Текст книги "The Exorcist"

Автор книги: William Peter Blatty

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

    Could it be? Could it possibly, conceivably be? Could the only hope for Regan be the ritual of exorcism? Must he open up that locker of aches?

    He could not shake it. Could not leave it untested. He must know. How to know? He opened his eyes. "... conversations with the patient must be carefully..." Yes. Yes, why not? If discovery that speech patterns of Regan and the "demon" were the same ruled out possession even with paranormal occurrences, then certainly... Sure... strong difference in the patterns should mean that there probably is possession!

    He paced. What else? What else? Something quick. She–Wait a minute. He paused, staring down, hands clasped behind his back. That chapter... that chapter in the book on witchcraft. Had it mentioned...? Yes, it had: that demons invariably reacted with fury when confronted with the consecrated Host... with relics... with–Holy water! Right! That's it! I'll go up there and sprinkle her with tap water! But tell her it's holy water! Sure! If she reacts the way demons are supposed to react, then I'll know she's not possessed... that the symptoms are suggestive... that she got them from the book! But if she doesn't react it would mean...

    Genuine possession?

    Maybe...

    Feverish, he rummaged for a holy-water vial.

    Willie admitted him to the house. In the entry, he glanced toward Regan's bedroom. Shouts. Obscenities. And yet not in the deep, coarse voice of the demon. Raspy. Lighter. A broad British... Yes!... The manifestation that had fleetingly appeared when he'd last sees Regan.

    Karras glanced down at the waiting Willie. She was staring puzzled at the Roman collar. At the priestly robes. "Where's Mrs. MacNeil, please?" Karras asked her.

    Willie motioned upstairs.

    'Thank you."

    He moved to the staircase. Climbed. Saw Chris in the hall. She was sitting in a chair near Regan's bedroom, head lowered, her arms folded on her chest. As the Jesuit approached her, Chris heard the swishing of his robes. She glanced up and quickly stood. "Hello, Father."

    There were bluish sacs beneath her eyes. Karras frowned. "Did you sleep?"

    "Oh, a little."

    He was shaking his head in admonishment.

    "Well, I couldn't," she sighed at him, motioning her head at Regan's door. "She's been doing that all night."

    "Any vomiting?"

    "No." She took hold of his sleeve as if to lead him away. "C'mon, let's go downstairs where we can–"

    "No, I'd like to see her," he gently interrupted. He resisted the tugging insistence of her lead.

    "Right now?"

    Something wrong, reflected Karras. She looked tense. Afraid. "Why not now?" he inquired.

    She glanced furtively at the door of Regan's bedroom. From within shrieked the hoarse mad voice: "Damned Naa-zi! Naa-zi cunt!"

    Chris looked away; then reluctantly nodded. "Go ahead. Go on in."

    "You've got a tape recorder?"

    Her eyes searched his with quick movements. Little flicks.

    "Could you have it bought up to the room with a blank reel of tape, please?"

    She frowned with suspicion. "What for?" Then alarm.

    "You mean, you want to tape...?"

    "Yes, it's im–"

    "Father, I can't have you...!"

    "I need to make comparisons of patterns of speech," he cut in firmly. "Now please! You're just going to have to trust me!"

    They turned to the door as an excoriating, stream of obscenities apparently drove Karl out of Regan's bedroom. His face ashen and grim, he was carrying soiled diapers and bedding.

    "Get 'em on, Karl?" Chris asked him as the servant closed the bedroom door behind him.

    Karl glanced quickly at Karras, then at Chris. "They are on," he said tersely, and went quickly down the hallway toward the staircase.

    Chris watched him. She turned back to Karras.

    "Okay," she said weakly. "Okay. I'll have it sent up." And abruptly she was walking down the hall.

    For a moment Karras watched her. Puzzled. What was wrong? Then he noticed the sudden silence in the bedroom. It was brief. Now the yelping of diabolic laughter. He moved forward. Felt the water vial in his pocket. He opened the door and stepped into the bedroom.

