“At the supreme moment, at the highest peak, sexual, artistic and religious ecstasy are surprisingly similar. It is difficult to tell them apart. It is only in the trappings, in ‘the limbs and outward flourishes,’ in the building-up and the dying-away, that it is possible to distinguish one from another. In that split second of ecstasy in which one is ripped off the earth and flung into the Eternal, the lover, the artist and the religieuse all feel much the same thing. They are akin, for that instant. They are one. Then the instant is over and they float down to terra firma, on parachutes woven from the silky echoes of ecstasy, drifting farther apart all the time. They touch ground and walk off in three different directions, not speaking to each other, and they do not meet again until the next time ecstasy rockets them into orbit. . . .”
Bishop Conrad Crimmings closed the magazine, glanced once more at the blurb on its glossy cover (“A Priest Looks at Ecstasy” by Father Gregory Sargent, in this issue . . .) then turned his eyes to the window of the taxi that was carrying him to the rectory of St. Michael’s.
Ah, Gregory, Gregory, he said to himself; you are a glib and bright man, and your thoughts on ecstasy (if somewhat heterodox) are fresh and provocative and deserving of publication . . . but this magazine is publishing them for all the wrong reasons; don’t you know that? Can’t you see the editors cackling salaciously and licking their lips as they planned this cover announcement, striking the word priest against the word ecstasy and watching the sparks of circulation fly upward? It’s an old but always effective trick, mixing sex and religion. Sex mingles easily with religion, and their blending has one of those slightly repulsive and yet exquisite and poignant flavors which startle the palate . . . who said that? One of the Huxleys, wasn’t it? Aldous. Oh, well, no amount of editorial flim-flam can destroy a good piece. The magazine fell open again. “It is interesting to note that the word ‘ecstasy’ originally meant a kind of trance, that it is derived from a Greek word meaning displacement, and that Elizabethan writers, Shakespeare among them, used it as a synonym for madness. . . .”
The taxi pulled up in front of the rectory.
When it had deposited its massive, white-maned passenger on the sidewalk and driven away, the Bishop stood looking at the small church and modest rectory, noting with vague malaise how shopworn they appeared in the slant of the afternoon sun. From the church came sounds of choral singing. A Mass for St. Michael. He was reminded that the parish’s special occasion, The Feast of St. Michael, would take place soon, on September 29th. Today was Saturday, the 27th. Just a couple of days off. Good: preparations for the special Mass would be keeping Gregory busy, his mind off his troubles. The Bishop frowned, then sighed, then walked up the path to the rectory door.
Bishops appeared to be fairly exotic specimens to the housekeeper, who was immediately tongue-tied and flustered by his presence. He was left alone in the parlor for a moment, and then Gregory joined him. The younger man knelt, kissed the proffered ring, and murmured, “Good afternoon, Your Excellency. It is good of you to come.”
“God bless you, my son. How are you?”
“Oh . . . fine . . . won’t you sit down? Try this chair . . .”
“Thank you, Gregory. Very comfortable.”
“Can I offer you anything to eat?”
“No, no—I won’t stay too long . . .”
“A glass of brandy, perhaps?”
“No, don’t trouble yourself. Do sit down, my boy, and let me look at you. Now then. Well. It’s been a long time. You’re looking—I was going to say you’re looking well, but on closer inspection, I don’t know. You’re tired, I can see that.”
“Late hours,” said Gregory, shrugging.
“You must take care of yourself.”
“You look in good health, Your Excellency. It’s been years, and yet you look just the same, only . . .” he had trouble finding the right word “. . . more so.”
“More so!” The Bishop chuckled. “You mean I’m fat?”
“Oh no—”
“I know just what you mean,” he smiled. “We grow older and our noses grow longer and our ears grow longer and our oddities become more marked. I’ve noticed it in others. Age is a ruthless caricaturist, Gregory; with the years, we all become parodies of ourselves. But you won’t have to worry about that for a long time. Just how old are you?”
“Forty-five.”
“Really. The years fly. Little Gregory Sargent. I’ve known you ever since—well, I suppose ever since you were born. Forty-five years ago! My, my. Looked just like your mother then. Look more like your father now. Wonderful people, wonderful. God rest them both. I must say, in those early days one never would have thought you would have entered the priesthood. You lacked the docility one sees in so many boys who take the cloth. You were quite spunky, quite outspoken, always had a mind of your own. Precocious too, oh my yes. Why, when you were only seven or eight you used to write a kind of newspaper . . . printed it all yourself in pencil on big sheets of brown wrapping paper. The Daily—”
“—Clarion,” finished Gregory. “Despite the ‘Daily’ it came out every two or three weeks.”
The Bishop’s eyes narrowed in the act of recall. “I remember one of the drawings you did for it. A cartoon. It was a picture of God, wearing a turban of all things, and sitting cross-legged under a sign that read, God—Sees All, Knows All. He had a fortune-teller’s crystal ball in His lap, only it wasn’t really a crystal ball, it was the Earth. Not an orthodox conception of The Divine, perhaps, but very perceptive. Come to think of it, Gregory, you haven’t really changed at all: those articles you write, I’ve read a few—perceptive, but quite unorthodox. Sometimes, I must confess, I don’t understand them at all. But they are entertaining.”
