Before the Devil Fell

by Neil Olson

  “Strange was the word she used.” Will placed the potatoes on the counter.

  “Dangerous is what she meant,” Sam answered calmly, stabbing the potatoes a little more fiercely than necessary. “A lot of them think that.”

  “Prices don’t like Halls,” he said, the words out of his mouth before Will had registered thinking them. Sam gave him a surprised look, or as close as her face got to surprise.

  “Haven’t forgotten all that seven families gossip, huh?”

  The Seven Families. How long since he had heard the phrase?

  “I don’t know where that came from,” he said. “Something somebody told me. Maybe my mother.”

  “Or Margaret Price,” she said. “They were the leading families once. Up in Maine, maybe all the way back to England.”

  Her grandfather. Of course, it was old Tom Hall who told them this stuff. Will could hear his deep, rumbling voice, broken up by long pulls on his pipe. The click of teeth on the enamel mouthpiece, and the sweet smell of the smoke. The family chronicles were imparted with a smile or wink, as if it was not meant to be taken seriously. The lessons on Greek and Roman history and philosophy—the professor’s courses at Dartmouth—were the important ones, but the family stories remained buried in Will’s brain. Wars, voyages, feuds. Evil pacts with witches, brave or cowardly men and women.

  “Natural they would butt heads back then,” Sam continued. “But it’s not true anymore, about them hating each other.”

  “Tell Margaret.”

  “Maybe she still feels that way. About me, anyhow. Although she did bring me food I didn’t ask for. But your mother is a Hall, and Margaret seems to like you fine.”

  “She condescends to me the same way she does everyone,” said Will.

  “Imagine that. You being a professor and all.”

  Will thought he heard an edge to her words. He was probably imagining it, but he didn’t like the silence that followed.

  “I wish I could remember those stories,” he said.

  “Ask me,” Sam replied, disgust creeping in that he was not imagining. “I remember every damn thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Wow,” he deadpanned. “What a useful skill.”

  “You kidding? It’s a curse. You want a beer, William?”

  They emptied most of a six-pack of Harpoon IPA, talking. About his Mom, about their lives since high school. There were silent stretches too. Will had gotten used to silence, living alone, and Samantha had always been good with it, so it felt companionable, not awkward. When the potatoes were done, she decided the meat was ready to fry. The kitchen got so smoky Will had to open the windows, but the steak was surprisingly good.

  “You’re hungry enough that anything would taste good,” Sam said. “Anyway, thank Margaret, not me.”

  “It has to be a good cut, that’s true, but you also need to cook it right. You’ve clearly mastered the art.”

  “Jimmy liked steak. I don’t eat it much myself.”

  Will reached for his beer, then put it down again, shaking his head.

  “I still can’t picture you and Jimmy Duffy together.”

  “Well, don’t strain yourself. There’s nothing to picture anymore.”

  “I’m sorry, that sounded—”

  “I was waitressing at The Clam Digger.” She cut him off. Determined to get this story out without being interrupted. “He came in all the time. With the other cops, that was their place. He was nice to me, didn’t treat me like a weirdo. We were both lonely. Had nothing else in common, really, but it worked out for a while. Then I had a baby that died. And things kind of fell apart after that.”

  “Oh, Sam. I didn’t know.”

  “It didn’t live more than a couple of days. I knew it wasn’t going to. I wouldn’t let him name it. He was so angry about that. Then I had a miscarriage the next year. That was it—I was done. And we were alone again. In the same house, you know? But alone. So I left.”

  “And he hasn’t accepted it.”

  “Not in two years,” she said, staring at the table. “Maybe not ever.”

  “He must really love you,” Will replied, knowing he shouldn’t say it. But the truth of it had struck him forcefully through her words. She looked at him a long time.

  “He wants a son more than anything,” Samantha said. “And I can’t give him one. So maybe you’re right. Maybe he does.” She stood again. “You want to split that last beer?”

  “Sure. Unless you have something stronger.”

  She kept walking past the refrigerator and out of the room. He saw her shadow move into the dark study, and pictured her grandfather in the squeaking leather chair. Speaking tightly through the clenched pipe. Judging only by the tales left to us from Plato—click, suck, smoky exhale—we’d be forced to conclude that Socrates was an insufferable ass who got exactly what he had coming.

  Sam came back into the room with a mostly full bottle of Maker’s Mark in her hand.

  “I remembered Grandpa always kept a bottle in his desk,” she said, rummaging for glasses in the cabinets over the counter.

  “And you haven’t raided it before now?” Will asked. “How old is that?”

  “A few years. Does bourbon go bad?”

  “Not in my experience.”

  They did not speak again until the first pair of shot glasses were empty.

  “That is good,” said Sam. “I didn’t remember liking it. So Will, how are you?”

  “Better now,” he replied. “Thanks for dinner. And the booze.”

  “How is New York?”

  “Loud. Hot. I didn’t get away this summer. Fall should be better, if I ever get back. I like my students, and teaching is a good distraction.”

  “You could teach someplace else,” she suggested, refilling their glasses.

  “My mom’s always saying that. Wants me to come back here.”

