Four Saints
By Gordon Kearns
Part Four (Pages 31-38)
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Sometimes she'd sit quietly. Other times it looked as if she were talking to someone. But nobody was there. I'd never go with her. I felt it was ...well, her thing. So I'd stand back and watch until it was allover, and she'd get up and run back to me as if nothing had interrupted us."
"Did she tell you what happened when she did this?"
"When I'd ask her, she'd kind of laugh, surprised that I didn't see the beautiful lady dressed in a long blue gown who had called her over to talk with her."
"Did she say what the lady talked about?"
"She said the lady only talked about nice things: the songs the birds were singing, or the spring flowers that were blooming, or what a pretty day it was. And the lady would always ask how she was feeling and what things she found in her 'Imagination System' that day, and did the coach hug her, and did Scot hold her hand today, and when were she and Scot going to go skinny-dipping again, and what games did she and the other kids play at recess that day? And the lady always asked what book Deborah and Scot were reading, and what Deborah thought about it. And the lady would always tell her how nice she looked and what a friendly smile she had.
"Sometimes the lady would say how sad she was that people didn't try harder to understand each other and accept each other for what they were, instead of trying to change each other, and that people were so wrapped up in what they wanted that they were willing to let anyone get hurt --even innocent people --so they could be respected. And what really made the lady sad was when people would think they were so right that they thought it was okay to hurt others who were in their way, saying they were doing it in a just cause. The lady said people would always find it hard to stop wars between countries when they themselves weren't finding it in their hearts to care, to really care, for the people they themselves might be hurting."
Scot became quite serious. "And Deborah said the lady always ended the conversation by telling her she loved her very much, and that Deborah should have patience, because there were wonderful happy times waiting for her ahead ...very soon. But first she would have to bear something terrible.
"I guess that was prophetic, wasn't it Miss Wallace?"
Now I was having a hard time holding down my feelings. But I did ask Scot what he thought about the visions. Did he think they were real?
"Deborah had a great imagination ...and a dramatic flair; that's what some people were saying. It's true, of course. I knew better than anybody. But to me all that didn't make any difference. To me, Deborah was what she said she was. Other people try to figure out what's behind what somebody says. That's where they go wrong, I think. You can only know about a person what that person gives you to know. Beyond that isn't anybody's business. You have to take what's in front of you. Whether Deborah really saw the lady or imagined she saw her or invented her, through Deborah she existed; and it was important to Deborah that I thought so too. So when Deborah said she was talking to a beautiful lady dressed in a blue gown, then I accepted ...no, I believed she was talking to a beautiful lady dressed in a blue gown.
"Anyway, when people, especially kids, noticed Deborah sitting alone in that meadow; and when they asked her, and she told them about the lady in blue, the word spread around fast. People were waiting at the soccer field for Deborah to come, more so when it became a routine of regular days and times each week that Deborah would talk to the lady. I figured about fifteen or twenty people, adults and kids, were there the last time Deborah talked to her before ..."
Back to the window to stare at the dumpster again. "After Deborah died, they kept coming for a week or so, and then the crowd gradually dissolved down to nothing. With Deborah not in the meadow any more, I guess there was no reason for the people to come."
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A slight pause --his back still toward me. "I loved her, Miss Wallace. I'm willing to say it. And not puppy love. Real, honest-to-goodness love. I've been ...empty since she's been gone. I suppose I'll never get over her. But it isn't my loving her that's hurting me now. Our times together were happy, and I'm not going to make them sad now that she's gone. What's really getting to me is all this about 'forgetting Deborah' --erasing her from ever having lived. Even that policeman you talked to could see what was happening. But I've made up my mind not to let Deborah be erased. And that's my problem now: how am I going to do it? I have to be as creative as Deborah was."
"Are you thinking of a memorial of some kind?"
He turned back to face me. "A memorial? Yes, something like that ... Right, something like that." He actually started to smile.
"Look Scot, I'm with you on this. I'll try to keep the wolves on the staff off your heels while you get things worked out. But could I give you just one suggestion?" He waited. "Could you at least let your mother in a little on what's going on with you? From the impression I had of her, I don't think she'd be against your doing what you have to do. She only wants you to ...be happy. That's more important to her, I think, than your grades in school."
