“James,” I say again. “Are you okay?”
“I thought you said you couldn’t come back.” James’s voice comes out from the innards of the organ. He sounds weak.
“I changed my mind.” I pause. “How did you get in there?”
“Carefully.”
“Where does it open?”
“On the left. It wasn’t hard, really. The whole thing is falling apart.”
I move my hand up the seam of the organ, gasp as it gives way slightly beneath my fingers.
“Careful,” James whispers. “Don’t make any noise.”
Somehow, the whole side of it slides horizontally, almost like a hidden panel door, just enough so that I can finally see James sitting within its hollow insides. The space is so narrow, the height so compromised, that he is practically bent over the waist. Even with his injured leg, both of his knees are slightly raised. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “You must be dying in there.”
He nods grimly, his face shiny with perspiration. “I kept hearing people coming in. And then footsteps on the stairs. That’s when I got worried.”
“You want to get back out?”
He’s breathing with difficulty again. “How many of them are still down there?”
“Hold on.” I turn toward the balcony, raise myself up to the lip of it as far as I dare. If Father Delaney is sitting on the altar, I’m done for. Slowly, slowly, until my eyes are level with the hanging figure of Jesus on the cross. An inch more, until I can see the altar. There are at least a dozen bouquets of pink-and-white flowers arranged in a semicircle around the front of it. A few feet away, Father Delaney’s chair is empty. Okay. Little bit higher, until the pews are in view. There’s a middle-aged couple on the right. The woman has a scarf over her head; the man’s coat is still on. Behind them is the older woman in the heavy green coat I saw walking in. And over on the left-hand side is a man and another woman. Both with heads bowed, lips moving silently across the knuckles of their folded hands.
I crawl back over until I can see James again, and hold up one palm, fingers spread wide. He nods. “Hold on. When they go, I’ll move again.”
I drag the knapsack over, take out a bottle of water. His arm is already outstretched by the time I look back up. I give it to him, go back in, and take out two peanut butter sandwiches. But he shakes his head when I slide them through the opening. “You gotta eat something,” I say. “You’ll get too weak.”
“I don’t want food,” he says. “Just water.”
“That’s ridicu—”
“I’ve already pissed myself twice,” he says hoarsely. There is a slight menacing look on his face, his eyes are flat. “I don’t want to sit in anything else.”
Oh my God. I didn’t even think of such a thing. How could I not have thought of such a basic thing? “Oh,” I say. “Right. Well, you . . . you’re gonna need clothes, then. Clean pants. Underwear.”
“I wouldn’t worry about underwear. But pants might be good.”
We both stop whispering again as the sound of people moving through the vestibule, and then the outer doors, is heard. I crawl back over to the balcony, peer over once more. Only the woman in the green coat is left; the other four have gone. She’s moved closer to the front for some reason. The gold tabernacle is just a few feet away from her now; inside, a dark red flame is flickering, like a beacon. Or a warning.
I crawl back over to James. “Only one person left.”
He nods. “I’m going to turn around. Then I’ll need your help.”
I watch him twist and squirm within the cramped confines, until I finally have to look away. He is in so much pain moving even the slightest bit, clenching his jaw so that he will not scream out, that it feels as if something inside of me will cry out on its own. This is ridiculous, I want to say. Just turn yourself in. Anything that comes next can’t be as bad as this. The words are on my lips. And then I think of Mr. Herron. Of Randy-Kid, and the hole and the feeling of being forgotten by everyone, even God.
I stay silent for the ten minutes that it takes him to get in a reverse position. Finally, gasping as quietly as possible, he says my name: “Bird.”
I reach under his arms and pull him out the rest of the way. It’s not easy, since he is much heavier than he looks, and I am hunched over, still trying to keep myself out of sight. There is a slight dip at the edge of the organ and when I pull his feet over it and they fall heavily to the floor, James gasps audibly. We both freeze, waiting for the woman downstairs to call out, but nothing comes. Finally, James nods. I drag him over to the wall, next to the empty water bottle, and sit him up against it.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Tell me you won’t go back in there.”
