by R.M. Haig
September 11th, 2016. 10:15AM
Our Mother Of Sorrows
Burlwood, Indiana
"For a just man falleth seven times," Carl Lovett thought aloud as he stood, preparing for Mass in the vestry.
When he pulled his alb down over his head, the white polyester vestment unfurled around his shoulders and plunged down to his ankles in a free fall that mirrored the spiritual belly-flop his embattled town had endured in recent weeks. Another child had been destroyed, another lamb sent off to slaughter, and now -- now -- one of his own stood accused and was being held to account.
Chucky was one of his circle, one whose confession he had taken many times throughout the years. Never had those confessions been of deeds so heinous, never had the young man shown any sign that such evil intentions or inclinations stirred within him. Upon taking his confessions, as innocent and immature as they were, he had done his duty in absolving his friend of his tortious sins with a clean conscience. He had no qualms about the issuance of forgiveness, because the boy's soul seemed so innocent and pure. If Chucky was guilty of the murder of Billy Marsh, if he was capable of such evil, how could he not have seen it?
As Father over the parish, he regularly stood beside the man and brought him closer to God through the offering of The Eucharist. As his employer, he spent many hours and many days in his presence and sensed no ill intent. He'd presided over the funeral of his mother, Charlotte Murphy, and had visited the trailer in which the man lived countless times as a friend and as a spiritual guide. In all of his encounters with Charles Edward Murphy, in all of his intimate knowledge of the man and his life, he could not conceive the possibility that he was guilty of the crimes attributed to him.
Did that mean that he must be innocent?
Or, apparently more likely, did it instead mean that Carl Lovett had been fooled?
And no marvel, he thought silently, for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light.
That was Corinthians 11:14, and Corinthians 11:14 was certainly not on the common lectionary for the liturgy that he was dreading as he dressed for it. Neither was Proverbs 24 on the agenda, but it was those two books and chapters that were racing through his mind as he prepared himself to face the congregation.
It was September 11th, the seventeenth Sunday after The Pentecost, and he was supposed to lead his people through an entirely different mass than the one that was playing in his mind this morning. Jeremiah 4:11-12 and 22-28, Psalm 14, 1 Tim 1:12-17, Luke 15:1-10, that was supposed to be the liturgy, and he was supposed to wear the green chasuble, but none of those things would be carried through to fruition on this day. He was going to wear the white chasuble, accented with the purple stole, because those colors were comforting. Those colors were calming, those colors were holy.
The township of Burlwood needed comfort, it needed calm, and -- above all else -- it needed holy on this particular Sunday. This may've been the seventeenth Sunday since The Pentecost, but it was just the seventh since little Billy Marsh went missing from the Sunday School class, and it was the first since a member of the congregation had been arrested and arraigned on charges that were stunning and staggering to the righteous and Godly.
The people didn't want to hear I beheld the mountains and, lo, they trembled. They weren't in the proper spiritual state for the whole land shall be desolate, and all the cities thereof shall be broken down at the presence of The Lord. This wasn't the time for the fool hath said in his heart, there is no God.
Maybe they could handle and the grace of our Lord was exceeding abundant with faith and love which is in Christ Jesus, but that didn't mean that he was going to work it into his sermon as the diocese requested. What did the diocese know of the struggles in Burlwood? If there was a place in which it would slide comfortably, he would invoke it, but that would be the only verse spoken of 1 Timothy during this mass.
The only certain inclusion from the liturgical lectionary was Luke 15: Then he drew near unto him all the publicans and sinners to hear him. And he spake this parable, saying, what man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he loses one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness and go after that which is lost? Either, what woman having ten pieces of silver, if she loses one piece, doth not light a candle and sweep the house, and seek diligently till she find it? And when they hath found that which they lost, they calleth together their friends and say unto them rejoice with me, for I have found that which I had lost. Likewise, I say unto you, that joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over ninety and nine just persons, which need no repentance. If Chucky had done this damnable thing, it was because he was lost, like the sheep and the piece of silver. This was not the time to shun him, it was the time to call him back to God. He must pay his penance, of course, but it was not for them to castigate him as a child of a lesser God, for there is only one God and his grace cures all ills.