"I.. .I'll have to think about that. You're probably right. I'll think about it."
"In the meantime I want to check a couple things myself."
There was a moment of pensive quiet just before he picked up his books and started to leave the office. His eyes again glistened with emerging tears. "I... I don't guess she was able to, you know, to get into her 'Imagination System' ...that night, I mean."
In terms of intimidation, Dr. Hornsby's office was an ice cream parlor compared to the polished wood rectory of St. Michael's Catholic Church, and the inner sanctum of Monsignor David Becker. I sat surrounded by oak in an old fashioned high ceilinged room. The floor was only blessed with an occasional throw rug to break the shiny hardwood monotony. Of course, the lamps and hanging ceiling fixture were dark cut glass; however, it was just the one desk lamp that was lit. Combined with the late afternoon cloudy autumn dullness strolling lazily in the window, it left the room most unfriendly to thoughtful conversation.
I was already sorry I'd come. I doubted anything Father Becker would tell me could help me with Scot. I don't believe in his entire career the good priest ever intentionally tried to be of service to any human being. Don't get me wrong; he'd give a person the shirt off his back. Many are the students in his school whose tuition was well in arrears, yet whose parents were never pressured for payment, because Father Becker understood the financial problems of the families. No one ever knew who these souls were; he kept the tuition books to himself. This practice was not the act of kindness you might at first think. In effect, he was eliminating financial pressures as an excuse for parents not sending their children to Catholic schools. The true character of the good monsignor would rise up in pontifical glory when parishioners come to him with personal religious dilemmas --un-wed teenage pregnancy, marrying outside the church, disagreement with spouse over having children, argument with or what to do with the kids when both parents work, thoughts of suicide, having to miss Mass on Sunday, or wanting to attend a sectarian university; and they would only receive answers straight from the theologically correct tube. No bending of rules ever. No blinking. No understanding of individual circumstances. The Church in all its wisdom knew best what was good for the lambs it shepherded.
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I've been a member of St. Michael's all my life. My apartment is less than two miles from my parents' home, where I was born and raised. The parish, once the largest in the county, had shrunk considerably in area as a result of the church building boom that followed the post-war housing boom in the county. But it still is large enough to straddle the line between the Oak Forest School District and its neighbor to the north, Hardesty. I attended the Hardesty public schools; and that flew in the face of a wrathful God, indeed.
I remember dreading spring in the church, and the annual fire-eating sermons by Father Becker, proclaiming: "Every Catholic child in a Catholic school." I remember him at the time as a young assistant, and he was using a phrase more in vogue in the days of his youth. But many a parent with her public school attending child would slink deep into the pews to avoid the lightning flashing from his eyes. My mother was one of those poor souls. She was one of the millions of girls who waited breathlessly through the war for the boys to come back so she could get married and have a baby. She did, and the baby she had was me. But my father was no obedient Catholic. He remembered well his own days in parochial school, and what he felt --rightly or wrongly --were the mean ways of the sisters. He never filled me in on the details, and I was always afraid to ask; he knew how to make his eyes smoke too. But he refused to permit them to get hold of his little girl. So I went to public school all the way through, and along with my mother sat through the fire and brimstone of Father Becker's annual drive to get the public school Catholics to enroll at St. Michaels.
"What can I do for you ...Miss Wallace?" He laughed. "You'll pardon me, I'm sure, for having such a hard time calling you 'Miss Wallace.' I still think of you as little Dale. Remember those days back in the public school religion classes? Your parents never did think our school was ...what they wanted for you." Dig, dig, dig. "And now you're a big time counselor in the famous MacArthur High School. Still in the public schools; ha, ha. But then they do pay much better on the outside."
I thought, always keep them on the defensive; right, Father B.? I said, "Ha, ha; I only wish I made as much as people think." Change the subject quick, old girl. "Actually, I'm here on school business. I'm working on a rather difficult case at the present time; your input would be very helpful, I think." Really, I was over-the-hump with Scot, or so I thought. My errand was more to satisfy my own curiosity.