He closes his eyes, breathes in and out. The pungent scent of urine is apparent now, and when I look down at him, the front of his pants are wet. I’ll have to bring him new pants right away. Maybe on my way back over to Jane’s tonight. I can’t let him sit in his own urine all night. “Listen. I brought you a flashlight so that you can see a little better up here when it gets dark. And some stuff to set your leg with.”
James opens his eyes again and presses a finger to his lips. We stare at each other as a soft shuffling sound drifts up from downstairs, followed by a squeak of the vestibule door. I study his face, listening. The cut on his forehead has crusted over, but it looks deep. It should be cleaned and bandaged. The outside door closes softly and then it is quiet once more.
“Empty now?” James asks.
I scoot over to the balcony, peer over. The church is completely vacant, not a soul in sight. “Empty.”
“It won’t be for long,” James says. “Someone’s been here almost constantly during this Forty-Hour thing. Just a few hours, I think, where there hasn’t been anyone.” He pauses. “You brought a flashlight?”
I nod, shrug my shoulders. “You’re not insulted or anything, are you? I was just thinking how dark it probably gets . . .”
James smiles. “It does get dark. Real dark. Thanks. What’d you bring for my leg?”
“Just some wood and ties.” I reach over for the lumber, drag my knapsack as quietly as possible behind it. “One of my friends told me how to do this.”
“I thought you said you didn’t tell anyone.” Even whispered, James’s voice is sharp.
“I didn’t. It’s an old guy, whose house I clean. He used to be in the army and he was telling me a story about setting some guy’s leg in the war.” I wrap the wood in the soft pieces of cloth, and set them on either side of James’s leg. They could be an inch or so longer, I think, but still. It might work. He grunts when I push the one in a little closer, and then tilts his head back, wincing.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I say. “God, I’m sorry.”
“I think it’s broken in a few places.” He’s breathing hard. “Goddamned stairs over there. I didn’t even see the curve of them until it was too late. I fell back down about ten of them. You’re gonna have to go real slow.”
“Okay.” I focus hard as I start again, trying not to put unnecessary pressure on any part of his leg. My face flushes as my fingers brush against the front of his zipper, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Finally, when both pieces of wood are in place, I reach for the rubber ties. James’s face looks slightly more relaxed; he has stopped gritting his teeth.
“Did you say you clean houses now?” he whispers.
“Yeah.” I slide the first band under his heel, move it up so that it’s positioned around his ankle. “Me and my mother. We sort of have a business together.”
“Huh,” he says. “Whatever happened to nursing school?”
I freeze when he says that, as if he is holding the flashlight directly in my face, and then drop my eyes. I can’t believe he remembered. “Oh, you know. Things happen.”
“You can say that again,” James grunts.
“Oh, you know. Things happen.” I lift my head, meet his smile with my own, and pick up the ties again. “I’m surprised you remembe
red I wanted to go to nursing school.”
“I remember a lot of things about you.” The statement is benign—and so loaded at the same time—that I feel dizzy for a moment. He’s staring down at his leg, which I am still wrapping with the ties. “You’re good at it,” he says.
“Good at what?” I grunt, tying the last two pieces of rubber together while trying not to squeeze anything.
“This.” He nods toward his leg. “Fixing me up. You shouldn’t let that nursing thing of yours go, you know. It’d be a waste.”
I don’t say anything for a moment, until I remember something that James told me once. “What about you?” I ask. “You told me that that was your last year at the Burger Barn. And then you were leaving. Where’d you go?”
“I went out West for a year.” James drops his eyes. “Made it all the way to California. And then I came back. I’ve been here since.” He looks embarrassed admitting such a thing, ashamed even.
The next question on my lips dies as two male voices start talking downstairs. “I’m sorry I’m late, Father.” The man’s voice is loud, edged with excitement. “I was down at the police station, making a statement about the guy I saw running through my backyard this morning. Took longer than I expected it to.”
