Carrying a giant old-fashioned scythe, Jacob had his sleeves rolled up and wore bright red suspenders and tie, coal-black pants. He had the physically harder but more desirable job: mowing down the tall weeds that filled the open spaces between graves. He was enthusiastic, even aggressive.
Richard winced every time the rake clinked against a headstone. Perhaps it was this anxiety which made him discount the flashes of color, the rapid movements, between the trees in the upslope part of the cemetery, until Jacob put a hand on his shoulder and pointed at the dark coppice in the far corner, and a small girl’s form passing under the low-hanging boughs.
“Was that Annabelle?” Richard asked.
Jacob put a finger to his lips and motioned him to follow. They put down their tools and made their way slowly between the graves and onto a diagonal path. At the tight grove of trees they had to turn sideways in order to squeeze past the trunks in the outer layer. At the center was a grassy area where they found Serena and Annabelle sitting beside a small cluster of graves. The girls sang softly to themselves and to each other. Enid sat in a folding chair a few feet away, working at a canvas bag full of knitting. She glanced up and nodded before returning to her work.
Richard and Jacob were practically over the girls before they noticed their presence. Richard could read the marker nearest Serena, a wooden plank jammed into the ground, inscribed with black marker:
Abigail, Loving Wife and Mother
The crude image of a flying bird had been drawn beneath the words. The grave was awash in fresh flowers.
Serena looked embarrassed, but said nothing. She probably thought she was in trouble. Richard didn’t want her thinking that, but he was at a loss for words. He looked at Jacob, who apparently had no help to offer. Finally, as tears began tracing their way down Serena’s cheeks, he said, “Honey. Your mom – she died back in the city. I don’t think – your mom won’t be there, in the ground. It’s very nice, but that piece of wood just has her name on it. That’s not her grave.”
“She’s here. I know. You know it, too, Daddy.” Serena set her mouth.
The board on a similar small grave in front of the Johnson girl read ‘Here Lies Helen Johnson,’ and below that, ‘I love you,’ signed ‘Annabelle,’ as if it were a letter.
“But your mother,” Richard began, then stopped, feeling he had no right to speak to this.
There was a drawing on Mrs. Johnson’s marker as well. The draftsmanship was crude, but it appeared to be the image of a vicious, snapping dog.
“I once knew a woman in the old country,” Jacob said. “A friend of the family, a short time before –” He paused. “When I still had a family. I was just a child. Once she told me that upon the death of some unlucky people, the soul goes into the body of a vicious dog. There it is free to attack the living, wreaking havoc among the mourners. I remember I was terrified. I cried for days. It was one of the last times I ever cried, I believe.”
Everyone was quiet walking back to the hotel. Serena and her father led the way; Enid trailed behind to accompany Annabelle, who was lost in thought.
Richard grasped his daughter’s hand and said, “You could have told me you needed the grave. I would have helped you make it.”
She shrugged. “I know, Daddy. But it was for me, and it was for Annabelle. We talk and we bring flowers to their graves and we tell stories we make up. It makes us feel better – I don’t know why.”
“What kind of stories?”
“Annabelle has a story about how her mother transformed into a bad, mad dog and then tried to eat her.”
“And you?”
She looked up. “I tell Annabelle a story about how sometimes dead people sleep in the trees, until they become angels. I tell her we need to make sure our mommies climb up into the trees. If they’re not in a tree when God comes, then they don’t get to be angels.”
Once they were back at the hotel, Jacob and Enid took the girls inside for dinner, while Richard carried the weeding tools around to the side. An angled bulkhead door set into the foundation covered the steps leading down into the part of the basement they used for tool storage. But one of the reverend’s private guardians was sitting on the door, arms folded. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t permit you access right now,” he said, not looking or sounding sorry at all.
“Get away from that hatch.” Richard tried to sound as cold and menacing as possible. He was feeling anything but cold, however – he was furious. “You’re a guest here. You don’t own the place. Doesn’t your reverend teach you anything about courtesy? Or are you folks so special you think you can do anything you want?”
