He had taken off the collar after leaving Bradford & Howe. The senior partner had practically genuflected when the priest had asked for a moment of his time. In the end, he had come away with everything that he wanted in exchange for no more than a few moments of private confession and counsel.
For this meeting, however, the collar would be a liability.
He knew, before he opened the door to the newspaper, how the conversation would proceed, how the lies would break into heated denials, then dissolve into pleading and panic in the face of the proof. He had seen it too many times.
And they always seemed so relieved when they learned his silence could be bought, so surprised that the cost of his silence was so low.
“Truthfully, I have no use for your money. What I need amounts to no more than a few column inches.”
Within minutes, it would be accomplished. Months of planning, of waiting and watching, would have served their purpose. The stranger would walk into an office with nothing more than words—secrets—and walk out with promises.
The promises were more precious than silver.
The most powerful weapon he could wield.
KAREN
Night sounds, both familiar and strange.
The dripping of the bathtub faucet a little slower than a heartbeat; the otherworldly click, then roar as the furnace burst into life; the slow, occasional pops and wheezes as the heat pipes cooled when the furnace went off; the motor and the fan of the fridge; the occasional voices of people walking past on the sidewalk.
After dinner, after the wine, Simon and I had worked together to get Sherry ready for bed. He had carried her into the bathroom, lowering her carefully into the tub, cradling her head as her hair floated in a nimbus around her face. He had held her as I dried her with a fluffy towel, as I powdered her and slipped a nightie over her head. While I warmed her nutritional supplement, Simon reconnected the feeding tube to the pump and diapered her. He told her a story while the machine fed her and I did the dishes. Without saying much, he made up his bed on the couch in the family room.
And then it was just Sherry and me, as it had been for so many nights. Her breath was slow and hypnotic, warm against my cheek as I bent to tuck her in, to kiss her face. Headlights falling across the curtains, laying shadows across the wall.
Door locked, porch light out, hall light on by force of habit—if Sherry woke and had to go to the bathroom she would need to see her way.
I peered into the family room before I went upstairs. Simon’s breath was rough and irregular. He slept with the sleeping bag pulled up to his throat, twisted onto his side on the narrow couch, face buried in one of the spare pillows.
Scrupulously shaven, even on a Friday night, eyes lightly closed.
What do you dream, Simon?
I dream of that first apartment, the funky smell from the unit down the hall that we used to joke meant that they must be “cooking dog for dinner again.” I dream of the weight of your body in our first bed, the taste of you on my lips, the breadth of you inside me.
I dream of my father’s funeral, the way you held me. I dream of Sherry’s birth, the way you held her, your hands shaking, a look of awe, wonder and terror in your eyes, and an openness I so rarely saw there.
I dream of Mary, of her long legs spread wide and you between them, the pale half-moons of your buttocks thrusting into her, your fingers in her hair, her calling out your name in my voice.
I dream of killing you in your sleep, pressing my thumbs into your Adam’s apple, the look in your eyes as you awake.
I dream of kissing you in your sleep, pressing my lips gently against your Adam’s apple, the look in your eyes as you awake.
“Goodnight, Simon,” I whispered.
As I walked away, my shadow followed, leaving the light from the hallway to fall on his closed eyes. He groaned a little, turned deeper into the pillow.
At the foot of the stairs I turned the light off and started up in darkness. I had gone three steps when I changed my mind and turned around.
Lifting the covers gently, I slid into Sherry’s bed, nestling against her, losing myself in the smell of her, her hair, her skin, her warmth. I carefully curled one arm around her, sheltering her, protecting her. I drew her to me, and lay waiting for her to press herself against me, the way she had when she was smaller. I waited. And waited.
LEO
I did everything just like Father Peter said.
I waited until Mother had fallen asleep and then I picked him up downtown. I was real quiet when I got ready to go so I wouldn’t wake her.
He was outside the cathedral like he said he would be. I didn’t see him at first in the dark, so I stopped the van and waited. He opened the door without knocking. It scared me a little.
“Hello, Leo.”
“Hello, Father.”
He closed the door, but I didn’t turn the key. He looked at me.
“I can’t go anywhere until you put on your safety belt,” I told him. “That’s what they taught us in Young Drivers. The car doesn’t move until everybody puts on their safety belts. That’s the rule.”
He smiled and put on the safety belt. “There,” he said. “It’s important to follow the rules, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Very important.” I started the van. “Where should we go?”
“Do you know how to get to the water?” he asked.
“Where?”
“The waterfront at Dallas Road. Near the park, I think.”
I thought for a minute. “Is that the place where people bring their dogs for walks?”
“Are there cliffs there? With benches?” he asked.
“I think so. Mother and I go there sometimes after church to watch the people with their dogs.”
“Do you have a dog, Leo?”
I shook my head. “No. Not yet. Someday though. Mother says I just need to be a little older, a little more responsible. It’s a big responsibility to have a pet.”
“Do you know how to get there?”
I nodded, and he smiled. “Good.”