    The stench was more powerful than the evening before. He closed the door. Stared. That horror. That thing on the bed.

    As he approached, it was watching with mocking eyes. Full of cunning. Full of hate. Full of power.

    "Hello, Karras."

    The priest heard the sound of diarrhetic voiding into plastic pants.

    He spoke calmly from the foot of the bed. "Hello, devil. And how are you feeling?"

    "At the moment, very happy to see you. Glad." The tongue lolled out of the mouth while the eyes appraised Karras with insolence. "Flying your colors, I see. Very good." Another rumbling. "You don't mind a bit of stink, do you, Karras?"

    "Not at all."

    "You're a liar!"

    "Does that bother you?"

    "Mildly."

    "But the devil likes liars."

    "Only good ones, dear Karras, only good ones," it chuckled. "Moreover, who said I'm the devil?"

    "Didn't you?"

    "Oh, I might have. I might. I'm not well. You believed me?"

    "Of course."

    "My apologies."

    "Are you saying that you aren't the devil?"

    "Just a poor struggling demon. A devil. A subtle distinction, but one not entirely lost upon Our Father who is in Hell. Incidentally, you won't retention my slip of the tongue to him, Karras, now will you? Eh? When you see him?"

    "See him? Is he here?" asked the priest.

    "In the pig? Not at all. Just a poor little family of wandering souls, my friend. Yon don't blame us for being here, do you? After all, we have no place to go. No home."

    "And how long are you planning to stay?"

    The head jerked up from the pillow, contorted is rage as it roared, "Until the piglet dies!" And then as suddenly, Regan settled back into a thick-lipped, drooling grin. "Incidentally, what an excellent day for an exorcism, Karras."

    The books! She must have read that in the book!

    The sardonic eyes were staring piercingly. "Do begin it soon. Very soon."

    Inconsistent. Something off here. "You would like that?"

    "Intensely."

    "But wouldn't that drive you out of Regan?"

    The demon put its head back, cackling maniacally, then broke off. "It would bring us together."

    'You and Regan?"

    "You and us, my good friend," croaked the demon. "You and us." And from deep in that throat, muffled laughter.

    Karras stared. At the back of his neck, he felt hands. Icy cold. Lightly touching. And then gone. Caused by fear, he concluded. Fear.

    Fear of what?

    "Yes, you'll join our little family, Karras. You see, the trouble with signs in the sky, my dear morsel, is that once having seen them, one has no excuse. Have you noticed how few miracles one hears about lately? Not our fault, Karras. Don't blame us. We try!"

    Karras jerked around his head at a loud, sudden banging. A bureau drawer had popped open, sliding out its entire length. He felt a quick-rising thrill as he watched it abruptly bang shut. There it is! And then as suddenly, the emotion dropped away like a rotted chunk of bark from a tree: Psychokinesis. Karras heard chuckling. He glanced back to Regan.

    "How pleasant to chat with you, Karras," said the demon, grinning. "I feel free. Like a wanton. I spread my great wings. In fact, even my telling you this will serve only to increase your damnation, my doctor, my dear and inglorious physician."

    "You did that? You made the dresser drawer move just now?"

    The demon wasn't listening. It had glanced toward the door, toward the sound of someone rapidly approaching down the hall, and now its features turned to those of the other personality. "Damned butchering bastard!" it shrieked in the hoarse, British-accented voice. "Cunting Hun!"

    Through the door came Karl, moving swiftly with the tape recorder, setting it down by the bed, eyes averted, and then quickly retreating from the room.

    "Out, Himmler! Out of my sight! Go and visit your club-footed daughter! Bring her sauerkraut! Sauerkraut and heroin, Thorndike! She will love it! She will–"

    Gone. Karl was gone. And now abruptly the thing within Regan was cordial, watching Karras as the priest quickly set up the tape recorder; looked for an outlet; plugged it in; threaded tape.

    "Oh, yes, hullo hullo hullo. What's up?" it said happily. "Are we going to record something, Padre? How fun! Oh, I do love to playact, you know! Oh, immensely!"

