Wendell awoke in the infirmary in a laudanum haze, the sun streaking in. His mother had cried herself to sleep with her head on his chest and now snored peacefully in the morning light. The laudanum had put him in a happy place, and his mother’s head felt like the weight of a tabby cat, not ideal but tolerable. He stroked her hair with his good hand. He looked out the window, saw a palm tree moving, and this tree, such an ordinary sight, filled him with appreciation at its exotic wonder, for everything was exotic and everything was new.
He, Wendell, the former lunatic, had been cured by God of his affliction—harshly, that was true, with the severing of his private-fondling fingers—but this same God had, a few moments later, offered proof of His existence and power in the form of the crucifix melted into the chest of the priest. No prayer, no sacrament Father Byrnes had uttered, no blessing he gave, no bread he dispensed, could ever mean so much as the simple fact that the legend was true. Wendell had felt it for himself and now, like his mother’s head, the weight of God’s authority was tangible and easily borne.
Now he knew what to do for Iris Dunleavy, for, as a new man, risen sane from the bloody sand of an ordinary afternoon, he realized that he needn’t follow any rule or law except what he thought might be pleasing to God, and what was pleasing to God was justice, whether it was a lamb spared, or a sane woman freed. Yes, he believed her story. Believed in her sanity, even though that belief came in direct opposition to his father’s diagnosis. Wendell’s confirmation of God’s existence had given him the strength to suppose, for the first time in his life, his father might be wrong.
Mary shifted, groaned. He patted her head, not too hard, because although waking her up would cause her to move her head from his chest, it would also release, in the morning light, a new flood of tears and lamentations.
The vile sea monster could have his hand. He had recovered his soul.