Circling the Drain (House of Crows)

by Lisa Unger

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Lisa Unger

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 9781542027298

  Cover design by Anna Laytham

  1.

  People had so many problems. God. Even these young people—some of them rich, some of them gorgeous, a couple of them awkward, or overweight, or with bad skin. But still, you know, young with their whole lives ahead of them.

  Mason shifted in his chair, tried not to slouch with his boredom. There was a look he’d perfected. A kind of widening of the eyes, a gentle nodding of the head that he wore so that people felt heard, believed that he was engaged, compassionate, there for them.

  Sometimes it was all he could do to keep himself from shouting in the milky basement light. Wake up! Grow up! Move on! But that was not a good look for a pastor (using the term loosely) running a counseling group—this one for anxiety and poor impulse control. Kids suffering anxiety. What the hell, he often wondered, did they have to be anxious about? Truly. These kids had no idea.

  Bella, the cutter, was crying again. But Marla was watching Mason in that way she did. Like she was a fifty-year-old hooker in the nubile body of a privileged not-quite-eighteen-year-old beauty.

  Bella stopped speaking abruptly, cast a shy glance to Mason’s right.

  “This is a safe space,” he said, directing himself to the two boys there whom he heard whispering. Silence fell. Here, in this room, he had a tiny bit of power. He relished it.

  Bella went on about the pressure she felt to look perfect, to be perfect.

  Marla was twirling a strand of her hair, watching him. He shifted, uncomfortable.

  He knew that, as “pastor” of the Celebration Spiritual Center where he’d landed, he had a kind of allure to a certain type of young woman. Older, fatherly in his way, present to talk, but unavailable. He tried to ignore Marla. She shifted in her seat, uncrossing and recrossing her legs, pressing out her chest as if to stretch her back. Mason cleared his throat.

  “Pastor Mason?” He wasn’t really a pastor, but everyone called him that. He’d even come to think of himself that way.

  Bella was looking at him expectantly. No idea what she had asked.

  “Thank you for your thoughts, Bella. It’s brave of you to share yourself here. Let’s take a moment to reflect on Bella’s ideas about perfection,” he said. “What does it mean to be perfect?”

  This was not the brightest group; gazes shifted away, some glanced at cuticles or stared blankly up at the water-stained ceiling, down at the scarred and scraped wood floor that was badly in need of refinishing. Most of them were here because of doctors’ orders, or parental pressure, or as part of court-ordered therapy.

  “It means to be the best,” said Raffi, jutting his pimply chin out. He was skinny, with big brown eyes and an enviable head of black hair, wavy and thick. “Better than everyone else.”

  “Okay,” said Mason, with an encouraging nod. “Other thoughts.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” said JoJo, shifting in the rickety wooden chair that moaned under his substantial weight. He pushed up his thick glasses. Mercilessly bullied, he’d lost it one day and beaten the crap out of one of his persecutors. He was one of the court orders. He had the energy of a barely dormant volcano. “Everyone has flaws, even if you can’t see them.”

  “That’s true,” said Mason.

  He glanced at the clock: just four minutes to go, thank God.

  “So let’s reflect on this idea until next week: You see yourself one way. The people in your life—friends, parents, siblings, teachers—they each see you in different ways, through the lens of their own perspectives. And then there’s the person you are in the eyes of God—or the Universe, or whatever you believe. And I’m just going to put it out there that no matter whether you’re the best or whether you have flaws, in the eyes of God, you are exactly who you need to be. You are enough, worthy of love and respect just as you are right now.”

  There was some grumbling, shifting. Bella looked like she was going to cry again. And Marla would not take her eyes off him.

  “What if you’re a killer?” asked Marla. Mason felt a little jolt but was practiced at keeping his reactions deep beneath a cool exterior.

  “Or a druggie?” asked Blaine, who sat in the back and rarely spoke. Again, it felt like a dig.

  “Or just an asshole?” asked Mickie, the football player who’d tried to kill himself after a knee injury killed his pro dreams. Even sitting he was taller than everyone else.

  “God’s love is for everyone,” Mason said. Which was true at the Celebration Spiritual Center—which was a kind of space for people who had moved away from traditional religious practices but still wanted to feel connected to a spiritual group—but certainly not true in other religions. That was why Mason hadn’t made it as a priest or a minister even though at one point he’d believed himself to have been called to the Catholic Church.

  “So then who goes to hell?” Raffi spoke again, almost angrily, as if he was invested in the idea that somebody had to go.

  “No one, Raffi,” Mason said. “No one goes to hell. The universe doesn’t judge you. The world of men and women may judge you, punish you, ask for penance. And that may even be right and appropriate. But the universe accepts you, will help you to be a healthier, happier, and better person—if that’s what you ask, if that’s what you want.”

  They were all silent, watching him. He felt that he’d reached them with that. Maybe. Bella was crying a little, wiping at her eyes and sniffling.

