by Karen Hall
“What do you mean ‘really’? You knew it.”
“I was hoping you would say she was your secretary and calm me down.”
He could see the disappointment in her face and it pained him.
“We’re in the process of breaking up,” he offered. “If that makes you feel any better.”
“Really?”
“I think so,” he said, unable to lie.
Barbara gave it a respectful nanosecond of silence, then lobbed the next round.
“Was she the first?”
“Second. But the other was before first vows, so she doesn’t count.”
“That’s a relief, I guess.”
“Barbara, I’m not cavalier about my vows. I should have seen this coming and avoided it, but I didn’t.”
“What about God?”
“What about Him?”
“You two aren’t breaking up, are you?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll just agree to see other people.”
Barbara nodded and tried to smile. She wiped a tear.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Me too,” she managed to whisper.
An hour later he stood in the living room and wondered what to do with himself. He didn’t want to spend the morning sorting through Vincent’s possessions. That had been hard enough before he’d known about Vincent’s past. Now he couldn’t even stand the thought of going into Vincent’s study. He couldn’t think of anywhere he could stand the thought of being right now.
Barbara wandered in, carrying the newspaper and still reading it. She had calmed down from discovering his fall from grace, but her voice was slightly cold as she addressed him. There was a wall between them now.
“Michael, do you know a guy in Barton named Jackson Landry?”
Michael shook his head. “Why?”
“You really should read this.”
“What?”
“It’s an article about this weird family. It’s just bizarre. These parents had four sons. One drowned under suspicious circumstances. One was a psycho who opened fire on a Christmas Eve service and killed five people. He was eventually executed. The youngest son became a successful novelist; then, last week, for no known reason, he robbed a liquor store and killed the clerk, then threw himself out a fifteenth-story window. And the parents both committed suicide. The father blew his brains out about a year after the first son died, and the mother slit her wrists on the anniversary of the other son’s execution.”
Michael didn’t know how to respond, since he had only heard about every third word. He sipped coffee and pretended to be contemplating it.
“This Jackson Landry is the oldest son, who seems to have remained unscathed so far. Wonder what his secret is.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard of these people. I’d think they’d be the talk of the town.”
“They might be. I’m not exactly up on the local gossip.”
“Oh, wow,” she said, still reading. “You’re going to love this. The guy who wrote this story interviewed the mother right after her son’s Christmas Eve killing spree. She told him the family had a curse on it and was being haunted by a demon.”
“Really?”
“She said the reason it happened on Christmas Eve was that Satan was pissed off about people celebrating Jesus’s birthday.”
“Are you serious?” he asked. Now she had his attention.
“Well, she didn’t say ‘pissed off.’ She said ‘angry.’ ”
“Where did she come up with this theory?”
“A fortune-teller told her she had, quote, ‘inherited a horrible debt.’ And she also had a recurring dream that she was surrounded by a bunch of men in long black robes and the leader told her he had conjured a demon and attached it to her husband’s bloodline and they were all going to die. I love how she puts it off on the husband—”
Michael took the paper out of Barbara’s hands.
“Hey, I wasn’t finished—”
“Why is this story being printed now?” he asked.
“Because the novelist-son-who-shot-the-liquor-store-cashier-and-then-jumped-out-a-window thing just happened a few days ago. I remember seeing a little blurb about it. ‘Georgia-Born Novelist Robs Liquor Store, Kills Self.’ It didn’t seem like much of—”
“When did you see that?”
“I don’t know. A few days ago.”
“Before Vincent died?”
She thought about it. “Oh, yeah. It was the day Vincent died. I was sitting here reading the paper and waiting for you to call.”
Michael heard Vincent’s voice on the tape: “. . . I saw something this morning . . .” And Vincent had been reading the paper when Michael had arrived at the hospital that morning. Was it the story of the novelist he’d seen? Was it just that he was obsessed with another demon-infested family? Possibly. But on the tape, he’d made it sound like whatever he’d seen was connected to the horrible thing he’d done. How could Vincent have had any connection to the novelist-turned-murderer and the family from hell?