They could not damn him, because they were of God, and the word of James 4 instructed them in this matter, saying:
Speak not evil one of another, brethren. He that speaketh evil of his brother and judge his brother speaketh evil of the law, and judgeth the law, but if thou judge the law, thou art not a doer of the law but a judge. There is one lawgiver, one judge who is able to save and to destroy. Who art thou that judgest one another? If the Lord will, we shall live and do this or that by His judgement. Therefore to him that knoweth to do good and not to judge, and doeth it not, to him it is sin.
He hoped his parishioners knew to do good and not to judge, but he feared that it wouldn't be the case when he took the pulpit. He feared that the people gathered would take up stones against Chucky. He feared they would forget the deliverance of the adulterous woman, that they would block the mount of Olives from their minds. If that were to happen, Father Lovett would stoop and with his finger write upon the ground, as though he heard them not. When they continued asking him, would he have to remind them that it should be he who is without sin to cast the first stone. Given that warning, would they hold their fire?
He would preach James 4, he would cite John 8 if necessary, and along with that, intertwined in that, he would cover Proverbs 24. For a just man falleth seven times, just as Burlwood had fallen with its seven children, its seven little angels. Rejoice not when thine enemy falleth, and let not thine heart be glad when he stumbleth, as Chucky had stumbled if these terrible things were true. Lest the Lord see it, and it displease him, and he turn away his wrath from him. Fret not thyself because of evil men, fear thou the Lord and the King, and meddle not with them that are given to change. For their calamity shall rise suddenly, and who knoweth the ruin of them both?
Hopefully, the people would hear him.
Hopefully, the people would understand his message.
Hopefully, he would get through the mass without stumbling himself. Without shedding the tears that swelled within him. Without breaking down in his dismay at what had once again befallen his congregation. Without announcing aloud that he just couldn't believe that Chucky had done this, that he just wouldn't accept that it was true.
As snow in summer, and as rain in harvest, so honor is not seemly for a fool.
Was Father Carl Lovett a fool?
Draping his chasuble over his shoulders, he took up his stole and kissed the crucifixes upon its ends. With the mass drawing near, he recited his list to ensure he'd made all of the necessary preparations for the Holy Sacrament and the baptism of young Thad Mencer.
Lord, may that young boy not face the specter of The Butcher when he comes of age. May he not go the way of those many others whose infantile heads he'd submerged in the holy basin of Our Mother, those who felt the sting of Burlwood's cursed water upon their brows so profoundly.
Leaving it to the deacons to seat the congregation, he whiled away the time until he would take the pulpit in reflection. This business with Billy Marsh brought back so much darkness, and he was lingering in it li
ke a leaf upon the vastness of the ocean. He was on the cusp of becoming lost within it, on the verge of succumbing to it.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul, he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of The Butcher. Thou anointest my head with oil, my cup runneth over. Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of The Lord forever.
All the days of my life... all the days of my life... all the days of my life... coughing, and all the days of my life... sputum, and all the days of my life... blood in the tissue, and all the days of my life... yearly physical, and all the days of my life... strange congestion, and all the days of my life... radiology, and all the days of my life... asbestosis, and all the days of my life... mesothelioma, and all the days of my life... stage four, and all the days of my life... terminal, and all the days of my life... a matter of months, all the days of my life... thou anointest my head with the blood of children, and all the days of my life... all the days of my life... my cup runneth over, but my soul runneth empty, and all the days of my life... all the days of my life... all the days of my life...
The organ crying, and all the days of my life... out of the sacristy, and all the days of my life... behind the altar, and all the days of my life... kneeling at the feet of Christ, and God, help me, all the days of my life... standing in the chancel, and all the days of my life... approaching the pulpit, and all the days of my life... a packed house, and all the days of my life... numb and detached, and all the days of my life... mouth opening, words floating on the air, and all the days of my life... a familiar face, at the back, and all the days of my life... it's young Jacob, and all the days of my life... Jacob Gigu?re is all grown up and home, and all the days of my life...