"Anything I can do to help one of my fine, supporting parishioners. Fire away." Supporting, you bet. I hate to sit through the annual budget sermon almost as much as I used to hate the "Every Catholic Child ..." sermons.
"I'm working with a boy who was a good friend of the girl who was so tragically murdered last July, Deborah Irving. Do you happen to remember the case, Father?"
"Only vaguely. She wasn't a member of the parish. I really don't know how I can help." Only vaguely --bullshit. What about the big meeting at the police station? It only goes to prove: holy men know how to lie as well as us humans.
"The boy I'm working with has set up barriers to my helping him," I said. "If I can learn more about the girl, I might be able to break through. I understand she claimed to have visions. The story must've gotten around to you, Father. I was wondering what your impressions were."
"Oh, the 'Vision Girl'; now I remember. Ha, ha. We almost had our own Fatima, right here in Dalton. Yes, it was quite sad what happened to the poor child. But as to the visions: nonsense. She was a Jewess, you know."
"Yes, that's what I understand. Would being Jewish automatically disqualify her ...I mean, couldn't a Jew have a true vision?"
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"Technically, it's possible. Ha, ha; God can do whatever He wants, now can't he? But in fact, He wouldn't. After all, He did establish the Catholic Church on earth as His means of communicating with His flock. It seems hardly possible that He would use someone not in the Church for the same purpose. It would be contradictory, and God isn't contradictory." He sat back in his wooden swivel chair and drummed the fingers of his left hand on the surface of his massive roll-top oak desk. His right hand was touching his chin as he studied me. "Even if the child had been Catholic, we would have been highly skeptical. These things have to go through years of investigation before any degree of official acceptance is given.
"But this Jewess, never. If you look back in history, you'll find most of the accepted visions were given to people in the religious or who later joined the religious. With her, there would be no control, no means of proper interpretation. No, this was merely a childish lark; no more."
"As I understand, an expanding group of apparent believers was beginning to follow her."
He rose, becoming very tense, I thought. Then he began to walk around the room aimlessly, his heels echoing on the hardwood floor. "There are always poor, misguided souls ready to grasp at any tangible sign of God's existence, or hoping to gain God's favor with some temporal problem or other. Many are so wrapped up in their hopes and prayers they begin to see miracles, which, in reality, are only products of their imaginations. And it grows and grows, feeding on itself. One person's miracle is suddenly witnessed by another, then another, and another. Look at what's happening over in Medjugorje. Thousands are spending their life savings to stand where a vision has taken place in hopes that some blessings will rub off on them. And by the thousands they think they see the sun doing tricks in the sky.
"God help us, this could have happened here. And centered around a Jewess. Can you imagine: our peaceful Dalton swamped by a flood of fanatic people coming in by the busloads. And me, me right in the middle. They'd flood our church, expecting to receive unlimited confession and communion, and looking to me for counsel. And I'd have the Bishop and the whole bunch from the Vatican to put up with --watching me, and checking the propriety of my every word to the media. Oh, and the media. Reporters, television, the works. All my hopes for getting a Bish ...all my hopes for ...meeting the needs of my own parishioners drowned in the hysteria created by a nine year old Jewess; it was the kind of situation I'm expected to keep a lid on."
"But the visions, couldn't they be real?" He stopped pacing and stared down at me. I pressed onward: "Tell me, Father, what if Deborah Irving really did speak with ...I mean, what if her beautiful lady in the blue gown was truly the mother of Jesus?"