  “Lots of colleges around these parts.”

  “I couldn’t live here again, Sam.”

  “I know,” she said gently. Did she? “This place haunts you.”

  Will leaned forward to take the glass, avoiding her eyes. He couldn’t deny the sentiment, but wished she had chosen a different word.

  “I have a tricky relationship with home. A lot of people do.”

  “Is it better in the city? Do you feel free of it there?”

  “Free of what?” he asked.

  “The burden,” she replied. “The haunted feeling.”

  “That was your word.”

  “How is it you’re not married?”

  “Come on,” he laughed nervously. “You can’t make something of that. Lots of people aren’t married.”

  “Not good-looking guys in their thirties,” she replied, her gaze not leaving him. “With good jobs. Okay, you could be a womanizer.”

  “Or gay.”

  “Right. But you’re neither of those things.”

  “No,” he agreed. “So what’s my problem, Doctor Hall?”

  “You’re haunted. You have been since you were five, and it’s screwing up your life.”

  He was getting annoyed now. She was a perceptive, intuitive woman, but she had not known him in more than a decade. It was arrogant of her to think she could diagnose his troubles. He tossed the rest of the bourbon back and closed his eyes against the burn. When he could speak again he looked at her.

  “Thanks for this, Sam. Dinner, being around. Everything. I really appreciate it.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “No, I just need sleep. Can’t seem to get enough.”

  “You can talk to me now,” she pressed on, quietly but firmly. “Or somebody else later, but you’ll have to talk about this.”

  “Stop.”

  “It would be better if it was me. I can help you.”

  He stoo
d up and was suddenly dizzy. Drunk again. Well done, William. He looked around for his jacket, remembered he hadn’t brought one. He could just walk out, but that would be childish. She had been kind to him. Will went over and squeezed her shoulder.

  “Good night.”

  She didn’t reply, didn’t even move as he left the kitchen. And yet somehow she was behind him when he reached the front door.

  “It doesn’t matter that time has passed,” Samantha said to his back. “Stuff has happened to us, okay. Some bad stuff. It doesn’t change anything between us.”

  “It changes everything. We’re different people.”

  “We’re connected.”

  “How?” he demanded, wheeling on her. She was closer than he thought. Less than a foot away, and his shoulder nudged her back. “How are we connected?”

  “I called you and you came. That night, in the field. I summoned you.”

  Her face was calm as ever, but her voice was high and tight. He could smell fear even through her whiskey breath. It was costing her something to force these words out. Which didn’t make them any less nuts.

  “The house had been hit,” he said. “There was yelling and screaming. I was panicked. I was running for my life.”

  “Yes, right to me.”

  “I was just running. I had no idea where or why.”

  “But you knew when you saw me,” she persisted. “You knew to come to me.”

  “I saw the lantern.”

  “You knew I would protect you, even though you had no reason to believe that then.”

  “Sam.” His anger was gone, and he was exhausted. He could have fallen down on the threadbare carpet and slept right there. The blue disks of her eyes were huge and close, swallowing him.

  “I was inside my circle,” she said firmly. “I performed all the steps perfectly. And you came to me, just like I imagined. The thing is...” Her voice faltered and she broke eye contact. She must have taken a step back, but it seemed more like she simply shrank. “The only thing is, you didn’t come alone. Something came with you, out of that house.”

  If she spoke any words beyond those, Will did not hear them. He went out the door without closing it behind him. Rushed down the wooden steps and raced through the darkness for home.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  She was sitting up when he arrived.

  “Hey, Ma.”

  “Come here,” she said weakly, patting the edge of the bed. “Come over here.”

  He sat down on the hard mattress and she put her arms around him. She could not have lost much muscle in three days, but her arms felt thin. She smelled faintly of body odor, and strongly of soap and disinfectant. When she did not release him after several moments, Will put his arms around her. Then leaned into her as she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “My boy,” she murmured.

  “That’s me.”

  “Is this what I have to do?” she asked, though he could hear the smile in her voice. “Fall and break my head?”

  “Arm or leg would have been fine,” Will replied. “I would have come for that.”

  “Yeah, I always overdo it.”

  There was a vague slur to some words, but mostly she sounded tired. A coma was not as restful as it seemed, apparently. She finally released him and sank back onto the stacked pillows.

  “You look terrible,” she said.

  “Me?” he laughed. “You should talk.”

  “I have a reason.”

  “Well, I’ve been a little stressed the last few days. Slept better last night,” he lied. His poor sleep had nothing to do with her. He was, however, hoping to avoid another encounter with Samantha.

  “Tell me what I missed,” Abby said.

  “The last three days? Not a hell of a lot.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  He filled her in on what the doctor had said. Then gave brief and sanitized accounts of the phone call with his father, his doings with Muriel, Samantha, Jimmy Duffy, Margaret Price. All of their fond regards.

  “Sam came by today,” she said, an uncertain look on her face. “She was sweet.”

  “She’s been by every day,” Will reported.

  “Poor girl. Still acts like she’s twelve years old.”

