“What happened at the church?” asked Mary Jo Perrin.
“Oh, it’s really too disgusting,” said the dean.
“Come on, we’re all through with our dinners.”
“No, please. It’s too much,” he demurred.
“Oh, come on!”
“You mean you can’t read my mind, Mary Jo?” he asked her.
“Oh, I could,” she responded, smiling, “but I really don’t think that I’m worthy to enter that Holy of Holies!”
“Well, it really is sick,” said the dean.
He described the desecrations. In the first of the incidents, the elderly sacristan of the church had discovered a mound of human excrement on the altar cloth directly before the tabernacle.
“Oh, that really is sick.” Mrs. Perrin grimaced.
“Well, the other’s even worse,” the dean remarked; then employed indirection and one or two euphemisms to explain how a massive phallus sculpted in clay had been found glued firmly to a statue of Christ on the left side altar.
“Sick enough?” he concluded.
Chris noticed that the psychic seemed genuinely disturbed as she said, “Oh, that’s enough, now. I’m sorry that I asked. Let’s change the subject.”
“No, I’m fascinated,” said Chris.
“Yes, of course. I’m a fascinating human,” came a voice.
It was Dyer. A heaping plate of food held up in one hand, he was hovering over Chris as he solemnly intoned, “Listen, give me just a minute, and then I’ll be back. I think I’ve got something going over there with the astronaut.”
“Like what?” asked the dean.
Dyer eyed him expressionlessly behind his glasses as he answered, “First missionary on the moon?”
All but Dyer burst into laughter.
His comedic technique relied on deadpan delivery.
“You’re just the right size,” said Mrs. Perrin. “They could stow you in the nose cone.”
“No, not me,” the young priest corrected her solemnly. “I’ve been trying to fix it up for Emory,” he said to the dean in an aside, then turned back to the women to explain. “That’s our dean of discipline on campus. Nobody’s up there and that’s what he likes. He likes things quiet.”
Still deadpan, Dyer glanced across the room at the astronaut.
“Excuse me,” he said and walked away.
Mrs. Perrin said, “I like him.”
“Me too,” Chris agreed. Then she turned to the dean. “You haven’t told me what goes on in that cottage,” she reminded him. “Big secret? Who’s that priest I keep seeing there? Sort of dark? Looks like a boxer? Do you know the one I mean?”
The dean nodded, lowering his head. “Father Karras,” he said in a lowered tone and with a trace of regret. He put down his wineglass and turned it by the stem. “Had a pretty rough knock last night, poor guy.”
“Oh, what?” Chris asked.
“Well, his mother passed away.”
Chris felt a mysterious sensation of grief that she couldn’t explain. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said softly.
“He seems to be taking it pretty hard,” resumed the Jesuit. “Seems she was living by herself, and I guess she was dead for several days before they found her.”
“Oh, how awful,” Mrs. Perrin murmured.
“Who found her?” Chris asked, slightly frowning.
“The superintendent of her apartment building. I guess they wouldn’t have found her even now except … Well, the next-door neighbors complained about her radio going all the time.”
“That’s so sad,” Chris said quietly.
“Excuse me, please, Madam.”
Chris looked up at Karl. He was holding a serving tray bearing liqueurs and slender cordial glasses.
“Sure, set it down here, Karl; that’ll be fine.”
Chris always served liqueurs to her guests herself. It added an intimacy, she felt, that might otherwise be lacking. “Well, let’s see now, I’ll start with you,” she said to the dean and Mrs. Perrin. She served them, then she moved about the room, taking orders and fetching for each of her guests, and by the time she had made the rounds, the various clusters had shifted to new combinations, except for Dyer and the astronaut, who seemed to be getting thicker. “No, I’m really not a priest,” Chris heard Dyer say solemnly, his arm on the astronaut’s chuckle-heaved shoulder. “I’m actually a terribly avant-garde rabbi.”
Chris was standing with Ellen Cleary, reminiscing about Moscow, when she heard a familiar, strident voice ringing angrily through from the kitchen.
Oh, Jesus! Burke!