He sighed heavily and sat down again. In a pensive tones he said, almost to himself, "They will say, 'He is here ...", Then to me: "There are three possibilities, Miss Dale: one, there were no visions, only the willful fabrications or the imaginary dreams of an impressionable child; two, the visions were, in fact, the manifestation of God's interest in the child; three, they were --and this has happened many times in history --they were the manifestation of Satan himself." In his best intimidation effort yet, he leaned forward and pinned my eyes with his. "It may sound cold of me to say, but her cruel death may have been God's mercy at work." It was not God's mercy at work in the motel room that night, you bastard. "It may have proven the visions were false. Had they been true, the child would not have been permitted to die before their message was revealed." But they were revealed: to Scot, and from him to me. How many more are required? "In any case, if the visions were real, they will continue; someone else will be appointed by God as the receptacle. If on the other hand, the visions were the manifestation
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of Satan, the child's death was in the best interests of herself and humankind; all the poor souls who were following her were redeemed through her passing. And if the visions were a hoax, as I am convinced they were -- consciously or unconsciously --her going on living the lie would have been a mockery of the most evil kind; her murder --think what you will --her murder would have been just." My God, I'm not really hearing this.
He was on a roll now. "As I said, if it's God's will, more revelations will come --in His own time. Whatever; only confusion can attend further public consideration of the case of Miss Deborah Irving. Child," Who, me? "Child, take care of your young man with the problems. My advice to you is to pray for God's guidance and help in the matter. It's only through God that the spirit can be healed anyway. Forget the little girl. Let the dead be dead."
What did Tom Preuss say? Oh, yes, "Nuts." And that goes for me too. We both rose and shook hands. As I was walking toward the door, I stopped and turned back to face Father Becker. "It just occurred to me, Father. If Deborah Irving's beautiful lady was in fact the mother of God, doesn't that make her a martyr, and automatically an honest-to-goodness saint?"
A beat, barely noticeable, to be sure; but nonetheless a beat, as if the question stunned him ...or was it only my wishful thinking? If it did, he rebounded quickly ...and crisply: "Ha, ha; now that would be something: our own little Jewish saint --provided, of course, she died of her own volition, defending Christian life and truth." The son-of-a-bitch would have the last word.
But it just might be; and he knows it.
It was drizzling as I left the rectory and headed for my car.
Thursday, October 13, 1983
By noon Thursday I had the tests all boxed up in the office, waiting for the courier. When I checked my mail box, I found that Barry Daniels had given me the forms for reporting expulsion, suspension, and disciplinary action statistics to the deseg watchdog committee. They were still in the envelope addressed to Barry Daniels, Desegregation Coordinator for MacArthur High School. He sure knows how to handle responsibility.
During the morning Mrs. Daniels had called to thank me for helping Scot. "We had our first real conversation in months," she said. "He told me what you learned about Deborah Irving's death, and how it seems everybody wants to 'erase her,' in his words. It does seem there's a conspiracy, doesn't it?" They had talked over his dedication to somehow preserve the memory of Deborah. He said that he couldn't get much interested in his schoolwork or anything else until he had accomplished what he set out to do. "Really, Miss Wallace, good grades aren't my primary hopes for Scot," she said. "I've never pressured him on that score. I only want to see him happy. The one most important concept I ever wanted him to learn was that he should do the things he thinks are right, and never compromise his principles. Nobody is truly happy if he isn't following his own heart. I know this sounds straight from a Hollywood movie, but it is what I believe. The present situation does test my belief, though. Scot's whole school career might be at stake. But sticking to one's convictions always carries a risk. It's hard, you can imagine, but I have to let Scot take his own lead in this. I'll support him all the way, and try as best I can to buffer whatever problems come his way as a result." Oops, there's something to this lady.
"Our relationship," she continued, "has been built on mutual respect. From the time his father
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died, Scot has had to take an increased share of the responsibility for running our home and for taking care of his own needs. As I mentioned in our conversation the other day, he has become the man of the house. If I expect him to be big enough to carry responsibility, I have to give him the latitude in judgment people with responsibilities deserve. As an example, I've never questioned him about his relationship with little Deborah; I really don't know what they did when they were alone. I hope his behavior was. ..okay I have to trust that for the most part it was. They are ...they were human; I wouldn't expect perfection. I'm sure they did things behind my back I might have disapproved of had I known of them --or might have had to disapprove of due to my 'wiser' adult status.
"However, in the long run I think this leeway for making mistakes has made, and will continue to make of him a stronger, more independent and, in the end, more prudent person.
