by Lisa Alber
sixty-five
Thursday, 1-Apr
April Fool’s Day, dear Annie. It’s fitting that this year Good Friday falls on the day after. All the fools with their pranks followed by all the fools with their confessions. Everyone likes to think of themselves as good.
I imagine you alive with head cocked, intrigued and urging me to reveal my internal workings. You’d smell clean. I have a good nose and you always smelled like the outdoors after a spring rain. Sometimes I entertained thoughts of getting intimate with your scent, which wouldn’t have worked, of course. That would have been highly inappropriate.
You’re not here, alas, but Nathan is. Nathan, Nathan—what shall I do with you, oh foolish man?
Annie, you may not believe this, but he’s growing on me.
sixty-six
Good Friday, the beginning of a holiday weekend with Monday off work for most people. Danny stepped into the Corpus Christi Roman Catholic Church. The sun had decided to come out, and it shone through the stained glass window portraits of various saints that ran the length of the nave. Some smart church designer had positioned them so they caught the morning light from the east and on the other side, as now, the evening light from the west. The reflections spread a warm and inviting glow through the church.
A few parishioners sat in the pews. They were early for the 7:00 p.m. commemoration Mass of the Lord’s passion. Mrs. O’Brien looked up as Danny passed her. Her usual proprietary expression blanked out at the sight of him. Danny said hello and continued on. He made his way up the central aisle and cut right when he reached the altar. Jesus in all his malnourished and woebegone suffering hung over them. Danny didn’t care for this image of the Savior. Instead of beseeching the high heavens for his Redeemer to save him, he gazed into the church, at them, at Danny himself as he entered a confessional booth that smelled like his childhood. Lemon-scented furniture polish and incense. He kneeled and planted his elbows on the shelf below the grille, through which he recognized Father Dooley’s thin, hawkish nose in profile.
Neither man spoke. The priest waited for Danny to begin the usual way: Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
Instead, Danny said, “Hello, Danny Ahern here, come in for a chat.”
The grille slid open. Father Dooley bent to peer at him. “Holy Mother of all that’s good, have the plagues started? Is it raining locusts out there?” He shut the grille and Danny saw him relax back on the comfortable chair the priest’s booth contained.
Danny sniffed the sweet scent of peppermint. “Teatime?”
“Woke up with a hoarse throat, and I’ve quite the sermon to give today. Now tell me, when was your last confession?”
“Too long ago to matter.” Danny shifted. “You need to do something about these kneelers.”
“I know it. On the budget for this year.” Father Dooley slurped his tea. “What’s on your mind, Danny?”
“My concerns are timely,” Danny said, “given that it’s Easter. In fact, one of my concerns is Easter.”
Danny hadn’t figured out how to comfort the children when Easter Sunday rolled around without Ellen’s resurrection. The problem with religion, and maybe Catholicism most of all, was its adherence to lore and unfounded belief. Belief in the resurrection differed little from belief in the seventh son of a seventh son. Or Zoe, for that matter. But he wasn’t about to say this to Father Dooley.
“The children are convinced that Ellen is going to wake up on Easter. They’re confused about what the resurrection means. I’ve tried to explain, but it seems they’re convinced God will wave a magic wand from Heaven. I don’t know what to say to them anymore. I’m conflicted myself.”
“About what?”
“Whether to do the opposite of a resurrection—let Ellen go.”
Father Dooley set aside his teacup and hunched forward. “What would Ellen want?”
“To be let go. She would have said her soul would have a nice afterlife.”
“A good point.”
“No, a bad point. Souls and the afterlife are a matter of faith, and having faith isn’t the same as knowing the truth about the nature of death—” He cut himself short. “No disrespect intended.”
“You’re hopeless, but I have faith”—Father Dooley chortled—“that you’ll have a fine talk with the kids. You know that. I think the issue is guilt. You’d be—what? By letting Ellen go, what would you be doing?”
“I did love her,” Danny said.
“I know.”
“But I couldn’t live in the marriage with her anymore.” Danny reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a manila envelope folded lengthwise. Months of using it as a placemat at work had left it stained with coffee cup rings and grease smudges. “Open the grille.”
