Seraphim

by Jon Michael Kelley

  “There’s just one ‘L’ in McNeil,” Duncan said. “It was the only habit my ancestors dropped when they came over.”

  “Sorry,” Chris said. “Like, I just write down what the voices tell me.”

  What the voices tell him?

  “Voices?” Duncan said, his legs beginning to buckle.

  “Peter, Paul, and Mary,” Chris said. “The voices in my refrigerator.” He shrugged. “Well, this week’s crew, anyway.”

  Up until this point, Duncan supposed he was in denial, was still holding on to the hope that it was all just a nightmare aggravated by a severe stroke. He would like to believe that at this very moment some nurse in an ICU ward was making his comatose ass comfy while preparing to give him his low fat, low sodium breakfast intravenously.

  “Excuse me a moment,” Duncan mumbled. Dizzy, he backed into a row of chairs and plopped himself down. “These voices: Peter, Paul, and Mary. You don’t mean the, um...the people who sang, ‘Monday, Monday,’ do you?”

  “No, dude,” Chris said, sounding slightly annoyed. “You’re thinking of the Mamas and the Papas. And they aren’t the ones mentioned in the Bible, so don’t take that exit either. I mean, c’mon, don’t make this any weirder than it has to be.”

  Although his face was now hovering above his knees, Duncan was coming around. “Oh, wait, yeah, they were the ones who did, ‘Leaving On a Jet Plane.’” He slowly lifted his head, regarded his surroundings with a bit of wonderment, and said, “Doesn’t that strike you as being a rather odd coincidence?”

  “Naw, it’s too vague. I mean, if it was ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane to Rock Bay to Kick Ass,’ then that might get my attention. Or, for instance, they also did ‘Puff the Magic Dragon,’ and if they’d asked me to meet you in the Hotel Honah Lee, and you’d just made reservations with a desk clerk by the name of Jackie Paper who sold sealing wax on the side, then I might be swayed. But, hey, don’t get me wrong, synchronicity’s par for the course.”

  Duncan was sorry he asked. “So, you’re clairvoyant, huh?”

  “Among other things,” he stated proudly.

  “I see,” Duncan said, shakily rising from the chair. “Then I assume you’re foreseeing a safe flight for us this morning?”

  “Oh, for sure.” Then, appearing slightly worried, he said, “But, like, I can’t see beyond tomorrow. It’s all blank after that. It just keeps going deeper and deeper until it eventually turns itself inside out. Then it repeats.”

  “What repeats?”

  “The nothingness.”

  Duncan was starting to feel like he did when Juanita took her native tongue to speeds and levels beyond his comprehension. Satirizing the gallant cowboy, he offered, “Maybe you just got a catch in yer get-along.”

  “Ain’t nuttin wrong with my get-along, pardner,” Chris rebutted. “I jest ’spect it’s cuz I’ve been lopin’ my mule too much.”

  “Well, there’s yer answer,” Duncan said. “Ya done finally went and gone blind.”

  Chris pointed. “Is that yer missus over yonder, lookin’ madder’n a tick on roadkill?”

  Duncan nodded. “I reckon it is.”

  He grabbed Chris’s carry-on, shouldered it, and started walking. “Where you from?”

  “San Diego,” Chris said. “I just hope it’s there after tomorrow.”

  Interested, Duncan looked down at the young man. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Dude, you really don’t know what’s going on, do you?”

  2.

  As he drove away from the Texaco, leaving Gloucester proper, Duncan set the cruise control to five miles over the posted limit and started wondering again why he’d suddenly developed a fear of flying.

  He’d flown in aircraft all of his life, from rotor- to fixed-wing, and not once had he ever given it a second thought. Until today. Thankfully, he was already on the ground when the phobia struck. Just as they entered Salem…Witch country. Probably just an errant spell, he’d reasoned, floating around like a cold virus. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was something. Hell, he just couldn’t figure it out.

  But he was confident that it had nothing to do with either crisis he’d faced earlier while at 32,000 feet.

