by Thomas Tryon
“How did he?” Judee asked, peering closer. “Was he gardening?”
“Uh—no, m’dear; the wound in his hand is one of the Stigmata, from the Cross, you see. They nailed him and he died and now he’s come back into this lovely garden, you see, and here’s this little girl and—”
“I don’t get it,” she said.
“Hey, that’s pretty funny,” Bill said.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s supposed to be,” Willie replied. Bee had unearthed the picture in a secondhand shop in Glendale; they had liked the sentiment. “Let’s pray, shall we?” Willie suggested suddenly. He brought them to the gilded railing, where four small benches faced the altar. The embroidered pads gave spongily as, under Willie’s gentle urging, they knelt. Placing himself between them, he crossed himself, clasped his hands, and bowed his head in prayer. The other two glanced at one another, shrugged, then did the same. While Willie’s eyes were thus lowered, Bill allowed his gaze to return to the wooden box. Willie’s breath came in dry bursts through his open mouth until at last he lifted his head. Relieved that his praying business was concluded, Bill made a move, followed by Judee, only to have their arms firmly grasped as they were held in place.
“Holy Mother, hear us, these your sinners,” Willie began intoning, clasping his hands again and gazing reverently up at the painting behind the cross. “Accept our grateful thanks for Thy blessings and forever keep us in the paths of righteousness.” He stopped, and Bill felt obliged to say “Amen.” “Amen,” Judee repeated.
“Not yet.” Willie gave an impatient shake and continued.
“Hear us, O Holy Mother, receive this our thanks for Thy guidance and succor and know that Thou hast ever a home here on Cordelia Way.” Bill refrained from stirring again, only glancing furtively at Willie, whose cheeks had taken on color and whose voice trembled fervently. “And bless, Holy Mother, the soul of our departed Beetrice Larson Marshuttes, that Thy Son hast seen fit in His wisdom to take from us. Give her rest, that she may know life everlasting and keep her safe until this, Your servant, may join her in Heaven. And bless this night, for in Thy holiness Thou hast seen fit to bring me companionship and good company, for which I thank Thee. Bless also this young man beside me, Bill—uh—” he faltered only momentarily—“Bowie, and Judee—uh—”
“Lutz,” she supplied.
“Lutz, and bless them with the happiness they deserve, and send Thy light to shine upon them.”
Here Willie reached out and placed his warm, moist palm on the crown of each one’s head; Bill could feel the hand trembling as it pressed down with the weight of increasing emotion. “Let them know they have a friend in Jesus, and in this Thy humble servant. Amen.”
“Amen,” Bill added quickly and leaped up, smoothing back his hair, which had become disarranged under the blessing. Rising, Judee turned to Willie. “I didn’t know these houses came with chapels in them.”
“They don’t, my dear. We had it specially built.”
“Does the organ play?” She went to push one of the keys. “Gee, broke, huh?”
“You have to turn it on, you see, it’s electric. Do you play?”
“A little.”
Willie clicked the switch, then invited her to the organ; she shook her head, hung back reluctantly.
“I only know one piece. You play.”
“Shall I? Just to give you an idea of how it sounds?” He took the bench, opened the music on the rack, flexed his fingers, and struck the keys; Judee jumped as a thunderous chord set the room vibrating.
“Wow, that’s terrific!” she exclaimed, sliding beside him. Without his glasses Willie was having trouble reading the complicated notes, his vision clouded by the drinks. “It’s called The Epiphany Triptych,” he said over his shoulder to Bill. “Lovely, isn’t it?” He struck a number of wrong notes, but he played loudly and flashily, pulling the stops and furiously working the pedal bars with his feet, nodding in tempo, while Judee clacked the toes of her platforms together.
The music swelled and boomed resoundingly against the ceiling and walls. Judee had placed her small hand on Willie’s shoulder; he found the physical contact strangely comforting. Playing, he’d glanced back several times at Bill, who now seemed to have disappeared. After several more bars, Judee took away her hand and slid from his side. Willie was only vaguely aware that she’d got up altogether, and when he looked over his shoulder again, he saw her moving to Bill, who had reappeared smiling in the doorway. Willie’s spread fingers stopped abruptly on the keys, the music ceased, the chords echoed, then died away, and in the sudden silence Bill stepped aside, saying:
“Willie, meet Arco.”