Father Dooley obliged. Danny handed through the envelope. Father Dooley slid a pair of reading glasses down from where they perched on the top of his head and peered down his nose as he slid out the sheaf of papers. “Ah, Danny. A legal separation.”
“On the road to divorce.” By law, they had to live apart for four out of the last five years to apply for a divorce decree. Meanwhile, a legal separation would have signaled his intention to Ellen and begun the process.
“Look at the date,” Danny said. “The week before Ellen was attacked. I’d signed them already.”
Father Dooley let his hands, with the paperwork, drop to his lap. “I’m beginning to understand how you’ve tortured yourself all these months.”
Nathan and his scar flashed through Danny’s mind. It was a world of torture out here, self-inflicted or not.
“Would you like me to absolve you of guilt?” Father Dooley said. “Send you out for the Hail Marys and Holy Fathers and wipe the slate clean of the burden you carry?”
“That would be nice.”
Father Dooley passed the papers back through the grille. “I’m talking as Paddy now, who has known you since a lad. Ready?” He paused to flash Danny a grin. “Get your bloody head on straight, man. You’re not to blame for that madman who attacked Ellen. You think it happened because you didn’t live with her anymore, divine retribution because you wanted a divorce? Think again.”
“I’m to blame for abandoning her to her depression.”
“Oh, bloody hell,” Paddy said, sounding like the boy who couldn’t go a week without a walloping from the nuns. “You’re putting me in an uncomfortable position, my friend. You know that Ellen offered her confessions almost every week for years.”
Danny hesitated before saying, “And?”
“I can’t reveal what she said, you know that, but as your friend Paddy, let me assure you that Ellen was her own woman with her own conflicts about the state of your marriage.” He crossed himself and bent his head. Danny thought he heard him repeat, “Father forgive me.” He raised his head. “I can’t say any more.”
Danny shifted to ease his aching knees. “She blamed herself for the state of our marriage, didn’t she?”
Father Dooley was back. He didn’t answer, but his eyelids flickered. “And here you are taking on the blame yourself. Assuming the role that unforeseen circumstances relieved her of. This is a penance you don’t deserve. Better to say a few Hail Marys and Holy Fathers than put yourself through hell.”
“Pass me your flask, good Paddy,” Danny said. “I know you have it on you.”
“Such respect for the collar.” Father Dooley passed the flask. “Sip. That’s good cognac.”
Danny sipped and savored the burn—one more bit of self-torture, but it felt wonderful.
sixty-seven
On Easter Sunday, Merrit woke to the sound of hail pounding the roof. She climbed out of bed and opened the curtains. A grey pelt of hard rain flattened the celandine and daffodils, and weighed down the top of the marquee. Merrit imagined the tent caving in on itself from the weight of the hail, imagined being let off the hook. She didn’t let herself fantasize too far down that track, however, because Liam was looking forward to her debut as matchmaker.
The event felt more like a tryout, and she didn’t hold out much hope that she’d put on a great performance. She recognized the itchy tension in the pit of her stomach: stage fright.
Merrit let the curtains swing shut and tried to decipher what she felt beyond stage fright. She came up with nothing but an uneasy question mark, something she’d forgotten to examine what with the festival and Nathan and Liam’s health distracting her thoughts.
She pulled on jeans and a sweater and headed toward the kitchen, where the smell of coffee greeted her when she swung through the door. Liam sat at the kitchen island. She sighed with relief. Just the two of them for a change.
“Not a bother,” he said. “The weather, I mean. Hail’s not enough to keep a good party down.”
Through a blur of hard rain, Merrit discerned a mini SUV parked in front of Fox Cottage. Its dingy blue color blended into the atmosphere. “Nathan is here?”
“Inside the cottage since about two this morning,” Liam said. “Let himself in with the key you gave him, I imagine.”
Merrit pulled on her wellies and slipped out the back door. The hail stung her face and, within a few steps, beaded her sweater. She ran to the cottage and eased open the front door to the smell of fresh paint and fungal griminess. She beelined to the bedroom with the closed door. The wood felt cool against her ear when she leaned against it. From inside the room, she heard mutterings.