He was shrieking obscenities at someone.
Chris excused herself and went quickly to the kitchen, where Dennings was railing viciously at Karl while Sharon made futile attempts to hush him.
“Burke!” exclaimed Chris. “Knock it off!”
The director ignored her, and continued to rage, the corners of his mouth flecked foamy with saliva, while Karl leaned mutely against the sink with folded arms and stolid expression, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Dennings.
“Karl!” Chris snapped. “Will you get out of here? Get out! Can’t you see how he is?”
But the Swiss would not budge until Chris began shoving him toward the door.
“Naa-zi pig!” Dennings shouted at Karl’s back, then turned genially to Chris and, rubbing his hands together, asked mildly, “Now, then, what’s for dessert?”
“Dessert?”
Chris thumped her brow with the heel of her hand.
“Well, I’m hungry,” Dennings petulantly whined.
Chris turned to Sharon and said, “Feed him! I’ve got to get Regan up to bed. And for chrissakes, Burke, would you freaking behave yourself? There are priests out there!”
Dennings creased his brow as his eyes grew intense with a sudden and seemingly genuine interest. “Oh, you noticed that too?” he asked without guile. Chris tilted her head up, breathed out, “I’m done!” and strode out of the kitchen.
She went down to check on Regan in the basement playroom, where her daughter had spent the entire day, and discovered her playing with the Ouija board. She seemed sullen; abstracted; remote. Well, at least she isn’t feisty, Chris reflected, and, hopeful of diverting her, she brought Regan up to the living room and began introducing her to the guests.
“Oh, isn’t she darling!” said the wife of the senator.
Regan was strangely well behaved, except with Mrs. Perrin, refusing to speak to her or shake her hand. But the psychic made a joke of it. “Knows I’m a fake,” she said, smiling and winking at Chris. But then, with a curious air of scrutiny, she reached forward and gripped Regan’s hand with a gentle pressure, as if checking her pulse. Regan quickly shook her off and glared malevolently.
“Oh, dear, she must be very tired,” Mrs. Perrin said casually; yet she continued to stare at Regan with a probing fixity and anxiety she couldn’t explain.
“She’s been feeling kind of sick,” Chris murmured in apology. She looked down at Regan. “Haven’t you, honey?”
Regan did not answer. She kept her eyes on the floor.
There was no one left for Regan to meet except the senator and Robert, Mrs. Perrin’s son, and Chris thought it best to pass them up. She took Regan up to bed and tucked her in.
“Do you think you can sleep?” Chris asked.
“I don’t know,” Regan answered dreamily. She’d turned on her side and was staring at the wall with a distant expression.
“Would you like me to read to you for a while?”
A shake of the head.
“Okay, then. Try to sleep.”
Chris leaned over and kissed her, and then walked to the door and flicked the light switch.
“Night, my baby.”
Chris was almost out the door when Regan called out to her very softly: “Mother, what’s wrong with me?” So haunted. The tone so despairing and disproportionate to her condition. For a moment Chris felt shaken and confused. But quickly she righted herself. “Wel
l, it’s just like I said, Rags; it’s nerves. All you need is those pills for a couple of weeks and I know you’ll be feeling just fine. Now then, try to go to sleep, hon, okay?”
No response. Chris waited.
“Okay?” she repeated.
“Okay,” Regan whispered.
Chris abruptly noticed goose pimples rising on her forearm. She rubbed at it, looking around. Cheeezus peezus, it gets cold in this room! Where’s that draft coming in from?
She moved to the window and checked along the edges. Found nothing. Turned to Regan. “You warm enough, baby?”
No answer.
Chris moved to the bedside. “You asleep?” she whispered.
Eyes closed. Deep breathing.
Chris tiptoed from the room.
From the hall she heard singing, and as she walked down the stairs, she saw with pleasure that the young Father Dyer was playing the piano near the living-room picture window and was leading a group that had gathered around him in cheerful song. As she entered the living room, they had just finished singing “Till We Meet Again.”
Chris started forward to join the group, but was quickly intercepted by the senator and his wife, who had their coats across their arms and looked edgy.
