Why would John Barrow live in such a huge house and only use a tiny part of it? How could he afford such a house as a social worker? And why had the house seemed familiar, even in the dark?
John Barrow slid open the oak door nearest the front entrance. “What do you think of my living room, Gary?”
“Big,” he said, hoping his host didn’t think him stupid.
“It’s that, all right.”
A huge marble fireplace topped by a mantel dominated one long oak wall. Next to a front window was an easy chair and a round table that held the lamp he had seen from outside. Between the table and the fireplace there was a large television set. Along the wall opposite the fireplace was a large sofa, and in front of that a long wooden coffee table.
At the end of the room farthest from the window was a round table on which rested a plant and a stack of mail. Over the far table hung a picture of Christ. John Barrow is a Catholic, he thought.
“Give me the beer, Gary. Why don’t you spread your jacket on the floor next to the fireplace. Heat’ll dry it off in no time.”
He did as he had been told with the jacket.
“Make yourself at home, Gary. Sofa’s comfortable. I’ll get us some glasses and plates.”
He was eager for some more beer because he felt the spell of camaraderie starting to crack under the strain of his own awkwardness. He saw John Barrow turn left at the far end of the room. Then he noticed suitcases and golf clubs lying on the floor underneath the table at the end of the room.
“I see you’re all packed,” he said, attempting levity as John Barrow returned with a tray bearing steins, two cans of beer, plates, forks, paper napkins, and a bottle of ketchup.
“Yep. Now I just have to pray the airport stays open.”
John Barrow nodded toward the front window. Ice crystals were forming on the glass, catching the lamplight and reflecting it in a hellish glow. “God’s punishment,” Barrow said.
“You must be Catholic.”
“Indeed.” John Barrow seemed eager to pour beer. “Cheers, Gary.”
He took a big gulp, hoping it would restore some of the spell. But there was something he could not postpone. “Which way’s your bathroom?”
“Back there. Light’s on your left.”
He passed a small, white kitchen and a dark bedroom. The bathroom was at the end of a short hallway. Its window, too, was ice covered. After relieving himself, he squinted through the icy window and saw a pale green flash of light, then nothing. More wires down. How far away? He couldn’t tell.
Bottles of cologne and shaving lotion lined the back of the sink. For some reason, he had the urge to open the medicine chest, but after staring in the mirror for several seconds he forbade himself to do that.
His host was lighting a fire. “Dry your coat in no time,” Barrow said.
“Good night for a fire.” He sat down again on the sofa, took a gulp of beer. He piled french fries and onion rings on a plate. With the first nibble, he realized how hungry he’d been.
“You go to the Swine often, Gary?”
“Now and then.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen you there before.” John Barrow sat down on the sofa and began eating and sipping beer meticulously.
“I envy you, escaping to play golf.”
“Mmmm, I can’t wait. Listen, let me get you a refill.”
“I’m drinking faster than you.”
“So what.”
John Barrow brought him a beer, then took a large book off the top of the mantel. “Ever see this?” Barrow said. “A present to myself.”
The cover showed a par-three hole protected by a pond on one side, a rock face on the other, and trees behind. He wiped his fingers thoroughly and leafed through the book: page after page of breathtakingly lovely fairways and brooks and pristine sand and velvet greens.
“Look on page twenty-six,” Barrow said. “I’ve played that par five. It’s a course in Florida.”
“Do you travel a lot in your job?”
“Oh, sometimes.” John Barrow smiled slyly. “To tell you the truth, Gary, I told a white lie. I’m not a social worker. I’m a priest.”
“Oh. Well, almost the same thing.” He had tried to sound blasé.
“You can understand,” Father John Barrow said. “I get the same urges as anyone else—to go out and have a few beers, shoot the shit. But I have to be careful. You can understand, from the field you’re in.”
“Right.”
“Tell me again what you do at the Gazette.”
“Oh, I bounce around a lot. Cover this, cover that.”
“Hmmm. Well, I cover a lot, too. A lot of sins and follies. Including some of my own.”
“Everybody should have some.”
“I’ll drink to that. You ready again?”
“Not quite.… What the hell, I’m ready.” He was drinking fast. He liked the priest.
Barrow laughed, went to the kitchen, and got two more beers.
“Who else lives here?”
“Just me. Your paper has run stories and pictures on this house. There’s a debate within the diocese about what to do with it.”
Of course. That was why the house had seemed familiar from the outside, even in the gloom and icy mist.
“The diocese is consolidating some parishes,” Father Barrow went on. “They may close this building entirely, or do something else with it. Something. Until they decide, I’m sort of the caretaker.”
“A big house to be alone in.”
Barrow’s face went stone serious. “You believe in ghosts, Gary?”
“I don’t rule them out.”
“Me either. You Catholic?”
“I was brought up that way.”
“I figured, from the Notre Dame stuff. You believe in the hereafter?”
“Uh, I don’t rule it out. That or ghosts.”
“Ah, Gary, I’m with you. Priest or not, I’m with you.”
From outside, against the house, came the sound of bumping and scratching. For a moment, he was afraid.
“It’s a big old maple, Gary. Ice is getting heavier. Hope the storm doesn’t kill her.”
