“I’ve always wanted to open up a private Spook House maze,” I confessed enthusiastically.
“It’s called a Haunt,” she corrected. “If I ever designed one, mine wouldn’t be the ridiculous one-size fits all maze, where lines of people are packed into narrow hallways like cattle into a chute. Those things never scared me beyond the age of five because I could always tell behind which corner the idiot in the costume would be hiding.”
I had to agree there. “Yeah, those things never work.”
“Not the way they have them set up. If you want a maze to work, you have to think outside the box. You have to make it interactive.”
“It’s been done, y’know.”
She gave me a look consisting of one part interested, one part leery. “What? Don’t tell me you know someone who’s done it?”
“Not personally, but I heard about this millionaire guy in Austin, who throws this big private party every other Halloween at his mansion,” I told her. “It’s all interactive, y’know, like Dungeons and Dragons. Only thing is, you can’t buy your way in. You have to be invited. Some people wait in line for weeks just to get a chance.”
Her eyes went out of focus, and she stared out into space. Oddly enough, she started humming some familiar tune in the back of her throat.
“Yeah, getting an invite is like finding the golden ticket in a Wonka bar,” I murmured, scrutinizing her carefully.
She picked up the string of the previous conversation, completely ignoring my question, “But for a Haunt like that to work, there has to be the threat that you could be hurt. Everybody knows that in those typical Haunts those idiots with the costumes aren’t allowed to touch the customers.”
“Yeah, but now you’re edging out into actual reality. If you can be hurt, then it’s no longer a game. It’s life.”
“Bingo.”
“That’s harebrained. Do you have any idea what insurance for a type of operation like that would cost, if you could find anyone at all to back it, that is?”
“But see, you’re missing the point. Nothing would actually happen, but they have to believe that it might. Just like that old B-movie ‘the Shocker.’ The producers wired some of the theater seats up to a small electric current…”
“No way!”
“…Then started the rumor that there was a creature loose in the audience. Can you imagine the buzz a movie like that would generate nowadays?”
“Hell, the lawyers wouldn’t let a producer get away with that now.”
Claudia sat in silent contemplation for a few moments before asking, “Who is this millionaire guy?”
“Oh, Folliott? He’s the guy who designed that video game Oberon. Not even thirty yet, he’s like one of richest people in Texas, and he’s not even in the oil business.”
“And he still does this every other Halloween?”
“No, he stopped it about ten years ago,” I said with melancholy in my voice.
Claudia sat humming again as she stared out the window. I started to ask what it was but decided to let it go. A few days later it occurred to me that I’d heard it on one of Dad’s classic rock stations.
It was a song called “Don’t Fear the Reaper.”
When we got home, it was all I could do to keep Claudia from cracking open the boxes and start setting everything up that very evening. I convinced her that it would be more prudent to start next Saturday, so we could have the whole day. To my surprise, she suggested that we get together to discuss the plans on Friday night. When I explained that I was playing varsity games with the band every Friday night, she threw up her hands. “You over-achievers really piss me off,” she exclaimed. We agreed on Thursday night, since I wasn’t scheduled to work at the grocery that week.
Mom invited Claudia to stay for dinner and let drop that she was preparing lasagna on Saturday, which happened to be Claudia’s favorite.
The atmosphere during the meal was peculiar. I didn’t care for the way Mom was assessing me and Claudia, almost as if she were trying to catch us at something. Dad, on the other hand, seemed his same indifferent self.
Mid-way through dinner, Claudia turned to Dad and bluntly stated: “I heard you got shot.” Most people might have beat around the bush a little first, but not her. “Are you okay?”
“I got grazed s’all. I was lucky.”
“So how come you’re retired? I mean you’re not really over the hill yet.”
“Truth is, I retired because the Sheriff’s Department felt I was unfit to return to duty.”
From her expression, I could tell she suddenly realized she’d touched on a sensitive subject. “Well, that’s silly. Why would they think that?”
