Walker Percy - Love in the Ruins - The Adventures of a Bad Catholic at a Time Near the End of the World

“You mean the guerrillas have gotten that far?”

“No, Chief. It’s the town people fighting the federal people. Not two miles from here. And Chief,” says Ellen, lowering her voice. “You better do something about your so-called friend.”

“Friend? Who’s that?”

“Miss S. She’s getting a little hysterical.”

“Where is she?” I ask in alarm.

“In the bathroom. I never saw anybody go to the bathroom so much.”

“Hm. Have you seen anybody around there?”

“Not a soul. But, Chief, I think you better get over here. Things are coming unstuck.”

“I’m tied up just now. Perhaps later. I was wondering—”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps the best thing for you to do would be to get back to town.”

“Chief, you’ve got my car!”

“So I have.” What did I do with it? Oh yes, gave it to Mother.

“Anyhow, there’s fighting between here and town.”

“Well, sit tight.”

“All right. But it’s so hot here.”

“Here too. But don’t make any noise.”

“Very well, Chief.”

“Over.”

“Over and out.”

My eyes have accommodated to the gloom. Rocking back in Monsignor Schleifkopf’s executive chair, I survey the room. Evidently it has been used by the Bantus. A couple of ceremonial garlic necklaces hang from the hat-rack. A Coleman gas stove sits on the coin counter. Baby Ruth wrappers and used TV dinners litter the wall-to-wall carpet; shreds of collard greens bestrew the desk.

Behind me the door of the walk-in vault swings open. In one corner stands a stack of boxes full of Sunday envelopes exactly as they stood years ago when I used to attend Holy Name meetings here. Good rough fellows they were, the Holy Name men. We’d meet once a month and mumble gruff embarrassed prayers for the intentions of the Holy Father and so that we might leave off swearing and using the name of our dear Lord in vain and uttering foulness in general.

The four walls are hung with huge Kodacolor murals of Monsignor Schleifkopf’s native Alps. Tiny villages are strung out along narrow green valleys. Great snowy peaks indent a perfect cobalt sky. In the foreground rises a rude roadside crucifix.

I am sweating profusely and breathing through my mouth. I am losing water and there is no water here. They had better turn me loose soon. Or I had better get out.

The room swims in a watery heat. A thin tatter of cloud flies from one alp. Ice crystals. Hot as it is, though, and bad as I feel, my eye wanders around the room appraising its construction. The rectory was built, I remember, early in the Ecuadorian wars, when there were bomb scares and a lot of talk about shelters. The rectory was to serve as a bomb shelter in case of attack. It is windowless and double-walled and equipped with back-up electrical systems. Yes, I recall some restiveness in the congregation about the cost of the generator, which was the latest type and heaviest duty — the sort that could run indefinitely without a human soul to service it. Samantha liked to imagine it humming away for thirty years after everyone was dead. Yes, I remember the sight of Monsignor Schleifkopf presiding over the control panel with that special proprietorship priests develop for things they don’t own. Here was an oddity: that in the latter days when laymen owned everything they didn’t care much for anything, yet some priests who owned little or nothing developed ferocious attachments for ordinary objects — I once knew a monk who owned nothing, had given it all away for Christ, yet coveted the monastery typewriter with a jealous love, flew into rages when another monk touched it.

The Alps swim in the heat. My tongue swells and cleaves to my palate. Stale hot bourbon breath whistles in my nose.

Monsignor Schleifkopf used to hover over the panel, one hand caressing the metal, the other snapping switches like a bomber pilot….

The control panel. Wait. I close my eyes and try to think. Sweat begins to drip through my eyebrows. I remember. It is in the walk-in vault behind me. Here Monsignor Schleifkopf kept the valuables, gold chalices, patens, the Sunday collection, bingo money, and yes, even the daily gleanings of the poor box after the drugheads from the swamp began to break into it.

I feel my way inside. The vault door is open but it opens toward the glass bricks and it is dark inside. The panel was in the tiny foyer, wasn’t it? I stumble over a bingo squirrel-cage. Feel the walls. Yes, here it is: rows of switches in a console of satiny metal, switches for lights, air-conditioning, electronic carillon. Some are up, some are down. Is up on? I close my eyes and try to remember (I was on the Building Committee). What time of day was the rectory evacuated? The Christmas Eve riots started in the afternoon and the Monsignor barely got away with his skin — that night.

Panting and sweating in the dark. Somewhere in my head two ideas grope for each other but it is too hot to … I return to the chair and look at the alp and the banner of ice crystals. The panorama of the high alpine valley is spoiled by a large metal grill set in the wall beside the roadside crucifix. It is the main intake vent of the air-conditioner.

I look at it, sweat, pant, and sock my forehead, trying to think what it is I already know.

Well but of course.

At least it is a chance. And the chance must be taken. I’ve got to get out of here.

Think.

The compressor is in the garage. The return duct therefore must run along the wall past the vault, past the kitchen whose inside wall is, must be, continuous with the back wall of the garage. Yes. I was on the Building Committee.

Sitting on the floor. A bit cooler here. I feel the metal frame of the grill. Phillips screws. Hm, a dime is no good. Look around. Yonder is Saint Michael on a pedestal, a somewhat prissy bronze archangel dressed to the nines, berobed like Queen Victoria but holding a proper bronze sword. Which I know is loose in his hand because I used to fiddle with it during the Holy Name meetings.

Slide it out of the bronze hand, a foot-long papercutter and, as I had recalled, dull. Dull enough to turn a Phillips screw.

The grill out and set down carefully on the rug, I stick my head in the duct. Plenty of room to crawl. Close my eyes and try to remember whether the compressor stands against the back wall of the garage or a ways out. It better be the latter. Also: does the jut of the garage from the side of the rectory clear the corner so that it is visible from the front of the church, where, behind the concrete screen, a guard is almost certain to be stationed? I can’t remember.

Back to the console in the vestibule of the vault. The problem is to create a diversion, sufficient noise to cover my exit in the garage, where I’ll have to kick out a panel and make a racket. The trouble is I don’t know how many Bantu guards are here or where they’re stationed. Is there only the one in front?

Feel the switches again. Some are up, some down, but which position is on? Here’s the emergency starter button. Monsignor Schleifkopf — God bless him for his love of manufactured things, their gear and tackle and trim, good Buicks, Arnold Palmer irons — bought the best nickel-cadmium battery money could buy, a $500 job with a self-charging feature guaranteed for ten years.

The four speaker electronic carillon sits atop the silo tower a good two hundred yards from here and even farther from the garage. If I could start the carillon, it would create a commotion and the guards would, surely, look for the trouble where the sound was and not here. But which is the carillon switch? No telling. The only thing to do is take a chance and throw all switches up — surely up is on — and turn all knobs to the right.

Flip all switches up.