lost weight; his chasuble hung on him like a shroud.
Now for the Mass. Father Goodwin was spectral, his voice full of quavers. Patricia wondered if she could bear this ritual.
Even that word made her writhe in the chair. Ritual. Rituale. Rituale.
She wanted to scream.
Frantically she fought for control. Father began the mo-tions, the drone of words. Patricia's mind battled the chaos of terror that the place had inspired in her. Why had she been so stupid as to come here?
We know nothing of our passions, especially not the black ones, terror and panic. She sensed that the saints lurking in the dome overhead were mad; she looked up at their twisted, pious faces and saw suddenly a vast coldness written there.
Saints are not saints for love of God. They are saints because they have seen the terror of the unknown.
Of Hell. Hell is no fire, it is the emptiness, the black between the stars, and she could hear it whistling in her own soul.
Come on, girl! Get yourself together! Work at it! Work at it!
She drove her consciousness to bland and orderly thoughts. Sister Desperada: "The Holy Mass is divided into thirty-four parts from the Entrance Antiphon to the Dismis-sal." No! I can't bear it. I'll never be able to stay here that long!
"The Lord be with you."
A ragged trail of voices: "And also with you." Patricia wanted to run, to hide, to get down into the depths of the earth and pull soil over her, to hide so completely that the very atoms of her body would be mixed forever with the anonymous brown dirt.
"My brothers and sisters, to prepare ourselves to cele-brate the sacred mysteries, let us call to mind our sins."
Oh, yes, my sins. My sins are very horrible. I long for a loving man, and that is a sin of inordinate desire.
I want a nice little house, oh, God, in someplace like Riverdale, and some kids to need me and a husband to grow old with, oh, God. And for me those are also sins of inordinate desire!
As if from afar she felt herself beating her breast, heard her words echoing through the stunned silence of the church. "Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault, in thought and in word, in all I have done and failed to do-oh, the Confiteor Confiteor is a lie! A lie, God! I never did anything wrong. Hell just opened up under my feet, God, and I fell in and now you won't pull me out!" is a lie! A lie, God! I never did anything wrong. Hell just opened up under my feet, God, and I fell in and now you won't pull me out!"
The silence deepened. "Lord have mercy," said Father at last.
His hands paused over the Rituale Rituale and she saw him close his eyes for an endless moment. and she saw him close his eyes for an endless moment.
Jonathan's arm was around her. Mike Banion was ques-tioning her with his eyes, frowning with concern.
Mary's face was buried in her hands.
Poor Father began stuttering through his Kyrie. Kyrie.
"I'm sorry," Patricia muttered. She looked down. Anything but stare at that horrible altar. How stupid to make it black!
"Shall I take you out?" Jonathan whispered.
She shook her head. Father said the Gloria Gloria in a completely new tone. He raised his head, lifted his arms, looked as if from the bottom of a pit toward some promise above. "Glory to God in the highest, and peace to His people on earth. Lord God, heavenly King, almighty God and Father, we worship You, we thank You, we praise You for Your glory." in a completely new tone. He raised his head, lifted his arms, looked as if from the bottom of a pit toward some promise above. "Glory to God in the highest, and peace to His people on earth. Lord God, heavenly King, almighty God and Father, we worship You, we thank You, we praise You for Your glory."
He cared about her. They all did.
She wanted to weep. But also, on behalf of the people who loved her, she wanted to be strong.
On to the Liturgy of the Word, today from the Prophet Daniel. Feast of the Transfiguration. "I saw one like a son of man coming, on the clouds of heaven. When He reached the Ancient One and was presented before Him, He received dominion, glory, and kingship; nations and peoples of every language serve Him."
Oh, Lord. You come on clouds of glory, I come creaking on wheels, terror in my heart.
What bitterness was in her. It was pitiful, to be bitter even against Him. It was pitiful, to be bitter even against Him.
But God did not help me! God let me be raped on His own altar!
Next in the endless litany of the Mass came the Liturgy of the Eucharist. Mike and Mary brought the gifts, looking from behind almost silly, the tall, elegant, chestnut-haired woman and her stocky husband.
Faith Goodwin took the chalice in hands so nervous that the wine stormed like the Red Sea. "Lord, by the transfiguration of Your Son, make our gifts holy."
Is it possible, she wondered as he prepared to give out Communion, that God doesn't hate us, but has simply lost us? Maybe the earth has drifted into a part of the universe so obscure that even God has lost track of it.
Human worship is chiefly characterized by the silence of God.
"Holy, holy, holy Lord God of power and might, heaven and earth are filled with Your glory. Hosanna in the highest."
Father hovered over his chalice, looking out at his tiny flock in what must seem an immense ocean of empty pews.
The emptiness of space. The coldness. Except, oh, God, for us. We people, we we are here. are here.
Your silence is what drives us mad! How dare You do this to us, God! How dare You! How dare You! We deserve Your involvement. We deserve Your respect. Yes, even Your admiration! We deserve Your involvement. We deserve Your respect. Yes, even Your admiration!
Or at least Your help. Please. Just two words, two infi-nitely blessed words. Oh, God, just say it. "I am."
Come on, say it. "I am." "Say it! Say it, damn You!"
