House Infernal by Edward Lee

by Edward Lee

  "Neither have your boobs. That's what's worrying me. Once he gets a load of your milk wagons, he'll probably leave the priesthood and run off with you. Then I'd have to eat Chef Boyardee every night."

  "Where has Father Driscoll been all these years?" Venetia broke in, desperately trying to change subjects.

  "I'm not sure," Maxine replied. "He said that he took some classes at the Vatican for a year or two, but he never mentioned if he got his own parish after that."

  "He's probably into clerical education," Venetia said. "Some priests never become parishional. This job at the prior house is a good clue."

  "Sounds more like janitorial duty in the name of the church," her father said. "You'll probably be taking out more garbage cans than studying"

  Maxine had to contribute: "And you could perform a welcome duty for the church yourself, Richard. By getting into one of those garbage cans."

  "Do you two always have to cut each other down?" Venetia complained.

  Her father looked back and winked. "It's just your mother's way of letting me know she's hot to trot."

  "Oh, is that what it is?" Maxine said, but she unconsciously pulled at the V of her blouse. Her bosom jiggled as a result.

  "Careful with those, dear. I'm driving, remember? If you keep distracting me like that, I might have to pull over, and poor Venetia'll have to sit in the Caddy by herself while you and I disappear into the woods for a half hour."

  "Really, Richard. A half hour? I'll give your virility a break and refrain from further comment."

  This was driving Venetia nuts. "Dad, are we going to be there soon? Please say yes."

  "Yes." Richard pointed to the right.

  An ornamented wooden sign with gothic letters read: ST. JOHN'S PRIOR HOUSE-EST. 1965. No TRESPASSING - AP- POIN7MEPTI' ONLY.

  Thank God! Venetia thought.

  "And getting back to what your mother was saying," Richard continued with a sly grin, "she wasn't complaining about my virility a couple Fridays ago. I forgot to close the bedroom window, and the next day the neighbors asked me what all that noise was about-"

  Maxine put a hand over his mouth, then looked back at Venetia. "Your father gets this way every now and then, honey. You know. Like a cow that needs to be milked?"

  "Mom, please, I can't handle that image...

  Then her mother lowered her voice to a quick whisper. "But I'll ball his brains out tonight. That'll keep him simmered down for a while."

  "Mom! Please!" Then Venetia looked out the windshield and saw the prior house loom into view.

  Richard pulled around a circular drive surrounded by grievously untrimmed hedges. They all stared at the building.

  "Well, there it is," Richard said breaking the silence. "I must say, it's..."

  "It's ... well..." Maxine hesitated.

  "It's the dullest, most lackluster looking church building I've ever seen," Venetia ventured.

  "Took the words right out of my mouth," her father remarked.

  What a letdown. Venetia scrutinized the long two-story edifice. She'd been expecting an Edwardian masterpiece with gables, Doric columns, and intricate cornice-work. This is the work of the Vatican's master builder of the twentieth century? "You know what it looks like?" she considered. "An old English hospital from the twenties."

  "Yeah, only duller," her father added.

  "I thought it was designed by someone important in the Vatican," Maxine posed. "I remember Father Driscoll mentioning something like that."

  Venetia grabbed her purse and laptop case. "It was, the Pope's favorite modem architect, a man named Amano Tessorio. For decades he built the most spectacular churches, convents, and monasteries all over the world."

  "I hope he didn't get paid much for this one," Richard said, drawing on his unlit pipe.

  "Tessorio was a Vatican-schooled priest," Venetia said. "He got the same paycheck as all priests-a couple hun dred dollars a month. God's work isn't supposed to be a big payday. But Tessorio was quite famous in his time."

  The three of them got out and stared some more at the unremarkable structure: simple brick and cement outer walls interspersed by side-sliding windows, and it was topped by a low-peaked roof with standard shingles. Indeed, the place more resembled an old school or institution whose designers either lacked any architectural creativity or were more concerned with function than appearance.

  Maxine perked up, pointing to a pair of steel double doors more suited for an urban high school. "Here he comes!"

