Touch

by Elmore Leonard

  Lynn asked Bill Hill if he'd ever heard of anybody having it before. He said yes, he'd heard of it but had never read much about it or knew of anyone who'd had it lately. He believed it was something a long time ago saints used to get.

  "God, saints," Lynn had said.

  "I guess not all saints," Bill Hill had said, "just some."

  Lynn came out on the balcony and sank into the canvas chair.

  "Hey, thanks."

  Bill Hill had filled her wine glass and made himself a fresh vodka and bitter lemon. He sat on the chaise with his white loafers crossed, the crease in his yellow slacks straight and sharp up to the lump of a bony knee, then on to the bulge of his body shirt that was like blue-flowered wallpaper, three buttons undone to show his silver chain and Thank You, Jesus medallion that his former wife, Barbararose, had given him years ago, way before neck ornaments for men became popular. He liked the feel of it there and sometimes liked to hook two fingers over the medallion and hang onto it. Maybe for security, though Bill Hill usually didn't analyze his moves or try to interpret his body language. He believed in Almighty God and His Only Begotten Son Jesus Christ, but did not believe in most traditional forms of worship or fundamental methods of propagating the faith. Not since his Uni-Faith days. It had been great stuff . . .

  The World's Tallest Illuminated Cross of Jesus, 117 feet high . . . the Chapel in the Pines, the Pilgrims' Rest Cafeteria and Gift Shop, where they sold Heavenly Hash candy, ten-inch battery-operated replicas of the World's Tallest Illuminated Cross of Jesus, WTICOJ T-shirts . . . There were college-girl hostesses, fresh young things direct from the Florida campus at Gainesville, three state-champion baton twirlers including fabulous Lynn Marie Faulkner of Miami Beach, who had twirled in five Orange Bowl pageants before she was eighteen . . . And for the main attraction there was the Reverend Bobby Forshay, who would appear from way off coming down out of the piny woods like a 1960s John the Baptist. Bobby Forshay would mount the stage of the amphitheater in his raggedy jeans and polyester wolfskin sleeveless jacket and say, "Hi. I was up yonder talking to my old buddy Jesus. And you know what he told me? . . ." Bobby Forshay would preach and then he would invite the sick and the cripples to come up with their crutches and walkers and faith in their hearts and let him lay his hands on them and, as an instrument of the Lord, heal their infirmities. He healed a bunch of them . . .

  Bill Hill's ex-wife, Barbararose, who was a hard-shell Baptist out of Nashville, where there were 686 different Fundamentalist churches, had called the whole Uni-Faith setup "a mockery in the eyes of God." (Where did people find those special words for talking about religion? Mockery.) "You call yourself a born-again Christian," Barbararose had said, "asking people to reverence a ten-story wood and a Bible school dropout who can no more heal'n I can."

  "It's the end result that counts," Bill Hill had said. "How it makes people feel."

  Barbararose said, "Do you know what the Lord thinks about all this?"

  "He told you but He hasn't told me yet," Bill Hill said.

  Barbararose said He would call it an abomination unto His name. For thou shalt not make unto thee any graven images, etc.

  Bill Hill said to his wife, "You know why Baptists never fuck standing up, Barbararose? They don't want God to think they're dancing."

  Barbararose had left him, taking along little Bill, Jr., eventually got a divorce and was now married to a fruit shipper down in Stuart, Florida. Fine. (Little Bill, Jr., now a teen-ager, visited summers and they'd take off for a month in the latest r.v. equipment.)

  As for getting back in the religion business--well, there were boys who still did all right with the old methods. Billy Graham filled the Astrodome and Oral Roberts had a university going for him and an AP top-twenty basketball club. Rex Humbard was still on TV Sunday morning and had his Cathedral of Tomorrow in Akron, Ohio. But those boys had become established over the years and worked hard to keep up their ratings.