Seated in the pew nearest the narthex, at the very back of the church, and squeezed between strangers, Jake looked upon an old and frail man who seemed to have conceded the fight long ago. He was definitely Father Lovett, but he was in as poor a state as his temple appeared to be upon close examination. The changes in the man and his cathedral were shocking to behold, given the air of divinity and devout stewardship that had prevailed within these four walls in the distant days of old.
Without Rusty, the maintenance foreman, the place had become a portrait of disrepair instead of an exquisite jewel nestled amongst the decay of the town. It seemed to fit into the landscape, now, instead of standing out as a shrine of reverent faith and the perseverant power of the collective poor. Without Chucky, the custodian, the place looked dirty and unkempt. The pews were dusty and faded instead of brilliantly shining and polished, and there were cobwebs dangling from nails that were backing themselves out of loose boards and tattered fixtures.
Father Lovett looked just as decrepit as this aging house of the Lord as he stood at the ambo and spake in a trembling voice. It was disconcerting to see him in this condition, as he lived in Jake's memory as a strong and proud shepherd over a brood of lost plebeians. He was the backbone of the subjugated masses, the figurehead of courage and fortitude that a people oppressed by poverty turned to for inspiration and the promise of salvation. Under the intractable assault of father time, the man who was the spine of Burlwood had developed stenosis and scoliosis. A crippling tag team of maladies that barred him from the mountaintop, instead of inspiring his parishioners that -- if they followed -- he could lead them there.
The former champion of faith and certitude stood before his people as nothing more than a haggard shell of a man, now. He spoke the same words of inspiration and integrity that he'd recited from his lectern when he was a beacon of hope in the gloomy shadows of blight, but they rang hollow through the nave and lacked the efficacy to move the masses. They listened, but they didn't hear what the man was saying, because years of struggle and misadventure had made the sounds of the verses grow stale to their ears.
In his youth, in his prime, Father Lovett had the charisma and tenacity to imbue the word of God with fire. His sermons would scorch the souls and ignite the spirits of his charges, refreshing and envigorating them to face the challenges of their lives. In his age, in his submission, he had no more strength to give. It seemed to take every bit of his resolve to simply stand and orate, there were no reserves within him to cast power upon the crowd.
His sermon was disjointed and rambling, things they had never been before. Jake wondered, at first, if the lack of resonance he felt in the service was due to the fact that he'd decided there was no greater power long ago. He quickly realized that this couldn't be the case, however, because the words of Father Lovett had moved him in the past.
Even in the darkest of days -- after Timmy's death, during his mother's hospitalization and the horrors that followed -- his spirit had been lifted by wise and insightful words spoken by the man who now seemed to be faltering in the pulpit. He used to be able to stir the spirits of all men with his sincerity, even those that staunchly denounced the fables and refused to accept a concept so obtuse as that of some all-knowing God standing watch. With a wink and a smile, the resident priest of Burlwood used to have the power to melt through even the thickest shields of atheism and could warm the coldest of hearts in all the land.
That power was absent now, that man was no more.
Disregarding the direction to kneel when the father called for prayer, Jake sat and surveyed the crowd as he had surveyed the patrons of Burlwood Downs last night. There were no surprises here, just as there had been none at the track. Many of the faces were familiar, but none belonged to anyone that struck him as suspicious or led him to believe that further vetting of their character was required.
Scanning the room perpetually, he was not only engaged in watching the people, he was also hard at work trying to figure out who was watching him. Once again, that sense was tingling. The sense that someone was surveiling him, which he felt immediately when he stepped out of Chucky's trailer and climbed into his car. It stuck with him for the short ride to Our Mother, which he made longer than it should've been by trying to sniff out his tail with more cunning tricks and maneuvers. Despite his best effort, he still couldn't smoke out his pursuer.
It was starting to frustrate him, because he had no idea how anyone could move so stealthily as to avoid his detection. Even inside the church, he had the sense that someone was keeping him under careful observation as he half-heartedly listened to the service.
Whoever it was, they were good... they were better at this game of cat and mouse than he was, which is a hell of a feat to accomplish. When he eventually found them out, in admiration of their skill, he would shake their hand and congratulate them before he commenced to beating their ass for their efforts.
After what seemed like an eternity and an epidemic of yawns moving through the hall with contagion, the offertories were passed around as Father Lovett gave communion and baptized some screaming infant. With a final prayer and some less than stellar organ music, the mass finally came to an end.
