by Patrick Ness
—Irritatingly, your type never do, do they?
—You’re making a huge mistake, Cora. Bigger than you can imagine.
—Haven’t you already said that?
—Cora—
—No, listen to me, Jon. Listen with as much attention as your navel-gazing egomania can allow. I suggest you quit what you’re doing, this idiotic alliance with Thomas Banyon, this whole farce of ‘winning me back'. Get out of Hennington. Leave. Today. Because know this, I’ve cut you slack because I thought you were a special case, a misguided pain in the ass, but at least interestingly so. Now I see that you’re not. You’re just a miserable old man looking for a scapegoat for some imagined wrong. You’re a dime a dozen. Hell, half the City Council used to be filled with you, but guess what? I know you. I know how to fight you. Moreover, I know how to beat you. So bring out your big guns, Jon. Go ahead. I’m calling your bluff. Let’s see your best hand. But consider this—
She leaned over his desk, pushing her face towards his, stopping uncomfortably close as he refused to give ground.
—Maybe you’re the one who’s underestimated his opponent.
71. Paradise Interrupted.
A change could come so quickly, so unfairly.
Jacki shook quietly where she lay, still barely awake, under a pile of woolen blankets in the back seat of the laundry truck, heading off in unknown directions under cover of just-breaking dawn. The weight of the blankets caused her back to sweat while her front reeled from the cold of the truck’s metal floor. She was exhausted, groggy, terrified, and her stomach was pulled into a queasy tautness from hunger and nerves. She had probably been under here less than a half hour, bumping along as the truck sped towards ostensible safety, but in the dark, with only herself and the itch of the wool, she felt trapped in a nightmare that had followed her into wakefulness, a nightmare set aflame by the strong possibility that this escape might not work.
The Jacki with the annoying nihilistic tone tried to convince her that it was her own complacency that had gotten her into this mess, a sense of untouchability in her weeks in the Foster Downs that had caused her to drop her guard, that had caused her to dare to imagine a world without Thomas Banyon, a world that included, maybe, just maybe, her own two sons, Tucker and Morton. But the new Jacki fought back. Who wouldn’t have grown complacent in a setting as compactly bucolic as the Foster Downs, with the endless sunny days, the forests of flowers, the warm hospitality of Katherine? It was circumstance, perhaps inevitable circumstance, that of course she would eventually be caught out by Thomas. Nothing more, nothing less.
Indeed, days and nights had passed with such graceful steps that Jacki had begun to feel almost outside of time, as if the world had accidentally left her behind on its relentless march forward, leaving her to rest in that small stone walkway of paradise. Katherine filled the house with the scents of good cooking, insisting that Jacki tend her tired, withdrawing body as it adjusted to life without even the Recatur to help it along anymore. Under blue skies and the eccentric company of Reginald and Rhona, Jacki started to feel better, then actually to feel good, a sensation so alien that Katherine had to explain it to her.
—As if, after the sun sets tonight, it’s a sure thing it’ll come up again tomorrow?
—Yes.
—Like you can anticipate what’s for dinner and actually enjoy the waiting?
—Exactly.
—Darling, that’s happiness. Tentative, maybe, and there’s a whole lot else going on inside you, too, but happiness has definitely shown up to the party.
—How do we keep it from leaving?
—By letting it be. Here, have a muffin, I just took them out of the oven, and then you rest. We’ll get you in the habit of happiness, and you’ll find yourself not wanting to break it.
But if it were really that simple, then happiness wouldn’t have such a high price tag on the open market, now would it? Because isn’t that what Thomas sold? And if you could get it for free, then what was the point? And where had it been all this time? Just ‘showing up to the party’ out of nowhere; uninvited, really. Crashing the party, more like it. And what if, in its apparent fickleness, it just decided to up and leave? You wouldn’t count on a friend who did that, would you? Jacki?
And yet.
One day she lifted herself out of the bathtub with her own strength. The next, she got through the whole of the daylight hours without taking a nap. The sags in the pulling skin around her belly and buttocks were showing signs of filling in again, if not in an especially attractive way, nevertheless filling in as if she were actually moving away from being a sick person. She spent an entire sunny afternoon basking in the glow from the marigolds and reading a Joan Reachpenny novel (the one with the funny uncle in uniform at the funeral). Reading for pleasure. An event which hadn’t occurred since at least before college, if even then. Some nights she almost cried with relief before drifting off into a still-bumpy but increasingly nourishing sleep.
Reginald began to eye her suspiciously at meals.
—I want whatever you’ve been giving Jenny.
—Beg pardon, Papa?
—Look at her. She’s fattening up like a hog headed to market. I want to have whatever she’s having.
—She was sick, and now she’s getting well, Papa. Don’t be rude.
—I want it.
—There’s nothing to have. I told you. There’s no secret, except she’s eighty years younger than you.
Jacki spoke up at this.
—Seventy-three actually.
Katherine raised her eyebrows.
—Really? Maybe you are getting a bit younger, then.
—'No secret', huh? Can’t give an old man a helping hand.
—Quiet down, Papa. He’s determined to outlive Rhona by at least three years, you see, and then he can be the oldest one.