  The first calamity was encountered about forty-five minutes after takeoff from LAX. A rather homely stewardess had explained to everyone in coach that the Harrison Ford movie that was scheduled would not be shown after all, as they were experiencing technical difficulties. Somehow, Duncan had managed to hide his grief. Rachel, on the other hand, wouldn’t have looked more shocked if an oxygen mask had dropped in front of her face. And the meager jeers that followed only confirmed what the passenger manifest already knew: the plane was practically empty.

  And Duncan still thought that damned odd.

  Approximately one hour later, the second catastrophe occurred. For no apparent reason, Kathy suddenly reached across Juanita, who was sitting in the window seat, and turned the little capsule-shaped porthole into an RCA color television set, prompting Duncan to blow Corona out his nose, and Juanita to mime the entire King James version of the Old Testament.

  The picture appeared for maybe forty-five seconds, if that, and winked out when Kathy finally freed her hand from the porthole. The scene was unimaginative, to say the least, appearing to have been a drab, everyday living room straight out of the mid-sixties.

  Juanita had quickly covered the window with her pillow, but the severe lack of passengers turned the intrepid move into a pointless one.

  And then there was Chris. Chris was sitting in the seat directly in front of Duncan, asleep when the incident began. Just before Kathy disconnected from the window, Duncan told Juanita to move the goddamn pillow, nudged Chris awake, then directed him to the image.

  Chris glanced at the window, then back at Duncan, smirked, and said, “Wake me when she turns the cockpit into a Taco Bell.”

  Rachel, sitting in the aisle seat, dozing herself, had missed most of it, but had caught enough to ask the ugly stewardess for two vodkas, neat please, twists of lemon in both, hold the rocks.

  When Duncan asked Kathy how she did it, she sheepishly replied, “That was an oops. You guys weren’t supposed to see that yet. Sometimes my hand sticks, and, well...”

  When Rachel asked her if what happened in the ambulance was an “oops,” Kathy tried to pin the blame on Amy. That didn’t go down well with Rachel, and, eventually, Kathy recanted, admitting she had a problem, that she couldn’t help herself sometimes, that she liked the feeling it gave her. Duncan asked her if she knew of a twelve-step program available for her addiction, but she didn’t know what he was talking about, thus doing to levity what icy wings had done for DC-10s.

  They connected in St. Louis, and the flight from there to Boston was uneventful.

  Yes, Duncan was quite certain that the answer to his sudden phobia lurked elsewhere.

  Throughout the trip, Juanita had assumed the role of Kathy’s shadow, even to the point of not only taking her to the bathroom but insisting that she go with her into the stall. That’s where Kathy drew the line.

  Chris’s succotash-surfer slang was a bit much sometimes, as was his glib attitude, but both were tolerable, as were his facial tics and the other impetuous body motions that seized him without warning.

  Massachusetts was in the grip of a heat wave that had lately been singeing both seaboards and most of the south. Only the upper central states appeared to have the opposite problem. Heavy snows were forecasted for a second straight day in the lower Great Lakes regions, and Des Moines, Iowa was already under twelve inches of the stuff.

  Wild.

  On the radio, Mike “Mad Dog” Malhooney, the DJ for KMRX out of Boston, stated rather flippantly that the unseasonably hot weather was a wake-up call from God. Mad Dog suggested that his listeners not consult with their local clergy but rather the mercury in their front porch thermometers for spiritual guidance.

  “Are these the End Times?” Mad Dog spookily asked, then cut to commercial.

&nb
sp; Well, it was hot, no doubt about it. But FEMA wasn’t passing out flame-retardant knickers just yet. Mad Dog was just being facetious, but his point was well taken.

  Duncan was grateful that they weren’t traveling through the Deep South. Airwaves through the Bible-Belt were no doubt hotter than the current heat wave.

  He turned left on Hawthorne Avenue and began reading the numbers on the houses. They were only two blocks away.

  Rachel had been exceptionally quiet during most of the drive, taking in the scenery much the same way an emphysema patient takes in oxygen. She’d asked him to drive slowly through each town. In Ipswich, she made him stop at Madge’s Bakery (“It’s still here!” she’d blubbered), where she bought everyone a pastry and an espresso for herself and Juanita.

  She was home.

  Kathy appeared to be developing a bond with Chris, one that was more father-daughter than brother-sister.

