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  Considerably more men than women, a few black people, which, for some reason, surprised Lynn. A good-looking black girl with a cute figure. Two tables of bridge. It was hot in the room, even with the windows open. Looking down at the yard she saw a younger group sitting in the sun, on a bench and the grass nearby, four boys with their shirts off--actually young men in their twenties--and a girl wearing cutoffs and a halter top.

  The little gray-haired woman, Edith, sitting across from Lynn, said, "They got the problem, you know it? Oh, there's plenty of others, I don't mean you have to be a hippie or anything. But drugs and booze, that's the killer. You notice they don't give you any tranquilizers here unless you're climbing up the wall."

  The man next to Lynn told them how many Valium he used to take a day; sometimes six, eight, plus a couple of fifths.

  Lynn said she wondered if the Stroh's Beer sign across the freeway bothered anybody, tempted them.

  The man sitting next to her said it didn't bother him none; beer always gave him a headache.

  Edith would stop people and introduce them to Lynn, saying, almost proudly, "She only come in last night." As though look, she's better already. "I'm her Big Sister."

  A skinny, hunch-shouldered man said he came in three days ago, fella told him he was his Big Brother and he hadn't seen the son of a bitch since. Edith was concerned and told him he should talk to a counselor. The skinny, hunch-shouldered man said he wanted to call Wayne County Social Service, but they wouldn't let him. He said how was he supposed to get his check if they didn't know where he was?

  There were a number of those skinny, hillbilly-looking guys, recent skid-row graduates who still looked soiled and wore second-hand clothes that hung on them. What happened to guys' asses who drank too much? But there, playing bridge, was a man who had to be an executive of some kind, distinguished, even with his florid Irish face and little slit of a mouth. Now there was an alcoholic. But if that was the look, what about the black guy with the beard and the yellow tank top? Or the fat girl in the Big Mac bib overalls, awful hair, sitting with the blond lady in the designer blouse and white earrings? There was no obvious type, and yet all were aware of something Lynn would never understand. No matter how well she faked it she would still feel left out as they smiled and shook their heads and talked among themselves, passing time, hopefully saving their lives.

  It was interesting. Then less interesting, thinking, What am I doing here? Quit fooling around and go look for the guy, Juvenal. Except she didn't want to appear to know anything about him. She didn't want to ask for him---

  As it turned out, she didn't have to.

  Lynn had a feeling--it was strange--the moment she saw him come in and begin talking to people, touching shoulders, moving from table to table on his way to the coffee urns, she knew it was Juvenal: not from Virginia's or Bill Hill's description, but as if she had known him from some time before, when they were little kids, and recognized him now, grown up but not changed that much.

  He had a boyish look, light brown hair down on his forehead, slim body in a blue-and-red striped knit shirt and jeans. Very friendly, the outgoing type--and yet he seemed a little shy. Was that it? No, not shy. What it was, he seemed genuinely glad to see everybody but was quiet about it, natural. Maybe a little naive? No, it was more like he was unaware of himself. That would be a switch, Lynn thought, a guy who's the center of attention not trying to act cool or entertaining or anything. People were getting up and leaving, but stopping to say hello to him.

  Edith, her Big Sister, said, "Oh, shit, I got to meet with my group. I shouldn't say that, it's doing me a world of good, but I get tired of thinking all the time, trying to say how I feel."

  The man next to Lynn said, "Quit your bitching, you're sober, aren't you?" He got up with his empty cup and left.

  Lynn was alone in the booth by the time Juvenal got his cup of coffee, looked around the room, and came over to her.

  He said, "Can I join you?"

  "Sure."

  "You're Lynn, aren't you?"

  "Yeah. How'd you know?"

  He slid in across from her. "I'm Juvenal--on the staff here. You came in this morning early . . ." He paused, staring at her with a warm expression, nice brown eyes, super eyelashes.

  She wanted to ask him if they were real.

  He said, "You look great. You know it?"

  It stopped her. "Oh--do you think so?"

  "How do you feel?"

  "Not too bad. A little, you know, fuzzy."