“Perhaps too entertaining?” Gregory suggested.
“Well,” said the Bishop, “you do at times seem to pay a good deal of attention to the turning of a phrase. I remember one—‘The Hand of God is quicker than the eye’—clever, but I’m not sure it means anything. I rather prefer God in a turban with the Earth in His lap. But words are simply your personal bit of pride, Gregory. Not even a priest can escape it.”
Gregory dutifully quoted: “‘Pride goeth before destruction.’”
“But also—‘In the beginning was The Word.’”
A phone call from the Barlows, reminding Gregory of the dinner engagement, prompted the Bishop to say “I’m keeping you from something,” but Gregory assured him they had hours. That being the case, the Bishop allowed that he might, after all, sample a bit of that brandy, and Gregory filled two glasses.
“Ah,” said the Bishop, smacking his lips. “Excellent. Although I’m not much of a connoisseur, I’m afraid.” Casually, he added, “You are, though, aren’t you?”
Gregory had been returning the brandy bottle to the sideboard. He stiffened. Quietly, he asked, “What exactly do you mean by that?”
“Why,” groped the Bishop, “just what I said . . .”
“Oh, why pretend, Your Excellency?” said Gregory with a gesture of impatience. “Why do we sit here exchanging polite conversation? I know why my parish was taken from me—”
“My boy, this is your parish.”
“This.” Gregory laughed bitterly. “Father Halloran himself said it was like a small town.”
With deliberation, the Bishop said, “You were transferred here from St. Francis because—”
“Pardon me for interrupting, Your Excellency, but I know the official reason—I was ‘an emergency replacement for Father Halloran, who had to leave suddenly.’ But the real reason—I know that, too. And it’s all a lie!”
“Gregory—”
“I couldn’t defend myself,” Gregory went on, “because there was no actual charge, but I knew why I was suddenly yanked out of St. Francis. Because somebody told you I was a drunk. And you believed it.”
There. It was said. It was out in the open.
“Nobody told me you were a drunk,” the Bishop said softly and slowly. “If anybody had, I would not have believed it. But somebody did tell me you were drinking. And I didn’t need anybody to tell me that. I’ve known it for some time.”
Gregory pointed to the Bishop’s glass. “Show me a priest who doesn’t take a glass of something once in a while. You do.”
“Many of us do,” said the Bishop. “Once in a while.”
“Are you implying—”
“I am not implying you are a drunk. You probably go for days without touching a drop—”
“I do.”
“—But you sometimes touch more than a drop. You sometimes try to give extreme unction to a dying man with your tongue so thick you can hardly pronounce the words and with the smell of liquor hanging like a pall in the room.”
Gregory said nothing.
The Bishop asked, “Is this a lie?”
Putting down his glass, Gregory sank into a chair. “Once,” he said. “Once that happened. It never happened before and it will never happen again. But because of that one slip, my parish was taken from me, the parish I worked so hard to build into something, and I’m exiled to this . . . this backwater.”
“My boy,” said the Bishop, “I believe you. I believe it never happened before, I believe it will never happen again, and I want you to believe me when I tell you that your one slip was only a partial reason for your transferal here to St. Michael’s. I needed someone desperately, and in a hurry, because Father Halloran had to leave at once. You came to mind because, well, because I thought it would be an excellent chance for you to make a fresh start in a parish where nobody knew you. I suppose I should have brought the subject out in the open, suggested you go on retreat—all the usual things—but I don’t always follow the rulebook; one can’t, always; one has to play by ear sometimes. And my ear told me it would be hurtful to bring things to a head. It told me that the vacant post at St. Michael’s was heaven-sent. Perhaps I was wrong, but I didn’t want to call that much attention to the drinking because it does not matter. It is the reason for the drinking I want to know.”
“I don’t know myself,” said Gregory.
“Are you sure you don’t know?”
“Well, anyway,” said Gregory, rising and thrusting his hands into his pockets and walking to the French windows, “I have a more important problem than the bottle to cope with right now.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
Gregory’s back was to the Bishop. He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s a long story.”
“I love long stories. Old men do, you know.”
Gregory turned from the windows. “Well . . .”
“Go ahead.”
Briefly, he told the Bishop of Susan Garth. Of her inability to enter the church, of the curse she laid on her father, of her coming to Gregory for help.
“When did she come to you?” asked the Bishop.
“Just last night, with her father. She had previously talked to Father Halloran, too. That’s the part I find most disturbing. Your Excellency—”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know exactly how to put it, but—well, did I inherit trouble with this parish? Was there something in Father Halloran’s leaving that perhaps I should know? Did he—I know this seems like prying, but—did he request to be removed from St. Michael’s?”
“Request?” The Bishop shook his head. “Why no. No, not at all. Father Halloran, you know, is an orphan—”
“I didn’t know.”
“—And it has long been his desire to take charge of an orphanage. It has long been my desire to put him in charge of one, because I have always felt he had special gifts in that direction. For a long while there was simply no opening of that kind in the diocese, and so he stayed on here. But just a few weeks ago, because of the death of Father Brenner—he was quite elderly, you know—there was a position at Guardian Angel that had to be filled immediately. Why do you ask?”
