Touch (1987) (24 page)

"I don't know that He does."

Howard Hart smiled at the camera. "Well, you're modest. Is that part of the image? Oh, my goodness gracious, why me, Lord? Let me ask you a question. Why'd you come on my show?"

Juvenal hesitated. "You invited me. I thought it might be a good opportunity . . . well, I thought, why should I hide? If I have this . . . it isn't something I'm ashamed of."

"Wait a minute," Howard said. "Hold it just a cotton-pickin' minute. "I invited you? I seem to have the impression your manager came to me."

"He's not my manager."

"--and made a deal stating that you, a so-called servant of God, self-proclaimed instrument of His mercy, would not appear on this show for less than"--looking directly at the camera--"one million dollars."

Juvenal was sitting erect in his chair, holding onto the curved sides. "I'm supposed to be paid for this?"

"You didn't sign a contract?"

"I signed something, I don't know what it was."

"You didn't read it?"

"No. I glanced at it."

"So you're telling me you know nothing about receiving one . . . million . . . dollars? You want people to believe you're appearing here as a public service, an act of charity?" A laugh came out of Howard Hart's shit-eating grin. "We'll be right back after this message."

Lynn said, "You son of a bitch."

Bill Hill glanced around, putting his hand on her arm. "Take it easy, okay? How many times did I try to talk to you? You refused to hear anything about it, right?"

"You made a deal?"

"It's not anything like he's saying it is."

"How much?"

"He's using it, trying to make him look dumb, that's all."

"How much?"

"Guaranteed four hundred thousand," Bill Hill said. "Juvie signed the contract in Howard's office; I saw him looking at it."

"But you didn't tell him about the money," Lynn said. "You didn't say, 'You're getting four hundred thousand dollars.' Did you?"

"The amount isn't definite till we find out how many stations put it on. So . . . we get the check, I was gonna surprise him."

"We--" Lynn said.

"You're in on it."

"I don't want to be in on it." Very tense, biting off the words.

"I'll tell you the whole thing after. Have we had a chance to talk? You go away, you don't even tell me you're going."

"How much do you get out of it? Since it's his money."

"Well, I set it up and everything. I had to sell Howard."

"How much?"

"Half sound about right?"

"Tell me," Howard Hart said, "how much have you made so far as a professional stigmatic and miracle worker?"

"Nothing," Juvenal said.

"This'll be your first million then. What're you going to do with it?"

"I didn't know I was getting anything."

"Uh-huh," Howard said. "Well, now that you know, what'll you do with it? A million dollars. By the way, as a religious miracle worker, are you a tax-free entity?"

Juvenal was frowning a little, thoughtful, swinging very slowly from side to side on the swivel.

"I don't know what I am."

"Well, I'd say you're rich, for one thing. So what do you do with all your money . . . spend it on your girl friend? Which brings up an interesting facet . . . the miracle worker's what, lady friend? I'd like to know a little more about that side of your life--what do you call her, your mistress? The stigmata's inamorata?"

("Oh, my God," Lynn said.)

As Juvenal said, "Lynn?"

"Lynn Marie Faulkner, who, I believe, lives out in sin city, I mean Somerset Park."

("Jesus," Bill Hill said.)

("Rotten son of a bitch," Lynn said.)

"But first--let's save that," Howard said. "I don't want to get ahead of myself and open up too many cans of worms at once, uh?" Pause. "Off the record though, you aren't by any chance working on some kind of a religious sex manual, are you? I understand that's a lucrative new field."

(Lynn stood up.)

"But first--as I mentioned--I want to bring out someone whose appearance alone will give testimony to still another facet of your life-style and very mysterious, I might add, personality . . . right after this message."

* * *

Bill Hill said, "Where you going?"

Lynn didn't answer, she pushed past him to the aisle. Bill Hill thought she was leaving and got up to follow, thinking she was going to run out, emotionally unstrung or something, and he'd have to calm her down and try to get her back in.