  "Your eyes are clear." He smiled and there was the innocent look. "You have very pretty eyes."

  "Wow," Lynn said, "all the compliments. I'm not used to it."

  "You don't look like you've been drinking, I mean too heavily."

  "I thought the amount isn't what you go by."

  "No, but after a while it shows." He smiled again. "What're you doing here, hiding?"

  "From what?"

  "I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

  Lynn hesitated. "I thought you were being funny."

  "No, I'm curious. What're you doing here?"

  "Isn't this a place you dry out?"

  "You're not an alcoholic," Juvenal said.

  "That's funny, the doctor didn't question it, or the nurse, or my counselor."

  "Come on, tell me."

  Looking at his eyes, into his eyes, she felt strangely moved and wanted to say, I can see you in there, I know you.

  What she said was, "You've got it turned around," not believing she was saying it, but knowing she had to be honest with him and not play games or try to put something over on him. "You're the one that's hiding. I came here to find you."

  "Oh, no. Oh, Christ," Father Quinn said. They had seen him and there was nothing he could do but continue along the short hall to the lobby where the right-winger was waiting, the right-winger with a folded newspaper under his arm and a seedy old priest it looked as though the right-winger was delivering.

  Father Quinn did not like August Murray. He considered him a pain in the ass and a humorless bore; Christ, anyone who could get excited about bringing Latin back to the Church. But August Murray--since the first time he had visited a few months ago--had been bringing bundles of used clothing, showing an interest in the Center, though he seemed to have little or no understanding of drunks. He was weird, but he was a do-gooder, so Father Quinn tolerated him, let him do some good.

  August said, "Father, I want you to meet Father Nestor. He's a Franciscan. Or he was until recently."

  An old man in an old black suit, a limp fringe of gray hair and practically no grip to his handshake. The priest said, "How do you do." The corners of his mouth looked sticky.

  "Father Nestor's pastor out at Saint John Bosco in Almont. You know where Almont is, Father?"

  Quinn said no, but he was happy to meet Father Nestor. It was a part of the work he had to put up with, being civil.

  August said, "It's out toward Lapeer, northeast. Father Nestor--I've been telling him about the Center and he took up a special collection last Sunday at mass he wants to give you."

  The old priest was holding a manila envelope with both hands.

  Strange. Quinn said, "Well, we certainly appreciate it, Father." But it was strange, a contribution from a parish he'd never heard of.

  "We collected eighty-two dollars," Father Nestor said.

  And Quinn was thinking, That must be some parish. August Murray was saying, "I told Father you'd take a few minutes of your time to tell him about your work here. I'm gonna run upstairs and say hello to Juvie." He was already moving away.

  "He might be out," Quinn said.

  "No, I called. He knows I'm coming." Going toward the stairway now that rose next to the elevator.

  "August"--trying to sound pleasant--"don't bother him if he's in detox, all right?"

  "I know where he'll be," August Murray said. He went up the stairs, past an empty bird cage on the landing, and made the turn to the second floor.

  "Let me ask you so
mething first," Lynn said. "Did you ever live in Miami?"

  "Uh-unh."

  "Dalton, Georgia?"

  "Nope."

  "And you were never with the rodeo--I don't know why, I have a feeling we used to know each other. I don't mean we met one time, I mean we knew each other."

  "You're a friend of Virginia's," Juvenal said. "Another friend of hers's been coming here."

  "That's Bill Hill. Virginia and I both used to work for him."

  "And he put you up to it," Juvenal said. "Why?"

  "See if you're real."

  "I'm real. I'm sitting here with you."

  "You know what I mean."

  "You want to know if I can actually heal people, perform miracles?"

  "I don't have any reason to doubt it," Lynn said, "but it's a lot to believe, isn't it? See, the last miracle worker I knew was always trying to get me in his room."

  Juvenal, grinning, seemed to appreciate that. Then, for a moment, looking past her, the smile left his face. It was gone and then back again, though not with the same warmth and intensity, and he raised his hand to wave someone over.

