Robert Tanenbaum - Absolute rage

Zak was asleep in his arms, a fitful sleep from which he awoke often with a cry and looked wildly about. Then Karp tried to comfort him, unsuccessfully he knew, because the only real comfort would be to tell him that it had been a bad dream, that his brother was not being operated upon by unknown doctors in this mingy little hospital. Karp shifted his burden and looked at his watch. Eight thirty-five. The last time he'd looked, about an hour ago, it had been 8:28.

He had made the call earlier. After he had passed the doleful news, blurted it out, there had been no curse, no cry of alarm, from his wife, just a silence so long that he thought that the line had gone dead. I'll be there as soon as I can, she had said, and then the line really had gone dead. He wondered vaguely how long that would be, even if she left the Island immediately. The surgeon's name was Small. Karp knew nothing about him; for example, that Small had lost his license for drunken slicing in another state. There wasn't any time to find out. No one had come to talk to him or tell him what was going on. Not a Jewish doctor, either. Bigotry, he knew, but there it was. Lucy was gone, he did not know where; she had run out of the place after they had watched the draped, still, intubated figure of Giancarlo being wheeled out of the ER toward the elevator. But he could guess.

Every time the brushed-steel doors of the elevator across the hall slid open, he looked up. Those doors had swallowed his son and they were taking their time about giving him back, or producing some messenger from the medical gods in whose hands he lay; that would be good, too.

He checked again. Eight thirty-seven.

Lucy was running along the street, Third Street, wiping the tears away every few strides. It was twelve blocks, she had been told, from the medical center to Holy Family. She didn't trust herself to drive. Also her Toyota was smeared with blood, as she was herself; it was all over her hands and arms, and on her shirt and shorts. She'd never worn shorts into church before, a mark of respect, although she knew people came to church in anything nowadays. What does God care what you're wearing? But they'd howl if the priest wore a skirt.

Here was the church, a squat, sooty-brick building in an eclectic style, a little Gothic, a little Romanesque, a little Baroque, ill-assorted and ugly as nearly all Catholic parish churches in America were. It always made her a little sad that the organization that had sponsored the greatest architecture in Europe had given up on beauty in that department. The great front doors were for show, but a side entrance was open. She crossed herself with the water from the font and went inside.

Dark and empty, lit by small sconces on the walls and by evening light coming through stained-glass windows, crudely done in sentimental nineteenth-century style. The Good Shepherd. The eponymous Family. A crucifixion, Christ taking a little nap in a somewhat uncomfortable position. It had been Vatican Two'd, however: the altar, a carved wooden table that looked as if it had been made for a coal baron's dining room, was squarely in the center, with dark wooden chairs arranged around it on four sides. A Mary chapel; a St. Joseph chapel; a glass case with a dusty doll in it-the Infant of Prague. The sanctuary was where the old altar had been, in a deep niche in the east wall. She went there, bowing to the altar as she crossed the aisle.

Prie-dieux in four rows faced a cylindrical brass tabernacle, highly polished, with late-Victorian embellishments of angels. She knelt, pulled a jet rosary from her bag, and cranked it up. Praying at God, this was called, letting the familiar automatic words send you into a kind of trance, pushing out the distractions of the selfish self, opening the heart. You were supposed to contemplate the words as well, envision the various mysteries, although Lucy did not do that now. She wanted only to clear the page so that she could inscribe on a virgin surface a message, or receive one.

The outgoing message was simple. Whatever you want, take it all; stupid to say that really, it's all from you anyway, but take it back. The languages, poetry, music, sex, not that I've ever had any really, but take that too. Dan and any other Dans lurking in the future, happiness… wrap it up and ship it out, make me mute, stupid, paralyzed, I'm already ugly, take it, but just, and I know you don't like bargaining, we're supposed to love whatever you do to us because you're good, that's the whole point, isn't it? But this is too much, even you'll agree, this good and sweet little kid, have mercy, have mercy.

Talking to God, this is called. Lucy had been doing it for as long as she could remember, and for as long as she could remember, God had talked back. There had been actual visions, voices, to the extent that her priest, a sensible and pragmatic fellow, had become a little concerned, for the Church has never been entirely comfortable with that sort of thing. But he had thought it would fade with age, and it had. Two years and more had now passed without Lucy's receiving what is technically known as a consolation. Now, instead, she was receiving a desolation. To those serious about religion, these are even more to be prized than the gaudier epiphanies, and Lucy knew this very well, but her present pain had pushed this knowledge from her mind. She wanted comfort; she had always had comfort; she was getting none now, and she was beginning to grow cross. She was quite terribly spoiled, in fact, and when one is spoiled by Omnipotence, one is spoiled indeed.

She threw claims into the scales: her time on her knees, her many good works, her self-denial, her faith… Nothing. She felt nothing, except the muscle stiffness and a stuffiness in her head. She was talking to someone who wasn't there; from this commonplace it was only a short jump to thinking: talking to someone who doesn't exist. She felt a chill. An explanation presented itself: she was crazy, just like Mom, a fanatic, always had been. There was no one there. Maybe there had been once-who knew?-but it was gone. Giancarlo would die or not, according to chance and the skill of his doctors. That tabernacle was remarkably ugly. I've lost my faith, she said to herself, amazed. It was just here in my purse and now it's gone. Her chest felt tight. She had to… what? Hide? From God? But there wasn't any.

She stood up, feeling light-headed. Dan Heeney was standing outside the sanctuary.

"I thought you'd be here. Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine. Just, you know, praying." For the very first time she felt embarrassment at saying this.

"Uh-huh. I stopped by the hospital. He's still in the OR." She looked different, he thought, diminished in some way. He attributed it to the catastrophe. She was not looking at him. "What's that thing?" he asked, pointing to the tabernacle. "It looks like an espresso machine."

"It is an espresso machine," said Lucy, sliding toward hysteria. "It's the very espresso machine that Saint Paul got a double tall latte out of just before he hit the road to Damascus. You're very fortunate to have it here in McCullensburg." She had to get out of the church or she was going to do something awful. She walked rapidly out, not pausing at the altar as she always did. In the small lobby she stopped with the feeling that she had forgotten something. Wallet, bag, sunglasses, keys, all there, what was it?

"You okay, Lucy?"

"Yeah, just a little…"

"You have dirt and blood on your face."

"Do I?" She checked her image in the glass of the church notice board. Then she pulled out a bandanna, dipped it in the font, and wiped the stains from her face.

"Can you do that? I thought that was holy."

"It doesn't matter." She walked out of the church.

He had a motorcycle, a canary-colored Suzuki dirt bike. "Get on. I'll take you back to the hospital."