Duane turned a few pages, looked at several of the other saints—Simon, Stephen, Sylvester—and then leafed back to Sebastian. “So back before—that day at the playground about a week ago. Remember? You said you wanted to ask me something . . .”
“Yes.” I was taken by surprise that Duane remembered that afternoon.
“Was that all you wanted? To ask me to pose for you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Why?”
“Why what, Duane?”
“Why do you want me to pose? Why do you want me to be Saint Sebastian?”
I was careful with my answer. “It’s hard to explain, but I saw something in you that drew me.”
“Like what?” The boy’s tone was wary, defensive, his face closed.
Again I considered. At the least I owed the boy honesty, and I wanted to define for him the qualities I had seen. “I guess I would say there is in you both vulnerability and strength.”
The boy stared at me, then blurted, “That’s exactly what Lucy said.”
My lungs emptied of air. But of course I had misheard. I could not trust my hearing. When I finally inhaled, my breath came in jerks. “What did you say?”
“Lucy,” Duane said. “She told me that too. That I was both vulnerable and strong.”
Lucy. Lucy. Lucy. My ears rang with my daughter’s name.
Duane was running on now, saying what a good person Lucy was, how everyone liked her, how you could talk to her, how you could trust her.
I sank on a stool, stared at the painting of the impaled saint. Lucy.
“Mr. Light?”
Lucy.
“I’d like to do it. Okay? I mean I’d like to pose for the painting.”
I slumped over the table, barely aware of the light touch of the boy’s hand on my shoulder.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Rain was slumped in her don’t-give-a-shit slouch.
There was something off in the room, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She looked at the copper bowl full of candies and then at the table by her chair with the box of tissues. Her gaze swept the bookshelf and the clock that ticked away the minutes marking time until she could escape, the desk across the room. The little kneehole below. At least the room was pleasantly cool. Not frigid the way air conditioners could sometimes make a place, so cold you needed a sweater. And it was better than being at home, where suddenly Duane the Lame could do no wrong. Her mother who always thought he hung the moon was now acting like he walked on water and all because he was posing as a saint for Lucy’s father. Duane the Lame as a saint. That was a laugh. If her mother only knew. Then it hit her. The off note. “So where’s your dog?”
Dr. Mallory followed her gaze to the empty space beneath the desk. “Oh. I had to take him to the vet.”
“What’s the matter with him?” Not that she cared.
“They think it’s a stomach flu. But just to be sure, they wanted to keep him overnight.”
Just to be sure. In Rain’s short experience, those were not good words. Just to be sure, we’ll run a few tests. Just to be sure, we want to admit him. That was what they’d said to her grandmother when her grandfather went into the hospital. Just to be sure.
Dr. Mallory indicated the book Rain had returned and that sat on the table. “You needn’t have returned it so quickly. I hope you had a chance to read it.”
Rain pulled her attention back from the empty spot beneath the desk, back from thoughts of her grandfather. “Yeah.”
“I’m curious to know what you think about it?”
“It’s okay, I guess. I mean, it’s kind of small for a real book.”
“You’re right. It is a very short book. Do you think it would have been better if Isak Dinesen had written a longer story?”
Isak Dinesen. Rain pictured the photo of the author on the back cover: those dark lips, the long fingers, one holding a book, the other a cigarette, the piercing gaze. She thought about this, taking her time, but the shrink didn’t hurry her. “I don’t know. Probably not.”
“What did you think it was about?”
“What?” Rain asked. “I mean, what is this? A test or something? To see if I really read it?”
Dr. Mallory considered her questions. “In our short time together, Rain, you have struck me as quite forthright. Honest.”
Forthright. Honest. The words warmed her, but she knew enough not to lower her guard.
“Why on earth would I think you’d lie about whether you read a book or not?”
Because everybody lies. “Well, I didn’t. Lie, I mean. I read it. Okay?”
“Well, then,” Dr. Mallory said. “It occurs to me that you might like to talk about it. I’ve found sharing with a friend doubles the pleasure of things. A meal or a book or a film.”
This was true. For a fact. She and Lucy used to spend hours talking about a movie they’d seen together. And after they read The Diary of a Young Girl in freshman English, their conversation had gone on for weeks, long after all class discussion about the book had ended, covering everything from the horror of the Holocaust to Anne’s amazing honesty about the other people in the annex, including her dislike of her mother. “Isn’t it interesting that her last name is Frank and she’s so frank in her observations about the others?” Lucy had said, which Rain had thought was such a clever thing to notice. For days they’d debated whether or not they could have stayed in the attic annex for two years without going outside. Rain didn’t believe she could have; Lucy said she could absolutely if it were necessary. “We can do lots of things we never think we can do until we have to,” she had said. When Lucy was first missing, Rain used to wonder if she had gone to a secret place. But of all the people she knew, Lucy had the least cause or need to hide or run away.
“Well?” Dr. Mallory said. “Shall we talk about the book? Like friends?”