  “Think about it. Journal about it. Meditate on it. See how it feels to believe it. And we’ll talk next week.”

  He’d barely finished speaking and the chairs were scraping, cell phones emerging from pockets and purses. Those closest to the door were already gone before he even rose from his seat.

  “Thank you, Pastor Mason,” said Bella. Week after week, she was the most consistent, the most polite and present, even if she was a little weepy.

  “Thanks, Bella,” he said. “Good work today. Your mom says you’re doing much better.”

  “I’m trying.” She offered a small, lopsided smile. “I like what you said—about being enough just as I am.”

  “Just try it on for size, okay?” he said. “I think you’ll find that you know it’s true. Deep inside.”

  Why did she wear mascara? Someone who cried so much. Didn’t she know it left dark trails down her pale face? She perpetually looked like a sad girl clown—with her pink hair up in short, babyish ponytails, her bouncy skirts and little tops, Converse sneakers that were too big. She gave him a tight, self-conscious wave, then left.

  He tidied up, straightened the chairs, tossed the empty doughnut box in the big trash can. The fluorescent lights in the church basement always flickered. Just subtly, so that after a few hours down here he always found he had a headache.

  “Do you really believe all the shit you say?”

  Marla stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her pack over one shoulder, one narrow hip jut
ted out.

  “Marla,” he said, walking over to the sink to wash his hands. He did not like to be alone with underage girls, especially girls like Marla, who already knew their power. “Is your mom running late?”

  She glanced at her phone. “I guess so. Do you?”

  He dried his hands. “I do,” he said.

  He rinsed out the coffeepot, the stale odor turning his stomach. She stayed over by the door, but he could feel the heat of her gaze.

  “Because it sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “Okay,” he said. He put a little more distance between them by moving toward the door that led to the kitchen. “I hear that. The good news about the truth is that I don’t have to convince you. You just have to sit with it, focus on your breath, and see how it makes you feel.”

  “But what if the truth makes you feel bad?”

  He stopped then, leaned against the wall. He’d thought about putting security cameras in here, just so that there was full transparency. Sometimes kids got angry, got violent down here. He’d want a record if anything ever got out of hand. But that wasn’t in the budget. In fact, nothing was in the budget. The small spiritual center with its dwindling membership was barely making it.

  “Then look deeper.”

  “See,” she said with a roll of her eyes. She flipped her golden hair. “That makes no sense.”

  “It’s a process, Marla. We all have to do the work. And the work can be painful. But I promise you there’s peace on the other side.”

  “Sounds boring.” She moved into the room, sat in one of the seats.

  “Should you call your mom? Find out what’s keeping her?”

  “She’s on her way, had to stay late at work, got caught in traffic.”

  “I can wait with you outside, get some air.”

  “It’s raining.” She was staring at her phone. He looked out the high basement window. Raindrops flecked the glass.

  “Well, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be in my office if you need me. I have to do some paperwork, make a few calls.”

  She looked up and smiled, enigmatic, knowing.

  Why was he shaking?

  He left her in the room where they had group, where the self-help book club met on Thursdays, where the singing group practiced, where he led a guided meditation on Sunday afternoons. He also sometimes gave his lectures there to their sparse and growing ever sparser membership on rainy Sundays when the roof was leaking upstairs.

  He sat at the desk of his messy, dusty office and got ready to fill out the paperwork for the kids that were here by court or doctor’s order. He’d call a few parents, too, not to betray any confidences but just to address concerns, make suggestions, give observations, or express thoughts if he had any. He was careful. Very careful to do everything right. Because he could not afford to fuck this up. This job, this place, it was his last chance.

  He was sober. He was steady in this work. He had a place to live, just a basement apartment in the same building as the church, but it was enough. He was holding on to it white knuckled.

  Marla sauntered into his office uninvited a while later, without knocking, and sat in the chair across from his desk. He’d thought she was long gone.

  “Does God think you’re perfect?” she asked, continuing the conversation he’d hoped was over.

  He had to laugh at that. No, he wanted to say. Not by a long shot. Anyway, that was not what he’d said. “I think he knows—or she knows—that I’m doing my best.”

  “But you said that we’re all perfect in the eyes of God—or some bullshit like that.”

  “Actually,” he said gently. “I said that we’re enough. That we’re worthy of love and respect from ourselves, from others, just as we are.”

  “Same difference.”

  Not at all. But: “My journey is not what’s important, Marla. It’s yours that matters. How are things going for you?”

  She let out a snort. “Do you mean am I still getting high and fucking around, stealing cars, sneaking out at night?”

  She’d stolen her parents’ car, driven without a license and stoned. She’d been heading to her boyfriend’s house when she got pulled over. The judge had been easy on her—rehab, group therapy, community service. She’d have to wait another year at least to get her learner’s permit.

  “Are you?”

  She shrugged. “Not as much?”

