by Thomas Cater
It was not much of a revelation. In a few more days, I would probably be ready to concede the same facts.
“What’s that got to do with me?” I asked.
“I sense in you, Mr. Case, a willingness to resist what is happening.”
“Did Virgil put you up to this?” I asked grinning. I was beginning to sense a gag or a ploy of some kind.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t know Mr. Virgil.”
“Then how do you know me?” I replied. “I’ve only been here a few days.”
“My actions are dictated to me by the Lord. He told me to find you and enlist your assistance.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I can’t assist you; I can’t even help myself.”
“This town is in the grip of Satan,” he said. “It is up to us to set it free.”
If a casual worship ceremony might result in living one's life in the grip of Satan, or attending a mountain hootenanny and joke fest, I was rooting for the joke fest.
“How do you propose to do that,” I asked, “to liberate a town from the grip of Satan?”
“Each in his own way, Mr. Case.”
“That’s not an answer,” I said, “what is your way?”
“Prayer and preaching.”
“Prayer and preaching? Does the help you are soliciting come in the form of a cash donation, or a few prayers?”
“It’s the only way I know,” he said piously.
“What if your way doesn’t work? Maybe the townsmen and women are content to struggle on in Satan’s grip; what am I supposed to do, abandon my haunted house?”
“Whatever you do best, Mr. Case.”
“I’m a landlord, Mr. Thacker, a miserable, self-indulgent slum landlord with absolutely no penchant for doing the Lord’s work.”
A bright white corona -- cleansed by the recent rain -- wreathed George Thacker’s glistening indolent face.
“I too was once a back-slider, Mr. Case, and a drunken conniving thief. I did it legally in a court of law. If I can change, so can you.”
“You’re a lawyer?” I asked.
“...Was a lawyer, now I bring the ‘word’ to those who have ignored or forgotten it.”
A faint gleam in his eye harkened back to days of milking opportunities. Alcohol and deprivation, however, had dulled that gleam.
“You want some coffee, Mr. Thacker?”
“I would be honored to share with you.”
I fixed coffee for both of us and we agreed to call each other by our first names.
“George, I don’t know if what you say is true; you might be working with a higher authority, but how did you get my name, or know where to find me? Will you straighten me out?”
George doused his coffee with so much cream and sugar that I regretted offering it.
“I was called by the Lord to loosen the grip of Satan on this community. When I ran into trouble, he told me to look you up. I assume ‘He’ thinks you’re on to something.”
I giggled nervously, restraining dangerous levels of hysteria.
“George, if you said that to anyone but me, they’d take you to the county funny farm.”
He nodded. “That’s why I came to you.”
“How did you find me?”
“He said you were from out of town.”
I nodded. I didn’t need to ask who ‘He’ was. “You really talk to him?”
He nodded. “I often talk to him two of three times a day, sometimes more.”
“And he talks back?”
George grinned. “Most of the time. Sometimes he doesn’t come straight to the point. He beats around the bush, makes me use my imagination, look for signs and symbols, but eventually I discover what I have to do.”
“You want a donut?” I asked.
He replied with a nod. I rifled though the cupboard for the pack of day-old donuts I bought three weeks ago. They were a bit crusty, but George didn’t mind.
“The Lord actually told you to look me up, right? He said, go out and find Charles Case from Washington D.C.”
George nodded while exploring the scaling topography of the leaden donuts.
“Just exactly how did ‘He’ say it?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed in concentration while he licked the hardened flakes of confectionary sugar off his fingertips. “He said: ‘George, I know you got trouble down there, but you’re not alone. There is another man who is also deeply involved in the problem. I suggest you make an effort to find him. He’s in town now and involved in something that’s related to the work you are ‘a doin’ for me.”
“A doin’? The Lord said, a’ doin’?”
George helped himself to another donut. “He sometimes talks in vernacular. It all depends on when and where I contact him. You don’t think he spoke in Latin, English or Italian to Moses, do you?”
I said I never really thought about it. “George, how long have you been in Vandalia?” I asked, concerned that he might be an escaped lunatic, or a clever but bored sociopath outpatient on leave from the hospital.
“About six weeks,” he replied.
“Where are you staying?”
“I’m in the Phoenix Hotel, down the street and around the corner.”
“If you’re a preacher, why aren’t some of your fellow preachers rallying around you? There must be a church on every corner. I’ve never seen so many churches in one small town.”
George smiled prophetically. “That’s one of the first signs a town has fallen from grace. One of each denomination is usually enough, but in this town, it is possible to find two, three and sometimes four of the same kind. They can’t agree on anything, not even in a proper way to worship, which simply means they aren’t interested in anything but real estate and managing stock portfolios.”
“Have you talked to them?” I asked.
“The first thing I did when I got here was let them know my plan. I tried to enlist their help, but the only way they would agree was if I promised to leave on the next bus. When I told them I was here to stay, they slammed the door and told me not to come back.”