—Did someone say my name?
—No, Auntie. Eat your dinner.
Jacki finally convinced herself to allow some warmth into her brain and heart, maybe even soul, a tiny pinch of the Downs’ omnipresent sunlight beaming into her black insides, illuminating dusty surprises covered by years of mental drop-cloths and nearly forgotten. Her boys, for instance. Almost men by now. They had gone to live with their father, and she had dropped out of sight, moving down the spiral from bad mother to drug addict and prostitute. How did something like that happen? And so quickly? Was it just the drugs? Had she just lost track? What the hell had happened?
Morton and Tucker had always seemed strange to her. She knew she loved them (she was pretty sure) because that strange, quick worry had to be love, didn’t it? But if that was so, why would she have let the estrangement happen so resolutely, with so little interference and even worse, with so little regret? Or rather, so little regret until now. Maybe it wasn’t only Forum she was recovering from. As the new Jacki gathered strength, maybe she was aiming for the gold ring. Now there was a thought.
Certainly a new epoch must be beginning because her breasts had upped and stopped working. She’d had down times before, during illness and, perversely, pregnancy, but she had never stopped lactating completely; an unpleasant dribble was their lowest ebb. But as her body regained some of its former shape and as her muscles allowed her a normal day, there was still no word from her breasts. They, too, had reformed some, gathering a smallish fullness that wasn’t at all bad looking, but not a drop of milk, or indeed of anything. To her surprise, Jacki found herself mourning just a little the disappearance of the milk, but if nothing else, it was the best representation of the line she had crossed. If this was the price for not turning back, besides providing her with a new uselessness to Thomas Banyon, then the milk could be left behind.
True, these were breathless thoughts, and frightening. She was becoming a new person, a new person whose identity and formulation was still unknown, but here in the Foster Downs, she could face it. Even, perhaps, imagine a future. Even, maybe, possibly, one that included seeing her boys again.
Then all of a sudden a flick of the light and the voice of Katherine saying those three words, ‘He’s found you'. Maybe it was too much to ask. There hadn’t even been time to pack any clothes or say goodbye to Reginald and Rhona. Katherine pulled her out of bed, took her through a dark house, and hid her in the thicket of marigolds.
—Stay here.
—But how—
—Somehow he found out and went to Davis’ house.
—Oh, my God, is she all right?
—No. He tried to force her to take him here to the Downs, but she fooled him and took him to her brother’s. When Thomas realized what she’d done, he broke her jaw.
—Oh, no—
—Somehow he got the address out of her, then he left her there on the front lawn.
—Shit. Oh, my God, shit. I’m so sorry—
—Listen to me. Thomas Banyon is the one causing all this trouble, not you. My son took her to the hospital. She was able to write out what happened, and they just called me to tell me he’s probably on his way.
—How can he get away with this?
—Because he always has. We’ve no more time. I’m trying to get you somewhere I know, but I’m not sure it’ll work. It’s going to be touch and go. Wait here until I come get you.
—What if he comes? Will you be all right?
—He broke my daughter’s jaw. He’s the one who should be worried about finding me alone, the bastard. Stay here.
Jacki had shivered in the darkness under the flowers, wrapped only in a bedsheet, her feet bare, her hair getting wet from the dew, until Katherine returned with a pair of shoes and a coat. She hustled Jacki to a waiting truck, kissed her once on each cheek, and shoved her in.
—But where—
—No time. Be safe. My prayers will be with you.
—And mine with you.
Katherine touched a hand to her cheek and was gone. The doors to the truck closed, and Jacki covered herself in blankets. She didn’t even know who was driving, much less where she was going. Why didn’t Thomas give up? Why this relentless pursuit? She closed her eyes against the darkness and tried to think of her sons, hoping that the future led out of this nightmare and somehow made its way to wherever they were.
72. The Swinging Gates of Opportunity.
Despite certain severe aspects to his personality, Theophilus Velingtham took pleasure in a nice long soak in the tub, almost (but only almost) luxuriating as steam filled the room, his long frame in water so hot he occasionally had to gasp for air. With perhaps a few alterations in the gene pool, a cozier life history, and a more attentive focus on personal appearance, Theophilus might have approached handsome. But the chromosomes had been fickle, his life history was very scarred indeed, and Theophilus Velingtham felt himself too much of a sinner wasting time in a bath to ever commit the further sin of vanity. So it was that he remained not ugly, but worn.
His hair was cut short against a towering scalp, offset by ears so large that even from a distance he seemed to be eavesdropping. Surprisingly, he had an easy smile, but it always combined with an involuntary raise of his eyebrows, undermining whatever sincerity might exist. He was tall, having to bend his knees quite high to fit into the tub, and he was thin, the thin of a body that seemed to have worked every muscle every day of its life. Even under the water, he looked made of nothing but sinew and bone. Hairless, except for a modest plume of curls surrounding a cock that was long and hardy but seldom ever used, it seemed impossible to tell his age. He could have stretched anywhere from thirty to sixty without much argument, and that the truth lay outside even those wide boundaries wasn’t difficult to believe. He did seem to have always been around, didn’t he?