John Barrow put another log on the fire. The flames hissed and darted.
“Tell me, Gary. What do you do to unwind? Besides golf, I mean.”
“Oh, read. Drink.”
“No girl in your life at the moment?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Plenty of time for that. You’re young.”
With John Barrow leading the way, they talked some more: about life and death and hope and what it all meant, about how springtime in Bessemer was so much sweeter than in other places, where winters were milder. They talked about love between parent and child, about how difficult that love could be, and how a person didn’t understand some things until it was too late.
After a while, Barrow said, “Enough of this serious shit. You have to see my driving range. You have time, don’t you?”
He looked at his watch. Almost midnight. “Sure, what the hell.”
“Great. We can hit a few balls, then come up and kill off the beer.”
John Barrow took three clubs out of the bag lying at the end of the room and led the way to a stairway off the kitchen.
“Watch your head, Gary.” The priest turned on a light that revealed narrow stone steps.
He followed his host into a basement that smelled of mold hidden for decades in undiscoverable crannies.
“Check out that furnace, Gary. Big enough to heat a castle. Been here since the house was built. ’Course, we don’t burn coal here anymore. This way.”
He followed the priest through another door. His host flicked a switch, and a powerful light illuminated a room with a dirt floor and a high ceiling. The far wall was covered with a green tarp on which hung a white sheet with a saucer-sized red circle in the middle.
“Hay bales behind the tarp, Gary. Plenty of padding, so you can just swing away. Choose your weapon. Iron or wood?” The golfing priest offer
ed the clubs; the head of the driver gleamed like dark cherry wood, the immaculate blades of the irons like silver.
“No, you go first.”
John Barrow took off his turtleneck and shirt and tossed them carelessly onto that part of the tarp that lay on the floor beneath the target. His T-shirt covered a lean torso and a powerful chest. He had long, firm arms.
John Barrow picked up a handful of golf balls and tees from the floor under the target. Then he stepped to the center of the dirt floor and teed up a ball.
“Hand me the driver, Gary. I’m gonna need it on that par five in Florida.”
The priest-golfer had a long, slow, clockwork backswing. He brought the club down in a smooth arc while shifting his weight perfectly. The ball rocketed off the club face and exploded into the target.
“Wish I could do that every time, Gary.”
Barrow hit several more balls, sending each into the target center with thunderous force. Retrieving the balls from the floor, he did it all over again.
Barrow frowned with intense concentration, his face in a light sweat.
“Okay, Gary. Let’s see what you can do.”
He didn’t really want to try. He had seen at once that John Barrow had a far better golf swing. “I’ll try the five iron,” he said. He was far less likely to screw up with that than with the driver.
He teed a ball and got a firm stance in the dirt. The club felt strange and heavy. He swung as slowly as he could and swept the ball cleanly off the tee into the target area.
“Nothing wrong with that, Gary.”
“Respectable,” he said, trying to sound casual. He teed up again and got off another satisfactory shot, then another.
“You’re over that pond, Gary.… That won’t hurt you.”
John Barrow retrieved the balls and brought them back to him. “Gary, I might offer you one piece of advice. Get set up over the ball now.… Ah! May I?”
Without waiting for an answer, John Barrow put a hand on his forearm. “Gary, you’ve got real arm strength here, but you’re not using all of it.” Barrow paused, squeezed. “Strong.… Now try putting your arms a little closer together at address, so they make a tighter vee. Okay. Now swing.”
He did, and noticed the difference.
“See? Try again, same way.”
Again, he sent a good iron shot into the target.
“One more time, Gary.”
This time he swung too fast and topped the ball. “I just went into the water.”
“Your tempo was off. You’re just rusty, that’s all. Can I show you something else?”
He wasn’t just rusty; he was tired of the basement. He wanted to go upstairs and have another beer.
“Gary, step back from the ball. Just an inch or two … there.”
Barrow had gone around behind him. “Now, Gary, remember the arms. A good, tight vee does the trick.”
Barrow reached from behind and put a hand gently on his right forearm. “You have good, strong arms, Gary.”
He was getting annoyed at the hands-on teaching. Barrow was close behind him. He could smell the priest’s sweat and shaving lotion.
“Okay, Gary. Standing a little away from the ball like that, still with that tight vee, you should get a lot more power. Try it.”
He swung, but his annoyance had dashed his concentration. The ball flicked off the end of the club and bounced harmlessly off a far wall.
“My fault, Gary. I made you nervous.” Barrow was still standing behind him. His voice was soft, apologetic.
He turned to look at his host and suggest that they go upstairs to have some more beer. What he saw in the priest’s face startled him.
Father John Barrow’s eyes were soft, watery, pleading. “Gary, I like you very much,” the priest whispered.
The priest looked down—a signal. “Gary, do you think you could relax with me? Feel easy with me?”
He stepped back.
Barrow’s erect, eager penis was jutting through the fly.
“Gary …”
“I’m leaving, okay?”
“Please, Gary. Didn’t you feel some of the same—”
“No!” His shout echoed in the ancient basement. “No!”
“You must have. I felt that you did.”