  No, there was another way to sell God and His blessings and he'd give Lynn a hint the next time she shook her head and said Juvenal wasn't salable or wasn't the kind you could use in a religious show. He'd say, "What did David Frost sell those Nixon interviews for?" She'd say what? Or she'd say she didn't know. He'd say, "Something like six million, that's what. You see it?" She'd say no. He'd say, "Sell the package and get out, that's how you do it." That's all he'd tell her today and only if she asked. Bill Hill wasn't sure yet how to go about it; but it was an idea that felt good, fooling with in his mind, one of those ideas you think of and say, "Of course. How else would you do it?"

  Lynn said, "It was Artie. I told you. He's taking the red eye and'll be here in the morning. Has to see me."

  "I thought you quit."

  "I did, sort of. But I've got to give him my records and things."

  "Wait a minute," Bill Hill said, "tomorrow's Sunday."

  "He says he's got a presentation first thing Monday and if it doesn't come off right it's my fault."

  "Well, tough. You told him, what, four days ago--"

  "I know, but at least I've got to pick him up and, you know, get him squared away. He comes here, he's lost."

  Bill Hill was sitting up straighter, frowning. "All you've been talking about is going up to Almont tomorrow. You're dying to see Juvenal--see what's going on with this weird guy and his Gray Ghosts--"

  "I'm gonna be there. We're going, right. But I've got to meet Artie first, that's all. I'm definitely gonna be there. I have to, at least I have to apologize for running off, God, like I was scared of him. He must think I'm awful."

  Bill Hill was shaking his head now. "You witnessed something few living persons have ever seen. You saw a miracle with your own eyes, and now you tell me these rock and roll records you have to give Artie are more important."

  "The business records," Lynn said. "I'm not giving him record records. Look, it starts at eleven, Saint John Bosco in Almont. I got a road map--I've got a new dress, haven't I?--I know exactly how to get there and I'm going, we're going. But I've got to see Artie first."

  "I'll pick you up," Bill Hill said.

  "Fine."

  "Ten o'clock."

  "Fine. Only, just in case I'm not back you go ahead and I'll meet you there."

  Bill Hill was staring at her, hard. "You're afraid to see him, aren't you?"

  "I'm not afraid, and I'm gonna be there," Lynn said. "Maybe I'm a little nervous, that's all."

  "What're you gonna say to him?"

  "I don't know--how are you? What do you say? I'm gonna apologize, ask if I can come and talk to him sometime. . . . What do you keep looking at me like that for?"

  "I'm concerned about you," Bill Hill said. "You feel all right?"

  "I feel fine."

  "There's something about you that's different."

  "Well, what do you expect? I just got out of an alcohol treatment center."

  That was better.

  He didn't want to see her tighten up and lose her sense of values, get too serious. He needed Lynn with him all the way if he was going to make his million dollars.

  Chapter 12

  AUGUST MURRAY planned the dedication ceremony around Father Nestor's contaminated bowel. He knew the old man would never last two hours away from a toilet, so he planned it: procession, Solemn High Mass, break; second procession, Benediction, impromptu announcement and . . . whatever happened after that.

  Following the break, Greg Czarnicki would remain outside. He wanted to be sure to tell Greg to have his camera with him at all times.

  Bill Hill waited in front of Lynn's apartment until almost eleven; gave up, irritated, got lost on the way to Almont, and didn't arrive at Saint John Bosco until the second procession was moving up the walk to the church. Bill Hill didn't know he had missed the first procession, mass, and Father Nestor's halting sermon on the true spirituality of the Latin tradition. He thought the show was just beginning, and in a way he was right.

  He recognized Juvenal, thinking at first he was dressed as a p
riest. No, more like a tall altar boy in his cassock and surplice, showing about six inches of tan cotton pants and white sneakers below the hem of the black gown. Juvenal carried a cross straight up in front of him, like a staff with a crucifix mounted on top. Behind him came two real altar boys, about eleven or twelve, one of them swinging a silver thing of incense--a nice touch, Bill Hill thought, the sound of the canister swinging on thin chains--then another guy about Juvenal's age in black cassock and white surplice (August Murray) and then an old priest in gold vestments flicking holy water out of what looked like a flashlight--flicking it at the men in white shirts and gray arm-bands who lined both sides of the walk and were holding lighted candles.

