The Shrine at Altamira

by John L'Heureux

  For no reason he could think of, Dr. Clark suddenly thought, Peggy is out dancing now. Getting picked up, maybe. Getting laid for Easter. Like an egg.

  “You’re like an angel, I think.”

  The priest reached out his hand and placed it on Dr. Clark’s shoulder. The hand was heavy and warm and protecting. Dr. Clark looked up into the old man’s eyes.

  “It’s possible, of course, that you’re just a lunatic. But I think not. I think you are an angel.”

  Despite himself, Dr. Clark laughed, a short barking sound.

  The old priest laughed too, but faintly, as if he were laughing at something else.

  “For your penance say three Hail Marys and do one nice thing for yourself.” The priest slipped into Latin then, reciting the formula of absolution.

  “But this wasn’t confession,” Dr. Clark said. “I didn’t want to go to confession.”

  “Go in peace,” the old priest said.

  At the door, Dr. Clark turned and said, “What nice thing?”

  The priest took off his stole and looked at him.

  “You said, ‘Do one nice thing for yourself,’ and I wonder what nice thing I should do?”

  “What a funny man you are,” the priest said and, smiling, returned to the contemplation of his folded hands.

  Dr. Clark went away too exhausted to think. Nonetheless he did think. Was the man mad? Was he dangerous? ‘I think you are an angel.’ Good God, the whole world was insane.

  He lay down for a minute and fell asleep immediately. He slept straight through the night, missing the entire Easter Vigil and the sung mass on Easter morning. When he woke, he felt a great deal better than he had in a long while.

  A little less angelic, he said to himself. And a whole lot less shitty.

  They had spent the day together at Great America, and John rode the roller coaster so many times—death-defying, the thrill of your life—that the man who sold tickets told him not to ride anymore because he’d get sick, but he sold John the admission ticket anyway. He proved to be right; John got sick and threw up in front of the ticket booth. They left after that and drove home to Russell’s house.

  Emory was watching from behind the curtains. He saw them get out of the car and go around to the back, and when he heard the key in the lock, he let himself out the front door and disappeared down the street, walking. He’d been out of detox for three weeks now, but he was still not allowed in the house when John was there.

  Inside, John went to Russell’s room and lay down on his bed. He fell asleep immediately.

  When he woke, he stretched and found that he felt good. The pain in his head was gone, and his stomachache was gone, and his father was sitting there beside the bed.

  “Daddy,” John said. “Papa.”

  It was just beginning to get dark.

  John let out a little laugh. He was in one of those moods. Sometimes when he was with Russell, when everything was going nicely and he was feeling happy and close to him, as if the burning had never happened and they had been just father and son all along, sometimes, without any warning at all, he’d suddenly get the urge to be mean, to hurt him, to make him prove he was sorry, and to make him prove he loved him. He didn’t know why this happened, and he was ashamed of it, but there was no resisting it, and now, once again, he rolled over on his side and gave in to it.

  “With your eye patch, you look like a pirate,” John said.

  “I am a pirate,” Russell said. He held up his burned hand. “Captain Hook.” He hadn’t meant to say it, it had just slipped out, but after a second or two John laughed.

  “You’re funny,” he said. “That’s funny.”

  He sat up on the bed and bent closer to Russell. “Put on the light,” he said, “so I can see your face.”

  Russell put on the light.

  “Lean closer.”

  Russell did.

  John put out his hand, tentative, and then he touched the eye patch. It was hard, like cardboard or plastic. Russell did not move.

  “I want to see,” John said. “Underneath.”

  “John, no,” Russell said.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t want to see that. It’s ugly. It’s just a wound.” Nonetheless he began to slip the stretch band off his head, from back to front—he couldn’t stop himself—until the eye patch came away. There was angry red flesh underneath, and a dark hole.

  John brought his face up close to Russell’s. “I can’t see,” he said. “Move closer to the lamp.”

  “John, no,” Russell said, but he moved his chair closer to the lamp and tilted his head, exposing the wound for examination.

  John knelt on the bed and leaned close to the light. He tilted Russell’s face at an angle, and with his thumbs, he gently pulled and pushed the loose flesh away so that he could see deep into that hole. The skin twitched beneath his thumbs, and he pressed harder. The flesh rolled all the way back and the empty eye socket was exposed—pink, and purple, raw. Nothing else. John was dizzy suddenly and lost his balance. He fell against Russell and Russell supported him, but John continued to examine the socket. What had he expected to see? He closed the wound, gently, with his thumb and forefinger, and then he put the eye patch back in place, and slipped the stretch band back over his father’s head. Shaking now, a little frightened, he took a quick glance at his father’s face. It was sad, but there were no tears.

  They looked at one another, frankly, and they were ashamed. What were they doing? Where could they go after this?

  Russell took John out to the car to drive him home.

  Crouched down behind an abandoned car, Emory watched them as they drove away. He was filled suddenly with a sense of loss. Not the kind of loss he felt when his wife died, or that other, different loss when he first hit bottom and reached out for AA. This was something else altogether. A nagging ache, a warning of some terminal pain that would surely find him, no matter what. Because at last there was no place to hide.