The silence grew longer and longer until I thought Dad had just ignored her question. Finally it was Mom who answered. “The department wouldn’t release him to go back to work. So they gave him an early retirement and full disability.”
I caught Claudia’s attention and gave a short shake of my head. Ignoring me, she continued to eat in silence. A few moments later, she asked, “So, do you miss it? The station stuff?”
“Not really. Twenty-nine days out of the month it was sheer boredom. It was the one day when you’ve got to bring calm from chaos that they pay you for.” Dad sighed and slid his cornbread through a puddle of gravy. “Maybe it’s different in the big city, but y’know, I wouldn’t have traded my job here for a more interesting one in Austin or Dallas for any amount of money.”
“You knew my father, right?” Claudia asked.
The temperature at the table dropped a few degrees.
“Me and your mother went to a different school than your father and Jack,” Mom said to Claudia, glancing furtively over at my father.
Claudia turned her attention to Dad. She waited a few moments for elaboration and when her patience wasn’t rewarded, she asked, “So if you went to the same school, you must have known him?”
A curious expression passed across my father’s face.
“He graduated the year before me,” he answered. “We didn’t really travel in the same circles, hon.”
I could hear the grandfather clock marking off time in the living room.
“I should probably get going. It’s getting late.”
She stood and I rose with her.
“I’ll take you back.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I live the next block over. If you keep this up, somebody’ll think we’re friends or something.”
I dropped back into my seat. “Good point. Seeya.”
She thumped my ear on the way past. “Later.”
Claudia went around and gave Mom and Dad both hugs. The moment she left the room Mom snapped, “Paul Andrew, you’re not really going to just let her walk home by herself, are you?”
“Mom, Haven is the single dullest place in the entire state of Texas. I think she’ll be okay.”
My Dad looked on the verge of making a comment when a look passed between my parents and not another word was spoken on the subject.
Less than a week later, when they’d found the first body in the town of Abner—a mere stone’s throw away from us—I would recall this conversation and reflect on how truly naive I had been.
Chapter 4 (Wednesday, September 30th)
Uncle Hank (Father Hank to the rest of Haven) was Dad’s big brother by two years. He was the middle child. Their older brother, Norman, died in the Vietnam War. They say he died protecting our men during one of the troop withdrawals in 1972. I never met him or my grandfather, who died when Dad was eighteen. Heart attack. The Graves family was ripe with bad tickers. That’s why I think that Uncle Norman had the right idea. If I had to go, I’d rather go out fighting with a rebel yell than in a hospital with a whimper.
As I stepped into the Religious Education hall of St. Peter’s Catholic Church, it occurred to me that I last set foot inside when I was twelve or thirteen. When I arrived, Uncle Hank was finishing up a surprise visit with the second grade CCD class (or what Roman Catholic’s call Sun
day School on Wednesday’s). He was giving a magic show, pouring a carafe of milk into his fist, making things levitate, choosing the correct card from the middle of the deck. Y’know, the classics.
My earliest memory of my uncle was of him rising from his seat at a picnic table at one family function or another (usually one that included Claudia and Mrs. Wicke) and telling some elaborate joke with a surprise ending. Growing up, I never laughed harder than when I was with Uncle Hank.
Now after the oohs and ahhs and applause of the children died down, Uncle Hank would ask one of the kids how he thought he was able to do the things he did.
“Magic,” at least one of the children would invariably answer.
Uncle Hank would then ask for the teacher’s dictionary and ask the child to read the first entry of the definition of the word.
Here’s how the American Heritage Dictionary defines ‘magic’: “The art or alleged art of controlling natural events, effects, or forces by invoking charms, spells, etc.”
Then he would ask another child to read the next entry, which read: “The use of sleight of hand and other tricks to entertain.”
“Now which of these definitions seems most likely,” Uncle Hank asked the class as I entered the room. He gave me a knowing wink and chose a member of his audience.
