A Voice In The Night (4 page)

Chapter 8

The extra telephone lines were installed in a week, and Luke was back on the air. The callers were all the usual suspects. But the subject was the same. As the nights wore on the skeptics became the majority, counterpoint to the religious zealots who were becoming more extreme as the nights of silence continued.

Luke had mixed feelings, hoping the visitor would return and wishing not.

By the following Monday, new topics were slipping into the show. Then the voice was there. This time, Luke tuned-in to something that had stirred him before, but below his conscious threshold. It was the effect the voice evoked in him, in Jake, in all the callers later. It was a calming, a certainty. “I’ve caused you a lot of trouble, haven’t I Luke.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. A lot of people find this hard to swallow, eh, believe.” Luke was choosing his words carefully, realizing how ridiculous it was at the same time.

“I have important things to tell, but I think you need something more to know that I am who you think. Something is to happen now. It’s a gift.”

Eileen was listening, an earplug running up from the tiny transistor radio in her pocket. She sensed it before actually seeing. The tempo of the hospital had changed, almost imperceptibly at first, a stirring, rustling. Movement where there had been none.

“Where are my clothes? Where have you put my clothes?”

She whirled around.

Mr.Fagel, age 89, was not expected to survive the night. The cancer that raced through his body had left him in a coma for the last 24 hours. On morphine, deprived of fluids, he could pass quietly, without pain, a merciful end.

Now he sat on the edge of the bed, determined to go home, alert, energetic and mainly, impatient.

“My God. Oh my God.” Across the hall, Carol Julian clung to the door knob of her daughter’s room, grasping desperately to prevent falling. She was terrified of her own imminent collapse and uncomprehending of what just happened in her daughter’s room. In a hospital gown, Cynthia Julian helped her mother to a chair. “It’s alright Ma. I’m alright.”

A minute earlier, she too had been comatose.

She smiled wanly at Eileen, motioning to the IV attached to her arm. “I don’t think I need this anymore.”

In New Delhi, London, Sydney, Buenos Aires, Singapore, thousands rose, restored and bewildered.

News crews pulled up in front of countless hospitals within minutes, assignment editors tipped off by their inside sources that always called with major accidents and bloodshed. This was the biggest story anyone would ever cover, and nobody quite knew how. They hadn’t learned miracles in journalism school.

Luke and Jake were oddly isolated from the turmoil, though they were at the very center of it.

Eileen got through on the private line. She was crying and laughing at the same time. He could barely make her out. “ It’s . . . I don’t know how to describe . . . it’s chaos here, Luke . . . all the sickest people . . .”

Luke and Jake juggled the deluge of on-the-air callers, many with firsthand stories. A leukemia victim of eight receiving last rites 30 minutes ago was now chasing the family cat through the house. Nursing home attendants, shaken by halls filled with wandering elderly, whom an hour ago lie vacantly staring at the ceiling tiles, unseeing.

Most moving was Justine, in a wheel chair for eight years, with MS. Her voice was so small and tentative. “I’ve been hoping he’d come back, Luke. I knew it was him, but I didn’t expect him to make me better. Just to let me accept it. I’m awfully weak, but I can walk, kinda.”

Luke said goodbye and gave Jake the sign for commercials, too emotional to continue. He broke down several more times as the stories poured in. Jake kept him going, calming him through his headset, feeding him just the calls he thought he could handle.

Zack appeared in the newsroom. Luke could see him through the glass, directing the KOGO reporters who had come in, on their own, to write stories for air and help out stations calling in from around the world for telephone voice reports.

Then he was on TV, fielding one network interview after another. Understated, telling only what he knew as facts, refusing to bite at the sensation-seeking questions. Those reporters Zack would just stare down. NBC’s local stringer wouldn’t let up. Zack finally lost it as the film rolled. “Do you have a real question there somewhere, or are you just gonna be an asshole all night?” He knew that would never get on the air.

Ray Volpe had started out with the William Morris Agency after college, and had risen through the huge company by working twice as many hours as everyone else. This was a legacy from his father who had escaped a concentration camp and made a fortune in America by age 35. “You work twice as much, you learn twice as fast,” David Volpe now intoned to his grandchildren. But they were already too rich to care.