“Oh, my God,” Michael said as the answer dawned on him.
“What?”
Michael went to the kitchen, found the piece of paper with Edna Foley’s phone number, picked up the phone, and dialed. Barbara was not far behind.
“Who are you calling?” she asked.
“In a minute,” he said, waving her off. The phone rang twice, then Edna picked it up. “Hello?”
“Edna, it’s Father Kinney. I’m sorry to bother you. I need to know Rebecca’s last name.”
Edna snorted. “You got a lot of nerve calling here. She been sick ever since you left. They put her in the hospital last night, said she’s in a coma. And if she dies, I consider you owe me a job.”
“If you want to keep the one you have, you’d better tell me her name.”
“It’s Landry,” Edna said. “L-A-N—”
“I know how it’s spelled,” he said quietly.
Jesus God, I was right.
“Edna, do you know the name of the baby?”
“What baby?”
“Rebecca’s baby. The one you told me about.”
“Why are you asking me?”
Michael decided to take a shot. “Because I read the article.”
Silence on the other end of the phone. Beside him, Barbara was whispering.
“You found Edna Foley? Why didn’t you tell me? Who is she?”
Michael ignored Barbara and continued to drill Edna. “The father of the Landry family was Rebecca’s son, wasn’t he?”
Still no answer.
“Wasn’t he, Edna?” Michael pressed.
“I don’t have to answer that.”
You just did.
He hung up. “Oh, my God,” he said again.
“Michael, would you please tell me what is going on?” Barbara asked.
Vincent must have wanted me in Barton because this Jackson Landry was there. His last living grandson from the demonic side of the family. The only one who hasn’t spilled any blood. Yet.
“Michael?” Barbara asked again.
“What the hell did he think I could do?” Michael asked out loud.
“What did who think?”
“Barbara, just . . . I can’t,” he said. He handed the newspaper back to her and went back to his room. His mind was racing, pasting the story together.
Vincent’s illegitimate son, conceived during a Black Mass, became the father of the family from hell . . . He had four sons of his own . . . two killed themselves, one was executed . . . Two sons took other people’s lives . . . One son left . . . Vincent’s other grandson, what a thought . . . Only the two of us left . . . the two of us and the demon.
Outside it had begun to rain hard. Hail was beating on the window like the cracking of hundreds of tiny whips. A loud clap of thunder made the house shudder; Michael shuddered with it.
The smell returned. Stronger than before. Michael gagged so hard he had to hold on to the b
edpost. With his free hand, he fished a handkerchief out of the duffel bag and held it to his nose. It helped enough that he could draw small breaths.
“Get . . . out of . . . here,” he managed to say.
I was invited.
The bum’s voice. Danny’s demon voice. Michael couldn’t tell whether it was in his head or actually in the room.
“I . . . command . . . you . . .”
Oh, do you?
Michael’s sides were aching from trying to breathe in the foul air. He searched the duffel bag for a crucifix. And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the smell was gone. The voice was gone. Even the sound of the hail was gone. The room was still.
Michael dropped to his knees, leaned his arms on the bed.
Jesus. I can’t do this. He’s right. I can’t fight him. And You know that. What do You expect me to do?
Silence.
Look, if this is about Good and Evil, You’d better find someone else for this side of the fence.
Silence.
What do you WANT?
Silence.
Stone-cold, infuriating, silence.
BOOK THREE
They are what saves the world: who choose to grow
Thin to a starting point beyond this squalor.
—Mary Oliver, “On Winter’s Margin”
THE CHOICE
ONE
“What are you in such a funk about?” Randa’s mother asked. Randa had lost count of how many times Jane had asked some version of that question since she’d arrived. Three times since they’d sat down to dinner, and this was her third night home. But Jane would keep asking until Randa gave her an answer she could sink her fangs into.