But this bath was cut short. He rose quickly out of the water, wrapped a thin white towel around his waist, and moved efficiently and quietly into the bedroom. His clothes were only either shades of gray or shades of brown, and after a moment’s thought, he decided on brown. He dressed in practiced movements, covering a body that he had long since forgotten to look at, tucking away his prick without a pause, unused again for yet another day. He pressed his hair flat with his hands, then buttoned his shirt all the way up to the collar. He fastened his cuffs tight, drew a belt around his midsection, and pulled on long brown socks that reached up to his knees. He moved into his living room, glanced briefly at a clock, then took a seat in a hard, wooden chair with a straight back. He placed both hands on either thigh and raised his head slightly.
And waited. Motionless.
Who was this man, that he could sit here so still, so almost inert, waiting for whoever it was that was going to arrive, this man who lived alone without radio, stereo, television, or pet? There wasn’t a single person alive, besides himself, who knew his middle name. The question is pertinent once more: How does something like this happen? Carefully, as if by plan, he seemed to have become known to everyone, yet known by no one. What stirred him? What occupied his thoughts? Who, for that matter, was he waiting for, a man whose neighbors had not seen a single guest enter his house for at least the past fifteen years, and who knew how long before then?
One question, at least, had an answer.
A knock sounded from the front door. Theophilus was already on his feet and seemed to open the door in the same motion. He proffered a hand to the figure standing on his doorstep.
—Welcome, Brother Noth. Please, do come in.
And what of this man, in his black trenchcoat (in this heat?), his black boots, and black hair with gray speckles sparkling in the sun? What goes through his mind when he shakes Theophilus’ hand, feeling the grip that seems to be nothing but cords and bone approximating a greeting? And what does his smile conceal, so thin in his jaw, so small it draws just two elegantly cut lines on his cheeks, yet definitely there, definitely signifying something? When Theophilus steps aside, what does this man feel as he enters the domicile of one for whom guests are anathema, almost a puncture in this dry, airless (yet thoroughly dust-free) space?
Whatever the answers, it is doubtful they contain anything encouraging.
—Pleasure to see you again, Brother Velingtham.
—So glad to hear you use the proper address, Jon. So many of the young among us have begun using the first name in the initial greeting. I find that a bit too casual for our Blessed Sacraments. Don’t you agree?
—I defer to your expertise, Theo. The breadth of your knowledge of the Sacraments has always been unparalleled, even among the preachers of this parish.
—You flatter me, Jon, but you’ve been away a long time.
—It has been a while—
—And now you’ve returned. As the Sacraments themselves might even have predicted.
—Well …
—Always the doubter. I remember the doubts from when you were but a pup.
—You’ve always been a great friend, Theo.
—Friendship has nothing to do with it. I recognized potential in you, and now you’ve returned to prove me right.
—I’ve returned, at least.
—And now you require my help?
—Always right to the point. Is small talk so much of a sin?
—Why waste time when there’s so much to be done?
—And what work would that be?
—The obvious.
—Clarify for one student still stumbling around in the dark.
—What else could you need but believers?
—Believers.
—Yes. I’ve been doing The Lord’s work, spreading the Word among those who would hear.
—Are there many who would hear?
—It is a powerful message, the one Our Lord has given us. It works its own wonders. One becomes two, two become four—
—And pretty soon—
—Pretty soon there are enough to set a great idea spinning. The key is never sheer numbers. The key is the correct catalyst. A pebble can start a landslide and the boulders have no say in the matter as they tumble down the hill.
—I think we understand ea
ch other, then.
—'Each other'? I recall asking nothing of you, Brother Noth.
—The benefits would seem manifest in your own actions.
—Would they, now?
—Don’t tell me the pure-living Theophilus Velingtham has some sort of price?
—I said nothing of the sort, my friend. Merely that so far this is a one-sided exchange. That is all, nothing more.
—So there will be an outstanding balance due sometime?
—'Let no man be made foolish by charity'.
—Book of Aramea?
—Book of Josefina, Chapter 9, Verse 11.
—You won’t be made foolish, old bird. You can count on that.
—That was not my point, Jon. I have no intention of being made foolish. I merely remind you that your end of the discussion must be fulfilled as well.
—Oh, it will be, Brother Velingtham, it will be. I’m looking forward to it.
The brief conversation ended. Jon stood and Theophilus showed him to the door. They exchanged handshakes and parted. And then, on either side of the closed door, each man smiled to himself, Jon’s firm and small, Theophilus’ gracious and eerie, as if, somehow, each had the other exactly where he wanted him, which, surely, couldn’t simultaneously be possible.
73. A Rush and a Push and the Day is Ours.
After so much lengthy agonizing, the final decision, the reversal of that decision, and the making of a new final decision happened almost absurdly fast.
Cora and Albert:
—So what did Jon say then?
—Nothing. I left before he had a chance.
—That’s the Cora I know and love. I think a thump on the head is the only thing that man understands.
—Precisely. Which is why I have to call his bluff.
—Uh-oh.
—It’s the only way, Albert.
—You can’t be serious.
—I’m hoping that it won’t be for real.