Gregory said, “The girl’s father had the idea that Father Halloran expressly requested a transfer because of Susan . . .”
“No, that’s not true. But why should he think that?”
“Because,” said Gregory, “of what happened when the girl came to see Father Halloran. . . .”
• • •
“Will you wait here in the living room, Mr. Garth?” asked Father Halloran. “Come, Susan, you and I will just step into my study and have a little talk. All right?”
“All right, Father,” said Susan.
The Father’s study was a nice place, thought Susan. One of the nicest rooms she had ever been in. Cool, and quiet, and such soft lights. And it smelled nice. Like leather, and pipe tobacco. There were books all over the walls. Susan liked books. When the door was closed, it was as if all the noisy, garish world had vanished. She felt she could have stayed in the room forever and never want to leave. Peaceful, that’s what it was.
Father Halloran talked to her gently, smiling. What seemed to be the trouble? Didn’t she like Mass any more? Did something frighten her? “You can tell me, dear. No matter what it is. You can tell me.”
“I . . .” She shrugged in confusion and dropped her eyes. “I don’t know why I do that, Father. It’s terrible, but I really don’t know why.” Her voice was deferential. “I wish I did know. It’s something like—”
“Yes?”
“Well, once I was sick. The flu, I think. And I couldn’t keep anything on my stomach. The very thought of food just—just made me sicker. You know how that is?”
The priest nodded. “I’ve had a touch of the flu once or twice. I know exactly what you mean.”
“I walked into the kitchen and saw a big bowl of stew on the table—chunks of meat and vegetables swimming in gravy, with steam rising from it—and just the sight of it made me so sick that I couldn’t walk a step closer. I had to turn right around and walk out of the room. Because I knew that if I stayed there another second, I’d—”
Father Halloran nodded.
“Well . . . going to Mass is something like that. It doesn’t frighten me exactly, but when I see the church, when I see the spire with the cross on top of it—” She swallowed and took a deep breath. “I can’t, I have to stop. I have to go away from it. Because I know that if I go any closer I just couldn’t stand it.” Her eyes teared. “Isn’t that terrible, Father?”
“Now, now. Don’t you worry. We’ll clear this up. Just don’t worry. Now tell me—”
The phone rang and Father Halloran turned away from her to answer it. An elderly female parishioner began to unfold a long, complex and numbingly trivial problem. Father Halloran, a man with deep reserves of patience, listened to her, but told her he would have to call her back because he was really quite busy. His eyes, as he talked, were fixed on the carpet.
Suddenly he found himself looking down at two small smooth feet, bare, the toenails lacquered a shrieking red.
He hastily terminated the conversation and replaced the phone in its cradle. Looking up, he saw that Susan was standing before him, completely naked.
He had never seen a naked woman before.
In the soft light of the study, Susan’s body glowed, and the scarlet toenails—her secret adornment—were out of tune with the unpainted fingernails and face. Father Halloran’s heart contracted. She was more in need of help than he had ever dreamed, much more. The poor girl was terribly sick. Evenly, without shock or anger, he said, “Put on your clothes, Susan.”
He looked up at her face. It was a mask of slyness.
“Let’s talk,” she said, and the voice was not hers. She was a ventriloquist’s dummy and somebody else was moving her lips and saying the words. “Let’s talk, Father.” She moved closer to him. “But not about church-going. Talk about the things you really want to talk about. Say what you really mean. Tell me what a pretty girl I am, and what a sweet little figure I’ve got. Tell me all the things that are running through your mind when you look at me. Tell me. I won’t mind. You’re a man, Father. All men think about those things.” She leaned closer and whispered in his ear. Her lips were wet, her breath was hot. She suggested a few specifics the like of which Father Halloran had not heard in all his years of receiving confession. His stomach jumped to hear them. She snickered; then she seized his hand and licked it, like a dog.
He jerked it away as if he had received an electric shock. She reached swiftly for his other hand and pressed it to her breast.
“No, Susan!” He stepped back, knocking over an ash tray.
She threw her arms around him—they were like steel springs—and covered his lips with hers, fluttering her tongue inside his mouth.
“Stop!” He pushed her away. She went stumbling backward.
“Hypocrite!” she said softly when she had gained her footing. “You don’t fool me! You want me—just as much as I want you! If you thought you could get away with it, if you thought nobody would ever find out, you’d grab me, wouldn’t you? You’d paw me. You’d throw me down here, right here,”—she stamped on the floor with her bare foot—“and do all those things you’re turning over in your mind. All of them. You’d glut yourself, glut yourself like a pig, like a pig you’d grunt and drool and sweat over me, empty yourself into me, cover me with your spit and slime—” Her voice rose higher, became coarser. “Hypocrite! Filthy lecher! Pig!”
On the last word she threw herself at the priest—“Help! God help me!” he croaked—as she sunk strong sharp fingers into his throat.
When Garth dragged her wild naked body off Father Halloran, the nails of her hands were stained as red as the nails of her feet—but with the blood of the celibate.