With a horrified look at her, Father raced into the next prayer. "For the kingdom and the power and the glory are Yours, now and forever."
"Sorry," she muttered again. Jonathan's arm was starting to hurt her shoulder. She shrugged it off.
"Let us offer each other the sign of peace."
Listen to him. It takes real faith to say something like that with any conviction. As she watched the Mass proceed she fancied that she could hear a voice in the breeze that was rattling the old stained-glass windows. I love you, I love you, the voice said with a sudden clatter. the voice said with a sudden clatter. You're mine! Mine! Mine! You're mine! Mine! Mine! And then the breeze went muttering off among the lush summer trees. And then the breeze went muttering off among the lush summer trees.
Father took the Host and ate it.
Patricia felt her chair wobble a little. "You sure you don't want to leave?" Jonathan whispered.
"No! Let's go ahead with Communion."
"Okay." He began pushing her toward the altar. She was to lead the Communion parade-which consisted of Mike and his entourage and the usual seven old ladies who were Father's morning Mass regulars.
Take this blood. Take this body. Let us proclaim the mystery of faith. When Father approached her, Patricia cast her eyes down and held up her hands, cupped. She chewed the whole-wheat Host that Father handed her. The little girl she had once been had believed that the Eucharist was the great center of human life.
The breeze came back, much stronger, slapping at the windows, moaning past the eaves.
"Thanks be to God."
Far up in the church glass broke. The altar candles were snuffed out by a powerful blast of wind.
Faces turned, glanced up. But nothing more happened, except that the communicants shuffled back to the three populated pews.
The concluding doxology followed. When Father turned around again he seemed unutterably sad. Patricia felt op-pressed; she did not want to share any more sadness. So it was a sad world. She had also discovered this. A very sad world.
Father might be sad for her, but the way he was looking at his pews she suspected he was mostly sad for his dying parish. This was probably the biggest turnout he'd had in months. So sad.
Maybe he ought to try bingo again. It hadn't worked the last time, but the prizes had been a joke. Who wants used used prizes? The premium table had looked like a lawn sale. prizes? The premium table had looked like a lawn sale.
She could easily have laughed, remembering how she had hand-drawn the stencil for the last bingo-night poster. So very long ago, that innocent May night when the caller had called into the ocean of empty tables.
Fourteen players only. All had won at least one game. Three ended up winning back the castoffs they had donated.
Suddenly Mike stood up and approached the altar rail. Instead of going off to the sacristy to devest, Father joined him. Mike drew an envelope from his pocket.
"Patricia," he said into the quiet, "I'm no speechmaker." He fingered the envelope. "This is from the Holy Name Society. We got together and passed the hat because we wanted to give you a real good gift. Well, open it up."
He dropped the envelope into her lap. She looked down at it, wondering dully what it would be this time.
I ought to be grateful.
"Go on, open it."
Airplane tickets and a letter. Lord be merciful, they had given her a pilgrimage to Lourdes. Now she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She just sat there, stunned. "I'm the pilgrimage director," Father said.
There was such warmth and anticipation in the faces around her, she had no choice but to smile.
Only Jonathan looked as desolate as she secretly felt.
Lourdes. Preserve me. They are sending their cripple for the cure. They were ridiculous, but they were also touching. "Thank you," she said, as sweetly as she could.
"This means a lot to us both," Jonathan added in the thick silence that followed.
Jonathan took the handles firmly and wheeled her out. It was not until they were safely in a cab and well away from the church that she did what she had really needed to do all morning, to somehow express the irony behind the sadness, the bitterness behind the terror.
She burst out laughing. Holding the ridiculous tickets, tears streaming down her face, she laughed and laughed.
Jonathan was frightened. He shouted at her to stop, but that only made her laugh harder. He grabbed her shoulders, held her to him.
Even so, it was a long time before this laughter, which hurt so much she could hardly stand it, at last began to die.
Chapter Ten.
PATRICIA'S LAUGHTER SPREAD a coldness through Jonathan unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It was a hoarse, gasping agony. That there was no humor in it made it more awful. He couldn't bear to hear it; he wanted to quell it with a shout. But that would never do; instead he hugged her until it subsided to moans, then to soft breathing.
They had to go to Tommy Farrell's Backroom for break-fast with the Holy Name Society. Forget Trianon.
"I'm not going," she said. She waved the letter of invita-tion they had given her with the tickets.
Suddenly she planted her lips on his and gave him a hard, stunningly intimate kiss. There was something lovely in it, full as it was of sudden, innocent passion. "Let's take a detour," she said. "Go to my apartment."
"We have an invitation."
"They'll wait half an hour! Driver, go to Twelve Hundred Metro Avenue!"
Jonathan did not protest. Even more than his love, he wanted to be alone with her for her own well-being.
She had been close to hysteria in that church.
She kissed him again, and when he felt the gentleness of it a joy of great proportions appeared in his soul.
No matter what happens, we have each other. Nothing can ever crush this love.
"We have each other, darling."
"Yes, Jonathan."
He had heard that word spoken another way. Yesssss.
He looked deep into her eyes. Terror flickered there, and sorrow, and something immense and strange and cold. The bitter fear in the church. The hard first kiss.