“Are you leaving so soon?” Chris asked.
“Oh, I’m really so sorry, and my dear, we’ve had a marvelous evening,” the senator effused. “But poor Martha’s got a headache.”
“Oh, I am so sorry, but I do feel terrible,” moaned the senator’s wife. “Will you excuse us, Chris? It’s been such a lovely party.”
“I’m really sorry you have to go,” Chris told them.
As she accompanied the couple to the door, Chris could hear Father Dyer in the background asking, “Does anyone else know the words to ‘I’ll Bet You’re Sorry Now, Tokyo Rose’?” On her way back to the living room, Sharon stepped quietly out from the study.
“Where’s Burke?” Chris asked her.
“In there,” Sharon answered with a nod toward the study. “He’s sleeping it off. Say, what did the senator say to you? Anything?”
“No, they just left.”
“Just as well.”
“Whaddya mean, Shar? What’s harpooning?”
“Oh, well, Burke,” Sharon sighed. In a guarded tone, she described an encounter between the senator and Dennings, who had remarked to him, in passing, that there appeared to be “an alien pubic hair floating round in my gin.” Then he’d turned to the senator’s wife and added in a vaguely accusatory tone, “Never seen it before in my life! Have you?”
Chris gasped and then giggled and rolled her eyes as Sharon went on to describe how the senator’s embarrassed reaction had triggered one of Dennings’s quixotic rages, in which he’d expressed his “boundless gratitude” for the existence of politicians, since without them to compare to “one couldn’t easily distinguish who the statesmen were, you see,” and when the senator had moved away in an icy huff, the director had turned to Sharon and said proudly, “There, you see? I didn’t curse. Don’t you agree that I handled the situation demurely?”
Chris couldn’t help laughing. “Oh, well, let him sleep. But you’d better stay in there in case he wakes up,” she said. “Would you mind?”
“No, of course not.”
In the living room, Mary Jo Perrin sat alone in a corner chair. She looked preoccupied. And troubled. Chris started to join her, but changed her mind and headed for Dyer and the piano instead. Dyer broke off his playing of chords and looked up to greet her. “Yes, young lady,” he said, “and so what can we offer you today? As it happens, we’re running a special on novenas.”
Chris chuckled with the others gathered around. “I thought I’d get the scoop on what goes on at Black Mass,” she said. “Father Wagner said you were the expert.”
The group at the piano fell silent with interest.
“No, not really,” said Dyer, lightly touching some chords again. “Why’d you mention Black Mass?”
“Oh, well, some of us were talking before about—well … about those things that they found at the church, at Holy Trinity, and—”
“Oh, you mean the desecrations?” Dyer interrupted.
The astronaut broke in. “Hey, someone want to let us on to what you’re talkin’ about, here? I’m lost.”
“Me too,” said Ellen Cleary.
Dyer lifted his hands from the piano and looked up at them.
“Well, they found some desecrations at the church down the street,” he explained.
“Well, like what?” asked the astronaut.
“Forget it,” Father Dyer advised him. “Let’s just say some obscenities and leave it at that.”
“Father Wagner says you told him it was like at Black Mass,” prompted Chris, “and so I wondered what went on at those things.”
“Oh, I really don’t know all that much,” said Dyer. “In fact, most of what I know is what I’ve heard from another Jeb on campus.”
“What’s a Jeb?” Chris asked.
“Short for Jesuit. Father Karras, he’s our expert on all this sort of stuff.”
Chris was suddenly alert. “Oh, the dark-complexioned priest at Holy Trinity?”
“You know him?” Dyer asked her.
“No, I just heard him mentioned, that’s all.”
“Well, I think he did a paper on it once. You know, just from the psychiatric side.”
“Whaddya mean?” asked Chris.
“Whaddya mean, whaddya mean?”
“Are you telling me he’s a psychiatrist?”
“Oh, well, sure. Gee, I’m sorry. I just assumed that you knew.”
“Listen, somebody tell me something!” the astronaut demanded good-naturedly. “What does go on at Black Mass?”
