Before the Devil Fell

by Neil Olson

“I was ten or eleven by then.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I remember her being around before. Taking me shopping. Going to the Topsfield Fair. Showing up at my Little League games.”

  Abby eyed him watchfully.

  “She might have done all that. I wasn’t the most attentive mother. Grew up with an idea that the whole community raised the children. It was that way then. You were in and out of people’s houses, I didn’t know where you were half the time. Sleeping over at the Halls. Kids would sleep over here, kids I hardly knew. Everybody took care of everybody else’s—it was just like that.”

  “And the thing with Johnny didn’t come between you?” he couldn’t help but ask.

  “He and I were done before they started. Then later, I don’t know, maybe it was part of what drew us closer. Not that we talked about it much.”

  “Johnny stayed in the spirit circle, after you and he split.”

  She rubbed her eyes with both hands, then looked at him hard.

  “Is this what you want to talk about?” Abby asked calmly. “On this lovely evening?”

  “It was you who wanted to talk. In the hospital, a week ago.”

  “Right,” she sighed. “I was having those dreams.”

  “About what?”

  “You. The night Johnny died. Awful stuff. You should have let me tell you then. I don’t remember it so well anymore.”

  He picked up the wineglass and swirled the purple dregs. She was right. She had gotten healthy enough to reconstruct her defenses. To take all those memories from the fields where they had been grazing and lock them up behind the castle gates once again.

  “The spirit circle was your thing,” he said. Groping blindly for a way in. “Right? Kind of like your invention?”

  “No, no. Groups like that have been around for generations. I used to sit in on Jane Hall’s circle when I was a kid.”

  “Tom’s wife?”

  “Yeah. Sweet woman. Very calm and wise. Knew everything about everything.”

  Sam’s grandma. Who was still giving herbology lessons from beyond the grave.

  “Was it like yours?” he asked, smirking despite himself. “Swilling wine and holding hands and chanting?”

  “There was some of that,” Abby answered, taking no offense. “Minus the wine. And it was mostly Jane doing the chanting. In Welsh. Everyone else kind of closed their eyes and listened to her.”

  “Welsh?”

  “Gaelic? Some language I didn’t understand. But there was a power to it.”

  “You could feel it?” he asked quietly. Watching her dark eyes turn inward, her mind drift back to that time and place.

  “I was outside the circle. In the corner, keeping quiet. Not touching them. That was an order, don’t touch. But sometimes I could see the energy go through those women, like an electric current. Straightening their backs, shaking their arms.”

  “No kidding?”

  “That was only some evenings. Other times, they would just knit and gossip. Talk about any old thing. Oh, and the healings. I nearly forgot those.”

  “Tell me.” He kept his voice low and even.

  “Jane would place her hands on people, wherever they were hurting. That’s old medicine, laying on hands. I guess some still do it. Mostly, like rheumatism or arthritis. Common ailments. But she laid hands on Edgar Branford’s stomach, when he had that terrible cancer. And damned if the man didn’t live another fifteen years. Then later, much later I guess, when Jane was sick herself and her circle was breaking up, Lucy Larcom had that bad pregnancy. I was pregnant with you at the time. Jane got herself up and went over to Lucy’s. Put her hands on that big belly and murmured some words. Three months later, out popped Danny, healthy as a horse.”

  “Huh.” The laying on of hands, like so much else he was learning, seemed familiar. Certainly the idea that Jane Hall was a kind of medicine woman was well-known.

  “I don’t think the women nowadays have that strength. But it was amazing to watch.”

  “So you were there?”

  “With Lucy? Yeah, Jane needed help getting around.”

  “Tom couldn’t help?” Will asked.

  “He drove us. Gosh, he would have done anything for Jane—they were so close. But the healing, the whole business really, it was a woman’s thing. I know that sounds silly, but I don’t remember men in Jane’s group. They came to get healed. The older men did, like it was nothing strange. Like going to the doctor. But they weren’t in the circle.”