    "I'm Damien Karras," said the priest as he worked. "And who are you?"

    "Are you asking for my credits now, ducks? Damned cheeky of you, wouldn't you say?" It giggled. "I was Puck in the junior class play." It glanced around. "Where's a drink, incidentally? I'm parched."

    The priest placed the microphone gently on the nightstand.

    "If you'll tell me your name, I'll try to find one."

    "Yes, of course," it responded with a cackle of amusement. "And then drink it yourself, I suppose."

    As he pushed the RECORD button, Karras answered, "Tell me your name."

    "Fucking plunderer!" it rasped.

    And then promptly disappeared and was replaced by the demon. "And what are we doing now, Karras? Recording our little discussion?"

    Karras straightened. Stared. Then he pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat dawn. "Do you mind?" he responded.

    "Not at all," croaked the demon. "I have always rather liked infernal engines."

    Abruptly a strong, new stench assailed Karras. It was an odor like...

    "Sauerkraut, Karras. Have you noticed?"

    It does smell like sauerkraut, the Jesuit marveled. It seemed to be emanating from the bed. From Regan's body. Then it was gone, replaced by the putrid stench of before. Karras frowned. Did I imagine it? Autosuggestion? He thought of the holy water. Now? No, save it. Get more of the speech pattern. "To whom was I speaking before?" he asked.

    "Merely one of the family, Karras."

    "A demon?"

    "You give too much credit."

    "How so?"

    "The word 'demon' means 'wise one.' He is stupid."

    The Jesuit grew taut. "In what language does 'demon' mean 'wise one'?"

    "In Greek."

    "You speak Greek?"

    "Very fluently."

    One of the signs! Karras thought with excitement. Speaking in an unknown tongue! It was more than he'd hoped for. "Pos egnokas hoti presbyteros eimi?" he quickly inquired in classical Greek.

    "I am not in the mood, Karras."

    "Oh. Then you cannot–"

    "I am not in the mood!"

    Disappointment. Karras brooded., "You made the dresser drawer come sliding out?" He inquired.

    "Most assuredly."

    "Very impressive." Karras nodded. "You're certainly a very, very power demon."

    "I am."

    "I was wondering if you'd do it again."

    "Yes, in time."

    "Do it now, please–I would really like to see it."

    "In time."

    "Why not now?"

    "We must give you some reason for doubt," it croaked. "Some. Just enough to assure the final outcome." It put back its head in a chuckle of malice. "How novel to attack through the truth! Ah, what joy!"

    Icy hands lightly touching at his neck. Karras stared. Why the fear again? Fear? Was it fear?

    "No, not fear," said the demon. It was grinning. "That was me."

    Hands gone now. Karras frowned. Felt new wonder. Chipped it down. Telepathic. Or is she? Find out. Find out now. "Can you tell me what I'm thinking right now?"

    "Your thoughts are too dull to entertain."

    "Then you can't read my mind."

    "You may have it as you wish... as you wish."

    Try the holy water? Now? He heard the squeaking of the tape-recorder mechanism. No. Just keep digging. Get more of a sampling of the speech. "You're a fascinating person," said Karras.

    Regan sneered.

    "Oh, no, really," said Karras. "I'd like to know more about your background. You've never told me who you are, for example."

    "A devil," rumbled the demon.

    "Yes, I know, but which devil? What's your name?"

    "Ah, now what is in a name, Karras? Never mind my name. Call me Howdy, if you find it more comfortable."

    "Oh, yes. Captain Howdy." Karras nodded. "Regan's friend."

    "Her very close friend."

    "Oh, really?"

    "Indeed."

    "But then why do you torment her?"

    "Because I am her friend. The piglet likes it!"

    "She likes it?"

    "She adores it!"

    "But why?"

    "Ask her!"

    "Would you allow her to answer?"

    "No."

    "Well, then what would be the point in my asking?"

    "None!" The demon's eyes glinted spite.

    "Who's the person I was speaking to earlier?" asked Karras.

    "You've asked that."