  Everyone sensed that something was about to happen. It was inevitable. It was like fate. But nobody knew what it would be, or where, or when.

  Forte thought he knew. He phoned Russell six times in one day. Each time he found Russell on the job and hard at work, except for the last time, when he was at home, just as he was supposed to be. During the following week, Forte continued to phone him on the job at least twice a day, until finally the super told him to give it a rest, they were trying to get some fucking work done around here, and if Forte was so worried about Whitaker, why didn’t he just put him in jail? Forte thought about that and afterward phoned only once a day.

  Ana Luisa thought she knew. She went to bed each night expecting an earthquake, and she was surprised each morning to find herself alive. Even before she washed her face, she went out to the living room and knelt before her little shrine to offer a prayer of thanksgiving. She said a special prayer for Maria. She said a whole rosary for John. She even stopped in at a noon mass one day, but she had not been to mass in years and she was uncomfortable with all the English and the handshaking—as if everybody else had come to a party and she was there to spy on God. She left almost at once. Later, when the church was empty, she went back and prayed. She lit a candle. “Protect us from evil,” she said to the Virgin, though she had no idea what the evil might be.

  Dr. Clark knew something terrible would happen every minute of every day. Nonetheless he had asked Peggy to show him how to dance. It was just an experiment, he insisted, just this one time. So they were having a drink and a quick dinner before she took him up to the city to hit the clubs.

  “To dancing,” he said, and held up his wineglass. Awkward and uneasy with this strange man, Peggy clinked her glass against his and said, “To dancing and to good times and to …”

  Both were thinking, To John.

  Peggy felt a moment of panic, and Dr. Clark, panicked too, clinked his glass a second time, hard, and the wine sloshed onto the tablecloth.

  “To the good life,” he said
, shaken.

  “To the good life,” Peggy said.

  And for a moment neither said a thing, as John’s life rose before them, very briefly, and then sank out of sight.

  “You’re gonna love to dance,” Peggy said, “I can tell.”

  “I’m gonna try,” Dr. Clark said.

  They laughed, at nothing, but it was important to laugh, and after a while they forgot about John and had a very good time. Dancing was not so bad after all, Dr. Clark felt. Better than a pointy stick in the eye. Better than suicide.

  Everyone—except Maria—sensed that something was about to happen. Maria felt nothing. She went to the office each day and she worked late each night. She knew that Ackerman wanted to replace her: she’d let him down; she was always distracted. But what could she do? She had to live too. Sometimes after work she met a man. Sometimes she just had a drink with him. Sometimes she had a drink and they went home to his bed. A different man each time, if she could manage it. She wanted no permanent involvement with anybody, not Anglo, not Chicano, not anybody. She needed work and she needed a little sex and she needed to get through this life somehow. She could never marry again. She was John’s mother, period, for good. There was no point in hoping for anything better than that. Or easier.

  Still, she had to have something. Some kind of life. She was not dead yet, you know. And so she saw men, she went home with them, and who was going to tell her that she couldn’t? Who would dare?

  It was Saturday night and Maria was getting dressed to go out. She went back and forth from the bedroom to the bathroom, first in her robe and curlers, then later in her slip and heels, and finally with her hair combed out and her makeup complete and her earrings on. No necklace. No bracelet. No Mexican debris. She was all set except for her dress.

  Ana Luisa sat at the kitchen table, watching all these trips back and forth through the kitchen, frowning, puffed up, letting Maria and John and the whole world feel the force of her disapproval. John sat opposite her, pretending to read.

  Finally Ana Luisa couldn’t help herself.

  “Maria,” she said softly.

  “Don’t start,” Maria said. “I’m going, and that’s that.”

  “Of course you are, querida, of course you are. But you’ll be home early, won’t you? For the boy.”

  “Yesss.” She disappeared into the bedroom and returned almost immediately in her new black dress. She was fiddling with the zipper in back.

  “Maybe you could stay at home tonight?” Ana Luisa asked. “What do you think? For the boy.”

  “I’ll be home early, I said. Now leave me alone.” She turned her back and said, “Help me with this, Mother, will you?”

  “So lovely,” Ana Luisa said, zipping the dress up and fastening the tiny clip. “You look like a little dream.”

  “I’m going, Mother.”

  She stepped into the bathroom to check her makeup one last time. She needed a touch more lipstick.

  She could tell they were looking at her, both of them, but she was damned if she’d respond. John hadn’t said a word, the little tyrant. He knew the power of his silence.

  She turned her head slightly and caught John in profile, his hand to his chin, as he read his book. And suddenly she saw him transformed. He was no longer this burned and patched little boy but the handsome son she had always dreamed of—serious, smart, bent over a book. John Whitaker.

  In that instant she was overcome with the fear that something might happen to him. It was more than a fear, it was a realization—something would happen, she knew it—and she sprang to him and hugged him hard against her breast. “My sweet,” she said. “My precious son. I love you. You know that. I love you.”