Willie did not rise immediately, but remained on the bench, looking at the figure who had moved into the chapel and now stood between the other two. A beam of light struck him from above, throwing his features into sharp relief. Pale face, bright eyes, dark beard and mustache, both neatly trimmed, and obviously calculated to offset the receding hairline of a closely cropped poll. He glittered—his eyes, his teeth as he showed them, not in a smile, but something more like a grimace. What did he remind Willie of? Something he’d seen—a painting? Hardly the paragon he’d expected, which to Willie implied a certain physical stature. Next to Bill, Arco looked quite small; was, in fact, only a little taller than Judee, slight and taut and possessed of an almost palpable energy that seemed all at once to leap out from him.
Willie cleared his throat, then rose, left the organ, and approached. Offering his hand politely, he found the newcomer’s strangely warm, an unresponsive, almost soft grip of bones with hardly any feel of flesh to them.
“Good evening—and welcome,” Willie said.
“Good evening, sir.” Arco looked around, taking in the chapel and its appointments.
Bill draped an arm companionably over his shoulder. “How’s that for some cross, huh? Where’d you say it came from, Willie?”
Willie again supplied the information about the cedars of Lebanon, the Knights of Malta, not failing to mention the wormholes in the wood. Then there was the matter of the altar cloth and the fine embroidery of the nuns of Bruges—Bill wanted Arco to be shown that—and the Bible that had belonged to Cardinal Richelieu, and the coffer from the monastery of Mont Saint Michel, which had once held monks’ gold. Looking at it, Arco repeated Bill’s earlier question.
“What’s in it?”
Willie gave a modest laugh. “Not gold, I assure you. But a treasure of even greater value than gold. The treasure of the house, as you might say.”
Judee, who had been strapping on her platform shoes, stepped forward with sudden urgency, touched Arco’s arm, then leaned to his ear and asked, “Arco—didja bring it?”
“Hm?”
“The”—she glanced at Willie—“you know. Tampax?”
“Oh, sure, Wimp.” He led her through the doorway and pointed to a zippered shoulder bag which had been casually dropped by the entranceway to the game room. She carried the bag to the mural, where she touched the monkey’s nose and went inside. Willie turned to Arco, who was studying the photographs of the church figures on the piano top. His thin, dark lips curled slightly, and he ran the tip of his tongue along them.
“Care for a drink?” Willie offered.
“If you’re having one, sir.”
“I’ll get the wine.” Bill headed outside to bring in the jug. Arco glanced back at the chapel.
“Who says Mass?” His tone was quiet, and slightly sardonic. His look swung to Willie questioningly, his brows lifted; they were black and so perfectly arched they might have been plucked. The Latin regularity of his features was marred by a too-large nose, and a random scattering of brownish moles accented the pallor of his skin. Willie volunteered that the archbishop himself had several times held private family services in the chapel. Glancing at the photograph of His Holiness John XXIII and the personal signature beneath, Arco made a minute adjustment to the frame, then followed as Willie led the way to the bar.
“Really an amazing place, Mr. Marsh,” he said.
“Willie,” he corrected, going behind the counter and offering Arco a stool. “It’s fun, isn’t it?” He took a towel and polished the Formica and emptied the ashtray. “Well. I’ve been hearing a lot about you, Arco.”
“Not all bad, I hope?”
“To the contrary. Your friends think quite highly of you. I understand you’re off to the Pacific one of these days.”
A faint crease furrowed his brow. Had Judee spoken out of turn? Willie wondered.
“One of these days,” Arco returned easily.
Bill came in with the jug. He slung it onto the bar and took the stool next to his friend. “Hey, Arco, guess what—Willie’s on TV tonight. He wants us to stay and watch. Can we?” As Willie turned to the refrigerator for ice, Bill and Arco winked at each other.
“Sure, why not. If Willie’s agreeable to having guests.”
“Consider yourself a guest, Arco. You’ll probably want something to eat, but I’m afraid you’ll have to take pot luck—it’s cook’s night off.”
“Whatever.”
Arco turned to Bill and said, “Run out to the car and get my cigars, will you?”
“Sure thing, Arco.” Bill hurried to fetch them.
“We have cigarettes,” Willie offered.