But Lynn wasn't running out. God no--as Bill Hill stood watching--she was marching up on the stage past the cameras and the floor manager over to Howard Hart's fake-library set. Now Lynn was talking a mile a minute, Howard standing, trying to calm her down, and the floor manager was bringing over another swivel chair.

In a close-shot of Howard Hart, leaning comfortably on his desk, confiding straight out to his millions of viewers, he said, "Well, if you haven't come to expect the unexpected on 'Hartline' by now . . . we were speaking about a young lady by the name of Lynn Marie Faulkner . . . well, speak of the devil"--grin--"and I mean that figuratively, because here she is live, and I might add, very much alive . . . Miss Faulkner."

As the second camera was cut in, Howard Hart's millions of viewers saw Lynn sitting right there next to Juvenal in the same kind of chair, legs crossed--nice legs--arms folded, jaw clenched? Maybe. The viewers saw a good-looking girl who was doing everything she could to remain in control and not go over the top of that giant desk for Howard Hart's throat.

Great stuff. Howard had two rings going here, on his library desk set. He rose, the camera following him, and took his viewers over to the third ring at center stage, to a figure encased in plaster lying on a narrow, mobile hospital bed. Curtains served as a backdrop.

Howard said, "If Lynn Marie can hang on just a minute, first I want to introduce somebody to you--" Howard began turning a crank at the foot of the bed. As he did, the head of the bed began to rise, bringing with it . . .

"--Mr. August Murray," Howard said.

. . . lying on his back, presented to the camera and the audience with his arms extended straight out to the sides, August immobile in a body cast that reached from head to hips, revealing only his face, peering out of an oval opening, and his hands hanging limp from the ends of the outstretched cast. A white plaster crucifix on a hospital bed, August in there, somewhere.

"Mr. Murray," Howard said, "is, or I should say, used to be, a good friend of Juvenal's. But it seems there was a misunderstanding, for which Mr. Murray cannot be held blameless, no. In fact, according to the Troy Police, who arrested Mr. Murray and released him on a five-thousand-dollar bond, he did intend to do great bodily harm to one Lynn Marie Faulkner, sitting right over there. That's how the charge against Mr. Murray is worded. Also something about carrying a gun in the commission of a felony, which is a no-no and an automatic two years. Though I would say from looking at him the great bodily harm was performed on Mr. Murray. Would you agree with that, sir?" Howard Hart, holding his mike, leaned in close to August.

"He says yes, he'd agree. Now, what happened was Juvenal, in protecting his . . . lady friend from Mr. Murray, who it seems was in a fit of temper, a little p.o.'ed, so to speak . . . threw Mr. Murray bodily off a second-story balcony. Now listen to this. Breaking both his arms . . . his collarbone . . . four ribs . . . and cracked a vertebra on two in Mr. Murray's neck. The doctors say he'll be in that body cast about five months, maybe longer, due to our miracle worker laying his hands on him. Hey, wait a minute. Which makes me wonder, hey, if I should have risked shaking hands with Juvenal when he came on. Man, oh, man. But seriously, I'd like to confront Juvenal with the question, does he have the same power to harm as he does to heal? And . . . we'll talk to Lynn, our miracle worker's special squeeze"--winking at her--"as soon as we come back."

Lynn said, "Let's go."

Juvenal was staring at August.

"Come on, let's get out of here."

"It's too late," Juvenal said. "We're in it now."

"Listen, people walk off his show all the time. You can see why."

"He's amazing, isn't he?"

"Amazing? He's crucifying you."

"You were right, he's a rotten guy; and he enjoys it. That's what's amazing." Juvenal's gaze moved to August. "There's a lot going on, huh?"

"God," Lynn said. When Juvenal got up she said, urgently, "Where you going?"

"I want to tell August something."