    "I know, but you never gave an answer."

    "Just another good friend of the sweet, honey piglet, dear Karras."

    "May I speak to him?"

    "No. He is busy with your mother. She is sucking his cock to the bristles, Karras! to the root!" it chuckled softly, and then added, "Marvelous tongue, your mother. Good mouth."

    It was gleaming at him mockingly, and Karras felt a rage sweeping through him, a tremor of hatred that the priest quickly realized with a start was directed not at Regan, but at the demon. The demon! What the hell is the matter with you, Karras? The Jesuit gripped calm by its edges, breathed deep and then stood up and slipped the vial of water from the pocket of his shirt. He uncorked it.

    The demon looked wary. "What is that?"

    "Don't you know?" asked Karras, his thumb half covering the mouth of the vial as he started to sprinkle its contents on Regan. "It's holy water, devil."

    Immediately the demon was cringing, writhing, bellowing in terror and in pain: "It burns! It burns! Ahh, stop it! Cease, priest bastard! Cease!"

    Expressionless, Karras stopped sprinkling. Hysteria. Suggestion. She did read the book. He glanced at the tape recorder. Why bother?

    He noticed the silence. Looked at Regan. Knit his bows. What's this? What's going on? The demonic personality had vanished and in its place were other features, which were similar. Yet different. And the eyes had rolled upward into their sockets, exposing the whites. Now murmuring. Slowly. A feverish gibberish. Karras came around to the side of the bed. Leaned over to listen. What is it? Nothing. And yet... It's got cadence. Like a language. Could it be? He felt the fluttering of wings in his stomach; gripped them hard; held them still. Come on, don't be an idiot! And yet...

    He glanced to the volume monitor on the tape recorder. Not flashing. He turned up the amplification knob and then listened, intent, ear low to Regan's lips. The gibberish ceased and was replaced by breathing, raspy and deep.

    Karras straightened. "Who are you?" he asked.

    "Nowonmai," the entity answered. Groaning whisper. In pain. Whites of eyes. Lids fluttering. "Nowonmai." The cracked, breathy voice, like the soul of its owner, seemed cloistered in a dark, curtained space beyond time.

    "Is that your name?" Karras frowned.

    The lips moved. Fevered syllables. Slow. Unintelligible. Then shortly it ceased.

    "Are you able to understand me?"

    Silence. Only breathing. Deep. Oddly muffled. The eerie sound of sleep in an oxygen tent.

    The Jesuit waited. Hoped for more.

    Nothing came.

    He rewound the tape, packed the tape recorder into its case, picked it up and took the reel of tape. He gave Regan a last look. Louse ends. Irresolute, he left the room and went downstairs.

    He found Chris in the kitchen. She was sitting somberly over coffee at the table with Sharon. As they saw him approach, they looked up at him with a questioning, anxious expectancy. Chris said quietly to Sharon, "Better go check on Regan. Okay?"

    Sharon took a final sip of coffee, nodded wanly at Karras and left. He sat down wearily at the table.

    "So what's doin'?" Chris asked him, searching his eyes.

    About to answer, Karras waited as Karl entered quietly from the pantry and west over to the sink to scrub pots.

    Chris followed has gaze. "It's okay," she said softly. "Go ahead. What's the drill?"

    "There were two personalities I hadn't seen before. Well, no, one I guess I'd seen for just a moment, the one that sounds British. Is that anyone you know?"

    "Is that important?" Chris asked.

    He saw again the special tension in her face. "It's important."

    She looked down and nodded. "Yeah, it's someone I knew."

    "Who?"

    She looked up. "Burke Dennings."

    "The director?"

    "Yes."

    "The director who–"

    "Yes," she cut in.

    The Jesuit considered her answer for a moment in silence. He saw her index finger twitching.

    "Would you like some coffee or something, Father?"

    He shook his head. "Thanks, no." He lead forward, elbows on the table. "Was Regan acquainted with him?"

    "Yes."

