At 7:01, Ruth Rose made the call. Jim could hear her mother crying with relief.
Then Iris Hawkins took over. “Nancy, I really don’t want to interfere,” she said. “But maybe it would be a break for all of you if she stays here a while. She can help me with the chores — heaven knows we could use the help. That ought to keep her out of mischief.” She glanced at Ruth Rose, winking.
Iris didn’t need to do too much convincing. She did more listening than anything else and her expression changed as the conversation continued. She became grave. “Yes,” she said. “I see…oh, my…”
Jim and Ruth Rose exchanged curious glances.
“But, why, Nancy?” Iris asked. “Why can’t you tell me now?”
Nancy’s voice grew louder, more agitated. Ruth Rose wanted the phone but Iris held her off. “Yes, I understand…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…yes…yes, of course…” And then there was a long pause before she said, as gently as she could, “But, Nancy, in a way it is my business…I mean, if Ruth Rose is going to stay here.” The voice at the other end of the line quieted again.
“Yes, that sounds like a good idea,” said Iris. “No, I’m sure she’ll understand.”
It was maddening for Jim and Ruth Rose listening in, but eventually Iris hung up. Unfortunately, she was in no hurry to explain what was going on. She fingered her necklace. It was a slightly battered locket Hub had given her with his picture in it. She never took it off.
Finally, she took a deep breath and turned to her expectant audience.
“Well, the good news is that she’s very glad you’re here. I think, from the tone of her voice, that she is not going to tell Father. In fact, she recommends that you do not, under any circumstances, cross his path.”
A grin played around the edges of Ruth Rose’s serious face. “You mean no showing up at church?”
Jim laughed, but Iris didn’t. The look in her eyes wiped the grin off Ruth Rose’s face.
“Now that Nancy knows you’re safe, she’s going to go and stay with her mother in Tweed. She says you know the address and phone number.” Ruth Rose nodded. Iris handed her a piece of chalk so she could write the number on the blackboard beside the phone.
“Somebody from the church is going to drive her down. She’s been under severe mental strain worrying about you… and other things — she didn’t explain — and she needs to get away.”
Iris paused, chewed on her lip in consternation, then put her hands together as if finished.
“There was more,” said Jim. “Stuff about something not being any of your business.”
Iris’s voice was calm, giving away nothing. “She’s going to get in touch with us again when she’s settled in.”
There was more, Jim knew it, but he also knew his mother wasn’t going to tell them.
“She’s probably too afraid to say anything until she gets away from him,” said Ruth Rose bitterly.
Iris sighed. “Please, girl,” she said. “Have some faith. If not in the Almighty, at least in your mother.”
Ruth Rose looked down again. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. Then, suddenly, she looked up and a strange light broke through the clouds in her eyes. “She’s leaving him, isn’t she?”
Iris frowned. “Not at all,” she said. “Nothing of the kind.” Her voice was impatient. “She needs time out. That’s all. It happens. It’s a very demanding job being the wife of a pastor, especially one as committed as Father.”
“What’s going on, Mom?” asked Jim.
His mother scruffled his hair. “I really don’t know, son.” She stood up, her hands on her hips. Then she glanced at her watch. It was time to get ready for work.
Ruth Rose didn’t offer to help with the dishes, but she stayed in the kitchen, scooped up the kitten and sat by the fire while Jim worked. He was dying to tell her about what he had found, but he would wait until his mother left.
At eight forty-five, Iris Hawkins started down the stairs ready for work. She had just turned at the landing when she saw car headlights play across the staircase wall.
She hurried downstairs, arriving in the kitchen to find Jim and Ruth Rose staring out the front window as a van splashed to a stop. A van as black as the night, the scripture on its sides and on the plastic windfoil obliterated by mud.
14
Ruth Rose turned on Iris, seething with rage. “See!” she said. But Jim grabbed her before his mother could respond and started hustling her out of the kitchen. They were on the stairs when he stopped.
