Father Crowley turned up the volume, “You listening?” he asked.
Henry looked out the window of the priest’s Chevrolet Malibu and said nothing. The reporter said the gorilla’s name was Omo and that Omo had been born in the zoo and had lived there for almost twenty years. He talked about how Omo had been loose for a few hours before getting hit and how the accident had backed up traffic during the morning rush hour.
“Do we have any more information on how the animal got loose?”
“Well, Sally, according to zoo officials, the cage was opened early this morning—apparently by a young boy who had somehow gotten into the zoo.”
“A child?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have a name?”
“No, Sally. Not yet.”
“Does anyone know how the boy got into the zoo?”
“I don’t have all the facts, Sally, but the police officer I talked to said it looks like a case of child abandonment.”
“You mean the boy was abandoned in the zoo?”
“That’s what I’ve been told. But again, zoo officials aren’t commenting.”
“Well, thanks, Scott. This certainly is a sad day for gorillas. Action News will keep you posted.”
Father Crowley turned off the radio and didn’t say anything.
After a while Henry asked Father Crowley about his stuff at the O’Briens’ house.
“What stuff?”
Henry said his books.
“There are rules at Saint Jude’s, Henry. We’ll have to check first to see what you can bring with you.”
Henry asked what Saint Jude’s was.
“It’s a home for boys,” Father Crowley said just as they drove through a big gate with a cross on top. There was also a sign that said Private Property and one that said No Trespassing.
Saint Jude’s was like being way out in the desert or high up in the mountains. Monasteries were always out in the wilderness. Procopius said the biggest troublemakers in Byzantium were sent to monasteries and almost none of them ever came back. Next to strangulation it was the best way of getting rid of enemies.
The head of Saint Jude’s was a bald priest named Father Rogan. They went into his office and Father Crowley told Father Rogan all about what Henry did. Father Rogan didn’t say much. He held his palms together with his fingertips under his chin and nodded his bald head and said, “I see.” When they were finished talking, Father Rogan asked Henry if there was anything he’d like to know about Saint Jude’s.
Henry asked the priest who Saint Jude was.
Father Rogan got up from his desk and walked over to the window and stood with his back to it. The window went all the way to the floor and the drapes were pulled aside so Henry could see out across the wide lawn. The front gate was just over a small hill and Henry could see the tip of the cross on top of it even though Father Rogan took up most of the window. He was wearing a cassock. “I’ve been here nearly twenty years and in all that time nobody has ever asked that question.” He crossed his arms over his chest and went up on tiptoe and down again. “Saint Jude was one of the twelve apostles, Henry. He was the brother of the Apostle James of Jerusalem. Some scholars believe that James was Jesus’ half-brother, which means that Jude could also have been a half-brother of Jesus. That, however, is not church doctrine. Jude was also called Lebbeus; Thaddeus; and Judas, the son of James. Most commonly, he is called Judas Not Iscariot, to avoid confusing him with the Judas who betrayed Jesus to the Romans.”
Father Crowley interrupted: “You should mention that we don’t know whether Jude was the half-brother of James, as is written in the Epistle of Jude, or Judas the son of James.”
“That is quite right,” Father Rogan said. “Jude wrote an epistle. Do you know what an epistle is? An epistle is a letter. And in his letter, Saint Jude warned of the danger in accepting and being deceived by false teachings.”
Father Crowley smiled and nodded. “Did you hear that, Henry?”
Father Rogan went to the bookshelf and took down a volume and opened it and read out loud from the Epistle of Jude: “What defilement then is in their banquets, as they fare sumptuously at your side, shepherds that feed themselves without scruple! They are clouds with no water in them, driven before the winds, autumn trees that bear no fruit, given over anew unto death, plucked up by the roots.” He closed the book and stood there for a minute. Then he put the book back on the shelf. “Saint Jude was describing the emptiness of heretical teachings—including the idea that God is separated from creation.” He went back to the window and put his hands behind his back. His dark eyes and his bald head made him look fierce. Henry had to look away.
Father Crowley took a deep breath and clasped his hands behind his head. Henry felt himself shrinking under the stares of the two priests. He said he who understands, let him understand.