She caught her breath, only now aware of how hard her heart pounded, imagining Nathan spread-eagled on the floor like Elder Joe. Thank Christ for the sounds of a bad sleep.
She raised her fist to knock and paused. She wasn’t sure what to do. Within the room, the old bed springs squeaked, followed by a groan. Merrit eased open the door. Nathan sat up in bed. He wore the same encrusted jeans as a week ago when she’d visited him at his house. He didn’t acknowledge her presence as she stepped into the room. In fact, he appeared to be asleep with his eyes open, peering at a vision only he could see.
Merrit shouldn’t wake him up, that much she knew, but could she touch him? He might lash out, might mistake her for a nightmare figment. Yet she refused to leave him like that.
She approached him on tiptoes. Nathan’s mouth moved over silent words punctuated by whimpers that reminded her of the dying squeals of a squirrel—short, sharp, and mortally afraid. Merrit lowered herself onto the bed beside him. She placed an arm around his shoulders and leaned him against her. He complied but otherwise didn’t respond. His mutterings continued between the whimpers. She wrapped her other arm around him in a hug.
Five minutes turned into fifteen, and after a while his head sagged against her shoulder and his breathing deepened. She shifted him onto his back. He stirred, and from one second to the next, he bolted upright with a strangled yell and shoved Merrit off the bed. He pressed himself against the wall with eyes wide and fists clenched. A few more seconds later, he came to and recognized Merrit as Merrit. He scrambled across the bed to help her stand. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Startled, that’s all.”
“I need a warning label. Caution while sleeping.”
“Is that normal?”
“Ay, pretty much, when I sleep at all.” He curled back onto the bed. He barely dented the mattress, as if someone had sucked out his marrow while he slept. The benefits of his overnight stay in the hospital had dissipated. The skin around his eyes had a crêpey texture, and specks of blood dotted his chapped lips.
“Nathan,” she said.
“Mmm?”
“Why are you here?”
He pulled the covers up around his head. “I thought it might be safer.”
She clicked the bedroom door closed behind her, wondering, Safer for who?
sixty-eight
Nathan woke midmorning more groggy than ever. After Merrit had discovered him in the cottage, he’d fallen into a sleep that he would describe as fraught. Goldfinches and knives hounded him through darkness, and now that he was awake he felt more than ever that—
Can yoouu kill, can yoouu kill
—today was the day: the day he resurrected.
He sat up and took stock of himself as he did every morning. No new pains, but the static and crackle throbbed behind his eyes. He shook his head against the fuzziness that wavered around the edge of his vision.
From the direction of Liam’s house, a truck approached and idled. Merrit called out a greeting and was met by a man’s reply. Nathan had forgotten about the Earrach Festival. He’d let it sink into the forgotten netherworld within his memory banks.
He squeezed his eyes shut against the pain in his head and groped his way to the window that overlooked the neighboring sheep field. Rain had replaced hail. He pushed out the window to allow wind redolent of peat and sogginess to sweep into the room. He held his ground against the chill. In an odd way, he felt calm for the first time in weeks. The static and crackle propelled him in the right direction. He had but to embrace the deeper meaning within the jumble.
Feeling steadier, he closed the window and opened his rucksack. He’d sharpened the carving knife before packing it away. He couldn’t recall his state of mind in the middle of last night, only that he’d had to escape his house.
He stared down at the knife that gleamed despite the dull light. He had one escape hatch, the same one he’d used all those years ago. He no longer had the energy to resist. He’d use the knife again as he had on Zoe, who had proved to be indestructible.
His mobile vibrated. He set the knife aside and reached into his jeans pocket. A text message appeared from Zoe.
Where are you?
I’m fine, he typed. At Fox Cottage.
Good. I’m glad, but we were supposed to drive together to Liam’s house, to help Merrit. Don’t you remember?
She always said that to him: Don’t you remember? No, he didn’t. Everything about her weighed so heavy on him that her incessant chattering words sank into a void.