“Mr. Carter, I’m sorry, could I please have a word?”
Richard looked around. The elder Reverend Johnson was sitting on a nearby bench squeezed into a sliver of shade, looking as if he’d collapsed there – his hair disheveled, his shirt unbuttoned to expose a sweat-stained T-shirt, his suit coat abandoned on the ground.
Richard threw the tools down. “What’s wrong with you people? There are other people in this world, you know, other people with other beliefs.”
“Please don’t blame the boy,” Johnson said. “I ordered him to stay there and not let anyone in. My daughter-in-law is feeling ill, and I didn’t want –”
“I know all about your daughter-in-law,” Richard slid onto the bench, noticing with some surprise that he was actually shaking his finger at the old man. “I would say she is a bit more than ill.”
“Well, I’m not sure what you’re trying to say.”
“You brought your son here when he was a boy – maybe you thought one of the residents could teach him how to better use his talent, or maybe you thought he was a monster and so he belonged here, I don’t know. Is that what you’re promising these people – that if they get sick, he’ll heal them? That maybe they’ll live forever if they just follow your way? ‘Your faith has made you well.’ Luke 17:19. Isn’t that the verse? Are you promising these people Heaven?”
“Bringing him here, a child, was no doubt a mistake. One of many I have made with my son.” He looked down at his hands, which trembled noticeably until he grasped one with the other. “We all have hopes of Heaven, I think. Even you, Mr. Carter. I certainly try to help people get there, but I make no promises. How can I? The world is a mystery – you know that better than most.”
“And the healing?”
“They come to us in search of healing, that is certainly true. They come to us in pain, requiring our understanding and acceptance. But what we offer is a spiritual healing, Mr. Carter. Some profess to heal in other ways, to mend limbs, to cure ailments of the stomach, liver, bladder, to rid the body of cancer, yes, yes, but I do not traffic in such promises. That sort of healing is not something I ever mention in my sermons. Nor does my son. It gives people the wrong idea. All those charlatans in tent shows and on TV.”
“But you brought him here that time because he could heal, right? Isn’t that what he at least tried to do with his wife? So what is it, for the select few?”
“I swear it is nothing like that!” The old man rose, then sat down hard. Richard felt guilty, if not unjustified. But what if he gave the man a heart attack?
“I’ll get you some water. I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“No, no. Let me just say my piece.” He took a tearing breath, then stared at Richard with sorrowful eyes. “He never had control of it. I recognized early on that people felt better around him, and that it was more than just his pleasing personality, but it wasn’t because of anything he actually did. It just happened. I was the one who encouraged him to learn how to use it with purpose, and I pushed him, even when I saw that it was frustrating him, and making it even harder for him to control. We had a handyman at the church who fell off the roof, broke his leg. But instead of calling an ambulance, I had my son work on him. My son was terrified, he kept looking up over his shoulder at me again and again as he repeatedly laid his hands on the man with no result. But I kept urging him
on. I caused that poor man unnecessary pain, and my son a terrible humiliation.”
“But still, you didn’t give up.”
“Oh, but I did. After that I apologized, I told him not to try it anymore.”
“But he didn’t listen.”
“He didn’t listen. Why should he listen to me, after what I put him through? I don’t think he tried it all the time, but every now and then I’d see him out in the yard, crouched by a dead bird, or a squirrel, crying, putting his hands all over that dead thing, and praying, begging for its deliverance, his deliverance. And then one afternoon his beloved red setter, Sean, he called him – his only friend, really, he was such an isolated, inward boy – Sean was run over by a truck right in front of our house.”
“And it worked,” Richard interrupted, “This time the healing worked.”
The old man stared at some spot on Richard’s face, as if seeing something terribly wrong in his skin, some foretelling blemish, some imperfection presaging a future trauma. “Well,” he finally spoke, voice cracking, “that would depend on your definition of ‘worked.’ By the time I got there Tim had Sean in his arms, staggering under the dog’s weight as he carried him out of the street and around to our back yard. I don’t think he wanted any of the neighbors to see what he was going to do.