  Venetia looked past several other parked cars, including a shiny black Mercedes. A man nearly six feet tall in traditional black slacks, black shirt, and a Roman collar approached them. He had intense blue eyes, and could've been a Marine with his blond buzz cut. Mom's right. He is handsome. She sensed a very serious demeanor behind an expression that wasn't quite a smile ... which Venetia also found weirdly alluring.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Barlow, it's wonderful to see you again," he said, and then there was an exchange of pleasantries. The blue eyes drilled into Venetia, "And you, young lady ... sorry to sound cliched but the last time I saw you, you were a yard high."

  "Hi, Father." She shook his hand, which she found strong and callused. "I'm sorry I don't remember you."

  "Well, maybe you will after a couple of days here." The comment seemed cryptic. "Back then, I wasn't much older than you are now. And, a four-point-oh at Catholic U? I graduated there myself."

  "Really? I didn't know that."

  "And I'll admit, I'm a bit jealous."

  Jealous? "Why's that Father?"

  "I barely got out of there with a three-point-five." His gaze leveled, and again he seemed to be trying to smile while never really doing it. "I only hope that a superior student like yourself won't be too disappointed when she realizes the true nature of this field study option. There won't be a lot of academics going on here, but we will be working our behinds off: painting, wallpapering, and a lot of yard work."

  "That's fine with me, Father. I could use a break from the books anyway, and if God wants a paint roller in my hand instead of a midterm, then so be it."

  "Excellent response." The priest turned and cast a quick glance at the building. "As you can all see, the prior house won't win any awards for beauty in architecture but now that I think of it, the Church might've been better off choosing utilitarian designs like this all along."

  "What do you mean, Father?" Maxine asked.

  "Think of all the money the Vatican would've saved over the last two thousand years. God doesn't care if His house is ugly as long as it works. But just for formality's sake, we'll have it looking a little less ugly before reopening."

  "How long has it been closed?" Venetia wondered.

  "Well, it's never been totally closed. For decades it's served a variety of uses for the Church: book repository, warehouse, and sometimes parish priests would board here while their own churches were refurbished. There was a small maintenance staff the whole time, but they all retired recently. So did the previous prior."

  Venetia didn't want to sound nosy but she was suddenly curious about this man. "What were your duties before you received this assignment?"

  "A lot of teaching, plus some counseling," the priest responded. His gaze flicked up when a seagull sailed by. "Rome, France, India, Brazil, and all around the U.S. The church has given me a lot of opportunities to travel. But now the diocese wants me to reopen this place, so here I am. It'll be different, that's for sure. I only wish I'd been able to recruit more girls like you."

  "Like me, Father?"

  "Students of theology. It's my favorite subject. I put fliers out at the theology departments of some of the nearby colleges but no one replied. I was lucky enough to run into your parents at my old church in Dover, and when they told me that you were at Catholic U, I thought it couldn't hurt to ask you to apply."

  Suddenly Venetia became self-conscious. I hope I don't look too ragged from lack of sleep. She felt driven to make a good first impression. "I just want you to kn
ow that I'm very grateful, Father, for giving me this opportunity."

  "Don't thank me yet." He turned with that same failed smile. "Thank me at the end of the summer"-he swept his hands across the cul-de-sac's unkempt excuses for flowerbeds-"when we've gotten all these weeds pulled. Sounds like fun, huh?"

  "At least it's a bit more interesting on the inside," Driscoll said once they entered. "A bit more interesting and a bit more dirty."

  Venetia stood just inside the doorway, her bags tugging at her arms. The inside floor layout was an immense atrium surrounded by four walls of offices and libraries on the first floor and presumably living quarters on the second. Two drab stairwells on either side led upstairs, and a stair-hall wrapped around the atrium as well. A variety of throw rugs, some quite large, covered the floor, on which couches, arm chairs, and writing tables were arranged. In between each lower-level office door stood rows of book shelves festooned by cobwebs.

  "Wow," " Venetia said. "This is going to be a big cleaning job "

  "Sure is. But at least the upstairs is already spic 'n span and ready for painting."