Father Delaney’s response is inaudible.
“It happened so fast,” the first man responds. “But I just told them the truth. I couldn’t really tell if it was him. But they’re checking all leads, you know, until they find him. The whole town is looking now. I guess every little bit helps.”
I’ll never know all the unspoken words that travel between James and me at that moment. The only thing I remember is the new fear in his eyes—and how much more I want to help him because of it. “Listen,” I say, shoving the materials back inside my backpack. “You can’t stay here. You just can’t. I have a bad feeling about it, with all these people coming in and out for this Forty Hours thing. I have a place I can take you. An empty house. Up at Moon Lake. You can stay there—in a real bed, with a shower and everything—until you decide what you want to do next.”
“I don’t want you to get involved any more than you already are,” James says. “Seriously. It could be dangerous.”
“Too late.” I zipper the backpack as quietly as possible. “I’m already involved. I’ll be back tonight with clean clothes, and then tomorrow night we’ll drive up to the house together.”
“It’s someone’s actual house?”
“It’s going to be Angus’s and my house. It’s just the apartment upstairs. The woman who owns it lives below, but she’s in Florida until next week.”
James nods slowly, as if thinking it through. “Okay,” he says finally. “If you’re sure it’ll be safe.”
“I’m sure.” I nod and inhale quickly.
It’s probably the least sure I’ve been about anything in a very long time.
Chapter 21
One of Jane’s four-year-old twin girls opens the door when I ring the bell. She’s smaller than Angus, dressed in blue striped leggings and a pink T-shirt. With her blond hair and blue eyes, she’s an almost perfect replica of her mother. “Hi,” she says, arranging a socked foot against the inside of the opposite leg. “I’m Greer. Who’re you?”
“I’m Bird.” I step inside and glance around. Jane is nowhere in sight. Upstairs, I can hear the muted sound of footsteps, the wail of an infant.
“Bird?” Greer seems oblivious to the noise. “Like a real bird? That’s your name?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Like a real bird. Isn’t that cool?”
“Sorta,” Greer says. “But kinda weird, too.”
I laugh. She reminds me a little of Angus. “Where’s your mom?”
Greer points to the steps. “Upstairs. Are you our new nanny?”
“No, no.” I head toward the bottom of the steps. “I’m your mom’s cleaning lady, remember? I help her keep the house nice and neat.” Greer sticks her thumb in her mouth as I talk. “Jane?” I call out. “It’s Bird! Can I come up?”
Greer jerks her thumb out of her mouth again with a soft sucking sound. “I hate Genevieve. I hope she never comes back.”
“You hate her?” Boy, Ma would have a field day with this kid. “Why would you hate your nanny?”
“I just do.” Greer’s little face is knotted in a scowl. “She’s mean.”
I put my purse down, take my shoes off, and line them up next to the door. Greer is close behind me as I head up the steps. “Jane?”
“She’s in her room,” Greer says matter-of-factly.
“Where’s your brother?” I ask. “And your sister?”
“Blake’s in his room playing video games and Greta’s with Momma and Olivia.”
Olivia’s cries are getting louder as I pad down the hallway with Greer, and the longer I go without seeing Jane, the weirder something feels. Where the hell is she? And if she’s in her room like Greer said, why is the baby still screaming?
Jane’s bedroom is about as big as Ma’s whole downstairs. Besides the king-sized bed, there is a full couch, a glass coffee table topped with an enormous plant, an oxblood leather La-Z-Boy chair, floor-to-ceiling drapes, and two matching loveseats, the pillows of which I am required to fluff every other day. Everything is awash in pale green and cream hues; even the potted tree in the corner with its emerald-colored leaves looks like it was made just for this room.
But the only thing I see when I look in now is Jane, who is sitting on the floor next to the bed, holding Olivia. Her hair has been shaken out of its usual neat ponytail, and she is not wearing shoes. The front of her white shirt is wrinkled, the buttons incorrectly buttoned, and one of her legs is bare, the legging pushed up almost to the knee. She is crying almost as hard as the baby, her face bright pink and streaked with tears. Poor Greta—who is Greer’s identical twin—is huddled in the corner, sucking her thumb, watching her mother with wide eyes.