“The dog was clearly dead, of course. When the truck hit him he’d been carried up into the wheel well. His neck was broken, his back, and most of the other bones as well, I think. Massive internal injuries. Blood everywhere. It looked like my son was carrying an arm full of soiled rags.
“But in the back yard –” Reverend Johnson stopped, looked around. “Tim was hysterical, screaming. He lay down right on top of the dog, pulling every bit of that broken animal up into an embrace. I tried to break his grip, but he was much too strong. And after a minute, maybe less, parts of it, and there was enough damage I really wasn’t sure which parts, began to twitch. Another minute more, and there was this sound, a whine, but not like an injured animal; like the belt on a machine, or a worn-out bearing, giving way.”
The reverend moved his hands to his knees, began rubbing as if having discovered some new pain. He stared at the basement bulkhead, the young man still planted there, looking bored. “Tim kept that animal out on a blanket in the garage. I wouldn’t let it in the house. It was the first time I think I was glad his mother wasn’t alive.
“Eventually the dog could move off the blanket. It didn’t walk exactly. It was hinged, in places where there had been no joints before. And where there had been joints, many of those had reversed themselves, or had acquired a greater range of motion than was natural to them, so it wasn’t walking exactly – I don’t know what it was doing, but a kind of locomotion did occur.”
“You should have killed it.”
“Oh yes, I should have done a lot of things. After a month of this, even Tim wanted the creature dead. But Tim couldn’t make himself, and I couldn’t make myself go near it. That’s when we got the call from the manager here.”
“Ms. Malachiuk.”
“That’s right. Jacob’s predecessor. She said there had been a referral. She seemed to know all about our situation. Of course, under normal circumstances, I would have hung up the phone, but I was desperate. So Tim loaded the dog into the trunk and we drove here.”
“You brought the dog?”
“Oh, yes. She said the dog could stay here; ‘needs to stay here,’ I believe were the words she used.”
“Did someone treat the dog, or help you learn to deal with it?”
The reverend didn’t say anything for a time, just stared at the basement door. “You know it’s a funny thing,” he finally began. “After the first couple of nights here, I never thought much about Tim’s dog. And I don’t believe either one of us ever saw Sean again, unless Tim did, and didn’t tell me.”
“How did Tim spend his time here?”
“I can’t say that I know. I was terrified – I remember sleeping a lot, staying in the room, drinking a great deal. The Deadfall had a wonderful wine selection in those days.”
“Still does.”
“Oh, I’m sure. But I mustn’t partake.” He smiled wanly. “I’ve discovered I have a bit of a problem with the vino.
“But I didn’t see Tim much. Yet another way in which I’ve failed him, I’m sure. But it was like walking into a funhouse, only you never leave. Living a dream, not exactly a nightmare, but a very disturbing, disorienting dream, not unlike being on a bad, paranoid drunk, I would say.”
“Was it that way for Tim as well?”
“I certainly can’t say for sure, but I don’t think so. Once I asked him, ‘Aren’t you scared, Tim?’ And he said, ‘Yes, but that’s what I want, Dad; that’s what I need right now.’ And he’d be out all night, sitting outside, walking around in this dark hotel. ‘I’ll tell you when it’s time for us to leave,’ he said. Can you imagine?”
“I believe I can. Living inside the fear.”
“Yes, yes – those were approximately his words as well. Later, of course, that became an important part of his ministry. ‘You can’t leave your fears behind,’ he’d say, ‘until first you live inside them. You have to live inside your house of fear.’”
“Your daughter-in-law –”
“Tim was driving the car. Annabelle was knocked unconscious, so apparently was unaware of most the accident, thank the Lord. One of the assistants drove Annabelle to our private physician – we’ve been seeing him for years – who examined her. Perfectly fine, a blessing. I don’t believe she even saw the damage to the car, and her mother didn’t even have to make a trip to the hospital.”