  “That’s just her manner,” he said, unable to stop himself. He had no real desire to defend Sam. Was it merely the need to contradict his mother reasserting itself so quickly? “She’s been through a lot.”

  She gazed at him steadily.

  “You been seeing much of her?”

  “Some,” he admitted. “She’s been helping me out.”

  “She was so crazy about you,” Abby said fondly. “You were her pet. And her best friend, and the little brother she never had.”

  “And she was the scary sister I never wanted,” Will replied, desperate to get off the topic. “What did the doctor say this morning?”

  “They’ll test my reflexes and stuff this afternoon. Again.” She closed her eyes, the very prospect of more tests making her weary. “See if I need therapy before I go home.”

  “Have you walked?”

  “To the bathroom and back. I need to get a little steadier before they let me out.”

  “So, another few days?”

  She gave him that level gaze again. This calm, sane-seeming version of his mother was almost unnerving.

  “I’m keeping you from your work, honey.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Please don’t think about that,” he insisted, with the vehemence of a guilty conscience. “This is where I need to be.”

  “You shouldn’t have to deal with this alone. We can... Hey, how is Muriel? Has she been by, I don’t remember?”

  “She’s with her mother,” Will replied, taking her hand.

  “Her mother, oh...the Alzheimer’s is worse?”

  “I guess. Also, she’s a little nervous about seeing you.”

  Her expression was as puzzled as he had expected it would be.

  “You and she were arguing when you fell,” Will explained.

  “Right,” Abby said, some hazy recollection fighting its way through. “She was there. Oh God, poor Mure.” Like everyone in these parts, she said it with a flat u, like burr. The local accent always clanged in Will’s ears after he’d been away for a while.

  “She’s kind of twisted up about it.”

  “I’ve been having dreams,” she whispered. “These awful dreams.”

  “You mean while you were under?”

  “Then too. But before, the last few weeks. From when you were a kid. I’ve been dreaming of the night Johnny died.”

  John Payson was a blue-eyed, blond-haired, ne’er-do-well son of one of the old families. Everyone loved Johnny, all the grown-ups. Will was five when he died and could not remember him clearly. What he recalled was a big, hairy, loud man he had not liked very much. Johnny had been Abby’s off-and-on boyfriend, and a member of the spirit circle. And he had been fried to death by lightning at the top of the stairs. Twenty feet from Will’s bedroom door.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t think of that stuff right now,” he suggested.

  “You don’t get to choose what you dream, honey,” she answered. “But you’re right. Because they’re so real, I keep thinking of them when I’m awake. I keep remembering stuff I don’t want to.”

  Sadness welled up in her eyes and she closed them. This could not be good for her, but how did he make her stop? He took both of her hands in his own. Still cool, but he could feel the life in them now.

  “Is Joe here,” she asked. “Is he coming?”

  “No,” Will replied.

  “Figures.”

  “I told him not to. I kind of insisted, actually.”

  “Don’t hate him, Wi
llie.”

  “I don’t,” he assured her.

  “He didn’t do anything wrong. Me, now. I’ve done everything wrong.”

  “Stop it. No more of this.”

  “I want to talk,” Abigail said.

  “Not today. Let it go for a while.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him again.

  “Please tell Muriel it’s okay. I’m not mad. Tell her to come see me.”

  “I’ll do that,” he promised.

  * * *

  Last day of September. The anniversary of Christine Jordan’s death, but he had chosen not to think about that. The morning had been chilly, but the afternoon was clear and blue and warm. Late-day sun turned the backyard grass a glowing emerald. Will walked barefoot in that cool grass, sipping a beer. As content and relaxed as he had been in many days, weeks maybe. He had shopped for groceries at Shaw’s and seen no one he knew. Then to the farm to buy early apples and cider. There had been no evil dreams for two nights. The beer was the first he’d had since that night at Sam’s, and he drank it for pleasure, not medication. Tomorrow was October 1. The witching month, and his mother was coming home.

  He gazed at the strip of white impatiens, dividing the lawn from a small rose garden. Three of the rose plants were dead, but four others were still blooming, a yellow and three reds. He would buy her new ones to replace the casualties. Or did you wait for spring to plant roses? Somewhere under those healthy plants were the ashes of Arthur the cat, friend of his youth. A small stone with an A on it used to mark the spot, but it had disappeared over the years. Will looked down the street to Muriel’s house, but her driveway was still empty. He had thought she might be back by now. Across the field and through the pines he could see lights on at the Hall place, but he was continuing to keep his distance from Sam.

  The sun disappeared behind the oaks, a chill came into the air and Will went inside. It was cooling off in the house also, and he traversed the shadowy rooms of the first floor lowering windows. Returning to the kitchen, he flicked on the overhead—only one bulb working—and considered dinner. The refrigerator and shelves were full, to meet any possible food whim of his mother’s, but he wasn’t that hungry. Maybe soup. He stood by the sink, finishing his beer. Sniffing the grassy scent through the window and watching the impatiens acquire that bluish glow they got at dusk. Brightening as everything around darkened. The phenomenon lasted only a few minutes until the white flowers faded as well. A shiver passed through him. Will set down the beer and reached across the sink to close the window.