“I thought churches had funds for recluse indigents?”
“They do, but not for me. Besides, I’m not indigent.”
“You have money?”
He shook his head. “No, I have something better than money; I have the Lord on my side, and the Lord always provides.”
“When’s the last time the Lord provided a good meal?”
He smiled and raised a stale donut to his lips.
“Where do you do your preaching?” I asked.
“My hotel room, but I guess all that’s going to change now that we’re working together.”
I frowned. “We’re not working together,” I said. “I’ve got a housing problem to solve, and I don’t see how it will help you.”
“The Ryder house?” He asked.
I stared in silence. “How did you know?” Before he could answer, I silenced him with a wave of my hand. “Never mind, it’s probably public information by now.”
He fished another donut from the bag. “I hear it’s haunted,” George said.
“Does that mean anything to you?” I asked.
He shook his head again. “Not as long as I’m right with the Lord.”
“Would you like to give me a hand out there? I’ve got a job to do and it’s going to take two or three good men.”
“I’m one of them,” he said enthusiastically.
“Good,” I replied, “then I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”
He wiped his fingertips with a napkin and sprang to his feet. “What time?”
We synchronized our watches and then he took my hand firmly in his. There was strength in his grip I had underestimated. He could have damaged my fingers with a little effort. He suddenly looked taller and in greater control than I had imagined.
“I’ll be there,” he said.
I thanked him and led him to the door. Inflated by his potential as a warrior in this comic
cosmic battle, I invited him to “arrive early tomorrow and we could finish the donuts and coffee.”
“Thank you, and may the Lord watch over you.”
It was the first time since my caregivers had abandoned me to daycare that anyone had voiced actual concern for my spiritual well-being. I imagined that George was sincere, but slightly off center. There was no doubt in my mind that I would sleep well tonight. I closed the door and stretched out on the bed. My mission had gained a little more credibility.
My bed was still unmade from the day’s activities with Connie. Her odors were lingering about the sheets and blankets. I rooted through them for her fragrance. As I drifted off to asleep, I found her again in my dreams.
Chapter Twenty-One
I slept peacefully through the night and woke with the conviction that things were getting better. It was an old proverb, but it made me feel timeless and less subject to the whims of fate. The old ways were still intact, still visible beneath the new. If there is anything to fear, it has always been there.
George arrived shortly after I finished shaving. I had water boiling on the propane stove and bread in the toaster. He was wearing the same suit, but had changed his shirt. It was light blue and neatly pressed. A string tie was hanging around his neck.
“Morning,” I said letting him in.
He was beaming, nearly glowering. He looked more respectable than he had the night before.
“How’d you sleep?” he asked.
“Soundly, thank you,” I replied.
He nodded vigorously. “I started praying last night. Things are going to be all right from now on; I know it.”
I thanked him for his prayers and then added as an afterthought. “George, you can pray all you want, night and day if you wish, I don’t care; in fact, I will probably appreciate it, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather not hear about it. I believe a man should resolve some things in his heart. If you persist, I’m going to insist you stay away from my RV.”
He continued his self-righteous glowering in silence. I poured coffee and put toast and a jar of pineapple marmalade on the table. It was a few months old and I was not sure how I had acquired it. I disliked pineapple preserves, jellies and jams, and would have never consciously purchased it. It was something that just happened to appear in the ‘frig’ one day and never went away. It was tough and rubbery with age and had acquired a resistance to bread and knives. George managed somehow to spread it on some toast.
“Did you notice if Virgil was in his office this morning?” I asked.
He nodded and pointed toward the office with his coffee mug.
“He has some interest in the Ryder house and I invited him along.”
George kept nodding his approval while digging and eating spoonfuls of pineapple out of the jar.
“Is that where we’re going, to the Ryder house?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I’m going to open a grave.”
George stopped eating and stared. “Is that legal? I mean, can you do that?”
“It’s on my property,” I said. “I don’t see why not. Besides, I have reason to believe the bodies in the graveyard are not deep enough, which creates a health problem. Then again, I want to relocate the graveyard. It’s just a little too close to the house for my peace of mind.”
George appeared to have lost interest in the toast and coffee.
“That’s not what I thought you had in mind.”
“I didn’t say I had anything in mind.”
“I thought you were planning on doing something on the order of…”
“…Of what? A prayer meeting so you can pass the hat. How about a nice quiet little exorcism?”
I thought it was a good idea, but George shook his head vigorously.
“No, I thought you were going to sanctify the hospital.”
“Hell, George, there’s nothing wrong with that hospital. People cannot help themselves when they go crazy. It’s not their fault. You can’t shake a psaltery at a sanitarium and make everyone sane and sanitary. It just doesn’t work that way.”
His voice was full of resignation. “I know, but I was hoping you might know something that I didn’t. But if the Lord sees fit…”
“George, I told you…”
“Yes, yes, I know, it won’t happen again. All right, I’ll go along with you, until I have a chance to learn what’s happening. I know Satan is a powerful force, and if he’s got as firm a grip on that house as he has on the county…”
“I thought you said you weren’t afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” he said. “I’ll go when and where the Lord calls, but how do I know he’s working through you?”