He backed away. John Barrow touched his own penis, then reached out to him. Watery, soft eyes. Pleading.
“No!” Almost by reflex, he swung the golf club. It was only a one-handed half swing, but the club struck the priest flush on the temple. Barrow put his hand to his head; blood seeped through the fingers.
“Gary …” Still pleading.
He could not bear the priest’s voice.
“No!” This time he swung the club with both arms, full force, striking the side of the head. The priest dropped to his knees, a torrent of blood soaking through his hair and cascading into the dirt.
Barrow’s eyes were changing, from watery soft to glazed. One eye looked away, but the other stared right at him.
“No!” He swung again, knocking Barrow off his knees. One eye had disappeared into a mash of tissue, bone, and blood. Lying on his side, curled in a fetal position, John Barrow twitched, then lay still, his penis in the dirt.
Don’t you feel some of the same?
“No!” The club sounded like an ax hitting wood as it struck the corpse’s head.
You must have.
“No!” With the next swing of the club, something splashed into his face.
“No …” His voice was a hoarse croak now, no longer echoing.
He had no idea how many times he swung. He stopped when the club became lodged in John Barrow’s head. By that time, the grip of the five iron was slippery and his arms were exhausted.
“No …”
Blood on the walls, on the golf target, soaking his sleeves, drying on his face.
“No.”
He turned the light out as he left the room with the corpse and went back through the furnace room. His legs felt weak; he was barely able to walk.
“No.”
He stumbled up the steps, turned off the stair light, shut the basement door behind him. Past the kitchen again, back into the living room. He looked down and saw the golf bag.
He sat down on the sofa. On the table in front of him were spread the rest of the french fries and onion rings. He and the man he had just killed had shared a meal. He swallowed the urge to be sick.
Whom could he call for help? No one. The police would not believe it was self-defense. He had swung so many times; he had lost count.
The priest had lived alone. He was supposed to leave on vacation. It might be a long time before he was found.
He scooped up the remnants of the food and the dirty plates and napkins, tossed them into the fireplace, watched the flames hiss anew as they fed on the grease. Get out, he told himself.
He picked up his jacket, saw the gore on his hands, remembered the splatter on his face. He couldn’t leave with blood on his hands and face. What if someone saw …
Get out, get out. No, wash your hands first, wash your hands.
He started toward the kitchen on wobbly legs, intending to give his hands and face a fast rinse, grab a paper towel, and run. He glanced at the empty beer cans. Fingerprints.
Get out, just get out.
He grabbed the tray with the cans and unused plates and napkins and rushed to the kitchen. He dropped the beer cans into the sink and threw everything else into the wastebasket in the cupboard beneath the sink. Then he ran warm water over his hands, shuddering as he watched the pink water run off his skin. He splashed water onto his face, reeled off several paper towels, dried his hands and face, wiped the beer cans with the wet paper towels, threw everything into the wastebasket.
Get out, get out.
Back to the living room. He was breathing hard, and his legs were still shaking. Get out.
His eyes fell on Barrow’s luggage and golf bag. Can’t leave them there; he’s supposed to be going away.
A
scratching, scraping against the side of the house, louder and louder, like claws trying to rip off the side of the house. The lights went out. Through the front window he saw a brief blue-green flash, then nothing.
The house was dark, except for the orange glow of the hissing fire. He was alone in the blackened house in which he had killed a priest.
He could make out the suitcases and golf bag in the firelight. He dragged them through the dark hallway at the rear of the house, shouldered open the bedroom door, slid the bags in with his foot.
He stood for a moment at the front of the little hallway, close to the living room, the kitchen, the door that led to the pitch-black basement where the priest lay curled on the dirt floor.
The flames flicked his shadow on this wall and that. He went through the living room, bumped the table in front of the sofa. He slid open the oak door.
And then he was outside, in the pure night. All around him was darkness; no streetlights, no house lights. The ice-rain pelted his face as he took slow, flat steps down the sidewalk. It was very slippery underfoot. All around him he heard the click-click-click of sagging tree branches. Then a cracking limb, somewhere.
With no warning, his feet slipped and he went facedown on the walk. The wind had been knocked out of him. His arm had come up by reflex and cushioned his fall. Had he hit his face? Yes, there was pain there, around his mouth. But no broken teeth, no broken nose. His contact lenses! Yes, they were still in place.
He lay on the ice for several seconds. From far away came the sound of a tree limb breaking. It was cold and wet on the ground.
Slowly, he stood up, got his feet under him. He made it to his car, chipped ice away from the lock, got in, and started the engine.
He had not dreamed it; there really was a dead priest in that house.
The defroster began to clear the windshield. He turned on the car radio.
“… can hear me now, in fact, only if you happen to be listening on a portable radio or in your car. And if you are in your car, drive extra carefully. We’re getting lots of disturbing reports here about accidents.
“Again, folks, much of Bessemer is without power at this time, and much of the community is without telephone service. Utility crews are out in force. Bessemer Electric is bringing in help from utilities in Pennsylvania and Ohio, but there’s just no telling how long we’ll be without power. We could be talking about days in some parts of the city.
Night of the Ice Storm Page 2