“The second.”
“Why?”
“Because you need some kind of special powers to do real magic.”
“How many think that Jesus was a magician?”
Several brave hands shot up.
“How about Moses? Was Moses a magician?”
A few more added their hands to the first ones.
“Did Moses or Jesus invoke charms or cast spells?”
A little dissension in the ranks.
“Let me ask you this. What did both of these men have in common?”
A sheepish little hand peeked up in the back. A little red-headed girl meekly answered, “God?”
“Did everyone hear Olivia? She said that God was the common denominator.”
Billy Baskin withdrew finger from nose long enough to raise it in the air. “Is a denominator those things that guard Azkaban in the Harry Potter movies?”
“No, Billy,” Mrs. Price, the Catechism teacher replied with a clearly disapproving tone to her voice. “Harry Potter is a make-believe character. Jesus and Moses really existed. Please, Father, go on.” She gave Uncle Hank a bright smile, the kind of smile that was reserved for men that were not only respected but a little attractive as well.
Uncle Hank nodded. “God is the source of all that is good. He allowed Moses to part the Red Sea for the Israelites.” Uncle Hank threw his arms up dramatically and swept them toward the kids. “He was there with the Lord Jesus when he multiplied all those fishies for the crowd.” Uncle made a fish face, complete with protruding lips and bulging eyes. The kids in the front row tittered and elbowed each other.
“No, they weren’t magicians because the source of their power came from God, not from any power rooted here on earth. Not even their own quick hands,” he finished his sermon by materializing a coin from behind the ear of one of the giggling girls, “which is the only talent through which I’ve been able to do these tricks tonight.”
The kids clapped as Uncle Hank took a bow.
“Does God allow bad magic, Father?” Billy Baskin asked.
Uncle Hank gathered himself and seemed just about to launch into a response when the dismissal bell rang, sending all the children, including Billy, clear out of the room.
When he saw me he did a dramatic double take, put on a serious expression then pretended to assess me with almost scientific curiosity. I held out my hand to him and he scowled and shook his head. “We stopped taking those here after the first of the year.” Then he turned and declared at the top of his lungs: “Attention everyone! This is my nephew! The one that is far too dignified for hugs!”
Finally, I gave him a hug and helped him put his implements of magic back into its black leather case. As long as I’ve known Hank, he’s been a fan of parlor tricks, watching them and then figuring out how they were done.
At one point, he just held me at arm’s length and stared at me with a smirk on his face. “Can’t tell you what a surprise it was to see you at the Vigil mass on Saturday.”
I was a little shy about my recent curiosity about religion. I started going over the summer and now averaged about once a month. My folks weren’t churchgoers. I’m not sure what had initially driven me to go. All I know is that I took comfort in it.
“And how’s my good for nothing little brother? Driving your mother crazy in his retirement, I’ll bet?”
“They’re both still sane.” Call it Catholic guilt or just a need to fill a nervous silence, but before I could stop myself, the words were out. “I told them on Saturday that I was going to the movies. Is that wrong?”
“Well, I’m sure you’re going to tell them at some point and are just looking for the appropriate time, right” he replied, giving me a firm squeeze on the shoulder.
I felt myself nodding.
“Are you afraid to tell them, Paul?”
“I guess I am, sort of, but I don’t know why.”
“How do you think they’ll react?”
“Dad will probably be happy that I’m saving money by not going to see a movie.”
Uncle Hank laughed out loud. “Sounds like Jack to me.” There was a glimmer in his eye and a smile on his face but his expression was one of sadness.
“So I heard that Pat and Claudia were back in town. Why are you threatening to go to the movies alone when you could ask Claudie?”
He glanced at me with a smirk when I’d refused to answer.
“Mind walking with me back to the office?”
I escorted him back through the hall, stopping periodically to talk to this person and that, our conversations being interrupted over and over. I knew this was not a good time to ask him the question I wanted, not if I wanted a complete answer.