  He pulled away, embarrassed, and then saw the look on her face and the tears, and he hugged her back.

  “I love you” he said.

  “What a silly I am,” she said, hugging him one last time, and then she went into the bathroom to repair her makeup.

  At the table, Ana Luisa covered her face and said nothing.

  John read his book.

  . . . . .

  Russell picked him up at ten the next morning. Maria was still asleep—she had come home around dawn—and so John left her a note on the kitchen table. “Dear Sleepyhead,” it said. “I’ve gone to the beach with Billy and his folks.” To piss her off just a little bit, he signed the note Juanito. But then he felt bad and added: “P.S.A Christmas present, early.” And he left the little gold locket lying next to the note. There was no picture inside, but she’d find something to put there.

  Without a word John got into his father’s car and they drove off in the direction of the beach. It was a beautiful sunny day, but as they got nearer the coast, the sun disappeared and the fog began to roll in.

  They stopped at Nini’s Place for coffee.

  “How’s my boy?” Russell said.

  John just smiled. It wasn’t a question that needed an answer.

  They had said almost nothing to each other so far this morning. They had driven in silence over the Santa Cruz Mountains, and they were silent now, but it wasn’t one of their old, comfortable silences. This one was charged with expectation, and they both knew it.

  The waitress was a gum-snapper. She took Russell’s order, and John’s, and then walked away without ever having looked at them. In a minute she returned with the coffees and, sliding them across the table, she caught sight of John’s face. She stopped chewing for an instant, and caught her breath, and then she said, “You all enjoy it now.” She snapped her gum again, loudly.

  John had seen her.

  Russell saw him seeing her.

  There was nothing to say.

  Back in the car, Russell began to hum, a little nervous. “Do you still sing, John?” he asked. “You used to sing all the time. You had a nice voice, like your mother’s.”

  “My voice is changing,” John said.

  “Will you sing for me?”

  The question hung there for a long minute, and then John said, “Yes.” He began to sing “Silent Night,” and though his voice cracked when he got to “Sleep in heavenly peace,” he went right on through the three verses he knew. His voice was high and pure.

  “Nice,” Russell said, trying to sound casual.

  John sang “Joy to the World” and “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” and he began “O Holy Night,” but the range was too high and he gave it up.

  “See?” he said. “My voice is changing.”

  Russell put his hand on John’s head for a moment and then ruffled his hair. Neither said anything.

  They were near the beach now. The fog had cleared, and the sun was high in the sky. It was going to be a sunny day after all.

  Russell drove past the beach they usually went to and continued on down the coast. He went past places he had gone to with John, past others where he’d gone with Maria, past one place where he had sat alone, often. Finally he stopped at a long field, with a hill beyond it. They could hear the surf pounding just over the hill.

  John took his baseball and glove and got out of the car. There was no path, but they started out walking any which way, side by side, in no hurry. They were walking in a field of flowers, he and his father. The sun was warm. With each step they took, the long grass bent beneath their feet, and the daisies, pink and white, bobbed against their legs. In the distance was a hill of mustard flowers, and just over that hill lay the ocean. They were going to play ball on the beach. If it got warmer, they might go for a swim. But for now, they were walking in the field, together, and the sun was high, and there were flowers everywhere. If this were a dream, they would simply lean forward, lift their feet from the ground, and fly. But this was not a dream. It was much better than a dream. John took his father’s hand.

  On the beach they tossed the ball back and forth for only a short while. Neither was interested in playing anymore. They were impatient for what was to come, as if they knew, as if they had planned it all along.

  At two o’clock the
y were back in the car, still worked up from running on the beach but, somehow, shy with each other.

  “How about a Big Mac?” Russell said. “A shake? Double fries? What do you say?”

  John shook his head.

  “Would you like to go to a movie? The mall? A video shop?”

  “No,” John said.

  “Well, what then?” Russell waited, and when he spoke again, his voice shook. “Do you want to go home? With me?”

  “Yes,” John said. “I want to go to your house.” He felt immensely powerful, and cruel, and just. He felt like God or the devil, it didn’t matter which one. “I want to lie down on your bed.”

  Neither said anything until they reached Russell’s house. Then John took a quick glance at the front window and said, “He sees us, so he’ll be gone in a minute.” They went around to the back, and as they entered the house, they heard the front door close. Emory was safely out of the way.

  John lay down on the bed.

  Russell stood at the doorway, waiting.

  “I’m not sleepy,” John said.

  “No,” Russell said.

  John looked at him for a long while. “You said once that you would do anything for me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember that? To make it up to me, you said.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you?”

  Russell nodded.

  “Anything?”

  Silence.

  “Anything at all?”

  Again Russell nodded. He couldn’t look at his son. He knew what was coming, he too had laid plans for it, but it was obscene, it was sick. But it was also just. And he knew that.

  “Will you set yourself on fire? For me?”

  “Yes?”

  “The way you did it to me? On this bed? With gasoline?”