The Halo Effect: A Novel

by Anne D. LeClaire

  “There are no worms,” she said after several minutes.

  “No worms?” Christ, what a disaster it was turning into.

  “Words,” she said. “There are no words I can say to convey how very sorry I am about what happened to your daughter.”

  I shifted my gaze to the room’s one window and stared out on the street.

  “Okay,” she said, her tone now all business. She reached into a small refrigerator—the squat, blocklike cube like those students kept in dorm rooms—removed two bottles of water, and handed one across the desk to me. The phone on her desk rang, and she pressed the mute button and let the call go to voice mail.

  “Let’s start with this. I don’t think you’re overreacting. The fact is that you pushed her, she fell, and as a result sustained an injury.”

  “A scrape. For Christ’s sake. She just scraped her knee.”

  Again she arched her brow. “And apparently was upset enough to report it to the police.”

  “But hasn’t followed through on it.”

  “Look, Will, I’m not here to debate you,” she said. “If you decide to go ahead with me, you need to understand that I’m here to represent you, to act in your best interests.”

  No problem there. I had no intention of going ahead with her. I had seen Payton Hayes, agreed to see Donaldson. In my mind I had fulfilled my promise to Sophie, and I just wanted to leave and get something to eat. I was light-headed with hunger.

  “And in return I ask that you tell me everything so if we go ahead with this, I’m not hit with any surprises down the road.”

  “As I said, this is probably a waste of both of our time. I think the best thing is for me to wait and see if this whole thing just goes away. Certainly that seems to be what is happening.”

  Her eyes—green I now noticed—searched my face. “And you’re okay with that, with waiting to see?”

  “I don’t see much choice.”

  “There is always a choice.”

  “Really?” I didn’t bother to mask my sarcasm.

  “Let’s say you’re right—the best-case scenario is Hurley doesn’t follow up on this. From what you’ve told me the injury wasn’t serious, discounting bruised pride, so she might decide this isn’t worth the trouble to pursue.” She paused to twist the cap off the bottle, took a drink. “So you’re right. You could sit tight and see how it plays out. But there’s another way this could be handled. Another choice. A more proactive approach.”

  “Proactive?”

  “You could stop any action on her part before the court system gets involved.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She came to your home to interview you, correct?”

  “Right.”

  “So you phone her.”

  “I phone her?”

  “Yes. You defuse the situation. You apologize. Say you were caught off guard with her questions, tell her how traumatic the year has been.”

  “You’ve got to be freaking kidding.”

  Donaldson continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “And then you give her what she wants. You agree to an interview.”

  “Forget it. Not happening.”

  “Why don’t you take the weekend to think it over. To consider it.”

  “No need. It’s not happening.” I pushed out of the chair. “What do I owe you for today?”

  “Today is a consultation. There’s no charge. If after you think it over you decide you want to continue, or if the reporter does follow through and swears out a complaint, I’ll require a retainer. From that point on you would refer everything to me. Anyone who contacts you—police, her lawyer, reporters, anyone at all—you’d refer them to me.”

  “Nothing is going to happen.”

  She studied me for a moment. “Okay then. We’re done here then.”

  She ushered me to the door. “Good luck, Will.”

  Outside, in spite of the warmth of the May sun, I shivered.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Despite the burnished light of late afternoon and the mild temperature outside, Father Gervase regretted not having worn a heavier sweater when he’d come out to the chapel.

  May had turned to June but the stone-slabbed floor still held a lingering chill of winter, and now it seeped through the thin soles of his shoes. Set at the edge of a small plot behind the church, the chapel had been built decades ago at the bequest of a parishioner as a place in which to hold small weddings, baptisms, and other services and as a quiet retreat for those who wished to use it for meditation or prayer, but since the custodian reported finding several syringes beneath the pews and even, to the Rosary Society’s horror, used condoms, parishioners wishing to use the space were required to sign for the key.

  The rectory study was warmer, and certainly he would be more comfortable there, but he’d formed the habit of retreating to the chapel when writing a homily for the Sunday masses. There he was less likely to be interrupted, and the stillness allowed him the necessary space in which to reflect. Now, as he absorbed the quiet, a lambent ray cut through the chapel at a low angle, and its beam fell beneath a pew to his left, where it settled on a small object, obviously overlooked the last time that Wayne Jervis swept. From a distance, it was not clear what it was. The priest hoped their part-time custodian hadn’t neglected to lock up after he cleaned, once more leaving the chapel open for illicit meetings or drug dealings. At one time it would have been inconceivable to use a holy space for such things, but it was Father Gervase’s sorrowful knowledge that times had changed, and not even church property was exempt from fornication and theft. As he returned his attention to the homily, he made a note to retrieve the object when he left.