Dyer shrugged. “Let’s just say perversions. Obscenities. Blasphemies. It’s an evil parody of the Mass where instead of God they worshiped Satan and sometimes offered human sacrifice.”
Ellen Cleary smiled thinly, shook her head and walked away. saying, “This is getting much too creepy for me.”
Chris paid her no notice. “But how can you know that?” she asked the young Jesuit. “Even if there was such a thing as Black Mass, who’s to say what went on there?”
“Well,” said Dyer, “I guess they got most of it from the people who were caught and then confessed.”
“Oh, come on,” said the dean. He had just joined the group unobtrusively. “Those confessions were worthless, Joe. They were tortured.”
“No, only the snotty ones,” Dyer said blandly.
There was a ripple of vaguely nervous laughter. The dean eyed his watch. “Well, I really should be going,” he said to Chris. “I’ve got the six-o’clock Mass in Dahlgren Chapel.”
“I’ve got the banjo Mass,” Dyer beamed. Then his eyes showed shock as they shifted to a point in the room behind Chris, and abruptly he sobered. “Well, now, I think we have a visitor, Mrs. MacNeil,” he cautioned, motioning with his head.
Chris turned. And gasped on seeing Regan in her nightgown urinating gushingly onto the rug as, staring up fixedly at the astronaut, she intoned with dead eyes and in a lifeless voice, “You’re going to die up there.”
“Oh, my baby!” Chris cried out as she rushed with her arms out to her daughter. “Oh, Rags, honey! Come, sweetheart! Come! Let’s go upstairs!”
She’d taken Regan by the hand and as she led her away she looked over her shoulder at the ashen astronaut. “Oh, I’m so sorry!” Chris apologized tremulously. “She’s been sick, she must be walking in her sleep! She didn’t know what she was saying!”
“Gee, maybe we should go,” she heard Dyer say to someone.
“No, no, stay!” Chris called back. “It’s okay! I’ll be back in just a minute!”
Chris paused by the open door to the kitchen, instructing Willie to see to the rug before the stain became indelible, then walked Regan upstairs to her bathroom, bathed her and changed her nightgown. “Honey, why did you say that?” Chris asked her repeatedly,
but Regan appeared not to understand and, with her eyes staring vacantly, mumbled soft strings of words without meaning.
Chris tucked her into bed, and almost immediately Regan appeared to fall asleep. Chris waited, listening to her breathing for a time, and then quietly left the room.
At the bottom of the stairs, she encountered Sharon and the young director of the second unit assisting Dennings out of the study. They had called a cab and were going to shepherd him back to his suite at the Georgetown Inn.
“Take it easy,” Chris advised as they left the house with Dennings between them and one of his arms draped over each of their shoulders. Barely conscious, he murmured, “Fuck it,” and then slipped into the fog and the waiting cab.
Chris returned to the living room, where the guests who still remained expressed their sympathy as she gave them a brief account of Regan’s illness. When she mentioned the rappings and the other “attention-getting” phenomena, she noticed that the psychic was staring at her intently. At one point Chris looked at her, expecting her to comment, but Perrin said nothing and Chris continued.
“Does she walk in her sleep quite a bit?” asked Dyer.
“No, tonight’s the first time. Or at least, the first time that I know of, so I guess it’s this hyperactivity thing. Don’t you think?”
“Oh, I really wouldn’t know,” said the priest. “I’ve heard sleepwalking’s common at puberty, except that—” Here he shrugged and broke off. “I don’t know. Guess you’d better ask your doctor.”
Throughout the remainder of the discussion, Mrs. Perrin sat quietly, watching the dance of flames in the living-room fireplace; equally subdued, Chris noticed, was the astronaut, who looked down into his drink with an occasional grunt meant to signify interest and attention. He was scheduled for a flight to the moon within the year.
“Well, I do have that Mass to say,” said the dean as he rose to leave. It triggered a general departure. All stood up and expressed their thanks for dinner and the evening.
At the door, Father Dyer took Chris’s hand as he earnestly probed her eyes and asked, “Do you think there’s a part in one of your movies for a very short priest who can play the piano?”