Gregory had always disliked snow. Its beauty was transitory, for after that first smooth white quilting, it became a thing of depressing ugliness; lumpy, rigid, veined with dirt and offal, a thing to offend the eye, snarl traffic, and make walking a joyless drudgery. From heavenly to hellish it could go in a single day—a sign, perhaps, of how a piece of God’s work could be snatched away and perverted by God’s Enemy.
But now, as he walked up the snowy pathway to the rectory door, his arms loaded with packages, his hat and coat-shoulders sequined with white, he forgot his dislike. On the porch, he stamped his feet, loosing the packed snow that clung to them, but he stamped without his customary resentment. Inside, he pried off his rubbers in the vestibule, not bothering to make mental note of its drabness.
Pungent aromas met him—the mingled scents of Christmas tree and brewing coffee. Christmas shopping and the brisk weather had given him an appetite. Dinner would not be ready for more than an hour, but perhaps he could talk Mrs. Farley out of a pre-dinner slice of her voluptuous holiday fruitcake and a deep cup of that coffee.
Bearding the housekeeper in her den, the rectory kitchen, Gregory succeeded, but only after putting up with her admonitions about “spoiling your supper.”
“Any calls while I was gone?” he asked as he prepared to carry away the snack.
“Just Mrs. Barlow,” said the housekeeper.
“Oh?”
“She’s giving a party or somesuch Saturday night and says she’d love to have you. Said she’d call back.”
“Fine. I’ll be working in the study, Mrs. Farley. Call me when dinner is ready.”
“That I will, Father.”
He carried the fruitcake and coffee into his study, smiling inwardly at the thought of Mrs. Barlow. Ever since she had been proved so seriously in error last September, she had become overly attentive and solicitous, inviting Gregory to dinners and gatherings at least once a week, so often that Gregory could not accept all the invitations. Since he had in a sense bested her, stood up to her, she now respected him and considered him her equal rather than her lackey. She was a bright woman and a lively hostess who drew interesting people to her. Gregory had come to find her little soirées not unattractive.
Alone in his study, he munched the fruitcake and opened the Christmas cards that had arrived while he was shopping. One, a simple Nativity scene, was signed in ballpoint, Frank Berardi & family. Gregory had grown quite friendly with the Lieutenant after the trouble had blown over. Berardi, though a rough man with sketchy education, was blessed with a rich vein of humor and a shrewd intelligence that was without arrogance. The two professional men had found themselves liking each other almost at once, hungrily exchanging theological and criminological lore.
An expensive and rather vulgar card, resplendent with gilt and flocking, had come to Gregory from The Glencannons (not signed; embossed). Bruce Glencannon had augmented the embossing with a personally endowed message: “Sincerely hope we can get together soon.” Gregory had talked with Glencannon at one of Mrs. Barlow’s gatherings, and Glencannon had seemed to have come away satisfied that Gregory was a good sort, even though—like Father Halloran—he had discouraged the idea of confession-by-Dictaphone.
A very plain envelope was the last of the group awaiting Gregory. The address had been typed: Gregory Sargent (the “Father” was glaringly absent), St. Michael’s Church, City. Gregory tore it open. It contained a single sheet of cheap paper, on which was printed in hand-set type: LET’S PUT THE X BACK IN XMAS. CHRIST WAS A POWER-MAD JEW. It bore no signature, nor did Gregory require one to know the sender. He made a mental note to call upon him after the holidays. Gregory was confident he possessed enough know-how to demolish the pamphleteer’s arguments in any debate.
His mail attended to, Gregory opened a drawer in his desk and took out a notebook. He turned the pages of a journal he had been keeping. From these hasty, private notes, he would soon compose the formal report on the exorcism which the Bishop was expecting from him.
He read here and there, sampling what he had written, frowning slightly when he came upon passages which shied away from an explicit expression of belief in a literal Devil. These passages would have to be recast with great tact, for the Bishop—still worried about Gregory’s attitude—would read them closely, ready to pounce upon any small kernel of doubt or hesitancy.