“You’re not my friend.” Take that in your honest pipe and smoke it. The truth was she didn’t have any friends. Not true friends. Her grandfather and Lucy had been her two best friends, and now both were gone. And so who exactly would be her friends? The girls that everyone at school thought were her friends really weren’t, more like frenemies. For one thing, they could turn on you in an instant. Like the other day at the mall when they’d been trying on clothes, Christy had called attention to the roll of flesh around Meredith Banks’s middle and said in a voice loud enough for other shoppers to hear, “That’s not just a muffin top, it’s the whole muffin,” and then they all—even Meredith—had laughed in that totally fake way that was supposed to mean it was all in fun. Rain could only imagine what they would say if they found out she was seeing a shrink.
“We don’t have to be friends to talk about the story.”
“I guess.” She might as well waste her parents’ money discussing the book. It was better than having to talk about herself. Anything was better than that. Although on the way over today, she’d had a sudden urge to tell Dr. Mallory that she hadn’t cut herself since their last session. Which would have been totally weird since they had never even talked about that subject. Which was also seriously weird since that was the reason her mother had done the total freak-out and dragged her there in the first place.
“So what did you think it was about?”
Rain thought for a minute. “A lot of things, I guess. Ya know? For a small book, there was a lot to think about.”
“For instance?” Dr. Mallory leaned forward and picked up the candy dish and held it toward Rain.
Rain chose a butterscotch caramel and unwrapped it from the cellophane. “Choices people make. And art. I think it was a lot about art. Ya know. Babette being an artist and how important that was to her.”
“Ah,” Dr. Mallory said. “You are a very careful and intelligent reader.”
Rain tightened her lips against a smile. “What do you think it’s about?”
“You are correct in that it is about many things.
Families and love and art. But one thing that struck me about the story the first time I read it is all the rules the people on the island lived by.”
The sweetness of the caramel filled her mouth. “What do you mean?”
“There were rules both spoken and unspoken for all the people on the island. For instance, they were forbidden to enjoy earthly pleasures. Beauty, the pleasures of food. The sisters had rules that formed their lives as they were growing up, and they accepted them without question into adulthood. And they were constricted by these rules in every way.”
“Like their clothes,” Rain said, remembering the description of how the sisters dressed. “And how they couldn’t go to parties or balls when they were young.”
“Exactly. And you know, in that way, the people on the island are no different than any of us. We all have rules we grow up with. Even something as simple as how we are supposed to do the dishes.”
Always put the forks in the dishwasher basket tines down. Rules. Don’t get her started or she would have to stay there all day. Make your bed before you come down to breakfast. Floss your teeth before you brush. Never wear torn underwear. Keep your elbows off the table when you eat. Write thank-you notes the same day you get a present. “But why would Babette spend all her money on the dinner?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. It reminded me of something Lucy might have done.”
“In what way, Rain?”
“Spend all her money doing things for others.”
“I’d like to hear more about her.”
Rain closed her eyes, near drowning in the loneliness of the past months. She swallowed the last of the butterscotch caramel. “I don’t mean to make her sound too good or perfect or anything.” That was one of the things Rain loved about Lucy, how just when she was a perfect goody two-shoes, she could surprise you with a naughty smile and a sly and spot-on imitation of one of the teachers. Her imitation of Mr. Marshall was so funny Rain had almost wet her pants. “Like I told you, she isn’t a saint.” Wasn’t. Wasn’t a saint. “But she always seems older than the other kids. Even as a freshman, she was elected president of SADD. Ya know. Students against Drunk Driving. She was always working to bring in speakers to talk to the kids about it.”
“That’s curious.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, often when we are drawn to a cause, to work for something, it’s because we have had a personal experience. For instance, a girl whose mother has breast cancer might want to take part in a fund-raising walk for a cure for cancer.”
“I guess maybe because of the accident last year when we were freshmen. After the junior prom one of the kids, a boy named Jared Phillips, crashed his car and all four passengers ended up in the hospital. One of the girls died.” Rain remembered how on Monday when everyone was back at school, kids were crying, but Lucy didn’t cry. She was upset. “She said drinking and driving was so stupid. Lots of things made Lucy upset.”
“For example?”
“People being mean to each other. Or doing things for stupid reasons. Grown-ups who are cruel to their kids or their pets.” Rain looked back over at the empty bed beneath the desk.
“It sounds to me as if Lucy had a strong moral compass.”
Strong moral compass. Rain played the words through her mind, imagined a little compass occupying a space somewhere inside a person’s body. Somewhere in the chest. Or belly.
“I want you to think about something, Rain.”
Rain waited, not willing to commit.
“Do you think Lucy would have chosen for her best friend someone who didn’t also have a moral center, who didn’t share her values?”
“But I’m not like Lucy. Not in that way.” She thought about shoplifting, about how she was mean to her mother.
“Sometimes it’s hard to see our own best qualities.”
Rain poked at the carpet with the toe of her sandal. The compliments made her skin itch, like sweat. “I really did like the story.”
Dr. Mallory smiled. “I can see that.”
“I kind of got lost in it. I—” She hesitated.
“Go on.”
“Well, the other night, I couldn’t sleep.” She remembered the disastrous dinner, her mother’s anger. “So I started to read the book, and somehow it made me forget to check the locks on the doors.”