I could not restrain a theosophical smile.
“Don’t ask me, George; you came looking for me, remember?”
I locked up the van, walked around to the front of the building and entered Virgil’s office. He was with a girl just out of high school. He was instructing her in the proper procedure for filing papers. She hung on every word. He gave her a folder and met me half way.
“She’s trying too hard,” he said. “If she’d relax, it would come much easier. But she’s desperate for the job.”
Virgil looked George over carefully, wondering why he had never seen him in town. I couldn’t help wondering if he sensed the narrow spectrum of madness seated in the corner of George’s heart, or if he appeared as a potential home buyer with no problems other than making a final mortgage payment before his arteries hardened and stopped his clock.
“Virgil, this is George Thacker, a friend I met last night. He wants to see the Ryder house, too.”
Virgil offered a professional but cautious hand, a steady easy pump and then a slow release.
“I think I see another ghost buster, eh, Charles? Well, the more, the merrier.”
“George is a retired attorney,” I said.
Whatever it was that had fanned the flames of familiarity in Virgil’s heart quickly died out. He conveyed sufficient displeasure in even being in the same room with George.
“You plan on starting a practice in town, Mr. Thacker?”
George shook his head and divided his attention between the two of us.
“No, I’m retired from the practice of law,” he said.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Virgil said. “This town needs another lawyer like it needs another poisoned well.” He laughed.
George grinned and gazed at me as if he were seeking my permission to speak.
“If you’re ready, we are,” I said.
He gave me a quick once-over. “I see you’re wearing your murdered man’s suit.”
I picked a piece of lint from the lapel. George’s face sagged and his eyes got misty.
“You bet,” I replied. “I got a pocketful of fresh dug grave dirt and I’m wearing my magic slouch hat,” I patted the left front pocket of my pants.
Virgil excused himself and asked us to wait in his car while he changed. When he reappeared, he was dressed in full battle gear, with an antique M-1 slung over his shoulder. George stared in shock and awe. Virgil stuffed the weapons in the wagon’s bay and slid behind the wheel.
“Party favors,” Virgil said, “in case things get out of hand.”
George sat in the back on the edge of his seat, primed and ready to jump if Virgil even looked as if he were going to ask questions. When he did, it happened fast.
“Are you planning to invest in Vandalia real estate, Mr. Thacker?” Virgil asked.
George rested his chin on the back of the seat and smiled. “No, I’m retired,” he said, as if the two were related. "Are you from here?”
“Pittsburgh,” George he replied.
“Visiting relatives?” Virgil asked.
“I’m here professionally,” said George.
Virgil gazed out the window thoughtfully. “I thought you were retired?”
“Retired from the law,” George affirmed, “but not from…can I say it, Charles?”
I said it was okay to me
ntion it, but only once.
“Preaching!” He shouted. “I’m here on an errand of the Lord.”
Virgil cleared his throat roughly and gazed out the window.
“Did you recruit him for this job?” Virgil asked in a whisper.
“You wouldn’t understand,” I said. “It happened to me and I still have doubts.”
“Not about the house, I hope.”
“He came looking for me, but now I think it would be good for Constance to run his name through the computer to make sure he’s never been a guest at the hotel.”
He wanted to know more about Constance. I told him what I knew.
“She’s helping with the files. It would take a dozer to plow through the paper over there.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Silver, sugar and mountain maple wrapped in flaming funereal pulchritudinous patches of crimson and gold leaves rustled in the wind. The air was warm and intoxicating. I was anxiously anticipating a trek through the woods. The adrenaline was bubbling like spring water.
We stopped in front of the iron gate. Now that the property was mine, I did not hesitate to give a violent yank to the steel chains that secured the lock.
George slipped out of the car before I knew what to expect. He was on his knees in front of the gate reciting a string of oaths for protection. I felt embarrassed by his piety, but did not think it proper to disturb a man at prayer.
Virgil stood by and watched. “Is he all right?”
“Righteous as rain,” I said, but I was uneasy.
In a strange way, George made me think I was participating in a holy war.
My knees sank into the soft grass; I could feel my kneecaps vibrating against my stomach. I wondered if universal harmony was palpable.
“What are you doing?” Virgil shouted.
I stood and wiped the dirt and dead leaves from my trousers. “I just wanted to feel useful.” I said.
Virgil did not appear interested in getting George off his knees. I shook the thoughts from my mind and shouted, “Are you ready, George?”
“I’m ready to meet the evil forces,” he said.
It was a disquieting comment, especially since George was doomed and Virgil was beginning to flounder.
Virgil suited up and strapped a helmet liner to his head, wrapped a knife and cartridge belt around his waist, and swung the M-1 on his shoulder. Then he stopped at the gate and his knees turned to jelly.