Father Rogan wrinkled his forehead, then he looked down at the floor. “Where do you have that from?”
Henry said from the Gospel of Mary.
“There is no Gospel of Mary,” Father Rogan said. “There are Jour canonical gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.” He took another book from the shelf and showed it to Henry. It was called Confessions by Saint Augustine. “This is one of the books we teach in high school. You’ll read it when you’re old enough to understand.” He let Henry hold the book for a minute, then he took it away and put it back on the shelf. “Augustine was a great saint, but before he came to the one true God, he was a pagan and a Manichaean.”
“Pay attention, Henry,” Father Crowley said. “You have a lot to learn.” He stood up and put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I’ll begin to make the arrangements,” he said to Father Rogan and squeezed Henry’s shoulder.
A man came in and Father Rogan introduced him as Mr. Miller. He took Henry by the hand. Father Rogan walked to the door with them and before they left he put his hand on Henry’s head. “I want you to feel at home here, Henry.” His smile made him look like a different person from the one who had stood like a shadow at the window a few minutes earlier. Henry wondered if that was how priests were different from saints. Priests were shadows, and saints were the surfaces that shadows were cast upon. “You’re going to meet other boys and make friends. Pretty soon you’ll feel like you’re part of a big family. That’s what we are here, Henry. A family. Isn’t that right, Mr. Miller?”
Mr. Miller nodded. “That’s right.”
“There’s one other thing you should know about Saint Jude,” Father Rogan said before they left. “Saint Jude is the patron saint of hopeless causes.”
Father Crowley cut in. “Because he shared the name of Jesus’ betrayer, Judas Iscariot; and because of that devotion to him was neglected.”
Father Rogan messed up Henry’s hair. “That’s exactly right, Henry. No need to worry. This is a community, and we all draw strength from each other. We share everything. Our joys and our sorrows. That’s what makes us strong.”
Mr. Miller squeezed Henry’s hand. “C’mon, I’ll show you around.”
There were no saints at Saint Jude’s, only dead bluesmen and rock-and-rollers. Elvis Presley, Jim Morrison and John Lennon and Keith Moon and Kurt Cobain and Pigpen and Sid Vicious, Robert Johnson and Howlin’ Wolf and Honey Boy Edwards and Elmore James and Ernest Whiskey Red Brown and Otis Redding and Jimi Hendrix all lived at Saint Jude’s. Henry knew their other names too but you weren’t allowed to use them except in class. It was called an “err” if you did, and whenever you made an err the one you erred got to stomp on your foot as hard as he wanted to.
The first day after classes Elvis Presley and Otis Redding came up to Henry. “What’s your name, dude?”
Henry told them.
“You have to have another name,” Elvis said. He was the tallest of all the boys and had his own pair of scissors that he used to cut his hair.
“No talkin’ to nobody ’til you get a name,” Otis Redding said. He was a black kid with bad eyes and had to wear glasses. They
had big square frames. He talked faster than anyone Henry had ever heard. “Not ’less someone talks to you first.”
“If you don’t have a name by the end of the week, we’ll give you one,” Elvis said.
“You don’t want that,” Otis Redding said.
“No way,” Elvis said. They both laughed and went to the gym.
During free time you could go anywhere you wanted as long as you didn’t leave the property. There was a big lawn that spread out from the main mansion and a small patch of woods behind the dormitory. Mr. Miller told Henry that Saint Jude’s used to belong to a rich industrialist who had lived in the mansion all alone. When he died he left his house and all the property around it to the church and said it had to be made into a home for boys because he’d been an orphan. Mr. Miller said there were all kinds of rules that he had set up and that was why Saint Jude’s was so special. Except for the one dorm and the chapel they weren’t allowed to change the place in any way. He said everyone had to get straight A’s at Saint Jude’s. If you didn’t get straight As you had to go somewhere else. There were no exceptions. Mr. Miller told Henry that he’d been a Saint Jude’s boy and had always considered it his home. That’s why he came back. He said the boys of Saint Jude’s were special and Henry was lucky to be there.