  “They were in yours.”

  “Yeah,” Abby said. A little twitch around her mouth. “I let the boys in.”

  “Why?”

  “It seemed like the thing to do. The girls liked having them around. They brought enthusiasm, new ideas. Doc and Nancy Chester had been all over the world. They told us about the Mayans and Aztecs. Even the druids, back in England, where we all come from. Johnny brought these Navajo... I think it was Navajo, but prayer beads. And the prayers too, which we tried. We tried everything. We were figuring it out for ourselves. Jane was going to have me in her circle when I was old enough, but she got sick. I learned stuff from her, but I never got the full idea of what it was about. I had to make it up.”

  “One of the other women couldn’t have taught you?”

  “I don’t know how much they knew, or how much they just went along. Jane, she was the one. We lost a lot when we lost her.”

  “What about Evelyn Price?” he asked, surprising himself.

  “Evelyn.” Abigail looked surprised too. Less by the name than that her son would know to invoke it. Her reverie was broken, and she studied his face. “Yeah, I could have gone to Evelyn, but I don’t know if she would have helped.”

  The front door thumped open, startling them. A moment later Muriel came into the room. Her face was flushed and her pupils dilated.

  “That must have been more than one ciggie,” Abigail said.

  “Yeah, well, we had quite a talk.”

  “You and Sam? Really?”

  “Where is she?” Will asked, suddenly spooked by her absence. Muriel gave him a quick glance, then put her arms around Abigail.

  “She went home. Which is where I’m going now.”

  “So early?” said Abby, though she looked beat. “You don’t want coffee or something?”

  “No, I’m good.” She marched over to Will and kissed him loudly on the ear, cigarette smoke enfolding him like perfume. “Thanks for a great dinner, Willie. This was fun. We should do it more often.”

  Then she was gone again, and the evening was over. He tried not to make anything of Sam’s leaving without a word. She didn’t stand on ceremony, and the dinner had been no pleasure for her. Just something she had put up with, for him.

  “Go over and see her,” Abby suggested. He looked at her tired expression. Not so tired that she couldn’t see clean through him, as easily as Sam did. It would be good to get back to New York, where there were no women reading his mind.

  “I’m sure she’s fine.”

  “Well, I’m done in,” Abigail replied, which was no more than Will had already figured. He didn’t know whether to feel badly for pushing her so hard, or frustrated that he had not pushed more. She had more to tell. A lot more, and he wanted it.

  “Go crash. I’ll clean up down here.”

  “You know, I’m doing a lot better.”

  “You are,” he agreed, eyeing her warily. She had started to rise, but sat again.

  “If everything goes okay with the checkup tomorrow, maybe you should think of getting out of here. You know, back to school.”

  “Hey,” he laughed. “You trying to get rid of me?”

  “I don’t want you to go,” she answered sadly. “I just...”

  “They’re not going to fire me,” he assured her, though he was far from cert
ain about that. “You’ve been saying for years that I don’t see you enough. And you were right.”

  She locked her tired gaze on him again.

  “I’m not sure that being here is good for you.”

  She knew. She knew about Jimmy, and everything else. Everybody knew everything. There were no secrets. He ground his teeth and looked away. No more outbursts, be a grown-up.

  “I’m all right,” he said. “And I’m not going anywhere until I’m certain you’re well. Do you understand?”

  “I think I do,” Abby said evenly.

  “Good. Now go to bed.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  He ran. Not swiftly or well, but it felt good. He wore a soft brace on his left knee and labored to breathe evenly. It was odd to think he had once been an athlete. Track and baseball. An average fielder and below-average hitter, but a pretty fair middle-distance runner. Through sophomore year at Amherst, when he blew his knee out. He was supposed to use a treadmill or bicycle, but seldom bothered, and had gotten out of shape.