We went into the lamp-lit rectory office and dropped his briefcase on the corner of the dark cherry wood desk. He removed his spectacles, and stood over his laptop, rubbing his glasses clean as he scanned the list of emails before turning back to me. I was, of course, standing, hands in pockets, shifting nervously from foot-to-foot.
Uncle Hank replaced his spectacles and gestured for me to take one of the leather chairs before his desk.
“How were you going to answer that kid’s question? The one about bad magic?”
Uncle Hank plopped down in his own comfy leather chair and took a moment to assess me before saying: “The simple answer, the one I was going to give the kids, is built on the ‘everything good comes from God’ premise. Children are pretty instinctive, so I tell them, if it feels bad, it probably doesn’t come from God, even if you think it comes from someone you trust. That answer covers a lot of ground, even molestation, something the Church is pretty adamant about lately.”
“What answer would you give me?”
Uncle Hank continued to study me. Finally, he took a Bible off the well-stocked shelf behind him and riffled through its post-marked and dog-eared pages. When he found what he was looking for he spun the book around and turned the lamp onto its highest setting. “Deuteronomy. Chapter 18. Verse 10. Read that aloud, if you don’t mind.” Uncle Hank was big on the whole “letting other people read” thing.
I read: “Let there not be found among you anyone who immolates his son or daughter in the fire, nor a fortune-teller, soothsayer, charmer, diviner, or caster of spell, or seeks oracles from the dead.” I swallowed awkwardly at this point, attempting not to give away my state of mind but suspecting nonetheless that Uncle Hank’s sharp eye was missing nothing. “Anyone who does such things is an abomination to the Lord, and because of such abominations, the Lord, your God, is driving these nations out of your way.”
“It’s easier to counsel children. They don’t argue opinions. That’s why I always try to find the appropriate s
cripture passage first. You can’t argue with that.” Uncle Hank took the Bible back and rested his hand on it while he addressed me. “Y’see, our God is a jealous God and the Occult is a violation of the First Law, ‘Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.’”
I nodded.
“Why the sudden interest?”
“The kid asked the question and I felt I needed to hear your answer, y’know.”
Uncle Hank nodded, but I could tell he remained unsatisfied with my answer. “So is Kathy doing her Halloween party again this year?”
“Every year. Are you going to make an appearance?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Uncle Hank turned back to his laptop with a devilish smirk.
“Now what would be the fun in it if I warned you?”
“It’s been a few years since your last visit.” Five actually.
It used to be that every year Uncle Hank showed up to the Halloween party dressed as someone different. One year he showed up dressed in rags as a homeless person and walked right inside off the porch. One of the parents were so shocked that this strange man had walked in “off the street” that she picked up the phone to call the police when Dad broke into laughter. “What, the town’s tithes aren’t enough that you have to go begging door to door?”
Lately, though, Uncle Hank hadn’t been around and I guess a part of my returning to church might have been as simple as wanting to visit my uncle again.
We went through the struggle again and Uncle Hank stole his hug from me. I turned and started away when something occurred to me.
“That wasn’t the answer.”
Uncle Hank was by now totally absorbed in reading one of his emails. “Huh?”
“The kid. He asked if God allowed bad magic.”
Uncle looked up and replied by rote, almost as if I’d asked the simplest question in the world. “God allows us choices. Free will is the basis of faith.”
This statement brought me back to that day three years ago on the worst Tuesday of my life, after the buildings fell, when my Uncle opened up the church rectory hall to comfort whomever needed to talk about the events of the day. Everyone wanted a piece of him. Everyone wanted an answer to the question, but no one knew quite how to put it into the correct sequence of words. It took a five-year-old boy named Samuel to ask the question with the conciseness only a child unburdened with the baggage of Life could: “Why did God let this happen, Father?”
Hallowed Page 4