“I told you, Mom. I’m just tired.”
“Well, if you’re gonna fly across the country to sit and mope, I don’t need any more surprises.”
Don’t worry.
Randa speared a broccoli floret and let most of the Velveeta drip off before she put it in her mouth.
“You oughta be on your knees, thanking God you’re still alive,” Jane said.
What is this about?
“You think I don’t read the papers?” Jane asked, her charm bracelet clinking against the Corelle ware. “I know you think I’m dumb, but I do read the papers.”
“Mom, I don’t think you’re dumb.”
“I read what happened to your boyfriend.”
Oh, hell.
There must have been something in the Atlanta Constitution about Cam, Randa realized. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Because apparently she was incapable of rational thought these days. If she’d thought, she’d still be in LA. If she’d thought, she wouldn’t have spent the night with yet another Landry. If she’d thought, she wouldn’t have been surprised to wake up and discover he’d walked out on her. And if she’d thought, she certainly wouldn’t have decided that the cure for her latest broken heart was to come running to a woman who made her want to throw herself into a concrete mixer just to get some relief.
“I told you,” Jane said. “Back when you were telling me how wonderful he was and he wasn’t like the rest of his family. I said, ‘Randa, he’s trash. You can dress trash up and put perfume on it and give it all the money in the world, it’s still gonna be trash.’ ”
“Well, Mom, he’s dead now, so you can relax.”
“And so is that poor store clerk. You think he didn’t have a family that loved him? Why don’t you feel sorry for his family, if you want to feel sorry for somebody’s family?”
“What makes you think I don’t?”
“Hmph.”
Randa got up and headed for her room. The only thing that had changed since high school was that her father wasn’t there to yell at the two of them about their inability to get along.
“You can get mad at me all you want,” Jane called behind her.
Randa sat on her bed and stared at her suitcase. She’d left everything packed in case she needed to flee at a moment’s notice. She could even leave right now. She wondered if the relief of leaving would be worth hearing about it for the rest of her life and decided probably not. And besides, it wasn’t like she had somewhere to go.
She had two choices, as she saw them. She could get on a plane and go back to LA, return to her lousy job (assuming Keith hadn’t successfully lobbied to have her fired by now), and when people asked where she’d been, she could say she’d gone to Santa Barbara for a few days of rest. And that would be the end of the entire sorry Landry saga. Three or four or twenty years from now, she might even stop feeling like a fool.
Or she could go back to Barton. She could knock on his door and demand an explanation. If she sounded angry enough, her groveling might even disguise itself as self-righteous indignation—a display of strength and courage. And he might offer an explanation that resembled the truth. That way, when she went home to get on with her life, she’d have one more piece of the puzzle with which to torment herself.
One scenario sounded about as appealing as the other.
“Randa?” Jane knocked on the door. “You’re missing a good movie.” Randa didn’t answer, hoping Jane would think she was asleep. “It’s a true story about that teacher who got fired for hanging the Ten Commandments in her classroom.” Well, good. Now she could spend a relaxing evening arguing with Jane about the Establishment Clause.
“No, thanks. I have a headache.”
“Well, you might as well have it out here. At least you won’t be bored. You know who plays in it? That woman who played on that show you used to like . . .”
Randa relented, since she knew from prior experience that resistance was futile. She lay on the sofa and pretended to watch the movie while Jane provided political color commentary. (“Pretty soon the government’s gonna make it so you can’t even pray in church.” )
“Mom?” Randa asked, her voice rising over a tampon commercial, “why do you believe in God?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
A direct one. The unpardonable sin . . .
“I just wondered.”
“Well . . . because I’ve read the Bible,” Jane said, as if nothing could be simpler or more obvious.
“How do you know it’s true?” Randa asked.
“Because,” Jane said firmly, “I just do.” She furrowed her eyebrows and fixed her gaze on the television screen.
“That’s not a reason,” Randa said.
