The Good Priest's Son

by Reynolds Price

  That broke Marcus’s trance. “And you still don’t. I just told your friend that so he might recall me if we ever meet again.”

  Mabry laughed. “It might work. But maybe you ought to have said Rembrandt.”

  Marcus laughed even louder. “Damn, you’re right!”

  And they drove another quiet five miles before Mabry said “My father says you’ve got your own child.”

  That was a knot that Marcus needed a little time to loosen. After a while he looked at his watch—the timepiece old people often have, with an over-sized face and giant numerals. Then he said “Chief, it’s still not but three p.m. Maybe it’s a little early in the day to tackle such a personal question.” He was partially smiling toward the road itself; he wouldn’t turn to Mabry.

  Mabry looked to his own watch—3:22. “I’m sorry. We’ve only known each other for twenty-four hours. I just thought we were Southern gents, and since the South specializes in telling the world its secrets within mere seconds of meeting a stranger—”

  Still facing the highway, badly potholed, Marcus broke in. “Here’s another game—how about it? One of us talks about his family for one solid minute. Then the other one gives out sixty seconds’ worth of some private business that eats him up.”

  Mabry was more than mildly surprised at the man’s inventiveness—maybe he should be a writer, not a painter. Anyhow he said “Touché,” at once regretting the echo of Gwyn. “Who goes first?”

  Marcus said “You went first in the museum, and it was piss-poor—you owe me something grand this time. So I’ll start off, to give you time to gouge around in your deep quick.”

  Mabry wondered if something was getting out of hand here. Is this young man as benign as he looks? And what’s this news about killing his brother? But he said “Fire away.”

  They went on another two rocky miles, passing a couple of trailer trucks about a mile long each, scary roadhogs. Then Marcus was ready. “You time me,” he said, “sixty seconds flat. I’m nineteen years old. When I was fifteen, I’d waited as long as my dick would let me; and at the same time a cousin of mine was feeling the same about her pussy—she was seventeen and we were maybe too close kin. Anyhow the baby came with no complications. My cousin—Adeline—had it at her house with a midwife that was my mom’s aunt. It’s a girl, way the prettiest girl I know. And they tell me that this kind of child—afflicted—is mostly so beautiful you can hardly watch it. The girl’s named Master—her mother named her Master after my dead brother—and at first we thought she was just not talking because she didn’t have anything she needed to say. But now she’s three years old, and the doctors say she’s likely never going to speak. Everything she does is normal as daybreak, everything but her funny name (and she isn’t guilty of that at all); but she won’t ever make a sound. Not even when she hurts or when anybody hurts her.”

  When Marcus stopped he didn’t glance to Mabry, but Mabry wondered Who on Earth hurts her? But he just said “You’ve got fifteen seconds.”

  Marcus finally looked. He was trying to smile, but it didn’t resemble any smile he’d shown in all the past day. He said “Can’t you tell I’m way past finished?”

  Mabry said “All right. I was trying to be as fair as I could.”

  “Then you get a hearty round of applause.” Marcus slapped the steering wheel with his right hand four or five times.

  Mabry said “You ready for my bad minute?”

  Marcus actually grinned, at the road this time; then he looked to his watch. “Ready when you are, O Mighty Chief.”

  So Mabry said “The mother of my one child was two years older than me. We were just barely married when the child was born, a girl named Charlotte—plain as a good shoe and smarter than any big handful of whips. The three of us tried to grow up together. The two girls tried—truly worked at it hard, my wife and my daughter. But my dick couldn’t seem to wear itself out, however many women I took into bedrooms, closets, utility chambers, public parks even in broad daylight. And I mean, when I was a man full-grown in all other ways—I mean, up till I was way into my forties. What in Christ’s name was I looking for? I had a fine type of work, my wife was more than a saint and beautiful and bound to be rich—I mean seriously rich—when her dad died, but I had to slide my slim piece of meat in and out of any girl that I could trick into joining me for five or ten minutes—sometimes a whole night, if I was out of town on a job or a workshop. I would pray to quit, I went to a doctor in hopes of some drug that would ease my hunger—nothing, no help. But it was my fault; I never doubted that. Then my wife had finally put up with all the shit I could shovel, and she moved me out when I was thirty-eight years old and our daughter was twelve. She died—my wife—five months ago; and wouldn’t you know it?—she’s left me more money than I can ever use, to spend on anything that’s halfway worthy of her.”