Gregory picked up a pencil and wrote at some length:
One thing seems clear to me at any rate: there was an attempt by Garth to gain incestuous knowledge of Susan. I say “attempt,” although I have no way of knowing it was not in fact consummated. I prefer to believe it was no more than an attempt, and it seems unlikely we will ever know the full truth. Susan has told me there is a blank day in her life, a day she can never remember—all she recalls of this mysterious day is that her father spoke of his love for her at that time. It would appear—though I am still only guessing—that the love he spoke of was the physical variety; that he made actual advances and perhaps even consummated an act; that Susan, horrified and repelled, suppressed the entire loathsome incident. This could account for the blank day. And Garth’s conduct in the rectory bedroom, his over-excitement when the subject of incest was brought up, his cursing of Susan in the very words we were told he used at an earlier time—“Damn you, damn you to Hell”—all point convincingly toward an attempted or successful act of incest. Until such time as Susan can undergo analysis in depth, possibly with the aid of hypnotism or sodium pentothal, we will never know. For the only other person who ever possessed the knowledge is dead: Garth.
Gregory sipped his coffee, then turned back a few pages of his notes and read:
Mrs. Farley would like me to support her belief that Garth was—is?—Diabolus. She doesn’t really hold with the heart condition explanation. I keep telling her that Garth’s physician—traced through the druggist—confirmed the coroner’s findings. I also point out that signs of his coronary condition were plentiful when Garth was alive—breathlessness and discomfort when excited, a disinclination to do anything physically taxing such as running (I believe he actually described himself to me as “not a well man” during that first interview). I tell her, too, that the fear of being accused and convicted of heinous crimes—incest and possibly murder—that the unpleasantness of that final argument, the closeness of the weather, the terror he must have felt at witnessing an exorcism (no Catholic, even a defected Catholic, could witness that ritual without a powerful response), that on top of this to have a bolt of lightning strike dangerously close to him—all this would be enough to destroy a heart sounder than Garth’s.
What I do not tell Mrs. Farley is that the heart condition, and even the bolt of lightning (though not in itself lethal since it did not hit him) might be called by some the Hand of God at work. I’m afraid this would only confuse her—as I confess it confuses me.
Gregory turned the pages, picked up the pencil and began writing again:
The week following the exorcism I visited Susan at her home, just before she left to live under the care of Father Halloran at Guardian Angel Orphanage. I saw the cross-shaped place on Garth’s bedroom wall, and I found myself speculating as to why he had removed the crucifix. He had done it after the death of his wife, and I had suggested to him that murder-guilt had made it impossible for him to sleep under the crucified Christ. Was this indeed the reason, or had the shame of incestuous thoughts and deeds made it unbearable for him to live in the sight of the cross? Had it been no more, perhaps, than the insidious propaganda of John Talbot that had so soured Garth on the Church that he had ripped down the crucifix as a gesture of his new line of thinking? Garth is not here to tell us. There is only that mute, ghostly cross on the wall of that empty flat. And when a new tenant moves in and cleans that wall, even the cross will disappear.
I will not allow myself to consider the possibility of its not disappearing, of its remaining there, a strange miraculous glow, through countless desperate washings and paintings. . . .
Gregory read over the last paragraph, then drew a large X through it. Even though these were only informal notes, there was no place in them for sensational speculations.
He returned the notebook to the desk drawer and picked up the telephone. It was Christmas time, time for phoning friends and relatives and proffering greetings of the season. Susan was strong in his thoughts, and he dialed the orphanage first. He talked to Father Halloran briefly, and then Susan came to the phone.
“Hello, Father,” he heard her say.
“Hello yourself, young lady. Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks. The same to you.”
“How are you?”
“Wonderful!” Her voice was bright with joy. “You have no idea how simply super Father Halloran is! If all orphanages were like this one . . .”
“Let’s hope they will be, some day.”