“Randa, don’t you come into my house with your California atheist shit.”
“I just asked a question.”
“Well, I gave you my answer and you didn’t like it.”
Randa opened her mouth to speak again; she was cut off by a harsh “Shhhh!” Jane picked up the remote control and turned the volume up a couple of notches.
Randa set her alarm clock for five a.m. When it rang, she got up, wrote a note to Jane saying she’d decided to take an earlier flight, and drove off into the dark. She headed for the airport, but when she got to the exit, she could not make herself turn. She kept driving. She stopped in McDonough for gas and in Griffin for a peach milk shake. Neither pause weakened her resolve, now that it had a life of its own. It was a little past nine o’clock when she drove into Barton.
She didn’t give herself time to think about what she was doing. She parked in front of the boardinghouse, walked determinedly straight to his door, and knocked. She prayed to anyone who might be listening that he was there. She didn’t want to have this confrontation at Tillie’s—though why she cared what the good citizens of Barton thought about her was beyond her comprehension.
The door opened and Jack stared at her; his eyes had a glazed look and she wondered if he was on something. He didn’t speak, forcing her to take the offensive.
“What did you think?” she asked. “That I’d wake up, see you were gone, and just nonchalantly hop a plane back to LA?”
“You should have.”
His voice was different now, in some way she couldn’t pinpoint. He turned and walked away,
leaving her at the door. She followed.
Everything in the formerly immaculate apartment was askew. The air was stale and smelled of cigarettes and cheap whiskey. There were dirty clothes lying across the unmade bed. His nice clothes from the Ritz-Carlton night were thrown haphazardly across the back of the sofa.
Jack looked worse than the apartment. He obviously hadn’t shaved since she’d last seen him. His eyes were bloodshot. He was wearing khaki pants and a denim shirt, the latter unbuttoned and both as wrinkled as if he’d slept in them. Which couldn’t be true, since he looked like he hadn’t slept in a decade.
He picked up a pack of cigarettes from the desk, lit one, blew smoke toward the kitchen.
“Jack, the James Dean act is cute, but can we cut the—”
“Look, you knew who I was!” It was loud. Randa felt herself jump. “I didn’t want to go in the first place!” he said. “It was your brainstorm!”
“Well, that night you seemed to think it was a good brainstorm,” Randa offered feebly, trying to maintain what little composure she still possessed.
“Yeah? So what? When have you ever met a guy who complained about getting laid? You think that proves something? Is that your big accomplishment?”
Randa felt as if someone were scraping her throat with hot sandpaper. She didn’t even try to speak.
He walked into the kitchen and dumped ashes in the sink. She watched and wondered what to do. He came back, looking no less angry. Stood and stared at her. She searched his eyes for any sign of compassion and found none.
“Randa, go home,” he said. “You’re all out of brothers.” As soon as she could force her legs to move, she turned and left. He was standing in the same spot when she slammed the door.
TWO
Michael and Barbara had finished the first round of cleaning out Vincent’s house by midafternoon. Barbara waited for the St. Vincent de Paul truck while Michael drove the forty-five minutes to the Jesuit villa with a large box of books that Vincent had asked be donated to the library there. Michael had a key to the villa and spent much of the way semi-praying he’d be able to drop them off without encountering Gabe Novak.
Michael turned down the long driveway, which was lined with enormous oak trees on either side, planted when the driveway was just a gravel-strewn path of red clay traveled only by horse and carriage. The villa itself was a beautiful Greek Revival antebellum plantation house, with large white columns and a porch surrounded by crape myrtle. Due north of Atlanta, it sat on an eleven-acre lake just off the Etowah River basin. It had been in shambles when Vincent had bought it with the intention of restoring it and donating it to the Society of Jesus to use as a villa, so that Michael and other Jesuits within driving distance could have it as a getaway. Vincent had done his usual immaculate job, but Michael had transferred to the New York province to take the job at the magazine, and hadn’t seen the place in years.