"I'm afraid my hands-off system has a dark side. Being independent of each other has not encouraged open dialogue between us, especially when combined with the demands of my full-time employment. As a result, Scot and I live in two different worlds. Don't get me wrong, we do communicate; we do converse. It was when he withdrew into himself last summer that I realized there was a problem, even though I didn't know what it was. I was already worried about him before I received the bad reports from school. But the gap between us was such that I couldn't get through his shell. That's why I was so glad that you stepped in. You apparently know how to bridge gaps; and you are evidently willing to work quite hard to do so."
"Please ..." I interrupted.
"No, it's true. And I'm happy you did. He needs to have someone to confide in. I'm not the one, and Deborah is dead. Judging by his sudden enthusiasm, and his sudden willingness to talk to me, both of which you had to have inspired, I wouldn't be at all surprised if you already knew more about my son's relationship with and feelings for Deborah than I. Please stay with him through this; he does have something in mind. However, he was only willing gave me a general idea of what it is. He said he wants to talk it over with you. You have my permission to do whatever you feel is necessary to help him achieve what it is he wants to achieve. Anything you could do would be appreciated. But even though I'd like you to stay with him through this, please don't feel obligated. After all, It's Scot's problem."
"Mrs. Bennett, there's no way I could pullout now. I look on Scot as a friend; and, although I've never met her, I've come to view Deborah as a friend as well. I'll do everything possible to help him ...and Deborah.
"But Mrs. Bennett, there is one thing. When I mulled over all I heard in the past few days, I found myself nagged by a disturbing thought; there's probably nothing to it. .." I hesitated a moment and then plunged on, "It's highly improbable, but you should know I think there might be some element of danger to Scot's trying to revive Deborah Irving's memory ...I mean real physical danger."
After a few seconds' pause, she answered, "We know."
It wasn't a totally unwarranted concern. If Marty were right, if Deborah was murdered deliberately and with premeditation, there could be a shadow hanging over anyone trying to put Deborah into the public eye. Overly melodramatic? Probably so. It is a tendency I've been known to harbor.
Apparently Mrs. Bennett tended in that direction too. She seemed to understand the implications of my cautioning words quite well.
Scot was standing at my door, hall pass in hand, when I returned to my office after lunch. He waited respectfully outside my office until I had tucked my two week old brown lunch bag into my briefcase. Lunch bags aren't at their best until they've lost their creases; that's when they
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develop a certain air of ...wisdom, and stolid maturity. When I signaled Scot to enter, he slipped into his usual chair quickly, tossing his books on the floor by the door as he did.
He wasn't interested in small talk; he came straight to the point, "I know what I have to do now."
"What's that?" I asked.
"You gave me the idea yesterday when you said something about a memorial, a memorial for Deborah." He through his shoulders back proudly. "She's going to have herself a statue."
"A statue?"
"Yes; you know, like heroes, old generals, Shakespeare, Columbus --all those VIP's: a real no-fooling statue."
"All right ...so far. But exactly how ..."
"Well, I have about two hundred dollars in cash saved from cutting grass and shoveling snow. Ordinarily, I'd put in the bank with my college fund. But I figure it might be about the right amount to get Deborah a statue. Oh, not one of those fancy carved things you see in art museums, but I bet I could find a good concrete statue for about that amount; you know, the kind they have on lawns and in gardens. Ornamental stone places have all different concrete things: bird baths, fountains, benches, squirrels, frogs, donkeys, pagodas, saints, deer --and lots of little girls. They have little girls holding sprinkling cans, little girls with birds on their shoulders, little girls with umbrellas, little girls talking to frogs, and little girls holding their skirts up cute-like. I bet I could find one that looked at least vaguely like Deborah; from a distance people might not notice."
He started pacing again, his mind racing way beyond his tongue. I couldn't have interrupted his enthusiasm at this point if I had wanted, and I didn't want. I wanted to enjoy seeing him excited, a new experience for me in my dealings with him.
He leaned against the filing cabinet with one leg casually crossed over the other and his arms folded in front of his chest. "But I don't want one of those cheapie things you see a lot of along highways. I want to go to a place where they make all their own stuff and take pride in their work." He sat down at the table again. "There's a place over by Kennedy Middle School. I used to pass every day going to and from school. I never paid much attention to it; I guess I always had my mind on other things. I think it's owned by a real sculptor. Now that's what I had in mind."