  They rode in silence for maybe a mile, through a dense stretch of tall pines and sycamores and kudzu strangling a dry-goods store. Marcus concentrated on the road, which was smoother now. His face gave no hint of what he’d heard.

  So Mabry said “How long was that?”

  “Seventy seconds.”

  “Why didn’t you stop me?”

  “You hadn’t finished and I needed to hear somebody else speak along those lines.” He turned to Mabry, whose face was tormented.

  Mabry was seeing a tumult of lights, assaulting him like inexhaustible demons pouring down the road straight at him.

  Marcus leaned over and with his fist he knocked, very lightly, on Mabry’s left knee. “Thank you—hear?—Chief.”

  Mabry put both hands up to cover his eyes, but he said “You’re far more welcome than you know.”

  When they stopped in the drive at Tasker’s place, it was four-fifteen. Mabry’s eyes and mind had cleared up entirely, though his body still seemed bone-tired from yesterday—that and the New York horror and the three grand weeks in Italy with the final two maybe mysterious days in Paris (whatever they’d yield, if anything). So he sat in silence, a pleasant-enough brand of torpor but with no further plans for the visible future.

  Marcus killed the engine and held the keys toward Mabry.

  Then the first practical thought he’d had in a good many hours occurred to Mabry. “How will you get home?” He craned to look past Tasker’s old Chevy for another vehicle. There was only Audrey’s even older beige Ford. “How did you get here?”

  Marcus said “I walk. You know where Mom lives, by the white cemetery. I’m staying there now. I’ll truck on down there and freshen my beauty—don’t you know—and then I’ll hitch my black ass to Sherwin. Then I’ll use the broke-down drugstore car to deliver strong pills to elderly folks from now till the time to help your dad on into his bed. You ever read the labels on bottles those folks get? Scare you to death. May cause seizures and leprosy. Do not drive or use heavy machinery. What’s heavy machinery—a fifty-dollar dildo?”

  Mabry laughed. “Anything bigger than a cocktail shaker. You want to come inside—a cup of coffee maybe? I sure need a jolt of something to bring me back at least halfway across the wide Atlantic.”

  Marcus said “I envy that jet lag you got.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Jet lag—that feeling you get from flying so far in too few days.”

  Mabry said “You’ll get it soon enough. Meanwhile, drop the envy.” He reached for his door latch.

  Marcus said “You want me to bring you something? You know, some kind of pick-me-up? The druggist is a good friend. How about a little mild-mannered speed, just a capsule or two?”

  Mabry blared his eyes to their full stretch. “Noooo, I gobbled my share of drugs thirty-five years ago when drugs were the thing. I’ll make me a cup of strong black coffee; then I’ll risk a long doze. But thanks all the same.” He looked again to Marcus, serious now. “For God’s sake, don’t get in any drug trouble. You’d kill your mother.”

  Marcus slowly agreed. “I would. And your dad—he’s been good to me right o
n down the years.”

  Wait. What’s behind that? Mabry said “How long have you known Reverend Kincaid?”

  “Your pa, you mean?”

  “Is there another Reverend Kincaid on the lot?” Once it was out, Mabry heard his meanness.

  Before he could soften the sarcasm, though, Marcus said “I think I saw him in Baltimore when I was a child—we lived there then. And of course I’d see him sometimes when we’d come back home for visits.”

  Mabry said “But he didn’t live here till a few months ago.”

  Marcus said “You’d have to ask my mom for details. My memory’s a mess.”

  Mabry said “Well, I’m glad we had our trip. Maybe we’ll think of some other possibilities.”

  Marcus said “That would be mighty fine. You just say the word.”