We parked under one of the trees that looks like it’s always being pushed by the wind. I had started to pull into a spot under the streetlight, but Father Peter said, “No, over there,” pointing to the shadows. When we were walking away, I looked back and I could hardly see the van at all in the dark.
A few people were still playing with their dogs even though it was so late, but we went the other way. It was kind of scary. The bushes by the sidewalk reached over my head like a tunnel. It was so dark I could barely see anything. It sounded like the ocean was right there, just past the bushes.
When we came out of the bush tunnel we were right on top of the cliffs. I was scared to look down. Stay back and be careful. Better careful than sorry. It was cold and it was windy and I felt kind of like I had to pee.
Father Peter walked all the way to the bench at the very end of the sidewalk, playing with his coin. There was a big fat man sitting there smoking a stinky cigar. He stood up when he saw Father Peter and smiled just a little bit.
“I see you’ve brought your bodyguard,” he said. His voice sounded funny, like he came from somewhere else.
“Leo’s a friend, Tim,” Father Peter said. “That is what you’re calling yourself these days, yes?” The fat man nodded. “I see you’ve come alone. Couldn’t convince one of those thieves and liars from the library to join you?” He sat down on the bench, facing the cliffs and the ocean, and the fat man sat down next to him. He took a big puff on his cigar and blew out a big cloud of smoke.
“Don’t I usually come alone? It’s lonely work. I’d have thought you’d know that by now.”
Father Peter smiled. “Aren’t you afraid of me, even a little, after all these years?”
“Should I be? Should I be afraid of you wrestling me over these cliffs? We both know we’d just end up damp, and it’s too cold a night for that.”
I didn’t really know what the fat man was talking about, but hearing hi
m talk about the water and the cold made me have to pee even more.
“I can’t say that it’s good to see you,” Father Peter said.
Tim shrugged. “It should hardly be a surprise.”
“It’s been quite some time, though.”
“Since Lima. Those little girls. The twins.”
Father Peter smiled. “I remember. Terrible what happened to them. And who was it before that? That whore in Oregon?” Father Peter shook his head, still smiling. “It won’t do you any good this time either.”
“So you always say.”
I really had to pee. I started to bounce up and down a little, but I stopped when I remembered what Mother would say about that.
“I don’t know why you go on trying, Tim. I always win. That should be clear to you by now.” Father Peter smiled, but I didn’t think he looked very friendly. I thought that maybe he was mad at the man he called Tim. “Do you remember the French girl? The one who would be king?”
“Joan.”
“Joan. Yes. You tried so hard to save her.”
“Yes.”
“And all you could do in the end was to watch as she burned.”
“I remember you there. You were a cardinal then, I think.”
“The most powerful woman in the world. A beloved leader. And they burned her. They came out in the thousands to watch her die. She saved their country, and they spat on her ashes. Because I told them to. There is no one I cannot touch.”
“That was a long time ago.”
Father Peter shrugged. “It’s only become easier. With the little faith people have these days, all it takes is a few well-chosen words. A rumor here. A whisper there. And the problem takes care of itself.”
“That doesn’t mean I stop trying.”
“No,” Father Peter said. “No, it doesn’t. How long have you been here?”
Tim looked like he was thinking. “Four years or so, I guess. It’s a nice little city.”
“From the very beginning.”
The fat man nodded. “And you?”
“A few months. Just before the accident.”
The accident? I couldn’t understand what they were talking about. I had to pee really bad.
“That poor little girl.”
Father Peter snorted. “I’m not here because she’s a poor little girl.”
The fat man looked sad. “No, you’re here because you’re the worst sort of zealot. You’re the sort who destroys people’s lives, who kills in the name of all you believe.”
“All that I was taught, you mean. I’m just doing God’s will in this world. Wasn’t it He who rained down fire on Sodom? Who flooded the world?”
I had to pee so bad.
“I think you’ve forgotten all you were taught,” Tim said. “I think you’ve spent so much time beweeping your outcast state you’ve forgotten the very foundations of all you believe. The Flood? Sodom and Gomorrah? What about ‘Thou shalt not kill’?”
“If it comes to that I’ll not stay my hand. I’ll make my own reckoning when my time comes. I will be judged—”
“And found wanting. Again.”
Father Peter shrugged. I thought I might wet myself, but I didn’t want to turn away.
“You would kill that child?”
What did he mean, kill?
Father Peter shrugged. “She wouldn’t be the first I’ve put to the flames. Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”
“She’s not a witch. She’s a little girl who has never done anyone wrong.”
“She is an insult, an aberration. Whether she is evil, or a vessel for evil, makes no difference to me. There is only one savior, only one path to salvation. I will defend Him and the purity of His name from these pretenders, no matter the cost. This little girl cannot be allowed to spread her poison, and I will do whatever it takes to stop her, to stop her family. It’s the Lord’s work.”
“So it has begun, then.”
Father Peter nodded.
“And he’s the first?” Tim gestured to me.
Father Peter nodded again. “The first of the true.”
The fat man shook his head.