  Muriel would say he was projecting his mood onto the weather. Gray and misting. The clouds seemed to sit right on the houses, swallowing the tops of trees. Millions of droplets danced sideways, gently soaking everything. His sweatpants and shirt hung heavily on him. At the three-mile mark he meant to turn back, but caught sight of the Congregational Church steeple. A narrowing white shaft, vanishing into the ghostly vapor. He slowed, but felt a nudge at his back. Will knew better than to look. He also knew better than to ignore the hint. He picked up his pace and followed the winding road into what passed for the center of town.

  Had he missed an evacuation order? A few cars passed, but there was no one else on the streets. It was poor weather to be out in, though that never bothered the locals. He scampered across the road and under dripping oaks to the edge of the churchyard. Then entered through a remembered break in the stone wall, toward the rear. Near the graves.

  There were older graveyards in town, but as Margaret Price noted, the seven families were late arrivals. The oldest stones here bore dates from the early nineteenth century, just when the Halls, Prices and the rest started showing up. He ambled over uneven ground toward the secluded and tree-shrouded back wall. The graves were smaller here. Pale and pitted, and covered in lichen and moss. An older woman in a light blue dress knelt in the corner where Will was headed. The first soul he had seen today. She was slim, with silver hair and graceful movements. No umbrella, but the rain had backed off, or perhaps the oaks were shielding them. She was plucking weeds from around one old slab and arranging some flowers. Will lingered where he was, turning to the stone nearest.

  Nathaniel C. Branford

  Born June 9, 1809

  Died November 11, 1859

  His wife, Dorothea, who outlasted her husband by fifteen years, was beside him. There were more Branfords scattered about, but Nathaniel and Dorothea appeared to be the oldest of them. The woman in the blue dress stood and turned her face to Will. Handsome, familiar. She smiled briefly, then wandered away. He watched her for a few moments. A proud and erect posture that he could almost place. Then he proceeded to where she had been kneeling. The final resting place of the Halls.

  He was instinctively drawn to the stone she had been tending. It was the smallest here. Probably marble, and so badly worn now that he could hardly read it. But he knew this marker, the great-granddaddy of them all.

  Samuel Isaac Hall

  Died March 3, 1848

  The first Hall to come down from Maine. Possibly the first among all the families to make the move. Why did he come? Why did the others follow, if that was indeed how it had worked? And what lesson might there be for Will in this knowledge? He was deep in thought when his pocket buzzed, making him jump.

  The phone. He normally would not have taken it running, but he wanted Abby to be able to reach him wherever he was. He dug it from his wet pocket.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, stranger.” Beth. Such a sane, friendly voice. How long since he had heard it? “How goes it up there?”

  “Um, okay,” he tried. “I don’t remember when I last checked in.”

  “Your mom had just come out of the coma.”

  “Right.” At least he had reported that much. “That was, like, a week ago.”

  “Exactly,” she laughed, or it sounded like a laugh. “How is she?”

  “Doing much better.” He stood up and turned a slow circle, as if looking for spies. “Still weak, but a lot better.”

  “She’s home?”

  “Oh yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

  “You don’t need to apologize to me,” she said. Implying that he did need to apologize to someone. “I’m sure you have your hands full.”

  “How are classes going?” he asked, beginning to walk. Back toward the church. Gazing at gravestones as he passed them.

  “Under control. I told you Bryce took over American Lit.”

  Thomas Samuel Hall, died 1917. Old Tom’s grandfather, who built the house.

  “I remember.”

  “He’s shown up twice. Figured out pretty quickly I was doing all the work.”

  “Good,” Will answered mechanically. “And the seminar?”

  She laughed again. It was a sweet laugh, but seemed a bit nervous or self-conscious now.

  “Asa Waite seized control from the first day you were out,” said Beth. Succubus girl. That figured. “They’re a pretty self-propelled group. I wouldn’t worry about the seminar.”

  “What should I worry about?” he asked.

  “Dean Wagner.”