  Lynn looked around, surprised to see the room nearly empty. A man with his hair combed straight back was coming toward the booth. He had a row of pencils or pens in his shirt pocket and was carrying a newspaper, taking it from under his arm.

  Juvenal said, "August, this is Lynn. Have a cup with us."

  "I don't drink coffee," August Murray said. He glanced at Lynn, nodding, and laid the newspaper open in front of Juvenal.

  "Now what'd you do?" Juvenal said.

  "Right there, with the picture."

  "Doesn't look like you," Juvenal said.

  "It was taken four years ago at Kennedy Square. We were counterdemonstrating against some hippie peace march."

  Lynn moved over. Juvenal was studying the paper spread open on the table and August didn't seem to know where to sit. He slid in next to Lynn, but didn't look at her. He watched Juvenal reading the news story, Juvenal smiling a little. Lynn was thinking that August was about the squarest-looking guy she'd ever seen. She hoped he wasn't a good friend of Juvenal.

  Lynn said, "How're you doing? August, is it?"

  He said that's right, showing absolutely no interest. She could be sitting at another table.

  Juvenal brought her in. He looked up and said, "August is head of a group called Outrage and they demonstrate a lot. This is about him getting arrested." He looked down at the paper again. "What was it, disturbing the peace?"

  "Assault," August said.

  "Yeah, I see it. You hit this . . . Father Navaroli?"

  "I didn't hit him, I tried to hand him some pamphlets."

  "And you told the judge he wasn't qualified?"

  "He's a dumb guinea fallen-away, excommunicated Catholic. What does he know? It was like they were having a trial instead of a hearing. I said, 'Wait a minute. Nobody's bothered to ask me, but I want a jury trial.' You understand, when it's just a misdemeanor they don't like to take time, but I knew I could demand it and I did, a twelve-man jury trial."

  Lynn looked from one to the other, from August, very serious, to Juvenal, amused.

  Something didn't seem right. If Juvenal had been in a religious order, not a priest but close to it, why did he think this was funny? Look at it another way, if Juvenal thought it was funny, why didn't August?

  Lynn said, "Outrage is the name of your group?"

  "Organization uniting--" Juvenal began. "What is it, August?"

  "Organization Unifying Traditional Rites As God Expects."

  "They go around breaking up guitar masses," Juvenal said.

  "That's quite an oversimplification." August seemed offended. "Our purpose, as you well know, is to restore traditional forms of worship."

  "As God expects," Juvenal said.

  "As handed down for two thousand years from Christ and the Apostles," August said.

  Juvenal looked at Lynn. "Are you Catholic?"

  "No, but I was married to sort of one," Lynn said. "Except he never went to church. I know what you're talking about, but I don't know much about it."

  "August likes Latin," Juvenal said. "He doesn't like the mass in English. Or peace marches or Communists."

  "I don't know any Communists," Lynn said, "but I met a guy from William Morris who's a fascist."

  "They're different," Juvenal said. "I've met some fascists myself, in some pretty unexpected places."

  "They're very serious," Lynn said. And made a face, hunching her shoulders, aware of August next to her.

  Juvenal caught it, smiling, shaking his head. August didn't react, or wasn't listening. He said, "You say I don't like the mass in English. Listen, we have at least two hundred thousand followers in the United States we're sure of. Several thousand--I'll bet ten thousand here in Detroit."

  "Followers of what?" Lynn said. She felt brave with Juvenal across the table.

  August turned and looked at her for the first time as he said, "The Society of Saint Pius X, the traditionalist movement to restore Latin to the mass and sacramental worship."

  He meant it too. God, Lynn thought, you don't fool with August. It was funny Juvenal could get away with his remarks, his amused expression.

  Juvenal said, "How about the Gray Army of the Holy Spirit, August? How's that doing?"

  "The Gray Army of the Holy Ghost," August said. "We have currently over two hundred active members. Most of them, incidentally, will be out at Saint John Bosco Sunday. Did you get your invitation?"

  Juvenal was looking down at the paper again. "Yeah, I did, but I don't know if I can make it."

  "What's the Gray Army of the Holy Ghost?" Lynn said.