    "And–"

    A clattering. Startled, Chas flinched, turned and saw that Karl had dropped a roasting pan to the floor and was stooping to retrieve it. As he lifted it, he dropped it again.

    "God almighty, Karl!"

    "Sorry, madam."

    "Go on, Karl, get out of here! Go see a movie or something! We can't all stay cooped in this house!" She turned back to Karras, picking up a cigarette packet and slamming it down on the table when Karl protested, "No, I look–"

    "Karl, now, I mean it!" Chris snapped at him nervously, raising her voice but not turning her head. "Get out! Just get out of this house for a while! We've all got to start getting out! Now just go!"

    "Yes, you go!" echoed Willie as she entered and snatched away the pan from Karl's grasp. She pushed him irritably toward the pantry.

    Karl eyed Karras and Chris briefly and then left.

    "Sorry, Father," Chris murmured in apology. She reached for a cigarette. "He's had to take an awful lot lately."

    "You were right," said Karras gently. He picked up the matches. "You should all make an effort to get out of the house." He lit her cigarette. "You too."

    "So what did Burke Say?" Chris asked.

    "Just obscenities," Karras said, shrugging.

    "That's all?"

    He caught the faint pulse of fear in her tone "Pretty much," he responded. Then he lowered his voice. "Incidentally, does Karl have a daughter?"

    "A daughter? No, not that I know of. Or if he does, he's never mentioned it."

    "You're sure?"

    Willie was scouring at the sink. Chris turned to her. "You don't have a daughter, do you, Willie?"

    "She die, madam, long, long before."

    "Oh, I'm sorry."

    Chris turned back to Karras. "That's the first I ever heard of her," she whispered. "Why'd you ask? How'd you know?"

    "Regan. She mentioned it," said Karras.

    Chris stared.

    "Has she ever shown signs of having ESP?" he asked. "I mean, prior to this time."

    "Well..." Chris hesitated. "Well, I don't know. I'm not sure. I mean, there have been lots of times when she seems to be thinking the same things that I'm thinking, but doesn't that happen with people -who are close?"

    Karras nodded. Thought. "Now this other personality that I mentioned," he began. "That's the one that emerged in hypnosis once?"

    "Talks gibberish?"

    "Yes. Who is it?"

    "I don't know."

    "It's not familiar at all?"

    "Not at all."

    "Have you sent for the medical records?"

    "They'll be here this afternoon. They're being flown down. They'll be coming straight to you." She sipped coffee. "That's the only way I could get them loose, and even at that I had to raise hell."

    "Yes, I thought there might be trouble."

    "There was. But they're coming." She took another sip. "Now what about the exorcism, Father?"

    He looked down, then sighed. "Well, I'm not very hopeful I can sell it to the Bishop."

    "What do you mean, 'not very hopeful'?" She set down the coffee cup, frowning anxiously.

    He dipped into his pocket and extracted the vial, holding it out to show Chris. "See this?"

    She nodded.

    "I told her it was holy water," Karras explained. "And when I started to sprinkle her with it, she reacted very violently."

    "So?"

    "It's not holy water. It's ordinary tap water."

    "So maybe some demons just don't know the difference."

    "You really believe there's a demon inside her?"

    "I believe that there's something inside of Regan that's trying to kill her, Father Karras, and whether it knows piss from water doesn't seem to have very much to do with it all, don't you think? I mean, sorry, but you asked my opinion!" She tamped out her cigarette. "What's the difference between holy water and tap water anyway?"

    "Holy water's blessed."

    "Mazel tov, Father; I'm happy for it! So what are you telling me, meantime–no exorcism?"

    "Look, I've only just begun to dig into this," Karras said heatedly. "But the Church has criteria that have to be met, and they have to be met for a very good reason: keeping clear of the superstitious garbage that people keep pinning on her year after year! I give you 'levitating priests,' for example, and statues of the Blessed Mother that supposedly cry on Good Fridays and feast days. Now I think I can live without contributing to that!"

    "Would you like a little Librium, Father?"

    "I'm sorry, but you asked my opinion."

