Peter Phelan, obsessive artist of Colonie Street, subsumed in the history of his family, all but smothered under his ancestors’ blanket of time, had willfully engaged it all, transformed history into art, being impelled to create, and purely, what Picasso had called “convincing lies”; for Peter believed that these lies would stand as a fierce array of at least partial Phelan truths — not moral truths, but truths of significant motion: the arresting of the natural world at an instant of kinetic and fantastic revelation; the wisdom of Lizzie’s lofted leg in her dance with the shadows; the wizardly acceptance of chicken droppings by the demented Crip Devlin; the madly collective flailing of arms in Banishing the Demons.
This latter painting, the largest in the Malachi Suite, treats of the collective Peter mentioned in his will. By the light of an oil lamp, a candle, and a fire in the McIlhenny hearth (shadowed homage to La Tour), the players in the Malachi drama are enacting their contrary rituals: Kathryn Phelan (abundantly pregnant with Peter, the arriving artist) is sitting on the bed in the background, holding the hand of the beset Lizzie, who is supine in her calico chemise, blue flannel nightgown, and black stockings, her hair splayed wildly on her pillow; and the Malachi minions — the wizard Crip Devlin; Crip’s daughter, Mab (the image of the child who led me to Francis at the railroad tracks); Lizzie’s father, old Ned Cronin, who badly needed a shave; Malachi’s ancient cousin, Minnie Dorgan, with her dropsical stomach, and her stupid son, Colm, whose hair was a nest of cowlicks; and, central to it all, Malachi himself, with his wild curls and his wilder eyes, all these clustered figures pushing upward and outward with their arms (Colm gripping a lighted candle in his right hand and thrusting upward with his left), ridding the house of any demons that may have been summoned by the archdemon that Lizzie had become. The entrance door and two windows of the house are open to the night, and those errant demons, who well know that this room is inimical to their kind, are surely flying fearfully out and away, back to their covens of hellish darkness.
Malachi had gathered his counsel, his blood kin, and his inlaws about him for a communion of indignation at what was happening to Lizzie, and also to people his house with witnesses to his joust with the evil forces. He’d begun that joust with interrogation of Lizzie.
“What is your name?”
“Lizzie McIlhenny You know that.”
“Is that your full name?”
“Lizzie Cronin McIlhenny In God’s name, Malachi, why are you asking me this?”
“We’ll see what you think of God’s name. Why are you four inches shorter than you used to be?”
“I’m not. I’m the same size I always was.”
“Why are you asking her these things?” Kathryn Phelan asked.
“To find out who she is.”
“Can’t you see who she is? Have you lost your sight?”
“Just hold your gob, woman, and see for yourself who she is. Don’t I know my wife when I see her? And this one isn’t her.”
“Well, she is.”
“Are you Lizzie McIlhenny, my wife?”
“Of course I am, Malachi. Can’t you see it’s me? Who else do you think I am?”
“Do you believe in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost?”
“I do, Malachi, I do.”
“You do what?”
“I believe in God the Father, Son, Holy Ghost.”
“She didn’t repeat it exactly,” said Crip Devlin.
“Let me ask her,” said Ned Cronin. “Are you the daughter of Ned Cronin, in the name of God?”
“I am, Dada.”
“She didn’t repeat it,” said Crip.
“Repeat it,” said Malachi.
“Dada.”
“Not that, repeat what he said.”
“I don’t know what he said.”
“Ah, she’s crafty,” said Crip.
“You’ll repeat it or I’ll have at you,” said Malachi. He grabbed her and ripped her nightgown, then pushed her backward onto the bed. When she tried to get up he held her down:
“Ask her where she lives,” said Crip.
“Do you live up on the hill with the Good Neighbors?”
“I live here with you, Malachi.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Lizzie, your wife.”
“You’re four inches shorter than my wife.”
“I’m not. I’m this same size since I was a girl.”
“You really are insane, Malachi,” said Kathryn. “You’re torturing her.”
“We’ll see who’s insane. Do you believe in Satan?”
“I don’t know,” Lizzie said.
“Crafty again,” said Crip.
“By the Jesus,” Malachi said, “we’ll get the truth out of you,” and from the table he took the cup of milky potion he and Crip had prepared for this encounter, set it on the bedside table, and lifted a spoonful to Lizzie’s mouth. “Take it,” he said.
She smelled it and turned her head. “It’s awful.”
“Drink it,” Malachi said, lifting the cup to her lips. Lizzie pushed it away and some of the potion spilled onto her nightgown.
“Oh you’ll take it, you witch,” Malachi said, shoving the cup to her lips and pouring it. Some of the fluid entered her mouth and she screamed and spat it out.
“She won’t take it,” said Crip. “And if any of it falls on the floor she’s gone forever.”
“She’ll take it or I’ll break both her arms,” said Malachi. “Hold her legs, Colm.” And the dimwit flung himself crosswise on the bed, atop Lizzie’s legs.
“Like this?” Colm asked.
“That’s it,” said Malachi.
“There’s rewards in heaven for them that beats the devil,” said old Minnie Dorgan, rocking her body on a straight chair in the corner, plaiting and unplaiting two strips of cloth as she watched the exorcism. She blessed herself repeatedly, and dipped her fingers into a jar of holy Easter water she had brought with her. She sprinkled the water at Lizzie and then at Malachi.
“If you get the drink into her, the witch is dead,” said Crip.
“We’ll get it,” said Malachi.
“That’s enough of this crazy talk,” Kathryn said, putting herself between Malachi and Lizzie.
“Get out of my way, Kathryn.”
“I’ll get out and get the police if you don’t leave her be.”
Malachi walked to the door, locked it, and pocketed the key.
“You’ll go noplace till I say you will,” he said. “And neither will anybody else in this house. Build up the fire, Mab.” And Crip Devlin’s child, silent and sullen, threw twigs and a log on the dying fire. It crackled and flared, creating new light in the bleak room, into which not even the faintest ray of a moonbeam would penetrate tonight.
Kathryn whispered into Lizzie’s ear, “I won’t let him hurt you, darlin’, I won’t let him hurt you.” And she stroked the distraught Lizzie’s forehead and saw that her eyes were rolling backward out of their rightful place.
“You’re a vile, vile man to do this to her,” Kathryn said.
Malachi looked at the women and walked to the hearth. He picked up a long twig and held the end of it in the fire until it flamed; then he pulled it out and shook out the flame and walked toward the bed.
“You bring that near her,” said Kathryn, “you’ll have to burn me too, Malachi,” but he quickly put the stick between his teeth, grabbed his sister with his good right arm, and flung her off the bed and into the lap of Minnie Dorgan, who sprinkled holy water on her. “Mother of God,” said Minnie. “Mother of God.”
“You’ll not be burning her, Malachi,” said Ned Cronin. “You won’t burn my daughter.”
“It’s not your daughter that’s here, it’s not the wife I married. It’s a hag and a witch that I’m sleeping with.”