  Anne, beloved wife of...rests with the angels...

  “What about him?”

  “Will,” she said firmly. “There’s a right way to do this, and you’re ignoring it.”

  “I spoke to him before I left.”

  “That was fine. It was an emergency—everyone understood. But it’s ten days now, and you’ve checked in exactly once.”

  Alice Elizabeth Hall.

  Will stopped short.

  Born April 30, 1912

  Died August 11, 1919

  “Hello?” said Beth. “Anyone there?”

  “What do I need to do?” he asked, gazing at the grave of his childhood playmate. If he believed Samantha.

  “Apply for an official leave of absence. Did you get the forms I emailed?”

  Emails, right. The wide world.

  “My mother’s computer is crap. There’s a dial-up connection, but it takes ten minutes. I haven’t seen anything.”

  “You haven’t read any emails?”

  “And I’m still alive,” Will replied. “It’s a miracle.”

  “Sarcasm isn’t necessary.”

  “I don’t mean to... It’s like you said... I have my hands full. There’s more stuff going on here than I expected.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” she answered, sounding tired of the conversation. He didn’t blame her. “We’ll survive down here, but you’re pushing it with Wagner.”

  The dean of faculty was gruff, short-tempered and formidable looking, and everyone was afraid of him. Yet Will noticed that his decisions were never malicious or arbitrary. He sensed a basically decent soul who had grown a tough skin. Of course, he could be wrong, but Will had been unconsciously trusting his academic future to this instinct about the man, a fact that had only become clear to him now.

  The next grave stopped him again. It was the newest in this section and at the top in large letters it simply said HALL. Below and to the left it was inscribed:

  Jane Marian, wife of Thomas

  Born October 22, 1910

  Died November 1, 1970

  To the right was inscribed: Thomas Isaac, Born May 23, 1913 with space below to list the date of death. But it was Jane’s name that drew his eye back. Healer, herbo
logist, glue of the family, who had died too young. An image sprang to mind, and a sickening unease rose up in him.

  “Beth, I have to go.”

  “I’ll snail mail the forms. Deal with them. And for God’s sake call Wagner.”

  “Thanks for everything. Really.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  The connection was broken. He put the phone away and looked around for the older woman, but she had vanished. Without thinking, he began walking quickly toward the break in the wall by which he had entered. But someone was there. Standing right in the open space. Will turned away quickly. He did not want to know who or what it was. He made for the front of the church, past the newer graves. The ground had changed since he had last been here. New stones had gone in, trees and bushes had grown up, yet he suddenly realized where he was. He stopped, reversed a few yards and went over one row to stand before a polished granite slab. Looking as fresh as it had that day. The last day he had visited this church, sixteen years ago.

  Christine Rebecca Jordan

  February 20, 1970

  September 30, 1987

  They had only known each other a couple of years. Had only been going out for six months or so. He could not say who she was as a person, who she might have become. It was this tragic thing that had occurred in his past. He hardly mentioned Christine to anyone. Good friends of his didn’t know he had a girlfriend who died in a car crash in high school. And yet hardly a day went by that he did not think of her. He might see her face in the face of one of his students, or a girl in a coffee shop. He might smell privet or honeysuckle, scents she had made him aware of that summer. He might simply dream about her. Alive again, happy, full of plans for both of them.

  No one had blamed him. Her mother did not speak to him at the funeral, but she didn’t speak to anyone. Her brothers had been kind, patting him on the back, saying words he did not remember. But her father had pulled him close and spoken kindly in his ear. Nobody is putting this on you, Will. Understand? Don’t you do it either. It’s just one of those things that happen.

  Did he blame himself? Not consciously. He was not in the car with her. He had not even asked her to come over that afternoon. It was her idea. Yet the fact remained that she had flown off the road on the way to his house. To see him. Had she not been his girlfriend, she would be alive today. Judgments aside, that simple truth was inescapable. Haunting.