“Your shoes!” he said in a horrified whisper and raced back to the kitchen. His mother met him at the doorway with the newspaper-stuffed sneakers and Ruth Rose’s jacket. He grabbed them and took off again just as he heard heavy footfalls on the porch.
Ruth Rose met him at the bottom of the staircase. He tried to push her up the stairs but she held her ground.
“I want to hear,” she whispered.
His mother was already opening the door to greet the pastor. There was nothing for it. The stairs of the old farmhouse creaked terribly. It was better to stay put.
Edging along the wall where the floor boards were quiet, they were able to slide behind the old couch. Jim was pretty certain his mother wouldn’t invite Father into the parlour. She was on her way to work. Besides, the room was a mid-week disaster area.
Jim dared to peek around the edge of the couch. Framed by the doorway to the kitchen stood the pastor holding both his mother’s hands in his, inclining his head towards her almost as if he were about to kiss her.
“Iris,” he said, “What a ghastly night. Hope this isn’t an inconvenience.”
“Oh, Father,” she said, her voice shaky. “It’s always good to see you, but I was, actually, just heading out the door to work.”
He stepped farther into the room, looking around, unbuttoning his coat as if he had every intention of staying. Iris stepped back but did not move from his path.
“Is something the matter?” he asked.
“No, it’s just that my shift starts soon.”
Father Fisher rested his hand on his chest, grasping the green stone cross that hung there. He bowed his head.
“How thoughtless of me,” he said. “I do apologize. It’s just that we — Nancy and I — we’re so worried about Ruth Rose.” He paused, took a deep breath. “I’m just not myself.”
Jim turned to see Ruth Rose, her teeth bared like a cornered animal, but not about to go down without a fight. Her mother had caved in. He was here to get her.
But before Iris could spill the beans, Fisher said, “She’s missing.”
There was a pause while Iris digested the fact that Nancy could not have told him about the phone call.
“Still missing?” she said. “How awful for you.”
Father Fisher looked at her. “So you had heard?”
Iris nodded. “The poor kid.” And then she made a valiant attempt to change the subject. “I thought you had Bible studies tonight?”
Father Fisher seemed to perk up. “Ahhh,” he said. “I’m going to take the fact that you know when the study session is as an indication that you might be considering rejoining us.”
“The truth is, Father,” said Iris in a hurry-up voice. “I can’t really think about anything right now except getting to work on time.”
“Of course,” he said, backing up. “I know how important this job is to you. That’s why I’m really pushing the finance committee to consider assuming the farm’s mortgage.”
Iris’s voice faltered. “That’s so kind,” she managed to say. “Thank you.”
“There are some, as you can imagine, who have a problem with it. That’s why it’s taken so long, God help us. But I’ve put forward a good argument. We collect, as well you know, a substantial amount of offerings earmarked for the church’s mission overseas. And I have remonstrated — quite persuasively, I think — that charity truly begins at home. That while our own parishioners are in travail of one kind or another, we are simply not doing G
od’s work.”
Jim peeked again. Even from the back he could tell that his mother was wringing her hands.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” she said, her voice humble.
“I’ve done what I can,” said Father Fisher. “It’s now up to the powers that be.” He reached out and squeezed her arm. Iris flinched.
“You said you were here because of Ruth Rose.”
Fisher put his hands together as if in prayer. “I’ve been driving around, beside myself with grief,” he said. “I called off the study group. You cannot imagine… no, I take that back — if anyone can imagine, I’m sure you can — just how Nancy is taking all of this. Anyway, I remembered Lettie Kitchen mentioning that she had seen Ruth Rose up this neck of the woods and I thought i might just drop by and see if by any chance you’d heard or seen anything oí her.”
It must have been hard, thought Jim, for his mother to do what she did next. She had always taught him to tell the truth. Now, as he watched, she stared Father Fisher right in the eyes and said, “I’ll be sure to let Nancy know if I see her. You can count on that.” It was only when she had said it that Jim realized she wasn’t lying after all. She had told Nancy.