Henry did everything he was supposed to and he kept his mouth shut. He went to classes and to the dining hall and to the gym. Instead of playing sports during free time he went to the library because it was quiet. He found the book Father Rogan had showed him and some other books by Saint Augustine. One was called City of God and there were some smaller books too. One was called Against the Manichaeans and the other was called Of the Morals of the Catholic Church.
At Saint Jude’s Henry spent days as a blank. But not because his angel wouldn’t talk to him. The angel in his ear talked more than ever and said things Henry didn’t understand, like things are not imperishable but sons are and nothing will be able to receive imperishability if it first does not become a son. Sometimes as Henry lay under the covers or walked across the lawn toward classes or struggled to eat the food they fed him he would see himself being raised up into the sky on a cloud and the world would disappear beneath him. He would look down and see all the land and all the oceans. He would see everything in the world from the smallest to the biggest and nothing would be ugly or scary or strange but it would all be just so.
The boys didn’t talk to him. He didn’t have a name so everybody pretended he wasn’t there.
At the end of the week Elvis Presley and Otis Redding came up to him and said he had to give his name tonight before lights out.
“I can see you tryin’ real hard to be cool, muhfucker,” Otis Redding said.
Henry looked past them at Mr. Miller, who was coming across the lawn toward them.
“Tonight, dude,” Elvis said.
Mr. Miller jogged across the lawn. “There’s someone here to see you, Henry. In Father Rogan’s office.”
“Well, well, well, young man,” Dr. Alt said. He motioned for Henry to come toward him. “I hope you didn’t think I was going to let you get away so easily.”
Father Rogan was sitting at his desk looking at some papers and wearing reading glasses. “How are things going, Henry?”
Henry said they were fine.
“Good, very good,” Father Rogan said. He took off his reading glasses. “Do you remember who Saint Jude was?”
Henry said Lebbeus whose surname was Thaddeus; Judas Not Iscariot; Judas, brother of James or Judas, son of James of Jerusalem; Judas, half-brother of Jesus or nephew of Jesus; Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes.
Father Rogan put his papers down and pressed his glasses to his lips like he was kissing them. “That’s very good, Henry. I understand why everybody is so interested in you.”
Dr. Alt smiled and rolled his cane between his palms.
“Is there anything else you want to tell me before Dr. Alt gets started? We haven’t seen each other since the day you arrived.”
Henry shook his head.
“Are you sure? You’ve been here over a week now. There must be something you want to tell me about.”
Henry said all I want to tell you is that I do not know where I came from when I was born into this life which leads to death—or should I say, this death which leads to life?
Father Rogan looked up over the rims of his glasses. “That’s very interesting, Henry. Where do you have it from?”
Henry said Saint Augustine.
“Reading on your own, I see,” the priest said. “Very good. But inappropriate. This isn’t a time for pranks, young man.” Then he took Dr. Alt and Henry down to the teacher’s lounge, where they could talk in private.
“How do you like Saint Jude’s?” Dr. Alt asked when they were alone.
Henry said it was okay.
Dr. Alt sat down in a black armchair that had a table next to it with a pile of books and magazines on it. He dropped his cane to the floor beside the chair and took off his glasses and cleaned them. “Would you like to tell me why you ran away?”
Henry looked at the old man and saw that he had some gold teeth in the back of his mouth.
“Running away never solves any problems. But it does require a certain amount of confidence.” The priest finished cleaning his glasses and put them on again. “I’d like to hear about your adventure. Can you tell me how you got to the zoo?”
Henry told the doctor about going to the zoo and letting Big Nekkid out of the cage but he didn’t tell about meeting Mr. Earl or Pearl or what happened in Egypt.
“Why did you let the gorilla out of the cage?”
Henry said he didn’t know.
“I’m sure you don’t,” the old priest said. Then he smiled and showed his gold teeth. “Do you still remember The Apocryphon of John and the other things you told me about?”
Henry said he remembered everything.
“Do you remember your dreams?”
Henry said yes.
“Tell me about them.”
Henry asked which dreams, the sleeping ones or the awake ones.
“Any ones you can remember.”