"Hold it a second, Scot. I want to check something." I paged through the business pages of the phone book. "I think I know the place you mean." I found what I was looking for. "Boy, you know how to pick 'em. That's Peter Barnes's studio. He's probably the best known sculptor in the area. It's certainly not a 'cheapie' place. With that kind of an artist, you're paying as much for his reputation as for his talent."
Scot put a hand to his jaw. then he reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of bills. When he makes up his mind, he's ready NOW.
"I want something good for Deborah," he said. He stared at his money for a few moments. "Okay, then; so much the better. I want the best. I'll cash in my college fund. I'm sure my mom will let me ...she won't like it, but she'll let me."
Now it was my turn to think. I've rarely faced such singlemindedness of purpose. Cash in his college fund? From what I'd come to know about him, trying to turn his resolve would be a double loser, the argument and his confidence. "It may not have to come to that Scot; we'll see," I said.
Another thought came to my mind. "Getting a statue is one thing, but have you thought of where you were going to put it?"
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"In the most logical place in the world: the meadow where she had the visions. Every time anybody comes to use the soccer field, they'll see her. And those people who were watching her talk to her lady might start coming back again. She'd never be forgotten there."
Reluctantly, I said, "Problem. I'm afraid the day after you set the statue up, all the big-wigs who wanted to erase her would come with a writ or something legal and haul it away."
He sat there looking at me. Then: "You're right: that is a problem. I ...I should've thought about that." Pause. Then hopefully: "You think there's any way we can get around it?"
Now I walked to the window. There must be something inspiring about that old dumpster. I turned around to Scot again. "Maybe. That's not publicly owned ground, you know. If we could talk to Mrs. Metzger, maybe ..."
I shrugged my shoulders. "Why not. It won't hurt to ask." I quickly checked the phone book and called Mrs. Metzger's office. Her secretary set up appointment for us with Mrs. Metzger for three o'clock that afternoon. With Scot around, things move fast.
At seventy-six, Mrs. Metzger, the matriarch of Dalton, still went to work every day. From her office in the Dalton Shopping Mall she oversaw the Metzger empire, which included the county's highest grossing real estate brokerage, a one hundred-plus unit apartment complex, the Holiday Knight Motel --a showplace of the Knight motel chain, two tablecloth restaurants, the Metzger Foundation --which supervised the family philanthropic endeavors, the shopping mall itself, and, of course, her landed estate of some three thousand uncultivated prime Johnson County acres. Her office staff included an executive assistant, a data processing manager, an accountant, a receptionist/secretary; and a personal secretary.
She was the last of the Neumeyer family, and her husband Paul was the scion of the Metzger family; both were among the half-dozen or so lucky farm families who historically owned almost all the land in Johnson and surrounding counties. Lucky, because the sudden suburban sprawl that started after the war and has yet to show signs of slowing assured them that neither they nor their families for generations to come would ever have to plow another acre. With this good fortune as a starting point, the Metzgers went on to become one of the richest families in the state.
The small, well-dressed, friendly looking lady on the other side of the modern glass desk bore no resemblance to the iron-willed curmudgeon local talk would have you believe she was. However, before I could begin the introductions, she opened the conversation rather disarmingly: "I know this young man, of course; not his name, mind you, but I'd wager I know him a whole lot better than most of his friends." Scot was already showing red on his cheeks. "At least, I know him in a different way." She was smiling impishly now. "He and that beautiful little lass were playing in my pond last Memorial Day --just as naked as jay birds. I never forget a face," she laughed, "or anything else about a person."
Scot lowered his eyes.
"Don't you dare be embarrassed, lad," she said emphatically. "Nudity in young people defines innocence; it is guileless; it is the essence of life. People who don't recognize that fact will never realize how honest and satisfying their lives could have been."
Scot met her eyes, and smiled.
"And now," she went on, speaking to me, "who are you, and how may I be of help?"
Next: Part Five (Pages 39-49)
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