Jake expected Father Lovett would promptly report to the narthex, where he would personally greet and bless each parishioner as they left. That had been as compulsory as The Lord's Prayer and was his custom in the past, but the old man ducked out and disappeared entirely instead. That was a problem, because Jake needed to talk to him.
Wondering how the hell he was going to find the man, he sat and waited until everyone else had filed out. He figured sitting still was a two-pronged attack, because not only did it ensure that he would be able to chat with the father in solitude, it meant that whomever was stalking him would have to leave the building to avoid being made. That wouldn't hold true if his tormentor was one of the deacons, who were running around snuff
ing out candles and would not be leaving the church, but he figured that was unlikely and gave it no further consideration.
After a few minutes, he was quite literally alone in the great hall. When he was satisfied that any peeping tom must've left, he stood and walked toward the sacristy, where several of the volunteer deacons had congregated. Kindly and respectfully, he asked where he could find Father Lovett.
It was an older man among them that met his question, and he took a second to look Jake over carefully. The man was familiar, but Jake couldn't put a name to his face. Either stricken with a similar lapse of memory or just not inclined to shoot the breeze, the deacon simply said follow me and started weaving his way toward the rectory. They arrived at a closed door, so the escort knocked gently.
"Yes?" Father Lovett asked feebly from inside.
"There is a young man who wishes to speak with you," the deacon declared.
There was an audible sigh of reluctance, followed by a long and echoing silence. The moment was totally surreal, the robed senior citizen at his side just staring at the door blankly and unblinkingly. Time seemed to stand still, as though the two of them had been swallowed up in some kind of temporal rift, as they waited for a response.
"Come in, Jacob," the priest finally capitulated.
Jake was taken aback, shocked at the holy man's apparent ESP and the dreary tone in his voice as he extended the invitation. The deacon looked up to him and nodded, then turned and waddled away, his vestments dragging the floor behind him. Hesitant himself now, because of the frigidity he sensed from the father, he held his ground for a brief period before turning the doorknob and peering cautiously inside.
The air of the small apartment was as musty as the verses spoken in the chantry, and it stank of age and decay with notes of mold and mildew. It was physically uncomfortable to step inside, a strange sensation due in part to the want of a respirator. The atmosphere seemed toxic, both in deleterious airborne particles and in a less tangible charge of negativity that permeated the ether. The place was like a void of sadness, something he wasn't prepared to find tucked away within a building that stood for decades as a haven of hope and optimism. Already walking dark roads within himself, he was swiftly and instantaneously sucked into the whirling nihility of a chasm left behind when those tenets took flight.
The door opened to a short and narrow hallway with a dated and dilapidated bathroom to the left just inside. Jake stepped passed it gingerly, as the floor felt spongy and uneven underfoot. The aged floorboards shifted and creaked when challenged with the strain of his weight, and he started to wonder where he would end up should the structure give way. Not disposed to finding out, he stopped where he stood and called for the priest to avoid walking anywhere that he didn't need to tread.
"Father Lovett?" he asked firmly but quietly.
"In here, young Jacob," Lovett replied from the end of the hallway, where the apartment opened up into a small living area.
Jake moved carefully by a kitchenette on his right and stopped at the precipice of the living area. The room was just as small as the rest of the place, and he found himself surrounded by walls covered with shelves crammed full of books on all sides. The racks were built crudely with particleboard and two-by-fours and stood from floor to ceiling. The articles upon them varied from large leather bound volumes to small paperback digests, and they were only interrupted where windows covered by moth-eaten curtains required a break in the shelving. Outside, the silhouette of a Ferris wheel was turning as the carnies tested their rides in preparation for the final day of the annual event. Jake disregarded the hypnotic quality of the machine's swirling, swirling. There would be time to visit the fair later, when business picked up in the evening. For now, he focused on the room around him.
It was amazing, really, to see so many books shoehorned into such a small space. The fact that there was no television in the room led Jake to believe that the old man spent all of his time submerged in the words and the pages of his books. He'd probably read each and every one of them from cover to cover, some of them likely multiple times. As he stepped inside a bit, he realized that much of the mustiness in the air emanated from this space, which smelled a lot like the used book store that used to stand on Main Street.