  "I noticed cars parked outside. How many others will be on the job?"

  "Three others-you'll be meeting them soon."

  Three others? she thought with little enthusiasm. That's not much of a work crew for this big dirty dump.

  "I see you've brought your laptop," he added. "If we're lucky enough to find a working phone line, maybe you could e-mail some of your fellow students at the university . We can use all the help we can get, and it's an easy three credit hours."

  Easy? She doubted it. And she doubted that any of her friends at school would want to abandon their summer for such a job.

  "While I'm thinking of it..."-the tall priest handed her a key on a cord-"wear this at all times, and any time you exit the building lock the door behind you."

  Venetia put the key around her neck. Is he afraid of burglars?

  "This area's never been known for much crime," Driscoll elaborated, "but there are a lot of valuable books in here, some quite old." He briefly showed her the front doors. "First thing we did was put high-quality locks on all the exit doors, and alarm tape on the windows."

  It seemed undue paranoia to Venetia. This is New Hampshire farmland, not downtown DC. "I suppose in this day and age we can never be too security-conscious."

  "Exactly," he said, and led her on.

  Before her parents left, her mother had made her promise to call every night on her cell phone. Venetia wondered what her parents' reaction would be if they'd seen the inside of the place. But she truly believed that things happened for a reason, and that God was often behind those reasons. God must really want me to get dirty, she mused.

  "I can guess what you're thinking, Venetia."

  "I'm sorry, Father?"

  "You're thinking that you've walked into a real clunker of a job. I can see it on your face."

  Venetia laughed. "It's nothing like that. I'm just a little shocked. It's not what I expected from a Tessorio building."

  "So you're familiar with his work?"

  "I have several picture books of his monasteries and convents-"

  "They're magnificent, aren't they?"

  "Yes.;"

  "And this place ... isn't."

  She giggled. "No, it isn't. Tessorio was known for fancy Gothic Revival and Edwardian designs, right?"

  "Pretty much." Driscoll frowned, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "And I'm afraid what he wasn't known for was air-conditioning."

  Venetia only noticed that now. It was very hot inside. More self-consciousness assailed her. Am I sweating? Are my underarms damp? "At least the nights are usually cool. They don't even have window units here?"

  "hope. The boiler's fine for heat in the winter. My boss at the diocese says he's going to have some fans sent out, but who knows when that will happen. We have a lot of hot work waiting for us, I'm afraid."

  Venetia didn't mind. As a child she'd always looked forward to the brief New Hampshire summers; warm weather always made her feel purged. "So the prior house was built in 1965? 1 think that's what the sign said on the main road."

  Driscoll led her around the atrium's outer skirt, passing bookcase after dust-filmed bookcase. "That's right. It only took eight months to build, even as big as it is. The atrium alone is almost five thousand square feet."

  Venetia gazed across the great expanse. There were probably several dozen couches and chairs set out, some covered with sheets, some not. "Pretty simple design. It's just not what I expected. I went to services once at the Convent of Regina Pacis just before it closed, and I've visited the Gomang Monastery in Nashua several timesoh, and also the abbey at Saint Anselm College. They're all beautiful pieces of architecture."

  "This isn't supposed to be anything more than a place for priests to decompress. The burnout rate's pretty high."

  "I know. I remember reading about it in the Catholic Standard. High suicide rate, too, I think."

  Some of the tile flooring could be seen between the throw rugs; the dust was so thick, Driscoll's shoes left footprints. "The older a priest gets--and the more of his life he gives to God-the more he becomes subject to basic human frailties. Self-doubt, depression, wavering faith. The prior house isn't intended to be a home for sick or elderly priests-it's just sort of a rest stop, in between jobs." He pointed to all the chairs and couches filling the atrium. "That's what all that's for. Our guys can come here and just sit around, read, meditate."

  The way Driscoll talked seemed to humanize the sterile exterior-referring to priests as "our guys," for instance. The gesture reminded Venetia of his smile-something that struggled to be seen.