“And Father Halloran has been letting me help him a lot. In the dispensary, and doing some of the office work, typing and things like that. He keeps me pretty busy. And of course I’m ready to drop from all the Christmas fuss!”
“But you love it.”
“Yes. Yes, I do. When are you coming to see us again?”
“Oh . . . soon. I’ve been pretty busy, too, you know. Christmas keeps a parish priest on the go. But I’ll drop around again soon. Right after the first of the year.”
“Good. I’ll have something to tell you then.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, I’ll wait until I see you.”
“No, tell me now.”
“Well . . . in about a year and a half I’ll be eighteen, you know. I won’t be an orphan any more, technically. I can leave. And I’ll have to do something.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking; and I’ve talked it over with Father Halloran. I think I’ll become a med student. Be a doctor. What do you think?”
“It sounds fine. Only thing is, the few lady doctors I’ve ever known personally have been—not too easy on the eyes. It’s a bit of a strain on the imagination to picture you in that role. You’ll certainly be the prettiest lady doctor in these parts.”
Susan giggled. “But I may not be in these parts. I’ve been thinking about becoming a medical missionary, going off to Africa or something like that.”
“A splendid idea,” Gregory said. “But some young male med student might try to change your mind. If he does—don’t fight too hard.” Susan made a sound of scorn; Gregory laughed and said, “I have to sign off now. I’ll see you soon. God bless you, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Father. Bye-bye.”
He dialed his sister’s number. He heard her phone ring a few times, and when it was lifted from its cradle, he heard a background medley of childish shrieks, television, and groans from a harassed father. His sister’s voice greeted him, they chatted for a few minutes, and then his brother-in-law took the phone.
“Merry Christmas, Greg,” he said.
“Merry Christmas, Bill. Sounds hectic over there.”
“It is. Bah, humbug. But this too will pass. I’ll slip some phenobarb into the kids’ plum pudding. Say, tell me something . . .”
“Sure.”
“Remember that time last September when you called me to check out some stuff for a case you were writing up?”
“Yes . . .”
“What was the upshot of all that? Did they ever find out what was wrong with that girl?”
Gregory did not speak for a few seconds. His mind, a kaleidoscopic jumble in regard to this subject, balked for an instant. Then the kaleidoscope suddenly fell into a symmetrical pattern, and Gregory—more surprised than his auditor—heard himself say, “Yes, they did. She was possessed of the Devil. They cast him out. She’s fine now. Merry Christmas again, Bill . . .”
After he hung up, Gregory looked at the phone for many minutes, his own words echoing in his mind. “Just like that,” he muttered to himself. “‘She was possessed of the Devil. They cast him out.’ Just like that.”
Slowly, he dialed the Bishop.
• • •
His Excellency was laden with the special duties of the season and a few extra problems as well. A young couple who were to be married in January had asked their parish priest for permission to have the familiar Lohengrin and Mendelssohn music played before and after the ceremony. The priest had relayed the request to the Bishop. In the Bishop’s younger days as a parish priest, it had not been uncommon to hear that music at Catholic weddings—he had performed marriage services and had heard the music many times himself. But of more recent years, it had been decided that, in Catholic churches, music by Catholic composers only would be played and sung. It made good sense, but would it satisfy the young couple, to whom a wedding without those two familiar pieces might seem no proper wedding at all? Would they accept and understand that, thrilling as the Mendelssohn march is, it was written by a Jew converted to Protestantism, and hence had no real place in a Catholic church? And as for Wagner, the composer of Lohengrin—not only was he no Catholic, he was a near-mad anti-Semite besides. Though Catholics were by no means forbidden to hear his music in the opera house, it would not be fitting to play it in a Catholic church. The Bishop was mentally rehearsing the manner in which he would explain all this, when he heard his telephone ring. His housekeeper informed him that Father Sargent was on the line and wished to speak to him, and His Excellency took the call.
“Gregory? Merry Christmas, my boy.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency. A Merry Christmas to you.”