  It was unusual for him to leave the writing of the homily to this late in the week, as he usually had it written by Wednesday, but the past three days he had been overwhelmed with duties. In addition to the usual demands of his schedule, there had been two funerals—Manny Costa’s on Monday and Elizabeth Spellman’s on Tuesday afternoon—and on Wednesday morning the christening of the Rodriguez infant. Christenings and funeral masses, he thought, the bookends of the earthly Christian life. And then on Thursday, there had been the extended counseling session with Joseph and Sylvia Ramos. In spite of his best efforts, it was clear that their union was on a paved path to divorce and heartbreak. Another failure on his growing list of disappointments, although the Ramos family would be a challenge for even the most skilled counselor, which Father Gervase had never claimed to be. According to Sylvia Ramos, their problems began last fall when their sixteen-year-old daughter became pregnant. She said Joseph placed the blame at her feet, but from all the blustering Joseph did and the way he avoided looking at either of them directly, Father Gervase suspected there was truth to the rumor that another woman was involved. Patiently, he had listened to them both, had spoken about how at various times in life one was faced with the long process of feeling hurt and lost, betrayed and abandoned, but with work it was possible to come out on the other end of these experiences wiser and more compassionate. The couple had stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language and one they had no interest in learning, let alone mastering. How he wished they had gone to Father Burns for pastoral guidance.

  And overshadowing everything all week was this business with Will Light. Father Gervase could still hear the echo of Will’s words when he’d left the rectory two weeks ago: tell your cardinal to find someone else to paint your goddamn saints. He lacked the courage to pass this message on, even discreetly edited, and so had been avoiding the bishop’s calls. At some point he knew he’d have to report in. All in all, a difficult week, and it was the weight of this long week that had given rise to the subject of this homily. He stared down at the notepad on which he had copied the words of Paul, one of the most prolific of the apostles. We are subjected to every kind of hardship, but never distressed; we see no way out, but we never despair. Second Corinthians. This scripture had proved a source of comfort to many, himself among them, and yet in spite o
f the wisdom of sacred writings and the power of prayer, he understood too well that despair and hardship remained a daily condition. His thoughts returned to Will Light, and he knew that even if the artist listened to his homilies they would be no match for the depth of his anger, rage he had recognized on his first visit and feared the risk it posed to Will. In the past Father Gervase had seen the damage rage could do when it morphed into violence. He had been plagued with a growing belief that he had somehow been called to reach Will and help him. The call. Wasn’t that the word Father Gartland had used? The older priest had been the spiritual director when he was at the seminary and one day told him he saw in him the potential to be an excellent counselor. “In fact,” he said, “I think you have a calling for it. You might ignore it, but it will not ignore you. For what are we asked to do but counsel? And console. Remember, Paul, when the call comes, you must answer it.”

  He tried to turn aside these thoughts. He was too old and too tired for this business with Will Light, which technically was not his job anyway since the fact was that Will was not a member of the parish, not even a member of his faith.

  He shifted on the bench, unable to get settled. The cold crept up his ankles and calves. In addition to the discomfort of the chilly chapel and elusive words for his homily, there was the growing distress in his stomach, indigestion brought on by the dish Mrs. Jessup had served for lunch, a heavy kale soup loaded with kidney beans and chunks of linguica that now caused him to belch and rub his belly, regretting every spoonful. He no longer tolerated rich or spicy foods as easily as he once had, a function of aging, he supposed. He’d broached the subject with Mrs. Jessup several times, but her back stiffened at his comments, which she took as criticism of her cooking. “Father Burns has no complaints,” she’d said through thin lips. Mrs. Jessup had raised eight children and ruled the rectory kitchen like a tyrant, and in truth he was afraid of her. Just the thought of approaching her again about the delicacy of his digestion made him weary. Perhaps he should lie down for a bit. But no. He had the homily to write.

  He returned again to the fundamental questions of humanity. Why did we have suffering, evil, pain? How did we build resiliency? How did we hold steady in the midst of the storm? He closed his eyes to reflect. From the near distance, the noise of a lawn mower reached him, and he was comforted by this ordinary, domestic sound. A few minutes passed. In spite of the chill that had now reached his knees and the discomfort of gas beneath his ribs, his breathing slowed, his chin dropped, and his mind drifted from the task at hand. He closed his eyes and soon slipped into the space his mother used to call twilight time, where he was neither sleeping nor fully awake, a suspended limbo land between dream and consciousness. The chapel grew warmer, as if a heater had been switched on, and he relaxed into this unexpected warmth.

  Minutes passed, and later Father Gervase would believe he had fallen asleep. Behind his closed lids, a vision materialized: a young woman clothed in a simple gown of linen, a cowl draped at the neck and a halo of braids coiled around her head. There was a sense of the familiar about her, and as recognition dawned, a sensation spread through his chest that was a blending of pain and joy and pulled him fully awake. The vision was Cecelia, his sister grown into the adulthood she’d never known in life. His family history trembled like a timber hut built on fault lines. The notepad slipped from his hand, and he tried to put the tragedy of Cecelia back in the past where it belonged, but it remained with him like a suitcase he had carried on a long journey. All possibility of finishing the homily faded, and he knew the futility of continuing to struggle with it while haunted by the past. He closed the notebook and clipped his pen to the cover, then stood. He took a moment for blood to flow to his protesting arthritic joints, knew the inevitability of a cane in the near future.