  Statues and busts on pedestals stood intermittently between the bookcases, set back in tall sconces. Venetia examined each one as they walked, and found that she recognized most before having to look at the nameplates. Thomas Merton, Aquinas, Soren Kierkegaard, St. Augustine...

  "Here's one of my favorites," Father Driscoll said, touching a granite bust of St. Ignatius of Antioch. "How can anyone not admire him, even atheists?"

  "The earliest progressive Christian philosopher," said Venetia. "I guess you mean you admire his distinction of the relationship between body and soul, and being the first Christian writer to use the name 'Catholic?'"

  "I forgot about that part," Driscoll admitted.

  Venetia found the faux pas amusing. "What then?"

  "His martyrdom. You can't deny the devotion of a man who smiles as his body is being ravaged by dogs."

  "The same for St. Stephen," Venetia said as they moved to the next bust. "The first Christian martyr."

  The next sconce stood vacant.

  "Who's supposed to be here?" she asked.

  Driscoll wiped off the dust-smudged plaque: FR. AMANo TFSSORIO.

  "The statue was never delivered, believe it or not, but Tessorio built this recess and even mounted the nameplate when the prior house was completed. He had a... lofty ego, I guess you could say."

  Venetia stalled over the comment.

  "St. John's Priory was Tessorio's last assignment before the Vatican discharged him," Driscoll added in a manner that seemed hesitant.

  "I had no idea he was discharged. What was the reason?"

  "Well, the Catholic record says he was discharged due to poor health."

  What's he hedging? Venetia wondered. "It's curious how you phrased that, Father. It implies that poor health wasn't the real reason he was dismissed."

  Driscoll nodded through an awkward pause. "The real reason is he was caught attending a Black Mass in 1966 or so. He was charged with heresy, banished from the Church, and died of late-stage syphilis several years later."

  Venetia snapped her gaze from the empty recess to the priest. "You're kidding me."

  Did the priest snort a chuckle? "The details may be exaggerated but it's essentially true. For years, Tessorio was leading a very blasphemous double life."

  Venetia was waylaid. "You're telling me that t
he Vatican's official architect was a Satanist?"

  Driscoll led her away from the sconce, past more busts and statues. "That's putting it a bit harshly. Sometimes when priests get old, they become cynical and lose faith. They believe that celibacy to God caused them to miss out on aspects of their humanity. So they rebel. I don't know that he was a bonafide Satanist, and I'm not even certain that there is such a thing. It was probably a case of a bored, bitter old man who joined a devil club to put some spice in his last years."

  "How ... bizarre."

  The priest unconsciously raised a finger. "But there's no real telling how long Tessorio was secretly participating in such things."

  Venetia thought further. No telling how long? A secret double life? "So it might not have just been toward the end of his life? He could have been doing things like that for-"

  "For decades, sure. Who knows? But it hardly matters."

  She knew he was right but she was still intrigued. Venetia followed Father Driscoll on his quick tour of the prior house, and as her eyes took in the building's features she couldn't quell the macabre fascination.

  The house I'm walking through now was built by a Satanist....

  (II)

  "You fuckin' gotta be motherfucking shitting me, man," Ruth grumbled.

  She sat huddled next to Father Alexander's torso. The small boat rose on each swell of blood. Everywhere she looked, she saw red: the sea, the sky. She was snow-blind by blood.

  .You really have terrible language, Ruth, not that I'm one to talk," the priest remarked.

  Ruth barely heard him. "Aw, fuck it. I know. I've always said the F word. Can't fucking help it."

  "Sure you can. I was the same way. Even when I was a priest I used profane language, and that's just not cool for a priest but I did it anyway. It's actually kind of funny: Several times I got reprimanded by monsignors for cussing. I got reassigned from cushy counseling posts in nice cities, got transferred, got kicked out of quality clerical jobs-all for cussing. I guess I was trying to be a 'hip' priest, I was trying to be real-world, but it was all a sham. Foul language defames God-that's why we shouldn't use it. Foul language separates us from Grace."