At the center of the room was a small rectangular coffee table, which was covered with even more books. These were presumably the ones on deck for the father to consume next as he sat before it on a worn down and crooked La-Z-Boy, which was propped up against the back wall of the room. The layout was enough to make the visitor uneasy, as the priest sat with his back to the door and hallway. That was something he could never endure himself, given his compulsion to keep an eye on his surroundings. It didn't seem to phase the priest, however, and he appeared totally uninterested in his guest as he sat thumbing through what appeared to be a bible.
"Good afternoon, Father," Jake greeted him.
Lovett furled his brow and removed a set of bifocals to rub his eyes, as though he was exhausted and prepared for a midday nap. "If you insist," he mumbled, his voice hoarse and tired as he replaced his glasses and yawned.
"I'm sorry to bother you, Father," Jake apologized, since it was evident that he was. "I was just hoping we might talk for a few minutes, if it's not too much trouble."
"If you wish to talk, we'll talk," the priest replied. "I don't know that I have any of the answers that you're after, but if you feel it necessary to ask the questions anyway, go ahead and have a seat."
Looking around the room again, Jake wondered where he was expected to sit. There was no furniture, save for the chair and book covered coffee table. Lovett apparently picked up on his confusion and groaned as he leaned forward and started shifting the volumes. He made stacks of a few, opening just enough space for Jake to plant his ass on the faux oak before settling himself back into his seat. His joints popped and creaked like the floor as he did, and he vocalized his discomfort with dignity.
"Thank you, Father," Jake said, more appreciative of his willingness to talk than the preparation of what would prove to be an uncomfortable seat.
The old man grunted, lifting one leg atop the other with the aid of both hands. Turning his attention back to his bible, he put off a dismissive air as he spoke. "We both know you don't subscribe to this faith, Jacob," he said, "so you may refrain from the formality of calling me Father. Carl will do just fine, if you please."
Not sure whether there was malice in the directive or simply knowing resignation, Jake nodded and accepted it. Rewinding the conversation in his mind, he asked a question that needed to be asked. "You said you probably don't have any of the answers I'm looking for. Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but how do you know what answers I'm after?"
Lovett turned the pages of the bible indifferently, not lifting his gaze from the book as he replied in a riddle. "Young Jacob, if you encountered a feral dog in the alleys of your big cities... if you found yourself standing in the place where it slept, would it come as a surprise to you if it should bark in defense of its territory?"
Trying to decipher what he was getting at, Jake thought it over before he answered. "No, I guess it wouldn't."
Pulling his attention from his bible momentarily, Lovett made eye contact with Jake for the first time. His stare was profoundly intense, his clouded pupils piercing. "Then why should you not expect that Ron Boudreaux preceded you in this affair?"
Of course he did, Jake thought. Why wouldn't he? Obviously he'd already prepared Daryl Lane for his visit, he'd probably prepared everybody. "I did suspect that he may have," he replied. "I guess I just wanted to hear you say it."
"No." Lovett insisted. "You wanted to gauge how I felt about his warning, that's the truth of the matter." he surmised keenly, returning his attention to the book. "Let us be upfront with one another, my son. We'll make much better progress under that pretense."
Accepting the condition, Jake nodded again and left a moment of si
lence for the two of them to synchronize under its banner. "Then you're still willing to talk to me?" he asked. "Despite his telling you not to?"
"You're sitting before me, are you not?" Lovett replied plainly. "But I reiterate, I don't know that I can be of much help. I haven't any answers, and I'm too tired to seek them out. I've given it all to God, because it is beyond my comprehension. He knows the truth, and He will pass appropriate judgement. Some things are not for us to understand."
"You speak as though you believe that Chucky did this. Is that where you're at?"
"Believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God," the man said enigmatically. "That's John 4:1, and they're words to live by."