Ray had tirelessly prowled the nightclubs and off-Broadway theatres, looking for the standouts that would one day be stars. Bill Cosby and Joan Rivers were his discoveries and they were now regulars with Ed Sullivan and Steve Allen. The resulting torrent of club dates and year-long Las Vegas contracts were now paying for a Beverly Hills life for his growing family.

Luke Trimble was another matter. Ray didn’t know what to do with him. He’d handled the high-powered radio guys who’d moved over to TV. Dick Clark, Gary Larson, Bob Crane, Wink Martindale. Luke was their opposite number. His main interest seemed to be avoiding celebrity and network and book deals. Ray liked this guy because they had a lack of materialism in common. The agent wasn’t really in the business for money. He’d been born rich, and it meant nothing. Like his father, he loved to build. Instead of office buildings and shopping centers, he built careers for the supremely talented.

“So, Luke, another Jew goes to work for Jesus.” Luke smiled lightly at Ray across the suite at the Hotel Del Coronado.

“Zack said I needed you. He said you were a good man.” Ray smiled and shrugged. Contradicting the silk shirt, linen slacks, Bally loafers, Patek Philippe watch and delicate gold

bracelet, the gesture revealed that Ray
was
a good man, acknowledged it and minimized it, all at once. They returned to silence for a moment, regarding each other.

“Luke, I know you don’t want much for yourself, but there are some things you have to take into account. Mainly, when all of this is over, it’s possible you’ll be unemployable. Do you know that?”

“Why?”

“Because you could be the most type-cast talent in the world. Or you could be too controversial for anyone to touch. You and your family could wind up broke in a few years.” Luke squinted, nodding his concern.

“You have to think of your wife and kids, sock away enough to live comfortably the rest of your life if things go south.”

“So what do we do?”

“I’m already talking to some people about a book deal and lecture series that will take care of your future, and I want ABC Radio to give you a five-year, no-cut contract. They’re twitching a bit on that, but Zack is talking to them on the other side. He’s done a lot for them over the years and they owe him.”

Luke and Eileen sat in front of the fire, warming themselves in the unusually cool night. “It just seems, I dunno, weird to be talking about money for this.”

“But, what if this visitor doesn’t come back ever again? Where does that leave everything?” Now they were thinking of the visitor as some kind of supernatural entity, because of the healings and answers to eternal questions.

Eileen adjusted the logs to burn better. Luke could never get the fireplace to work right.

“Luke, you have to think of the people too. KOGO is a local station. It only goes out about 100 miles. You have to hook into the network so people everywhere can hear.”

“I’m just afraid of losing our lives to this. It’s too big for me. I’m really scared sometimes. Two years ago I was playing records on the radio.”

“He picked you for a reason. So, if he believes in you, you must be the right one.”

Luke would recall that whenever he felt anxious.

Eileen adjusted the pillows and settled back. The first contraction began a moment later. In 18 hours their firstborn arrived, exactly on the due date.

Chapter 9

“Luke Trimble here with Voices in The Night on The ABC radio network. We’re live from the studios of KOGO, San Diego. Our lines are open, so give us a call.1-214-555-1212 from anywhere in the United States. 1-214-555-1212.”

The first several nights on the network had been a battle of the extremes. The believers and the non-believers railed away at one another. It was great radio, with Luke and Jake carefully crafting a forum from among the more articulate. All was prelude, awaiting the visitor. The callers seemed to understand, tempering their comments against the possibility of his arrival, hedging their bets. But nothing happened.

The nun that led Luke into Bishop Noonan’s office seemed to barely touch the ground, as though treading in a sacred place, a cloister.

“Luke, Luke,” he boomed, shattering the illusion. He smiled his welcome and charged from behind his desk like a pulling guard on an end sweep. He was a tiny man, but Luke would later learn to brace himself for the onslaught of his handshake. The first nearly took him off his feet.

“Sit. Sit. Father John Noonan. Never mind all that eminence stuff. I’m just a parish priest with a fancy hat. Can we get you anything? Coffee?