I rush over immediately, kneel down in front of her. “Jane! What happened? Are you hurt?”
She shakes her head, squeezes her eyes tight. A thin film of snot has collected between her nose and upper lip, and she is only wearing one earring, a large diamond stud in the left ear. “I just can’t . . . get her to stop . . . crying.” The words stagger out of her mouth, in between gulps of breath.
I take the baby out of her arms. “Here. Let me try.”
Greer walks over to her mother and drapes her little hands around Jane’s neck. Greta gets up, too, and snuggles in on the other side. Jane’s crying lessens just a little, her cries interspersed now with hiccups.
I hold Olivia tight, rocking her back and forth as I stride throughout the room and keep one eye on Jane. The only other thing that left me feeling as desperate as the few times I’d had to leave Angus screaming in his crib was the fact that I had no one to call. Ma wasn’t an option; she’d responded to the initial news of my pregnancy with a “Well, good for you, Bernadette. I hope you’re happy now.” I’d stared at her for a full minute afterward, deliberating whether or not to tell her the truth about that night and then turned around and walked out of the room. For as exhausted as I was on those nights, I wouldn’t have called her if someone was holding a gun to my head. And there was no one else. I know what Jane is feeling now. I do.
Olivia is not interested in being swaddled or held. She kicks and arches her back as I try to hold her close, her fists curled tight as pinwheels. Tufts of her black hair are matted down with sweat, and her pink skin, usually the shade of a rosebud, is tinged a faint purple. I put her down on Jane’s bed, unwrap her from the blanket. Her yellow jumpsuit is soaked all the way through—urine or sweat, I can’t tell—and her last two toes are caught in the elastic part of the jumper, the thin string of it wrapped so tightly around them that they are almost blue. I free them quickly, and massage the tiny digits as I try to catch Jane’s attention from the other side of the bed. “Hey, Jane?”
She turns around, gets up on her knees, and leans against the enormous bed. Her eyes ar
e swollen. “Do you think she’s sick?”
“No.” I hesitate, afraid to tell her about Olivia’s toes, even though the baby’s crying has lessened considerably. She might blame herself for not having caught it. “She’s really wet, though. Sweaty and stuff. How about we give her a bath, cool her down a little? I think she’ll feel a lot better.”
Jane nods, wipes at her face with trembling hands. At the sign of their mother’s sudden improvement, Greer and Greta scramble up on the bed and start jumping. Jane looks at them for a moment, her shoulders sagging.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. “It’s all right, Jane. Let’s just focus on Olivia right now, okay?”
“Right,” she says, walking past the girls into the master bathroom. She moves with a slight limp for some reason, steadying herself along the wall as she goes.
I gather up Olivia, whose cries have eased even more by now and follow her. “You okay?” I ask, arranging Olivia on the rug so that I can take her out of her yellow jumpsuit. “You’re limping.”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” Jane takes a plastic baby tub out of one of the closets and puts it in the sink. She runs her fingers under a stream of water, testing the temperature, and then stands back, watching it fill. “I have an old back injury from way back when. It acts up when I’m really stressed out.” She laughs softly, embarrassed. “Or like today, when I haven’t had a chance to go pick up my Vicodin.”
Olivia’s bare skin is pink and moist; her hair damp around the edges. I pick her up, put my mouth close to her ear. “Here we go, baby. Nice warm water.” She smells like milk and baby shampoo and urine. It seems like a dream sometimes that Angus was ever this age. Like a very short, very strange dream. I place Olivia in the warm water, arranging her head against the rubber pillow, and scoop handfuls of water over her belly. Her cries are soft as a kitten’s now, a faint mewing. “There we go,” I say softly. “That’s better.”
Jane is standing next to me, leaning against the counter, just watching. I move over quickly. “Here. I don’t mean to—”
The Odds of You and Me Page 17