“I prefer a cigar,” Arco returned evenly. Willie poured him a glass of wine, and as he sipped, his eye darted around the room and finally back to the open chapel doors. “I have to admire such—what shall I call it?—such devotion? Your own chapel, archbishop, pope—you must be well connected up there.” Drinking, he pointed a finger to the ceiling.
“We all have our faith, I suppose. Are you a churchgoer?”
“No. Not at all.”
“I see. I didn’t used to be. I was raised a Baptist.”
“A Baptist? What happened?”
“I come from Alabama, and we were hard-shell as could be. I was dunked in the Tombigbee River to get my name. This ol’ preacher fellow, he wades right out in the water with me and turns me ass-over-teakettle and holds me under while he baptizes. If I’d had a longer name I’d of drown’d, Ah swear.”
“Goldarn, Willie,” said Bill, returning with the cigars. “You got a Southern accent.”
“Sure do, boy, jes’ a good ole Alabama cracker, thass me.”
Arco slid a Tiparillo from the pack and waited for Bill to light a match for him. “Why’d you turn Catholic?” he asked, puffing.
“I became converted. Even as the Apostle Paul.”
“Oh? Yes. Saul into Paul. Were you struck blind on the road to Damascus?” Arco’s voice sounded carefully, even purposely, modulated, as though under a self-imposed discipline. Willie noticed a somehow affected attempt to disguise a regional speech pattern. The soft tones emerged not from the chest, but through the large beak of a nose, with a nasal, adenoidal quality.
“Not exactly,” Willie replied to his question about Saint Paul on the road to Damascus.
“How then?”
“I … was made to see.”
“That’s not a bad thing, depending on what you see. What did you?”
“I saw God.”
“That so? What does he look like? Old man, beard, all that?”
“I don’t mean I saw Him—but I saw His spirit.”
Arco nodded agreeably. “I understand. How did all this come to pass?”
“Well, it’s a rather personal thing. I don’t know that you’d enjoy hearing—”
“No, no—I really would. I’m always interested in hearing how people find God.”
Willie flashed him a searching look, which Arco returned blandly, deliberately softening the intent expression in his eyes. Judee had come out of the powder room, and was lingering at the end of the bar, as though waiting for Arco to notice her. He waved her to him, put his arm around her waist, and gave her a friendly little shake.
“Feeling better, Wimp?”
“Uh huh. I’m okay.”
“Good girl.” He bussed her cheek, slid his hand down and gave her rear a squeeze, then patted the stool beside him. “Put it down—Willie’s going to tell us a story.”
“More wine, Judee?” Willie asked, playing host.
“Sure, okay, fine.”
He brought down another goblet from the shelf, then opened the refrigerator door for ice. Judee blinked at the stock of champagne. “Ooh, look at all the shampoo.”
Willie’s hand froze on the door. “Uh—champagne—yes. Perhaps you’d prefer some of that?”
“I love shampoo.”
“Why, then, shampoo it shall be. Grand idea.” He brought out a bottle and handed it to Bill to uncork. They carried their drinks to the furniture grouping in front of the fireplace, two matching Chesterfield sofas with floppy down-filled cushions; they had come from the boudoir of Marion Davies’s beach house. Bee had bought them at auction. Bill peeled the champagne foil, undid the wire, then worked the cork out.
“It didn’t pop,” Judee exclaimed in disappointment.
“Good champagne rarely does, my dear,” Willie explained.
Bill displayed the label. “That’s Cordon Rouge, Jude.” He held up a goblet and rang the crystal rim. “Hey? Hey?”
“Baccarat,” Willie said, settling the dogs into the chair with him. “Bee always liked Baccarat. The—hem—‘crystal of kings,’ they call it.”
“All right, everybody, quiet. Willie’s going to tell us a story.” Arco leaned back in the corner of the sofa, his arm around Judee, who was curled up beside him, her knees drawn up on the cushion.