  "I told Father Nestor I was sure you'll be at the dedication," August said. "You can imagine how important it is to him, his first parish."

  "I'd like to--" Juvenal said.

  Lynn watched him. No, he wouldn't. He didn't know how to lie and it showed.

  "--but things come up around here. Sometimes Sunday's a bad day."

  "I would think you'd feel obligated," August said, "a former religious giving support to a brother--"

  "You'll have a lot of people, won't you?"

  "Father Nestor and I both assume with your background and what you've experienced, ten years in the order--"

  "Eleven," Juvenal said.

  Something was going on. Lynn could feel it, something passing between them. August seemed to be quietly putting him on the spot, with even a subtle hint of blackmail.

  "Eleven," August said. "How many, four years at Sao Pio Decimo." He leaned close to the table. "You think that's a coincidence? Pio Decimo, Pius the Tenth. Father Nestor said the children would ask you if you'd seen ghosts and witches--"

  "I told them no ghosts, a few witches," Juvenal said. "They'd hustle guys in the back of the church."

  August didn't smile. He said, "How can you dedicate eleven years of your life to God, then throw it all away?"

  "I haven't thrown it away," Juvenal said. "I was into that, now I'm into something else."

  "Taking care of drunks--It doesn't seem a waste to you?"

  "What should I be doing?" Juvenal said.

  And August said, "I don't have to tell you."

  Very dramatic, almost grim. Lynn glanced at August. So serious he was weird. While Juvenal leaned on his arms and was patient. She should probably get up and leave them alone; but that seemed dumb after going to all the trouble to get here. Now in a front-row seat. If they wanted her to leave somebody would have to push her out.

  It wouldn't be Juvenal--her new buddy, already feeling close to him and not knowing why. He said to her, "What did you want to know? Oh, you asked about the Gray Army of the Holy Ghost." And looked at August.

  "The Gray Army is the task force corps of Outrage, our activist group," August said.

  "They're the demonstrators," Juvenal said. "They wear armbands and pass out literature and get arrested. Isn't that right, August?"

  August was
giving Juvenal a silent, dramatic stare. "I think we should have a few words in private."

  Lynn began to move, picking up her cigarettes; but Juvenal said, "Listen, I'm gonna have to get back to work, but why don't you two stay and talk?"

  August got up, taking the newspaper, folding it as he said, "Father Nestor's waiting for me. I'll tell him you'll be there Sunday, all right? In fact I'll pick you up."

  Juvenal shrugged and said fine. Maybe to get rid of the guy, Lynn wasn't sure. She watched August walking away and called after him, "It was nice meeting you!" But August didn't look back. She said to Juvenal, "You were gonna leave me with him?"

  "Why? August is fun. Don't you think so?"

  "He's a spook," Lynn said. "In fact the whole thing was spooky. What's going on Sunday?"

  "A church dedication. I used to know the pastor and, I don't know, he'd like me to be there."

  "There's more to it than that," Lynn said.

  Juvenal was looking at his watch. "I've got to get going." He slid out of the booth, taking his cup.

  Lynn said, "Can I talk to you later on?"

  "Let's see what happens," Juvenal said, again the mystery man.

  Chapter 7

  IN THE CAR, August Murray's black Dodge Charger, Father Nestor said, "I should have talked to him if you're not sure."

  "I didn't say I wasn't sure, I said at first he tried to get out of it. He was different," August said. "He wasn't as . . . like humble as he was the other times."

  "He practiced humility. As I remember he was very humble, obedient, as we all were . . . poor, and I presume, chaste. Poverty, chastity, and obedience--now, I don't know." Father Nestor's head nodded with the motion of the car. He said then, "Oh, my, I think I have to go to the toilet."

  "Why didn't you go while we were there?"

  "I did. I have to go again."

  August didn't say anything for a minute or so. He was thinking of a headline for a pamphlet he'd print--also use it as a news release--when he got back to the shop. The Brother Juvenal Story. No---

  The Miracle-Working Missionary.

  The Miracle Worker of the Amazon.

  "I have to go bad," Father Nestor said.