  Juanita didn’t look happy about Chris’s presence, although, in Duncan’s estimation, she was doing a damn fine job of keeping her feelings to herself. Duncan liked Chris, but he understood Juanita’s apprehension. He was feeling it, too.

  3.

  In front of the house, Duncan eased the rented Thunderbird to a stop.

  It was a big place—maybe 3,500 square feet, not including the basement. The paint looked old, a piss yellow. The chain-link fence was new, and the hulking, twisted cottonwood out front was so massive that twelve years’ growth would have gone unnoticed.

  “Well,” Rachel sighed, “are we going to just sit here, or are we going to get this over with?”

  “Get it over with?” Chris laughed. “Sweet Cakes, this party’s just starting!”

  “I’ve asked you once,” Rachel snarled, “and I’ll ask you again—Don’t call me ‘Sweet Cakes.’”

  Chris pushed out his hands. “Yikes, chill, sorry.”

  “Let’s go,” Duncan said, killing the ignition. He unlatched his safety belt, opened the door. His palms were sweating, hands shaking.

  In the lead and grinning madly, Chris opened the gate—and instantly stopped. He kneeled down on the scorched lawn, bent over and pressed his right ear onto the brown blades of grass.

  Duncan stood over Chris. “Just what the hell are you doing?”

  “Maybe the dead are talking to him,” Rachel posited.

  Chris held a finger to his lips.

  Juanita looked around nervously, then whispered, “He is crazy, Señor Duncan. He is going to bring us much trouble.”

  Just as Duncan was reaching down to grab him by his shirt collar, Chris said, “There’s something down there.”

  “Moles?” Duncan said, feigning true concern.

  Chris stood up. “I’m serious. The worms are all worked up.”

  “Oh, brother,” Rachel moaned, rolling her eyes.

  Juanita couldn’t believe it. “You tried to talk with the worms?”

  “I can talk to any animal,” Chris said, appearing offended that he was not preceded by his reputation. “I have something like a universal translator.”

  “Is that what they’re calling it now?” Rachel said, then grabbed Duncan’s arm. “Let’s just go.”

  Chris pointed to the ground. “I’m telling you, dude, there’s something down there, and it ain’t the Avon Lady.”

  Appearing spooked, Kathy carefully tip-toed off the grass and back onto the cement walkway.

  Duncan bristled. “You, Dr. Doolittle, will behave, or I will personally upgrade your connection to the spirit world.”

  Chris saluted. “Aye, aye, captain.”

  They walked toward the porch while Chris straggled behind like a moping teenager.

  Duncan rang the bell.

  An elderly woman answered, and Duncan instantly recognized her as Patricia’s mother.

  “May I help you?” She smiled.

  Sheepishly, Duncan smiled back. “Mrs. Pendleton.”

  She shuffled closer to the screen, where a breeze caught and parted her silver bangs. “You’re damned familiar,” she said in a friendly way. “Have we met?”

  “Yes ma’am. Long time ago.”

  She did not seem to hear him, her gaze now focused on Kathy. Duncan could see the color evaporating from her face.

  Joan Pendleton opened the screened door, lowered herself unsteadily to her knees, and gaped in astonishment at the little girl.

  “Hi, Grammy.” Kathy smiled, holding her arms out for a hug.

  Joan, eyes filling with tears, held out her own arms, and they embraced.

  “I missed you,” Kathy whispered. She brushed the tears from her grammy’s face. “Is Mommy here?”

  “I’m here,” Patricia said from behind the screen. She was staring at Kathy, but not the way someone would who suspects a hateful prank. Instead, in her eyes was inured acceptance, as if the child before her was the same wandering ghost who passed through her walls daily, never quite solid enough to take away the insanity of their own embraces.

  “Mommy!” Kathy cried, rushing to the screen.

  Patricia stayed behind the door, holding it shut.

  Duncan thought she looked remarkably well, considering her losses. Apparently no longer a prisoner to high fashion, she wore a simple white blouse, blue jeans with a hole in the left knee, and a tan pair of flip-flops. Her raven hair was off her shoulders, and her thick lips still affected that lachrymose pout that he’d once found so irresistibly kissable.

  She looked damned good in rural, he had to admit, and guessed that Rachel was thinking the same thing, but with far less admiration.