“How are you getting along at St. Michael’s?”
“Pretty well. I’m on Mrs. Barlow’s permanent guest list.”
“Then you have made progress!” The Bishop chuckled.
“Yes. I should have that report ready for you soon, by the way. My notes are almost complete.”
“Fine. Take your time.”
“I talked to Susan on the phone just now. She sounds happy. I also talked to Father Halloran.”
“And did he sound—happy?”
“I know what you mean, Your Excellency, and I really can’t say for certain, but I believe he’s at least succeeded in burying those misgivings of his in a corner of his mind. I doubt if he will ever lose them entirely—that’s a little too much to ask.”
“I doubt if any of us will lose them entirely, my boy. Father Halloran planted a very disturbing seed in the minds of all of us that awful night. That a priest might violate the confessional unconsciously . . . that all of us are capable of such violation . . . how can any sensible man deny the possibility?”
“I suddenly recall a dream,” said Gregory. “A dream I had during the time of all this dreadful business, a ridiculous dream in which I seemed to be telling myself that damnation is not restricted to the perpetrators of evil deeds; that he who in his heart—or in his soul or in the labyrinth of his unconscious—desires an evil deed to come to pass is equally guilty, equally damned. Theologically, this is cant, I know. But it sticks in the mind.”
“Exactly. But I pray, Gregory. I pray for Father Halloran. I pray for us all.”
There was an awkward silence, then Gregory said, “I talked to my brother-in-law a moment ago also.”
“Your brother-in-law? . . .”
“The psychiatrist.”
“Oh, yes, of course.”
“And a rather odd thing happened.” Gregory briefly recounted the telephone conversation.
“Yes, Gregory, go on,” said the Bishop.
“I wonder if you might tell me something, Your Excellency.”
“If I can.”
“I can explain every strange thing that happened here in September,” said Gregory, slowly and thoughtfully. “Explain it naturally, I mean. The cross burning Susan’s arm? Psychosoma. The possession itself? Madness. The strange voice she used and the way she talked? Simply the method in her madness, a deception based on things she’d read and memorized—for, after all, she’s a bright girl. The illusion of knowing who was knocking at the door? Pure bluff, perhaps—she said no actual name, and maybe the entire accusation of her father was false. The way we apparently cured her? Who knows: some kind of catharsis due to shock—cruder things have cured disturbed minds, and perhaps she’s not really cured at all. And finally—the impressive storm we were treated to. Deliver us from the devil’s tyranny with great show—is that the explanation? Or was it coincidence, even though the newspapers didn’t predict it—the weather man has been wrong before!” He paused; then went on.
“And yet, although the literal mind can explain every one of these things in natural terms, I told my brother-in-law she was possessed. That must mean I believe!”
Softly, the Bishop said, “I’ve wanted to hear that, my boy. I’ve been waiting to hear it.”
“I must believe,” Gregory repeated. “Do you understand? I must believe the Devil himself was in that girl and that we routed him. None of the evidence is unequivocably supernatural, and yet I believe it was. Why do I believe, then, I who doubted?”
The Bishop said, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Gregory. Accept it. It’s a difficult question to answer offhand. Perhaps you really believed all the time.”
“Would I have argued and hesitated and gotten you so angry with me if I had believed all the time?”
“Probably not. But, as I say, don’t let it worry you. When you come right down to it, you may already know the answer.”
“Already know it?”
“Yes. You may have known the answer some time ago and written it down, without fully knowing then what it meant. And perhaps I didn’t know what it meant, either. Until now.”
“What what meant?” asked Gregory.
“‘The Hand of God is quicker than the eye,’” said the Bishop. “Much quicker.” The conversation ended with a series of pleasant, seasonal trivialities. His Excellency hung up.
He walked to a window and watched the snow for a while. Then, although he had not spoken Gaelic since the days of his childhood, a door in his mind that had been closed for many years opened just long enough for his mouth to silently form the almost forgotten words Buiochas le Dia. Thank God.