  Mabry smiled. “Is there anything we said or did that I’m not supposed to mention inside?” He pointed to the house that was now in deep shade.

  Marcus said “Just don’t stress how much fun I had. And how I sassed you.”

  Mabry said “You didn’t sass me.”

  “Yes sir I did, there back at the museum with your favorite picture—how I said you didn’t really tell me why you liked it.” With that, Marcus opened his own door wide and was saying “So long.”

  But Mabry said “Wait.”

  Marcus sat back to wait.

  “The woman in the picture—the Botticelli Virgin and Child? That long plain face, the straight blond hair, the long pale fingers—she looks more like my mother than any photograph I’ve got.”

  Marcus felt there might be the need for some lightness. “But you don’t look a lot like Baby Jesus, do you? Not anymore.”

  Mabry said “I was telling you about my mother. I’ve missed her lately.”

  So Marcus backtracked. “I never met her, did I?”

  Mabry said “I doubt it—but what do I know? She’s been dead twelve years anyhow. Her name was Eunice Kincaid, and you’ve seen her now—in that big round painting.” Mabry pointed toward where he thought Raleigh lay, more or less due south.

  Marcus said “I’ll keep her in my mind then.”

  Since Marcus wouldn’t let Mabry pay him for the drive, now Mabry handed him a book he’d bought for himself at the museum—a catalogue of all the paintings they’d seen and a good many more. The Botticelli would be in there.

  Marcus looked in the index, turned to it now, and held it up for Mabry to see.

  All Mabry could do was nod at the sight. The thought of his mother—first in the line of women he’d hurt, over and over—was way too painful. He said “You take that book home with you.”

  “You giving it to me? Mr. Kincaid, you don’t owe me one thing. I enjoyed this day.”

  Mabry said “Son” and stopped right there. This isn’t your son and he won’t want a trace of condescension. So he started again. “Excuse that son but—”

  Marcus said “Call me son any minute you need to.”

  Mabry said “Son, I’ll see you tonight.”

  Marcus said “If we live that long. You know what the old-timers up here say—‘If the Lord be willing and we don’t die.’”

  Mabry said “Damned right too.”

  In another ten seconds they’d gone separate ways.

  Three

  9 . 14 . 2001

  9 . 17 . 2001

  Inside, a minute later, Mabry had walked straight on to the kitchen—no lights, nobody. His father’s door was open, but there were no sounds from him or the television or Audrey. Mabry quietly went to his door and looked in.

  Tasker was dressed to his usual standard and up in his wheelchair but slumped to the side in a nap so abandoned he looked like a victim.

  Mabry wanted to speak or somehow approach and gently close his mouth, but he knew that would wake him. So with the sense of abandoning a child—something he absolutely knew he’d done at the time of his divorce—he turned and went to his own old room. There was no sign of Audrey anywhere, though her car had been in the drive just now.

  In his room, the bed (which he’d made this morning) had been remade to professional standards—hospital corners at all four ends. His towel had been folded, and the shirt he’d draped across a chair had disappeared. When he searched, he discovered that all the dirty clothes he’d brought from France were also gone. Now she’s laundering me and Pa. I’ll stop that fast. But no anger followed. Somehow he didn’t mind Audrey’s rummaging through his things. At least there was no sign she’d unwrapped the painting, and that was the only thing that felt private.

  He was almost about to open it once more, pop out the liner again, wet a handkerchief with plain saliva—the conservator’s friend—and work on a chaste square inch of the wildness at the edges where the canvas had been covered for more than a century. That would at least remove a little dirt. But his tiredness overcame him, and he’d hardly lain down before he was lost in consoling dreams. He focused on them, and his resting mind told him that in Italy last week he’d bought, which he hadn’t in actual life, the ravishing yard-tall nude Roman Venus, marble, second century AD (faked this past summer by his great-forger friend). In the room’s warm air, she lay beside him at the edge of his pillow; and when he laid his cheek against her, he heard an ancient voice recite a Catullan poem in fine native Latin. Only two or three years ago, that would not have been sufficient to calm him and feed his desire. Now it was.