    "I got it."

    He was reaching for the cigarettes.

    "Me too," Chris said huskily.

    He extended the pack. She took one. He popped one in his mouth and lit both. They exhaled with audible sighs and slumped around the table.

    "I'm sorry," he told her softly.

    "Those nonfilter cigarettes'll kill ya."

    He toyed with the cigarette packet, crinkling cellophane. "Here are the signs that the Church might accept. One is speaking in a language that the subject has never known before. Never studied. I'm working on that one. With the tapes. We'll see. Then there's clairvoyance, although nowadays telepathy or ESP might nullify that one."

    "You believe in that stuff?" She frowned skeptically.

    He looked at her. She was serious, he decided. He continued. "And the last one is powers beyond her ability and age. That's a catchall. Anything occult."

    "Well, now, what about those poundings in the wall?"

    "By itself, it meals nothing."

    "And the way she was flying up and down off the bed?"

    "Not enough."

    "Well, then, what about these things on her skin?"

    "What things?"

    "I didn't tell you?"

    "Tell me what?"

    "Oh, it happened at the clinic," Chris explained. "There were–well..." She traced a finger on her chest. "You know, like writing? Just letters. They'd show up on her chest, then disappear. Just like that."

    Karras frowned. "You said 'Letters.' Not words?"

    "No, no words. Just an M once or twice. Then an L."

    "And you saw this?" he asked her.

    "Well, no. But they told me."

    "Who told you?"

    "The doctors at the clinic. Look, you'll see it in the records. It's for real."

    "Yes, I'm sure. But again, that's a natural phenomenon."

    "Where? Transylvania?" Chris said, incredulous.

    Karras shook his head. "No, I've come across cases of that in the journals. There was one, I remember, where a prison psychiatrist reported that a patient of his–an inmate–could go into a self-induced state of trance and make the signs of the zodiac appear on his skin." He made a gesture at his chest. "Made the skin raise up."

    "Boy, miracles sure don't come easy with you, do they?"

    "There was once an experiment," he explained to her gently, "in which the subject was hypnotized, put into trance; and then surgical incisions were made is each arm. He was told that his left arm was going to bleed, but that the right arm would not. Well, the left arm bled and the right arm didn't. The power of the mind controlled the blood flow. We don't know how, of course; but it happens. So in cases of stigmata–like the one with that prisoner I mentioned, or with Regan the unconscious mind is controlling the differential of blood flow to the skin, sending more to the parts that it wants raised up. And so then you have drawings, or letters, or whatever. Mysterious, but hardly supernatural."

    "You're a real tough case, Father Karras, do you know that?"

    Karras touched a thumbnail to his teeth. "Look, maybe this will help you to understand," he said finally. "The Church–not me–the Church–once published a statement, a warning to exorcists. I read it last night. And what it said was that most of the people who are thought to be possessed or whom others believe to be possessed–and now I'm quoting–'are far more in need of a doctor than of an exorcist.' " He looked up into Chris's eyes. "Can you guess when that warning was issued?"

    "No, when?"

    "The year fifteen eighty-three."

    Chris stared in surprise; thought. "Yeah, that sure was one hell of a year," she muttered. She heard the priest rising from his chair. "Let me wait and check the records from the clinic," he was saying.

    Chris nodded.

    "In the meantime," he continued, "I'll edit the tapes and then take them to the Institute of Languages and Linguistics. It could be this gibberish is some kind of a language. I doubt it. But maybe. And comparing the patterns of speech... Well, then you'll know. If they're the same, you'll know for sure she s not possessed."

    "And what then?" she asked anxiously.

    The priest probed her eyes. They were turbulent. Worried that her daughter is not possessed! He thought of Dennings. Something wrong. Very wrong. "I hate to ask, but could I borrow your car for a while?"

    She looked bleakly at the floor. "You could borrow my life for a while," she murmured. "Just get it back by Thursday. You never know; I might need it."

    With an ache, Karras stared at the bowed, defenseless head. He yearned to take her hand and say that all would be well. But how?