  “Okay,” he said with a smile. The truth was that he liked Marla. She was direct and funny. He liked all the kids, even though he found them a bit whiny, and he wanted to help them, to be there for them the way no one was for him when he was a struggling young person. “So that’s progress.”

  She smiled a little. “I’m doing my best.”

  The boyfriend was a problem. He hovered outside the door sometimes, looking in the narrow window, staring at Marla. Too-long, inky-black bangs, lots of tattoos, a kind of lost, angry look to him. He looked like trouble—that was for sure. Mason hadn’t seen the kid in a while; maybe he was out of the picture.

  “Drew and I broke up,” she said, reading his thoughts. “I broke up with him.”

  “I see,” he said. “How are you doing with that?”

  She was looking down at her nails, some of her tough, sexy-girl persona softening. She was just a kid. Someone who needed to talk, to be heard, to be seen. He knew that. “Something you said last week kind of stuck with me.”

  Ah, so she was listening. “Go on,” he said easily. With kids, never seem too eager. That was key.

  “About how the people we choose to have in our lives either make us stronger or, like, tear us down. Help us be our best, or bring out the worst.”

  He rubbed at the back of his neck, nodded.

  “I think maybe, with Drew, I’m not my best. Not even close.”

  Sometimes, there were these shining moments in the shadows of his life. Where he thought maybe, maybe he was doing some good. After all the bad. Maybe there was some small redemption to be had.

  “I think it takes a lot of strength to look at that and make a change,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Most people your age—and way older—don’t have the insight or the will to shift their behavior.”

  She nodded slowly. “He didn’t take it well. I think he’s stalking me now.”

  Marla shifted her glance to her phone, then back to him.

  “Are you safe?” he asked. “Do we need to call someone?”

  “It’s not like that. He’s just texting and calling all the time.”

  “Well, keep people in the loop, you know. If he starts showing up places unwanted, gets physical, that’s a problem.”

  He glanced out the window. No sign of Marla’s mother; the parking lot and drive were empty, the sun setting.

  “I googled you,” she said.

  “Oh?” He kept his voice neutral. The internet. It was an unforgiving catalog of all his many sins and failings. It was pretty much all out there—a popular topic for crime blogs and podcasts, some long-form journalism, as part of larger pieces on children who commit crimes.

  “Did you do something to that girl?” she asked. “When you were a kid?”

  He let out a low sigh, bent his head.

  “I’ve made mistakes and paid the price. But no, I never hurt anyone. Not like that.”

  She seemed to accept it. Kids were like that. Maybe they knew the pitch of truth. Adults were harder to convince. Mason’s boss had been honest: if Mason’s dark history got out and someone made a fuss, they’d have to let him go. Head Pastor James was all about second chances and giving people a leg up to do better in life. The big donation from Old Man Merle had helped grease the wheels; Mason’s hiring was a condition of a $10,000 charitable contribution. And so far he’d flown under the radar.

  Just under a year he’d been working at the spiritual center, giving talks, conducting groups like the Kids with Anxiety, Anger Management, Marriage Rescue, Grief Counseling. He kept up the building, did the yard work. He collected and diligently d
eposited the donations, did the monthly newsletter. He cleaned. The pay was abysmal, but it came with a place to live, and there was always leftover donated food from the various gatherings, the Sunday after-service brunch.

  He loved it here. It was the first right place—the first good place—he’d ever found in his life. He’d worked hard after all the things that had happened to him and a stint in juvenile detention to finish high school. He’d flunked out of seminary school, but he’d managed to get his degree in social work at community college, intended to work on his masters someday. He was okay. Finally.

  “Did you see him? The Dark Man?” Marla asked.

  Her eyes had taken on a kind of mischievous gleam. Oh, so that was what this was about. There was one particularly damning article, a long feature about the Dark Man and all the kids around the country and overseas who had allegedly done his bidding and their fates.

  “No,” he lied. “I was a troubled kid. I made shit up to impress people because I felt like a loser. It got me into big trouble. The lies I told, they nearly ruined my life.”

  Nearly.

  The Dark Man, everyone knew now, was an internet hoax, created by a failed horror writer and seized upon by internet trolls. The web was full of doctored photos, websites with staged videos, places where you could email the Dark Man with your secret requests, malevolent wishes. But people, mostly young people, across the world were still doing as the Dark Man demanded, claiming that he’d told them to commit some crime in exchange for a reward.

  “There’s no Dark Man,” said Mason. “Just messed-up people looking for an excuse to do bad things.”

  “So what happened to the girl they thought you hurt?”

  “No one knows,” he said. “She was never found.”

  “Doesn’t that seem weird? Everybody is somewhere, right?”

  You had to love the logic of young people. She was right, of course. But where?

  “Sometimes there are questions without answers,” said Mason. “Learning to live with that is part of growing up.”

  She gave him a face. Kids didn’t have the same unlimited ability to digest platitudes as adults.

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “It’s weird.”