“Is that something you usually do?”
“Yes. You know. At night. To make sure they’re all locked and the alarm system is on.”
“Why?”
“I just have to.”
“Don’t your parents do that?”
“I guess. I mean, my father does, but I can’t get to sleep unless I check.”
“Is this something you have always done?”
“No. Not really.” She could no longer taste even a lingering sweetness of butterscotch on her tongue. “Just since Lucy was murdered.”
“Why do you think that is?”
Hello. “Well, obviously because he’s still out there.”
“Who?”
“The person who killed Lucy. I know everyone likes to say it was some stranger who did it, but what if it wasn’t? What if was someone here? In Port Fortune.”
“And it makes you feel better to know he can’t get in your house?”
Duh. “Well, yeah. It makes me feel safe.”
“I see.”
“My mother thinks I’m crazy.”
“What do you think she means by that?”
“Means by ‘crazy’?”
“Yes.”
“That’s obvious.” I’m here talking to a shrink, aren’t I?
“Not really. When people say ‘crazy,’ they can mean a lot of things, Rain. They might mean foolish or goofy. Or irrational. Or mentally ill or not of right mind.”
“I think my mother means mentally ill.”
“Let me ask you something, Rain. Does it hurt anyone when you check the locks at night?”
“No. Except if you count that it makes my mother mad that my father spent a lot of money getting a security system because I’m so afraid but I still have to check the locks. But no, I guess it doesn’t really hurt anyone.”
“And does it make sense to you to lock the doors if it makes you feel safe?”
“I guess.”
“I don’t know who killed your friend or where this person is. But I do know it is a wise thing to do what we need to do to make ourselves feel safe.”
“So not crazy.”
“Not crazy at all. Perhaps irrational. But even if something seems irrational to others, it doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t true.”
What about a person who cuts herself? Did a sane, rational person do that? While Rain considered telling Dr. Mallory about her cuts, the shrink started to rise. Rain was surprised to see more than an hour had passed.
“I had another book in mind that I thought you might enjoy reading,” Dr. Mallory said, “but I think we have more to discuss about this one the next time we meet. And I’ll tell you more about the author. I think her life in Africa might interest you. She was a big-game hunter and a woman of courage, not afraid to follow her dreams, no matter what anyone thought. How does that sound?”
“Okay.”
At the door Rain turned. “You never told me what I should call you.”
“Whatever you’d like, Rain. My name is Sylvia, and I find most of the people I see prefer that.”
“Sylvia?” Rain tried the name out.
“Yes.” Dr. Mallory gave a little laugh. “When my nieces were very young they used to pronounce it Silly, but I have to say I didn’t encourage that.”
“Yeah, I bet. Anyhow, thanks. For today, I mean.”
“You’re welcome, Rain. You are very welcome. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“For coming here. I know it isn’t easy.”
“No big deal.” Rain snapped her shield firmly in place.
After the coolness of Dr. Mallory’s house,
the heat outside was like a wall. She knew her mother was waiting in the car and knew a flash of disappointment that she wouldn’t have an excuse to walk, and maybe the good-looking Mr. Hayes would drive by and offer her a ride. But no, her mother would be there, sitting in the Volvo with her pathetic, hopeful look, as if one hour in the house with the shrink would transform Rain into the kind of daughter she wanted. Rain’s face flushed with anger and resentment. If only she could run away from it all.
“Rain?”
The shrink was motioning her back, and she thought, What now? “Yes?” She looked down on Dr. Mallory’s head. Her scalp showed pink through the thinning hair, and Rain felt a cruelty rise up, knew that she was no better than Christy and the others.
“Remember, dear, just because we can’t always see our best qualities doesn’t mean that they don’t exist. Try to remember what Lucy saw when she chose you as her friend.”
Rain stared at the perspiration that dampened the pale pink scalp, saw the horrid vulnerability of age. “Well, I think your dog is going to die.” In the shocked silence that followed, she didn’t dare look at Dr. Mallory. Fear and shame washed over her as the hateful words spun through the air like rabid bats. There was no way to recapture them, call them back, swallow them so they couldn’t ever escape.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Father Gervase swallowed and looked out at the congregation, a host of faces both known and unfamiliar.
It was the end of July, and the oak pews were occupied by residents and summer people who attended the early Sunday Mass so they would have the rest of the day free for the beach. Or golf. Or tennis. Although why in the unrelenting heat one would even think of doing anything the least bit strenuous was beyond him. Beneath his white and red chasuble a film of clammy sweat coated his skin; the fans in the sanctuary did little more than move warm currents of air, and he felt slightly light-headed. No, this was not a day to be risking heat stroke by batting a tennis ball over a net. But then again, regardless of thermostat readings, the priest had always been drawn to activities more cerebral than physical. Even at ten Cecelia could outdo him at a backyard game of badminton. Or horseshoes. He pictured her now dancing with glee after tossing a ringer. Cecelia. Why, after all these years, were these memories rising? But he wouldn’t think of her now. Couldn’t think of her now.
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