  Before he left the chapel, he remembered to pick up the piece of trash beneath the pew. He was relieved to see it was not a needle or worse. Only a child’s toy, a small plastic figure. He slipped it in his pocket and departed, taking care to lock the door behind him. Then as he often did when his mind sought perspective and his heart sought calm, he walked not back to the rectory but down to the harbor and the sea.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I walked across the sand toward the wooden bench where Sophie waited.

  Earlier that day when Sophie had suggested we meet at “our bench,” I’d felt a stirring of hope. On summer evenings shortly after we married, we’d formed the habit of taking an after-dinner stroll here, and although alcohol was forbidden on the public beach, we would share the illicit pleasure of drinking Chardonnay while the sun set over the water.

  That day, for obvious reasons more compelling than town bylaws, I walked toward my wife with hands devoid of wine. “Hey, Soph,” I said. Her hair had grown out a bit from the severe cut and framed her face softly, making her look more like the woman I married. The woman from Before. I sat at her side, close enough to smell the fragrance she was wearing, something spicy and unfamiliar. I hesitated, then brushed her cheek with a kiss.

  She slipped off her sandals and flexed her toes, digging them into the sand. “I’ve been waiting to hear,” she said.

  I was lost. “Hear what?”

  “About your appointment with the lawyer Payton recommended. How did it go?”

  More than a week had passed since I’d seen Donaldson, and in truth, I had put it behind me the moment I’d walked out of her office. “I think we can let it go for now. It’s probably a big to-do about nothing.”

  “Nothing? I don’t know, Will. It doesn’t sound like nothing. You’re charged with assault and you call it nothing?”

  “Not charged. There’s no charge, Sophie.”

  She stared at me, skeptical.

  “I’ve got it covered, Sophie.”

  “You’ve got it covered?” A couple walking past turned and looked at us. “Exactly what does that mean?”

  “What it means is, like I said, a charge hasn’t actually been filed. Jesus, Soph. I didn’t hit the woman. I pushed. She fell down.”

  “Still.”

  Still.

  “Oh, Will, Will. What were you thinking?”

  I wondered how many times we were going to go over this. “I wasn’t thinking. I reacted. Okay? I reacted. Look, can we just drop the subject? It’s in the past. Nothing has come of it and I really don’t need another lecture on my behavior.”

  A curtain of silence fell between us. Sophie looked down at her hands, now clasped together in her lap as if in prayer. At the water’s edge three children played. The boy was busy with a pail and shovel. Another child, smaller, sprawled prone, making snow angels in the sand while her sister turned cartwheels. Farther down the beach a group of high school kids were tossing a Frisbee. One of them had brought a black Lab, and the dog darted from player to player, following the arc of the toy. I watched as the disc again sailed through the air and the Lab, with perfect timing, made a twisting leap and took it in midair, then ran from the group. Several of the boys gave chase while the girls cheered the dog on.

  “Will?”

  A tall boy had turned from the pursuit and now veered toward the most slender of the girls, a blonde who stood a head shorter. Sensing his intent, she ran but he caught her easily, then lifted her in the air, as if she weighed no more than a leg of lamb, and headed for the water, threatening to throw her in. Watching them, I remembered what Sophie had once said about the teenage boys she saw each day at school, how their testosterone levels were so high the air around them shimmered with it and a person could get pregnant just walking by. The girl’s shrieks of mock distress floated up to where we sat. The muscles tensed in my thighs, my shoulders, knotted my jaw. I watched as the boy swung her over the surf, her toes skimming the surface. The rest of the group had turned their attention from the dog and gathered at the water’s edge to observe. “Do it, Eric,” one of the boys called. “I dare you to throw her in.” For a minute, it appeared Eric was going to follow through and that the girl, defenseless
in his arms, would land in the water, but at the last minute, he set her down in the sand. “Coward,” another boy taunted.

  I swallowed against the sour taste rising in my throat, against my intense and sudden hatred of these boys. It could have been anyone, I thought. Anyone.

  “Will.” Sophie’s voice yanked my attention back, although the thought still circled in my head. It could have been anyone. I knew not to share this with her.

  “Hiss at them,” she said.

  “What?” Had she read my mind?

  “I miss them.”

  “Who?”

  “Them.” She nodded toward the group of teenagers. “I hadn’t expected to miss them this much.”

  “Them?” I spit the word out. “You miss them?”

  “I do.”

  “Even knowing . . .”

  “Knowing what, Will?”

  I could no longer stay quiet. “It could have been one of them. It could have, you know.”

  She made a sound.

  “What?” I said.

  “Oh, Will.” She shifted on the bench until she faced me directly. She reached across the short distance that separated us and laid her hand on my knee, warming the patch of skin beneath the fabric of my trousers. “It hurts me to see you this way.”

  “What way?”

  “Bitter. Angry. Looking at everything—everyone—with cynical eyes.”

  “And what exactly would you have me do? Pretend the world is all good? Pretend evil doesn’t exist? If I’m sure of one thing, Soph, it’s that evil exists. It lives right here in this town. And that’s the truth.”

  “There are many truths, Will. We decide what truth we choose to hold.”

  “Spare me.”