Howard Hart said, "Well, we're starting to get phone calls, and what all of you out there seem to want most is not a lot of claims, but to actually see Juvenal heal someone. As one fella said, 'Let's see his act.' Hey, I couldn't agree with you more. You say you can do something; prove it, let's see it happen. But the network boys, who're all lawyers at heart, said definitely no. You get an unfortunate cripple on the show who expects to be healed--what if it doesn't come off? I said, then we'll be exposing a fraud. But they said uh-unh, we'd be exposing ourselves to a lawsuit. So there you are. We are going to talk to people, however, who claim to have witnessed Juvenal's healing power." Howard paused, raising his gaze to the glare of lights. "There's a Father Nestor in the audience . . . Father Nestor, are you out there? . . . Father Nestor was also a missionary in Brazil and witnessed a number of the so-called miracles on spiritual healings. Father Nestor? . . . Well, we'll see if we can locate him. Meanwhile . . . I see Juvenal's over there chatting with Murray the mummy--Kenny, can we get a mike over there? No, I'll tell you what. First I'll talk to Miss Faulkner, who seems just a little bit edgy . . . What's wrong, Lynn? . . . and find out what it's like to shack--oops, just a slip--I mean live with a miracle-working stigmatic and prospective twentieth-century saint. Lynn? . . . What's it like?"

Lynn said, "You know what you are?"

"I'm a bleep," Howard said, "because if you say what I think you're going to say, that's the way it'll come out. But seriously, tell us about Juvenal. What's he like?"

"You're a rotten whoop-whoop," Lynn said to the millions of television viewers.

Howard looked up at the floor manager. "Kenny, are we using bleeps, whoops, on wipes?"

"On the five-second delay, whoops," Ken said.

Howard smiled at Lynn. "You were saying?"

She took her time, trying to adjust, relax.

"Go on, I'm not going to hurt you."

Quietly she said, "I saw him bleed. At least two hundred people saw it."

"I'm not questioning that," Howard said. "I accept the fact he has this bleeding act."

"It's not an act."

"All right, this phenomenon. But what I want to know about is your relationship. Are you living together?"

"No, we're not living together."

"But the two of you were away for a week. Did you sleep in the same room?"

Lynn was tense again. "What does our personal life have to do with it?"

"Honey, you walked on my show uninvited. If you choose to sit there, I can ask you anything I want. Do you and Juvenal sleep together?"

"I'm not gonna answer that."

"What do we do," Howard said, "all the viewers out there--just look at you? You come up here, you want to protect him--" Howard paused. He said then, gently, "Lynn, are you in love with the guy?"

She hesitated, suspicious, then nodded. "Yes, I am."

"Then what's wrong with talking about it? And he's in love with you?"

Still hesitant. "We love each other, yes."

"Hey, it's beautiful," Howard said. "You're young, you're in love. Heck, then what's wrong with sleeping together?" He paused. "Unless you're ashamed to admit it, feel it's something dirty, obscene." Howard frowned. "If you're in love, why would you feel guilty about sleeping together?"

"I don't feel guilty. I haven't said anything about . . . our relationship." The son of a bitch, he was even worse than she thought.

"You haven't denied anything either. Hey, I'm not judging. If you're having an affair with him, that's your business--

"--but if you bring it on my show then it becomes my business because, honey, I can talk to you about anything I want--" Juvenal heard Howard say, as he was trying to hear what August was telling him through his clenched teeth, painfully, with a great effort.

". . . kill you, ruin you and everything we work for. Get her off. Get rid of her. Tell him bring the microphone here. I'll tell him what I said, I don't blame you, even what you did. It isn't your fault. It's her." The effort of speaking made August close his eyes for a moment to rest.

Lynn was telling Howard Hart he didn't talk to people, he made speeches, fascinated by the sound of his own voice; he didn't misquote, as she had suspected, he quoted things that were never said; he implied things with a lot of shuck-and-jive innuendos.

Juvenal was looking at Howard's clenched-jaw smile on a TV monitor that was beyond the hospital bed, on the other side of the stage. Howard reminded him of August, who'd lie healing in his plaster shell for five months and then break out to become . . .