Father Fisher took another deep breath, held it in so that his chest puffed out as big as a rooster’s, then let it out in a thin exhalation. He took Iris’s hands again.
“Thank you, Iris,” he said. “I know you will do the right thing.” He turned and headed towards the door. “She means a lot to me.”
It was all Jim could do to restrain Ruth Rose. Her fists were clenched. The effects of the tranquillizer had obviously worn off.
With relief, he heard the door close on Father. Listening hard through the rain, which had picked up again, Jim heard the Godmobile drive away. He poked his head up to make sure the coast was clear, then entered the kitchen.
Iris checked her watch, swore under her breath at how late it was getting, but picked up a thin phone book that hung from a string under the telephone. It was the Blessed T. book that listed all the parishioners. Her finger went down the list of names on the inside cover. They were the people who worked for the church: the secretary, the sexton, the deacon and the elders. Her finger stopped at the name of Clive Stickley, the financial officer. She called his number.
“Clive? I’m sorry to be phoning so late. It’s Iris Hawkins. Clive, this is a little delicate. I hope you won’t think it prying or just plain rude.” There was a long pause. “There’s a rumour,” she said. “I just have to check up on it.” She took a breath. “I hear tell that the church might be considering a loan to help Jim and me out.”
She waited, and what Clive had to say made her wither before Jim’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much.” She looked at Jim and gave him a wistful smile. Clive had a little more to say before Iris, with many more thanks for his time and apologies for bothering him, hung up.
“Well?” said Jim.
“It’s true,” she said. “They are going to help us. They just decided.” Then she held Jim tightly in her arms and rested her head on his shoulder.
He was glad. Of course he was glad. But it was not what he had expected to hear. And not, he realized, what his mother had expected to hear.
But if Jim was disconcerted by this startling series of events, it was obviously not half of what Ruth Rose was feeling. From his mother’s embrace he saw her standing in the doorway to the parlour, her arms crossed tightly on her chest.
“I’m so happy for you,” she said, but she didn’t sound it.
“Thank you,” said Iris, letting Jim go.
“Think nothing of it,” said Ruth Rose. There were daggers in her eyes. “Can somebody tell me where to sleep?”
Iris looked disconcerted. “What’s gotten into you?”
Ruth Rose cast her a withering look. “It’s pretty easy to see,” she said. “He’s done it again.”
“Done what?”
Jim took over. “Forget it, Mom. It can wait. You’re going to be late for work.”
Distractedly, Iris collected her raincoat and umbrella from the rack behind the door, but she didn’t leave right away. She gave Jim a long, hard, inquiring look which he met steadily. Then she took Ruth Rose gently but firmly by the shoulders.
“Like I said, have a little faith.”
Ruth Rose looked as if she was trying to summon up a sneer, but she didn’t say a word. Jim gave his mother a quick hug and then she was gone, off into the blustery, wet night, already late for work. They locked the door behind her.
Usually Jim hated to see her leave, but not tonight. There was so much to talk over.
He led Ruth Rose to the parlour and sat her down. She didn’t resist. The spirit seemed to have gone right out of her. But she perked up a little when he showed her the black-and-white photograph of the Three Musketeers.
She recognized Eldon Fisher right off. “Look at the slimy look on his face,” she said. Jim hadn’t thought of it as slimy; he had thought the boy looked confident. Now he kind of saw what she meant.
“Is this your father?” she asked, pointing to the youngest boy, the one whose skinny, shoeless, tanned legs dangled from the stoop.
“You recognize him?”
Ruth Rose shook her head. “Not really. I recognized his freckles.”
Jim blushed. “This here is Frankie Tufts,” he added, pointing at the boy with the white hair.