Luke nodded not. “I’m happy to meet you . . . father. I could sure use a little help.”

“What can I do?”

“Well, I’m lost in all of this. I’m just a guy on the radio and now this. I’m just not prepared. I don’t know any more theology than I learned in high school, father.” He poured his heart and his questions out for two more hours. The priest listened with a warmth and acceptance that opened Luke’s floodgates. In a matter of minutes he trusted this man with his deepest fears. “Yes. I understand. Go on,” was all the bishop said.

Finally, Luke slumped back in the chair, his emotions emptied.

“Well, first, remember, for example, that Jesus didn’t pick the scholars for his time on Earth either, Luke. He picked regular working stiffs like you. I sense in you a belief, sincerity and openness and I think that’s why this entity is using you. I’ve been listening every night and that’s come through to me loud and clear. You’re instincts are good, Luke, and when you get off track, he’ll guide you. Just be yourself and ask him what’s in your heart. The other thing is I want you to call on me anytime you like, day or night if you want to talk things through. I can also put you in touch with the other denominations, people without an axe to grind.”

He didn’t tell Luke about the calls he’d received from Rome.

The following week, the visitor returned. “A lot of people are concerned about judgement, aren’t they Luke. Judgment for their sins.”

“Well, I’ve said things that don’t agree with scripture on that, exactly.”

“Like your idea about Moses making up the Ten Commandments?” Luke froze, the adrenaline coursing through him, remembering that afternoon with Eileen back in Bridgeport.

Silence.

“Luke, you weren’t entirely mistaken. Moses was angry with his people who we’re turning back to the old ways. The commandments were inspired but the story was embellished later. Remember, these were tribal people where events were passed on in stories and changed through many generations.”

“So, what about judgment? Are the commandments what we’ll be judged on?”

“You must think for yourself. Decent people will judge themselves. But the truly evil will be punished through endless, empty awareness.” Again, he was gone.

The reports of spontaneous healing were overwhelming the Vatican daily. All that could be done now was to collect the tidal wave of information, to be sorted through later.

Cardinal Giuseppe Guglieamo, Vatican secretary of state had been professionally skeptical. Then, he heard the tapes of the radio and watched the 16-millimeter film of healings, taken by the American television networks. Now, as the last of the film wound through the projector, he dropped from his chair to his knees, looking up to the

screen as to a crucifix. The projectionist slipped silently from the room after the last scene ended in a white flash of film leader.

The kneeling figure carefully removed his fragile glasses to mop his eyes. His faith, pushed to the sidelines through years of administration, was restored. He remained on his knees, the pain moving up his legs to his back until the spasms drove him prostrate. He endured it as a penance.

The projectionist remained outside the massive double doors, unsure. Once, he looked inside to the cassocked figure now lying prostrate on the marble, like a newly ordained priest, arms outstretched. A rosary the cardinal had worn largely as decoration for two decades was now moving slowly through his long, delicate fingers. An hour later, the cardinal moved the doors barely open, his slight frame slipping through. He paused and touched the projectionist on the arm, wordless acknowledging the man’s vigil. He moved down the long hall toward the Papal apartments.

They spoke in comfortable Italian. “Your holiness, I believe what I have seen and heard is, is unexplainable, except as miraculous. Taken together with the voice, it is overwhelming in its impact.”

“Yes, Lord Cardinal. Several of the nuncios have had a similar experience. I think it is time for me to know for myself. But all of this must be deeply confidential at this time. Our obligation is most solemn and weighs on us to be diligent but also to act with dispatch. Please bring me the film and recordings tonight.”

The next morning, Pope Paul VI addressed thousands from the balcony above St Peter’s Square. He would ignore all the normal protocols for investigation of miracles, and bypass the Bishops Conference. He spoke now without prepared remarks. It echoed through the square.

“I have seen with these eyes. I have seen with this heart. I have heard his voice. Those of you who also have seen and heard, know in your hearts it is real. Go now and pray, as will I.” He pronounced a benediction. Then he turned and stepped inside. The throngs in the square drifted away in silence.