“Well,” Willie began, “it’s not something I generally tell….” This, however, was hardly a fact; he had been telling the story for years; of all his many anecdotes it was his favorite, since it concerned the most important experience of his life. “Well,” he began again, “The Conversion of Willie Marsh, as I call my tale. This goes back some years now. I was in Italy, doing a film. Since Rossellini, one felt the whole rebirth of the Italian picture thing. Magnani—like an Italian Fedora in those days. Lots of the studios were making movies abroad then. Bob Taylor had done Quo Vadis for Metro. Ty Power did The Black Rose for Fox. They made Three Coins in the Fountain with Clifton Webb—you probably remember the song. So on so forth. Well, Bee and I went over to film Miracle of Santa Cristi—perhaps you saw it?” he asked Arco. “Fedora was in it? And Lorna Doone?”
“No. I didn’t.”
“It doesn’t matter. What’s important is what happened to me. Here, inside.” He touched his breast lightly, then dipped the finger into his glass. “Truly the most glorious experience of my entire life. Bee had gone down to Capri to visit Gracie Fields, and the company was shooting on location in this little hill town called Rocaillo, about eighty kilometers outside Rome.” He paused to drink, stretching his withered neck out like a turtle. “I was playing the part of Bishop Bruggiatti and on this particular morning—it was a fine Italian spring day—the production manager had arranged for us to eat our lunch in a trattoria on the piazza where we were working. At one end there was this beautiful fifteenth-century church. Have you ever been to Italy, Arco? No? You should—divine place. Anyway, there I was in my bishop’s robes—the same costume you see over there”—he pointed to the clerically draped mannequin in the corner—“with that same pectoral cross and chain on my chest. I’d ordered a bottle of Soave and was just sitting there with Lorna Doone. Lorna had a home-movie camera she always carried around with her, and she was shooting away, when I saw this woman coming down the steps from the church. Typical peasant type—old, short, squat, with a black dress and stockings, and a black square of cloth over her head, bits of gold screwed in her ears, so on so forth. Halfway down she seemed to stumble, then fell backward onto the steps.
“Since I was first to see her fall I got to her before anyone else. I knelt over her and looked at her face: white as paper; eyes staring straight ahead, practically bugging out of her head; white foam oozing from her mouth.”
&nb
sp; “What was wrong with her?” Judee asked, wide-eyed.
“I was sure she was having an epileptic seizure. I pried her mouth open—her breath was incredibly rank—and I reached in and pulled her tongue out from the back of her mouth, where it was stuck. A lot of people had crowded around and everybody was making suggestions. Except Lorna—she just kept grinding away with her camera. Gradually the woman began to relax. Her eyes lost their glazed-over look and I could see she was coming out of it. Someone brought water, which I tried to get her to drink. She took a little, choked, then said, ‘Padre,’ and then she said, ‘dimmi, dimmi,’ which of course means ‘tell me,’ or ‘say to me.’ I didn’t understand what she wanted. Then I saw that my pectoral cross was swinging in an arc in front of her face and her eyes were following its path. I was astonished. The poor creature believed I was actually a real priest. Without a moment’s thought I pulled the crucifix from my neck and gave it to her to kiss, making signs of the cross above her, and then I recited the Latin blessing, which I’d had to learn for my part in the picture. Imagine my horror when I saw this expression, this look of divine peace, come over the poor thing’s face, and she died.”
“She was dead?” Judee echoed.
“As a doornail.” Willie crossed himself reverently at the memory.
“Jesus,” Bill said.
“Exactly. I felt so embarrassed—I mean I wasn’t a priest, just a layman, and here the woman had expired thinking she’d had the last rites. And what authority did I have to administer them? Bee was most interested when she arrived back from Capri and I told her what had happened, but it wasn’t until Lorna had her movie film developed that Bee really was struck by the truth. Remember, Lorna had shot the whole incident, and when we got back to Rome she ran the film at Cinecittà. When it was over Bee asked Lorna if we could be alone and she had them run it again. She made me look—really look—at that poor ignorant peasant face, and then I realized how the spirit of God makes itself known to the heart of man. Bee had seen how moving the old woman’s simple faith was, and the power of what my costume and prop cross represented to her. Well, it so happened that coming from Capri to Naples she’d spent time on the ferry with a Monsignore de Dominicus, who was then secretary to one of the papal legates. They took the train together up to Rome. And through Bee I later got to meet the monsignore. She’d already told him about the old woman’s dying and how moved we’d been by her faith, and at week’s end we were both taking instructions. Bee’s idea, of course. We’d met Cardinal Spellman in New York and naturally he was delighted when we cabled him our intentions.