"And do you not believe that Chucky is of God? You know the man so well, do you suspect that he could do something so -- so --"
"So evil," Lovett completed the thought, then fell back on another verse from memory. "If any of you lack in wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all generously and without reproach, and it will be given to him. But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea, driven with the wind and tossed. I've asked in faith every day since Billy Marsh went missing whether or not I truly know Chucky. In my heart, I believe that I do... or at least I believed that I did. The man I thought I knew is not capable of such an act. But mark them which cause divisions and offenses contrary to the doctrine which ye have learned, for they that are such serve not our Lord Jesus Christ, but their own belly. By good words and fair speeches, they deceive the hearts of the simple. All men who appear good on the surface have a touch of evil within them, and all who appear evil have a similar touch of good. Sometimes, when the circumstances and God are so inclined, it is the lesser voice inside that wins the day and shouts aloud. No good deed is beyond the wicked, and no sin is beyond the righteous."
Jake shook his head and grimaced, looking upon the priest still thumbing through his bible with antipathy. The father's willingness to accept Boudreaux's damnation of Chucky left a hollow in his heart. It hurt him, physically and spiritually, to think that a man as close to his old friend as Carl Lovett was could apparently be so easily turned against him.
"I'm surprised to hear such words from you," Jake admonished, "when you've stood by Chucky's side as a friend and a trusted mentor for so long."
Lovett threw up his hands, the bible flopping around in one of them, as he made a gesture of uncertainty. "Therefore shall evil come upon thee, thou shalt not know from whence it riseth. And mischief shall fall upon thee, thou shalt not be able to put it off. And desolation shall come upon thee suddenly, which thou shalt not know. I'm neither convinced of Chucky's guilt nor his innocence. I haven't the answers, as I've told you. My heart steers me one way, my greater intellect another, my spiritual sensibilities in yet another direction. I don't know, young Jacob! By God, I don't know! Every time I convince myself that he must be innocent, God says to me take ye heed, every one, of his neighbor, and trust ye not in any brother. For every brother will utterly supplant, and every neighbor will walk with slanders. They have taught their tongue to speak lies, and weary themselves to commit iniquity!"
Frustrated beyond his ability to manage it, Jake spoke his next words with bite. "Well, I'm sorry Carl, but I think that's a bunch of bullshit! Doesn't your book of fairy tales also say things about standing by a friend in need? Doesn't it also say that you should never turn your back on the ones you love? Didn't I hear you preach just this morning about missing sheep and silver coins? About recovering them and making things whole? About seeking the truth before passing judgement?"
The old man smirked a bit and removed his glasses again, setting his bible in his lap and tucking his bifocals into a pocket of his sweater. "I'm impressed, young Jacob, that you listened so closely to my sermon," he said with pleasure. "But what would you have me do? I'm an old man, my son... a dying old man, and a relic in this time. I was in the trenches of the troubles that plagued this town twenty years ago, when I was fit to wade the waters. That was my fight, that was my time. I cannot help Chucky, my son, whether he's innocent or guilty of these deeds. I will tell you anything that you want to know, I will arm you with any knowledge that I have, but I cannot take up a gun and march into the breach with you! So, as I've said, I've given it to God. I don't know whether Chucky has done these things or not. Only God, Chucky and poor Billy Marsh know the answer to that question. If he is innocent and it is God's will that you should save our mutual friend from this scourge, then it is incumbent on you to walk the road. If he is guilty and it is His will that Chucky should fall upon the cross, then it is just as much beyond me to help him as it is beyond you. I'm very tired, Jacob. Let us stop bickering between ourselves and get to the questions you believe I can answer for you. If I can help you, I will. I've already given you that as my word. But do not ask me to fight beside you, for I cannot. I will not."
"But you'll be an open book? Can I make that assumption?" Jake asked. "You do not stand under threat from Ron Boudreaux? You will not aide him in hindering me and my investigation?"
"Provide for honest things, not only in the sight of the Lord, but also in the sight of men. That is my Godly commandment, and that is the oath I swear to you. You're an intelligent man, Jacob, I'm sure you can read between those lines. If I am mistaken, if that is a riddle to you, then let me spell it out. To Hell with Ron Boudreaux, my son. I serve only the truth, even if that truth is inconvenient to the ears of our overlords."
"Okay," Jake smiled in acceptance. "Then let's start the conversation by talking about your old pal Rusty Parker."
THIRTY-ONE