  Bill Hill hung back until the Gray Ghosts, or whatever Lynn said they were called, fell in behind the priest; he followed them into the church.

  The Detroit Free Press had sent a writer by the name of Kathy Worthington, twenty-nine--eight years on murders, drug busts, city politics, fish with mercury and milk laced with PBB--to cover the Saint John Bosco dedication. She didn't ask why; she had covered August Murray activities before and knew something at least worthy of , local news, could happen.

  The paper had not assigned a photographer--they had several shots of August Murray on file, both wild-eyed and composed--and Kathy didn't see anyone from the News or any of the television stations; which was fine. She wouldn't have to stand around with them being cynical. So this is where the action is, huh? Four and a half million people either doing something or getting ready to on a summer morning in August . . . while here at Almont, at the dedication of Saint John Bosco . . . and tie it in with Tremors in the Church of Rome . . . Catholic, universal, the French Archbishop Lefebvre's traditionalist movement--"This attitude of the Vatican against us is not come from the Holy Ghost"--and you have August Murray's white-shirted ghosts . . . bring August into the story, grim defender of right-wing causes . . . though she didn't see how he could swing very militantly today and get busted for anything. August among his own kind: play it straight and hope that at least he'd insult the pope and call him a Communist.

  Kathy Worthington's note pad remained in her canvas bag while she sat through her first mass since graduating from Immaculata High School. So far, what did you write about a mass said by an old priest who sprinkled his Latin with Portuguese? Even if Rome found out, would they give a shit?

  * * *

  Lynn was only about ten minutes behind Bill Hill once she was able to shake Artie loose, trying to be nice, then raising her voice and telling him no, definitely, she would not help him with his presentation or discuss any part of the business with him for two weeks; she was on her vacation, and if he didn't like it he could get somebody else; she had to go, she was late for church. Artie said, "You going to church? Who's getting married?"

  She arrived to see all the cars parked along the gravel road in front of the typical white frame basic church she had seen on county roads all her life, feeling they were the same dusty cars and pickups, the same people attending--just like when she was little and would hang around outside with her friends until they heard the organ playing and the people solemnly joining in the first hymn. Lynn parked and walked down the line of cars in her blue-green eighty-dollar print, a little awkward in heels after years of sandals and wedgies--it was the gravel, and wanting to hurry but still look neat and fresh when she entered.

  The organ sounded like an accordion, tinny, the notes dull, repetitive. The words were different though.

  "Tan-tum air-go-oh, sac-ra-meh-en-tum . . ." Mournful, a slow chant.

  "Vay-nay-ray-mur cher-nu-ee-ee . . ."

  She paused on the steps before the open doorway, looking over to see a yellow school bus, Lapeer County Schools, pulling up to the house or rectory next door. A young guy in a choir or altar boy outfit stood in the drive with both hands raised, guiding the bus toward him past a line of parked cars. The door opened, a little boy wearing a baseball cap jumped out of the bus, and a voice called to him to wait.

  Lynn didn't know if this was mass or what. She couldn't remember if she'd ever heard Latin before. The church was packed. A line of men in white shirts and gray armbands, holding lighted candles, extended up both sides of the middle aisle. The priest on the altar in gold vestments-- She saw Juvenal then, the tallest altar boy up there, and August Murray, also in an altar boy outfit.

  "Sol-us hon-on-or, vir-tus quo-oh-quay . . ."

  The song was so sad; she wondered what it was about--looking around for Bill Hill now, her eyes seeking color.

  "No-vo say-dat rit-too-ee . . ."

  The congregation didn't appear much different than any other. They could be Baptist, Pentecostal, Church of God . . . the guys with the armbands, she decided, must be the Gray Army of the Holy Ghost. Fundamentalists didn't have anything like that. She wasn't even sure if they had a Holy Ghost.

  "Gen-ee-tor-re-is, gen-ee-toh-oh-quay . . ."

  Everybody singing and they weren't even reading it from hymnbooks. They actually knew the words.