No worries, she sent. Sid will pick me up. I’m just glad you’re safe.
Sid. Nathan’s pulse quickened, and he tossed the mobile aside to grab his rucksack. He dumped out the contents and rifled through them, shoving a clean t-shirt and water bottle onto the floor in the process. He’d written down Sid’s personal number that he’d pilfered from Zoe’s mobile. He must still have the number. It wouldn’t do to call Annie’s mobile again. He wanted to surprise Sid.
Nathan dug around inside the rucksack. Nothing but stray seam threads. His gaze landed on the rain gear he’d dumped by the bedside, having grabbed it up on his way out of the house. He leapt toward it and landed hard on his knees. He pawed through the pockets of his coat until he found his wallet.
There. Tucked into an empty credit card slot.
He sagged against the bed. The static and crackle eased off. He flattened the slip of paper on the floor and picked up his mobile again. Dialing the number felt logical and sure.
After several rings, the line picked up. “’Allo?”
Nathan’s voice caught in his throat, but a sound must have registered through the digital airwaves. Sid chuckled. “It’s yourself calling, is it? About bloody time.”
sixty-nine
Sunday, 4-Apr
Guess who called me out of a beautiful sleep? Nathan can’t resist me. I applaud his compulsion. We both flirt with disaster, though I wager I understand his better than he does mine.
Give the poor bastard a week of deep sleep, and he’d become reliable in his thinking. Boot Zoe out of his house, and he might live in a contented fashion. I think you’d agree, dear Annie, that he’s his own unreliable narrator. Even more fascinating, he may know the truth but veer away from it because he knows himself to be unreliable. It must be confusing for a man like him.
Which leads me to think about psychotic breaks. After all, I studied up long and hard to convince the doctors and legal system that I was such a victim, too. Education is an amazing source of power. Teaches you the best buttons to push when needed. I’m not going t
o be the one who ends up in a psych ward again.
Nathan and I have a date to keep today. Happy Easter to me.
seventy
Danny held the children’s hands as they trotted through the rain into the party pavilion. Droplets streamed down the glass walls but inside all was warmth and faery lights. Bunting and circular paper globes festooned the ceiling, which rose into circus tent peaks high above their heads. The children were all goggle-eyed wonder. “This is an air castle,” Petey said.
Near the entrance, Mrs. O’Brien manned a welcome table. She liked welcome tables; this way she could monitor the arrivals. She waved them toward her and cooed at the children for a moment before addressing Danny.
“Children’s activities start in about fifteen minutes. We’re expecting more families to arrive from late Mass. There will be an egg hunt and face painting and puppet shows. Plenty for the children to occupy themselves. You’ll see the stations around the marquee.” With a sour expression, she pointed to a chalk circle drawn on the ground. “And something called a ‘cake walk.’ That was Merrit’s idea from the States to replace our traditional cake dance.”
Danny surveyed the space, at the far end of which sat a stage with dance area. Pockets of lounging areas with circular padded benches lined one side of the marquee, while communal dining tables lined the other. The cake walk circle adorned the ground in the center of the marquee and big bunches of balloons marked various stations for children’s games.
“Where’s the egg hunt going to be?” Mandy said.
“On the other side of the rope. You can’t go there yet, or you’ll find the eggs too early.”
A braided cordon blocked off most of the marquee. The first arrivals blew in with the wet wind and congregated near the entrance. Mrs. O’Brien explained the food. “Picnic to start with a potluck buffet. That was also Merrit’s suggestion. Liam was generous enough to provide catering for later. There will be a no-host bar, too.” She sniffed. “I don’t approve of alcohol on Easter Sunday, but I suppose it can’t be helped.”
The children jerked on Danny’s hands and he released them to join several other kids gathered to wait for the egg hunt. There was something to be said for distraction. The children had been curiously silent about Ellen’s great Easter awakening, but he’d caught significant looks aimed in his direction that filled him with sorrow and frustration—frustration with himself that he didn’t know how to communicate the ultimate truth to them in a way they would understand. Sudden death would actually have been easier to explain to them.