Then he took a big attention-getting breath. “I know who Tabor is,” he said. Ruth Rose glanced quickly at the photograph, as if maybe there had been a fourth person lurking in the window of the cabin, in the shadows. Meanwhile, Jim marched over to the Bible. It was open at Matthew, Chapter Seventeen. He read her the verses about the Transfiguration.
“Stop, stop,” she said, cutting him off. “Spare me the scripture. I get the drift. This is what Father was going on about on the tape, about being on the mountain and everything.”
Jim was smiling excitedly. “Exactly, but do you know what the name of the mountain was?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Mount Tabor,” he said.
She looked perplexed.
“They don’t mention it in the Bible, but I looked it up in a reference book.”
“But it’s in the Holy Land, right? What good is that?”
Jim sat down again. “I’m not sure. Except that I bet Tabor is a place, not a person. He blabbed about Tabor keeping his secret or something like that. Well, maybe he didn’t mean a person. Maybe he meant some secret place.”
“So where is it? It’s not as if there are any mountains around here.”
Jim felt let down. His breakthrough didn’t seem like such a big deal anymore. North Blandford Township sat on the southerly fringe of the Cambrian Shield, the oldest mountain range in the world. But it had been millions of years since there had been anything like a peak in these parts. He already knew from consulting a survey map that there was no place, no hill, no poor man’s mountain called Tabor nearby. Reluctantly, he admitted as much to Ruth Rose.
“Right,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Trying not to be discouraged, he pulled out the foolscap copy of the story in the Expositor. He looked over her shoulder as she read, proud of his careful handwriting. When she had finished reading, she stared at Jim, her green eyes as big as moons.
“Now this is more like it. What did I tell you!”
Then he told her how the death of Frankie had affected his father, made him quit school. He told her what Everett had told him — about Eldon Fisher disappearing from town and then coming back a pastor. He stopped short of telling her about his father’s hatred of Wilf Fisher.
Ruth Rose looked at the handwritten account of the fire.
“What do you think about the haunting stuff?” she asked. “I mean, doesn’t it seem a little odd?”
Jim’s eyes lit up. “Go on,” he said.
“Well, here’s a guy so stupid he’d go light somebody’s barn on fire and come home stinking of gas when there’s a cop st
aying at his place. A guy so stupid he ended up lighting himself on fire. How’d a guy like that ever come up with such a cool practical joke? Let alone pull it off.” Ruth Rose looked at the photo again and poked the face of Eldon Fisher. “He thought of it,” she declared.
Now it was Jim’s turn to search the photo for the clues that had inspired such absolute certainty.
“The Fisher family were from up the valley,” she said. “They came from Ireland. I’ve heard Father talk about this wake he was at when he was young, a real kegger of a funeral where the corpse is right there in the coffin, with the lid open so it doesn’t have to miss any of the fun.”
Jim laughed.
“It’s true,” said Ruth Rose. “Anyway, he says these guys at the wake rigged up the corpse so that it could really join in.”
Jim looked dubious.
“With strings” said Ruth Rose. “They attached strings to the arms and head, whatever — like a puppet — and then ran the strings up through the ceiling some way or other, probably through the heat vent. Then, when everybody was dancing and singing and cross-eyed with booze, these guys slipped out of the room, went upstairs and started pulling on the strings, so that the corpse sat up in its coffin and started waving its hands around.”
Jim could see it in his mind’s eye. It sounded demented, all right. But then he had never been to an ordinary funeral, let alone a wake. There had been a memorial service for his father but there was no casket. No body at all.
“You mean the haunting at the Tufts place…the lids dancing around on the stove pots and the irons walking down the stairs—”
“Strings,” said Ruth Rose. “And him pulling them, I bet.” Then she looked soberly at Jim. “They must have all been in on it.” There was a look of challenge in her eyes.
Jim nodded cautiously. His dad would have been twelve when that happened, just a couple of years younger than Jim was now. And Eldon Fisher would have been about the same age as Ruth Rose, with Tuffy somewhere in the middle. The Three Musketeers.
The Boy in the Burning House Page 10