    "Wait, I'll get you the keys," she said.

    He watched her drift away like a hopeless prayer.

    When she'd given him the keys, Karras walked back to his room at the residence hall. He left the tape recorder there and collected the tape of Regan's voice. Then he went back across the street to Chris's parked car.

    Climbing in, he heard Karl calling out from the doorway of the house: "Father Karras!" Karras looked. Karl was rushing down the stoop, quickly throwing on a jacket. He was waving. "Father Karras! One moment!"

    Karras leaned over and cranked down the window on the passenger side. Karl leaned his head in. "You are going which way, Father Karras?"

    "Du Pont Circle."

    "Ah, yes, good! You could drop me, please, Father? You would mind?"

    "Glad to do it. Jump in."

    Karl nodded. "I appreciate it, Father!"

    Karras started up the engine. "Do you good to get out"

    "Yes, I go to see a film. A good film."

    Karras put the car in gear and pulled away.

    For a time they drove in silence. Karras was preoccupied, searching for answers. Possession. Impossible. The holy water. Still...

    "Karl, you knew Mr. Dennings pretty well, wouldn't you say?"

    Karl stared through the windshield; then nodded stiffly. "Yes. I know him."

    "When Regan... when she appears to be Dennings, do you get the impression that she really is?"

    Long pause. And then a flat and expressionless "Yes."

    Karras nodded, feeling haunted.

    There was no more conversation until they reached Du Pont Circle, where they came to a traffic signal, and stopped. "I get off here, Father Karras," Karl said, opening the door. "I can catch here the bus." He climbed out, then leaned his head in the window. "Father, thank you very much. I appreciate. Thank you."

    He stood back on the safety island and waited for the light to change. He smiled and waved as the priest drove. away. He watched the car until at last it disappeared around the bend at the mouth of Massachusetts Avenue. Then he ran for a bus. Boarded. Took a transfer. Changed buses. Rode in silence until finally he debarked at a northeast tenement section of the city, where he walked to a crumbling apartment building and entered.

    Karl paused at the bottom of the gloomy staircase, smelling acrid aromas from efficiency kitchens. From somewhere the sound of a baby crying. He lowered his head. A roach scuttled quickly from a baseboard and across a stair in jagging darts. He clutched at the banister and seemed on the verge of turning back, but then shook his head and began to climb. Each groaning footfall creaked like a rebuke.

    On the second floor, he walked to a door in a murky wing, and for a moment he stood there, a hand on the door frame. He glanced at the wall: peeling paint; Nicky and Ellen in penciled scrawl and below it, a date and a heart whose core was cracking plaster. Karl pushed the buzzer and waited, head down. From within the apartment, a squeaking of bedsprings. Irritable muttering. Then someone approaching: a sound that was irregular: the dragging clump of an orthopedic shoe. Abruptly the door jerked partly open, the chain of a safety latch rattling to its limit as a woman in a slip scowled out through the aperture, a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth.

    "Oh, it's you," she said huskily. She took off the chain.

    Karl met the eyes that were shifting hardness, that were haggard wells of pain and blame; glimpsed briefly the dissolute bending of the lips and the ravaged face of a youth and a beauty buried alive in a thousand motel rooms, in a thousand awakenings from restless sleep with a stifled cry at remembered grace.

    "C'mon, tell 'im to fuck off!" A coarse male voice from within the apartment. Slurred. The boyfriend.

    The girl turned her head and snapped quickly, "Oh, shut up, jerk, it's Pop!"

    The girl turned to Karl. "He's drunk, Pop. Ya better not come in."

    Karl nodded.

    The girl's hollow eyes shifted down to his hand as it reached to a back trouser pocket for a wallet. "How's Mama?" she asked him, dragging on her cigarette, eyes on the hands that were dipping in the wallet, hands counting out tens.

    "She is fine. " He nodded. tersely. "Your mother is fine."

    As he handed her the money, she began to cough rackingly. She threw up a hand to her mouth. "Fuckin' cigarettes!" she choked out.