“Of course not. And that was –”
“Nine months ago.”
“And now you’re back at the Deadfall once again.”
“Yes, yes, that does seem to be the case.” He looked suddenly stricken. “You know, they were very much in love. He used to say he was in paradise. He just wanted to have that time back.”
“So what’s your plan?”
“Actually, since you’re the manager here now, I was hoping you would know.”
RICHARD WALKED SLOWLY down the steps into the basement, the reverend following closely behind. They held their rakes tightly, tipped forward and ready, although he hoped they wouldn’t need them. The reverend had sent the officious young guard away, and at the moment Richard regretted that decision.
A few bare bulbs lit the interior. The wood-beamed ceiling and clay-caked rock walls gave everything a reddish tinge. Some of the floor was paved in concrete, some of it paved in stone, and some of it in bare dirt.
A figure rested on the dirt: rags for clothing, mannequin-like. The mannequin’s hand moved, crawling up the rough wall like a pale mouse.
She wore a flimsy red dress. Richard didn’t imagine she had worn it much, as a preacher’s wife. What was it his own father used to say? Every preacher’s wife needs a red dress. Maybe the dress reminded her of better times.
She moved her right cheek against the dirt, the movements growing steadily larger until she was rubbing her entire head into the dirt in a slow rhythm. As they watched, Mrs. Johnson opened and shut her mouth again and again. No sounds came out. He noticed that one shoe was missing, the other wedged onto the wrong foot. She opened her mouth again and again.
She rotated her head toward the light from the doorway, her jaws working in slow-motion. She began eating the dirt.
“Shouldn’t we do something?”
“What can we do? She has left the world behind. In her own way, she has done what the Gathering dreams of doing.”
“You make it sound like Heaven.”
The reverend shrugged. “What is Heaven? Each man or woman finds his or her own.”
“That doesn’t sound like a preacher.”
He made a sad smile. “I am retired. Let my son do the preaching.”
“I don’t think Heaven is like that, if there is one. I don’t think it means retiring from the world in fear.”
The reverend gazed at him doubtfully. “You and your daughter, you have an isolated life here. When was the last time you listened to the news, watched television, opened a newspaper? Why have you chosen such a life?”
“I’m not one of your flock, Reverend. Don’t think that you understand me.”
“Of course. I apologize.”
Mrs. Johnson made soft, infant-like choking sounds. Richard looked away. “What does your son do about her at night? Does he lock her up in one of the rooms? Or down here?”
The reverend gazed down at his feet. “Whatever she has become, they are still a married couple. There is a sacred bond,” he trailed off.
“I loved my own wife,” Richard said. “I still love her, but I no longer feel married.”
“Some people believe” – the reverend paused, scratched at his cheek – “that you can bring the dead back to life by making love to them.”
“I don’t understand what you mean. What are you trying to say?”
The reverend looked embarrassed. “They still share a bed. I don’t actually know any more than that.”
IT WAS THE final day of the Gathering, the final sermon, and although the Reverend Tim was supposed to deliver this address – his crowning moment, according to his father – he was nowhere to be seen. Richard and Jacob stood at the back of the crowd. Serena and Annabelle, still chaperoned by Enid, knitting bag in hand, sat somewhere near the middle. Mrs. Johnson was in the front row, surrounded by a phalanx of the young, pimply-faced men in their black suits and ties.
“I feel like we should do something for Annabelle,” Richard said. “I can’t stand that we’re just watching this happen. But then I haven’t exactly been heroic, have I? All I really want to do is get on with my life, and forget that the fire ever happened.”
Jacob sighed. “We do not need any heroes working here. They tend to keep their fear at a distance. I’d rather see them shake hands with it, whisper to it, become – what is the word – ‘buddies?’ The Reverends… the things they say are not entirely without merit. Perhaps that makes them more of a danger, I do not know.”
Deadfall Hotel Page 24