  By the time Mabry got to the end of supper, though—Audrey’s baked chicken and a deep banana pudding with real meringue—he was shaky on his pins; and he didn’t know why. He tried to conceal it in talk about the museum and small jokes.

  But Tasker saw his trouble. He rolled himself a few feet back from the table; and said “Son, let’s step into my room for a minute.” Before Mabry could fold his napkin and thank Audrey properly, Tasker looked straight to her. “Dear friend, please excuse me if I shut my door. I’ve got some dreadful old-man secrets to confess to this lad, old family business. None of them has the least connection with you. You get nothing but gratitude from my heart and soul.”

  Audrey seemed to take it calmly. “That’s all right by me, Father. I’ve got some troubles of my own to bring you soon, but right now I need to drive out to Mama’s and get a few things.”

  Tasker said “Please give her my best then.”

  Audrey looked up, smiling. “I’d be glad to do it, sir; but Mama’s been dead since December twenty-first, shortest day of last year.”

  Tasker clapped both empty palms to his mouth, then tapped his skull. “She’s very much alive in my old mind—see?” Then with more strength than Mabry had witnessed, he spun himself on into his room. “Son, join me when you can.” He pushed the door half shut behind him.

  Audrey had already risen and started clearing her place.

  So when Mabry stood, he stacked his own cutlery and dishes and began telling more about the day—Marcus’s Brueghel and the interesting things he’d seen in the picture.

  Audrey couldn’t smile. “That boy’s got a lot more sense than dollars, but he’s still dreaming of college somehow.” She broke off there—no word about why she was studying at Duke but Marc was working a menial job. “You go to your dad. I’m in charge of dirty dishes.”

  Mabry said “You’re taking on way too much duty. Let me wash these at least.”

  Audrey paused in place and began to speak in a genuine whisper. “You’ll have a lot more time with dishes in your life than you’ll have with Father Kincaid. Go—in—yonder—now.” She pointed to the bedroom.

  So Mabry thanked her calmly and went.

  By then Tasker had the television on, and still there was nothing but obsessive news about the World Trade Center. By then the men delving in the mountain of rubble were gradually coming to the realization that however many thousands of men and women had died in the ruins, very little of any single person survived. As Mabry had guessed in Nova Scotia, the many thousand gallons of jet-plane fuel had cremated them all with the rare excepti
ons of a hand or leg here, a human face there.

  When the news reporter, five hundred miles away, turned to face Mabry and Tasker and said, again, that lower Manhattan would be closed to traffic—wheel or foot—for several more days at least, Mabry stood and turned the TV off. Then he said “Oh, I’m sorry. You want to keep watching this?”

  “Not at all,” Tasker said. “It’s where you live, though. I thought you’d care.”

  “I care, God knows, but there’s nothing new apparently.”

  Tasker said “And there won’t be, not till those smart Mohammedan boys strike again.”

  Mabry knew the answer but he had to ask. “You convinced they’ll strike?”

  “They’ll have to—won’t they? What else are they for, in their mobbed world, and sick as we are in all our money. You know what Jesus says about money, and he was just one more brown-skinned boy—barely more than a boy when he went on and died.”

  Mabry felt that was more or less correct but he suddenly laughed. “Pa, if you’re telling me I need to move back down here and patch up this house, feel free to use the sentence I’m about to speak at this moment—I’d need to be crazier than I already am.” He laughed again, then saw he’d either confused his father or kicked him once more. But he sat back down, no apology.

  His father’s eyes were steady on him—not a mad hot stare but an unblinking gaze. So Mabry tried for at least a pleasant tone of voice. “You asked me in here a few minutes ago. Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

  Tasker said “Maybe we ought to talk about guilt.”

  Mabry said “I’m mostly glad to oblige, but what brand of guilt have you got in mind?”

  Tasker looked down and waited in silence a good while longer. When he realized he couldn’t look up yet, he went on and said “Mine. I need you to hear my confession and forgive me, if you find it in your heart. Nobody but you can do the trick for me.”