Henry told Dr. Alt that he dreamed he was with his father and Sy and the Whore of Jersey City and Helena and they all lived on a boat together and sometimes Sy’s sister and Big Henry Game to visit.
“Is that an asleep or an awake dream?”
Henry said it was an awake one.
“Do you miss your father?”
Henry said I am not like him but I clothed myself with everything of his.
Dr. Alt took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Then he folded it and put it back in his pocket. “Where did you hear that?”
Henry said the angel in his ear.
“Has the angel always been there?” Dr. Alt asked.
Henry said yes and without the angel in his ear he wouldn’t know what to say or think. Every saint has to have an angel with wings to carry him away.
“Away from what?”
Henry said from all earthly things.
“I see.” Dr. Alt smiled and his gold teeth showed again. “Sort of like a divine spark, right?”
Henry said in Greek the word philosophy means love of wisdom.
Dr. Alt laughed. “Yes. That’s exactly right. What interests me is where the spark—or the wisdom—comes from. That’s the most fascinating question I can think of. It’s a beautiful mystery. It is what gives shape to my faith. I don’t only think like a priest, you know. As a psychologist, I consider the words and pictures which occur in the mind to be an epiphenomenon of that mysterious spark.”
Henry asked what an epiphenomenon was.
“I’m glad you asked. It’s a Greek word too. It means something that arises out of but does not depend upon. Just as consciousness can be seen as a by-product of brain activity, words and symbols can be seen as an epiphenomenon of consciousness. You don’t seek the meaning of a symbol in the brain. The brain just is. You look to consciousness and
to the symbol itself.” He stopped and smiled. “But I don’t want to confuse you.” He reached down and picked up his cane.
Henry asked Dr. Alt who his favorite saint was.
“Thomas Aquinas,” the old priest said. “Maybe one day you’ll learn about him.”
Henry said his favorite was Saint Augustine. He asked if Thomas Aquinas had foreknowledge of the Perfect Mind.
Dr. Alt laughed. “I’m sure he didn’t think so,” he said. “Aquinas was a realist. He would not have claimed anything like that.”
After the meeting Henry went back to the dormitory and lay down on his bed. He wondered what Dr. Alt would say if he told him about Mr. Earl and Pearl and figured it would only get him in trouble. He was glad he had kept his mouth shut but he hoped Mr. Earl and Pearl went to jail and were put to slow and painful deaths because they deserved it. It was like Sy said, you had to keep the stuff you took seriously to yourself. Dr. Alt would probably agree with that.
Mr. Miller came in. “What are you doing here, Henry? It’s time for gym.”
Henry stared at the ceiling and even though his eyes were open he pretended he was sleeping.
“C’mon, Henry. Get up.”
Henry kept looking at the ceiling. The angel in his ear said the flesh will not rise.
“Are you feeling sick?”
Henry tried and tried not to repeat the angel’s words but he couldn’t help himself so he said the flesh will not rise.
“Very funny,” Mr. Miller said. “If you’re sick, you should report it. You can’t just go off by yourself without saying anything to anybody.” He put his hand on Henry’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”
Henry tried not to blink. His eyes began to water and spots of blackness began to appear on the ceiling.
“I’ll excuse you from gym today,” Mr. Miller said. “Stay here and take a nap. But you’re not to leave the dorm. I’ll get you at dinnertime.”
The angel said it is necessary to rise in the flesh since everything exists in it.
Henry turned on his side. The beds were lined up one next to the other with a small table beside each and a trunk at the foot until the last one disappeared into the wall at the end of the room. That was Otis Redding’s bed. Henry could hear the hum and echo of the empty dormitory and all he could see were the shadows that the late-afternoon light made coming in through the windows. He thought about his mother and wondered why his father had never told him her name or even that she was dead until that day when they were ice skating in New York City. Saint Augustine’s mother was named Monica. He loved her very much and she cried and cried when he left Carthage and went to Rome. Truth is the mother, knowledge the father. Only he who has knowledge of the truth is free. Henry fell asleep and dreamed that he saw his mother. She was beautiful, with eyes set straight ahead into the future and all the secrets of her nature broken up into many little bits of colored stone.
Henry of Atlantic City Page 12