  Juvenal was facing the congregation, he and August Murray flanking the old priest, maybe holding him up. Juvenal moved aside and Lynn had the feeling he was looking at her, past all the heads and hats, picking her out where she stood in the back of the church. Smiling? Lynn wasn't sure if he was smiling at her--actually, she wasn't sure if he was smiling at all--a boyish face up there beyond all the hats.

  Yes, hats--it dawned on her that all the women seemed to be wearing summer straws or little hats with veils she hadn't seen in years, or scarves over their heads, all of them . . . except the blonde in the last pew, just a little over from Lynn, a girl about her own age with long, straight blond hair, green shirt-dress, and canvas bag.

  Something something "doe-que-men-tum," something else and "la-ouw-da-ah-tsi-oh--" And then a sustained "Ah-men." There was a long silence. She couldn't see what they were doing up there. Then everyone knelt down and Lynn felt exposed, the only one standing.

  She saw Bill Hill, squeezed in at the end of a pew over on the far left, wearing his yellow outfit two days in a row. Black hair slicked down in place--she was pretty sure he used Grecian Formula. He looked out of place, though not because he claimed to be a Fundamentalist. He looked too studied-slick to be among the Latin-lovers.

  A little altar boy was swinging something silver on a chain, thin wisps of smoke rising. Lynn realized it was incense--they actually used it in their religious ceremony. There was a faint odor, too, but it wasn't the sweet smell of incense in dark rooms with cool jazz playing. The priest turned to the congregation, raising a gold statue that was like an arty sunburst with a little round window in the center and something white showing through the glass. Bells rang several times. There was a hush inside the church, not a sound. The members of the Gray Army were down on one knee. It was moody, very dramatic, the incense, the thin little sound of the bells, the gold sunburst raised high. Bill Hill was half sitting, half kneeling, watching, not moving a muscle--the expert on God, religion, and church administration. Lynn watched him begin to turn, looking around with his head raised. She waited. When he saw her, finally, she gave him a motion to come on back. The priest was saying, in English, "The Divine Praises . . . Blessed be God."

  And everyone in the church said, "Blessed be God."

  "Blessed be His holy name."

  Everybody: "Blessed be His holy name."

  She wanted to ask him what was going on and if she'd missed anything. Bill Hill was coming down the side aisle now--heads turning to watch him as they answered, "Blessed be Jesus Christ, true God and true man." Lynn waited as he crossed the back of the church.

  "Blessed be His most sacred heart."

  She stage-whispered, "You see him? Juvenal?"

  Bill Hill nodded, reaching her. "I think he saw me, too, but I'm not sure."

  "What's going on?"

  "How should I know?" Bill Hill took her arm. "Let's go out and grab a smoke."

  Lynn hesitated, the little girl again. Was it all rig
ht? She wasn't going to have much choice the way he was pulling her. She said, "You should quit if you have to leave church to have one."

  He said, "Come on," starting for the vestibule, sunlight showing in the open doorway.

  The priest was saying, "Blessed be Jesus in the most holy sacrament of the altar."

  The congregation said it again.

  The priest began, "Blessed be the name of Mary--"

  "Blessed be the name of Mary, virgin and mother," the congregation said.

  There was silence.

  Then another voice said, "Blessed be her holy and immaculate conception."

  As the congregation repeated the words, Bill Hill stopped to look over his shoulder at the altar.

  The priest was walking stiff-legged yet hurrying to leave the altar. For a moment Juvenal stood watching. He went after the old priest then, close behind him as they went through the door into the sacristy. The other adult altar boy, August Murray, glanced after them, saying, "Blessed be Saint Joseph, her most chaste spouse."

  Bill Hill felt Lynn's hands on his arm.

  "Blessed be Saint Joseph, her most chaste spouse."

  He turned back to go out with her, feeling her close. But she didn't move and he bumped against her, saying, "What's the matter?" as he saw her expression.

  "Blessed be God, His angels and His saints."

  "Blessed be God, His angels and His saints."

  Silence.

  Lynn stood rigid, facing the vestibule.

  The sunny area between the inner and outer doors of the church seemed to be full of children. Children on crutches, children with metal leg braces, children wearing padded helmets, children in wheelchairs . . .