  An old, fat dachshund waddled up to Patricia’s feet and, upon seeing Kathy, emphatically began whining and pawing at the screen, its tail a blur.

  “Pillsbury!” Kathy cheered.

  Patricia opened the door just enough to let the dog through.

  There was a reunion of yelping and licking and elated giggles.

  Joan was still on her knees. “I don’t feel so well,” she moaned, wavering dangerously.

  Rachel and Duncan immediately helped the woman to her feet.

  “She needs to lie down,” Duncan said to Patricia.

  Patricia did not open the door; just stood there fidgeting with the bracelet on her wrist. “Who the hell are you people?” she said curiously.

  Duncan realized that, just as her mother, Patricia was reeling from the ambush.

  “Patricia,” he instructed, “we need to bring your mother in and get her knees elevated.”

  “Donut’s right,” Kathy said. “Please, Mom?”

  Patricia hesitated, then guardedly pushed open the door.

  They put Joan on the couch and slipped two throw pillows beneath her feet.

  Duncan turned to Patricia and saw that she and Kathy were staring at one another from opposite ends of the room.

  Apprehension owned Patricia’s features.

  Kathy continued to wear her patient, understanding smile.

  “Patricia?” Duncan said. “Meet Katherine Bently.”

  Sounding amused, if not a little condescending, Patricia said to Kathy, “You’re not my daughter.”

  Kathy said nothing; just kept smiling.

  Patricia took a step forward. “Did you hear me?”

  Kathy nodded that she did.

  Laughing now, Patricia said, “I mean, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. It’s crazy. There is no way on God’s green Earth that you could be my daughter. I mean, sure, there’s a resemblance, but she…she would have been a lot older than you now, and…and I’ll bet that, oh hell, I’ll bet that you don’t even remember…wait, that you don’t even know my middle name.”

  Kathy smiled even wider.

  Hands on her hips, Patricia said, “Well? Speak up. See, you couldn’t be my daughter because my daughter has my middle name, too.”

  Patricia turned to the group. “See? Case solved. She can’t be my daughter—”

  Kathy mumbled something.

  “—as if there was ever a doubt.” />
  Kathy stepped forward until she was ten feet from Patricia. Raising her voice, she said, “I know what your middle name is.”

  Very confident now, Patricia said, “I don’t believe you do.”

  Kathy stepped even closer, now just two feet away. Holding out her hand, she said, “Bet?”

  Shocked, as if she couldn’t believe the gall, Patricia turned back to the group for support; to her mother, to Chris, then Duncan, Juanita, even Rachel. She had a wide-eyed look of consternation, as if she’d just returned from the proctologist and was afraid that the gritty aftertaste in the back of her mouth really was Latex.

  Getting no support from the group, she turned back to Kathy. “Alright, what’s the bet?”

  “If I guess your middle name, then you have to forgive yourself.”

  “For what?”

  “You know.”

  “Oh, fine, whatever,” she said. “Now, if I win, then you and your traveling companions have to get the hell out of this house and never come back.”

  “Deal,” Kathy said.

  “Wait!” Patricia said. “And you have to spell it right, too.”

  “Deal,” she said again, and they shook hands.

  For a long moment, Kathy and Patricia just stared at each other.

  “Well, little miss,” Patricia said finally, “let’s have it.”

  Head low, she said ashamedly, “I lied. I can’t spell your middle name.”

  Triumphant, Patricia turned to Duncan. “Bingo! Now, I want you and your dysfunctional family out of my house—pronto!”

  “Patty!” gasped Joan. “They brought our Kathy back! How can you—”

  “Oh, horseshit, mother! If you believe that then you’re as sick as they are!” She flipped her eyes back to Duncan. “Now get out!”

  Now at Patricia’s side, Kathy said, “Excuse me, please.”

  “What?” Patricia snarled. “What? What?”

  With a smile as meek and vestal as a newborn fawn, and a voice just as downy, Kathy said, “The reason I can’t spell your middle name is because you don’t have one, Mommy. Just like me.”

  Patricia flashed a hint of surprise, then began to slowly shake her head. “Duncan told you that I have no middle name, just like he told you the name of the dog.”