I couldn’t stand it any longer. I turned around and ran back down the path, pulling open my pants. I was peeing almost before I stopped at the edge of the bushes. That was a close one. Steam came up from where the pee hit the ground and the leaves.
I peed for a long time, then I shook myself carefully, once twice three times, and zipped up my zipper and buttoned my button.
When I got back to the bench, Father Peter was alone. I couldn’t see the fat man anywhere. “We’re done here,” he said quietly, not looking at me.
December 8-9
KAREN
I slept in on Sunday morning for the first time in months.
Simon and I had spent most of Saturday working around the house: planning, cleaning, moving furniture to clear paths for access. Access to our daughter.
It had been a long time since he and I had worked side by side on anything. It felt good to break a sweat with him, to laugh at our mutual ineptitude when it came to anything remotely handy. I was surprised, though. Simon actually built a credible ramp up one side of the front porch out of a couple of sheets of plywood over some two-by-fours. When it was finished, we both jumped on it, and it held.
I had been dreaming of Simon. Nothing in particular, just the sense of being with him, of spending time with him, of being in the same bed. It had been so vivid I was surprised when I woke up alone. I was even more surprised when, rolling onto my side and glancing at the alarm clock, I saw that it was after eleven.
“Shit,” I muttered, sitting up. I only calmed when I realized that Simon was downstairs.
Sherry and I weren’t alone.
I pulled on a robe, cinching it around my waist before stepping into my slippers and opening the bedroom door.
I heard voices from the kitchen. I was surprised to see Simon and Ruth both sitting at the table.
They looked up as I came in. “Good morning,” I said, still groggy. “Did I sleep all the way through the weekend?”
Ruth smiled and shook her head. “No, but I thought…”
“Ruth thought that we might like a little time out today, to run some errands, or—”
“I saw the news last night,” Ruth explained. “It’s going to be pretty crazy around here tomorrow, so I thought I’d come over, see if you wanted me to watch Sherry today so you could get anything done that needed doing.”
“Thank you, Ruth, but I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head.
Simon and Ruth exchanged a glance. “I already said yes,” he said.
“Oh.”
“I thought we’d get away for a couple of hours. Maybe walk downtown, have something to eat. Get out of the house while we can.”
“Oh.”
“We don’t have to, though.”
“No, no, that’ll be good. I’m just…I’m not used to sleeping in anymore, I guess. I’ll be better after I shower.”
A little unsteady, I turned back to the stairs.
LEO
The next time I saw Father Peter was after Sunday Mass. He was waiting outside the cathedral when Mother and I left.
He looked like a shadow, standing by the graveyard. I think he was waiting for me, and he nodded when I came out of the door.
At first I wanted to point him out to Mother, but she was concentrating on getting down the steps. And besides, I didn’t have to tell her everything. When Father Peter talked to me, I felt special, knowing that he was talking right to me, not anybody else.
We were in the van for more than an hour on Friday night and he told me about all of the miracles he knew. Some of them were new to me and the time went real fast. I was really late getting home, but I didn’t wake Mother. Quiet as a church mouse.
I spoke loud to her now to be sure that she could hear me. “Mother, I’m gonna go talk to someone. Okay? Are you okay with the stairs?”
“Of course I am,” s
he said. “I was going up and coming down these steps before you were even born. Meet me back at the car.”
She didn’t look to see where I was going.
Father Peter smiled when he saw me coming across the lawn to him, and I smiled back.
“Hello, Leo.”
“Hello, Father. Were you inside?” I was a bit out of breath after hurrying across the lawn.
“I worshipped earlier,” he said. “I came to see you.”
I knew it. “Here I am.”
“Would you like to talk some more?”
I looked back over my shoulder. “I would. I would. But my mother”—think think think—“I have to drop my mother off at home first. Is that all right?”
“Of course it is. Of course. Why don’t we meet where we were on Friday night?”
KAREN
Simon and I walked downtown. We kept to the residential streets as far as we could, savoring the quiet. We made small talk, stayed away from anything of any importance. It was nice, sort of an informal break.
We had no destination, no place we had to be. We spent a while drifting around bookstores. I noticed Simon was gravitating away from the sections in which he usually browsed, moving from business and biography toward religion, philosophy, art. In Munro’s, I found him in the poetry section, reading e. e. cummings.
“What’s this?” I asked.
He jumped. “It’s, ah, it’s…” He showed me the cover.
“This is kind of unusual for you, isn’t it?” I joked, only realizing what I’d said after the words were already out there. “I’m sorry. That’s what you meant, isn’t it? The other night?”
“I always used to read poetry,” he said, color starting to rise in his cheeks. “I used to write some too. I thought you’d remember that.”
“I do,” I answered in a whisper, ashamed of myself. I tried to meet his eye, but he didn’t look at me.
The same thing happened at A&B Sound. For a long time he had bought little but opera and classical, the sort of music that someone in his position might listen to. That afternoon, though, he bought a handful of CDs: the Grateful Dead, the latest Bob Dylan, an expensive collection of folk music. This time I concealed my surprise.
Before I Wake Page 18
