That’s what their father was after: the blood of his son.
Abi’s voice cut the memory short.
“Landon, I’m here.”
“Come on back,” Landon called.
She didn’t get up from the vanity. She brushed the tears away and stared at herself in the mirror.
“Are you all right?” Abi asked as she came to stand behind her.
“Yes. Fine.”
“Oh, I’m so excited,” Abi said, as if she could sense Landon wanted to move on. “Let’s make you beautiful, even though you already are. You have great hair.” Abi ran the brush across Landon’s mane. “Ever had anybody French-braid it? I can’t believe it’s so lustrous.”
“That’s because I’ve never done anything to it—no dye, no blow-dryer, no highlights.”
Abi stopped brushing. “You’re kidding me.”
“No, I swear. It’s the truth.” Landon was proud of this fact and was happy to share it. She had worn her hair the same since she was thirteen years old—bangs, a bit long, turned under, and often pulled back with barrettes. It was light brown and soft. Gray had appeared at her temples years ago, but she didn’t mind.
Abi began the process of pulling strands together, starting at the top and working her way downward. Landon closed her eyes. She hadn’t been fretted over in a tender way for a long time.
When Abi finished, Landon pulled the side mirrors inward to get a better look. She smiled.
“Okay,” Abi said. “Now, let’s see what you’re gonna be wearing. I can’t believe Jet roped you into this.”
“I’ve never been to an Episcopal church. I was raised Baptist—took a long time to get over that.”
Abi was surveying Landon’s closet. “All these long skirts. Do you even own a short skirt?”
“Just the denim one, and I’m not wearing that.”
“Well, here,” Abi said, and took out an aqua blouse with a few tiny, tasteful sequins around the neck that caught the light.
Landon stood and retrieved a long black skirt that fit nicely—certainly the dressiest thing she owned.
“Jewelry?” Abi asked.
Landon opened the top drawer of the dresser and brought out four jewelry boxes.
“Jesus Christ,” Abi said. “Where did you get all this?”
“Most of it is costume, from my grandmother, my aunt, and my mother.”
“Costume jewelry sells like hotcakes on eBay now, did you know that? If you ever need some cash, let me know, and I’ll help you set it up online.”
For tonight, they agreed on an opal necklace Landon’s mother had given her. The opal fell perfectly inside the V-neck of her blouse.
Abi was searching the closet. “Where are your heels?”
“I don’t wear heels,” Landon confessed. “I don’t even own a pair.”
“Well, that’s okay,” Abi said, pulling out a pair of simple black ballet flats. “Tonight, you’ll just be hippy élégante.”
Landon brushed a bit of powder over her face and applied mascara, then a smear of the coral lipstick she’d owned for nearly a decade. She had never liked dressing up, always preferred dressing down, like her mother. When her mother died, the funeral director had asked for a recent photograph to give to the mortician. In it, her mother was wearing shorts and waving with a gardening glove still on. When the funeral home opened the coffin for the family viewing, however, they found her in scarlet lipstick and painted fingernails, her hair teased and sprayed into a webby poof. Landon started laughing and couldn’t stop. Apparently, there had been a mix-up. A wealthy Episcopal woman had also just died. It got Landon through the funeral, laughing inwardly as she imagined the other woman—a real lady—laid out in the neighboring parlor without her polish or bright lipstick.
“All right,” Abi said “You look great. Nobody will ever guess you’re unemployed, divorced, scared, and out of place.”
Landon laughed and felt her nerves lessen. She thanked Abi, and they headed to the front room to wait in two matching antique chairs for Jet.
St. Andrew’s was within walking distance. It was an old brownstone on the corner of Eleventh and Cullom. Whenever Landon had passed it on her walks, she’d noted the gardens. Something was always blooming, even in December.
Before she and Jet went inside, Jet showed her the tiny columbarium. Landon shuddered.
Father Patrick was dressed for midnight mass, in satin robes and gold vestments. Jet pointed him out to Landon as he stood at the entrance greeting people. Landon didn’t know if she should shake his hand or what. Even though it was dark, she saw that he had kind eyes.
He hugged Jet.
Jet introduced Landon as “our newest tenant on Cullom Street.”
“Nice neighborhood,” Father Patrick said, extending a hand to Landon. “We’re all in this together.”
“I’ve never been to midnight mass,” she told him.
“Have you been to an Episcopal church, to the Eucharist?”
“No. I grew up Baptist.”
“Don’t feel like you have to kneel, genuflect, make the sign of the cross, or anything. If you have been baptized at any time, in any church, then feel free to participate in the Eucharist.”
Landon was sure she’d do that; she’d heard from Jet that they served up real wine here, not Welch’s grape juice like the Baptists did. She’d take a big swig of it.
As they walked into the narthex, Landon shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Doing what?” Jet asked as she reached into her purse for some lipstick to paint her lips even darker.
Landon told her that they had to sit in the back because she was claustrophobic and might need to dash out, in the throes of a bona fide panic attack.
Once they sat, the organ brought up the music—a cue to rise—and the service began with a processional. First came the two acolytes, to light the candles. Then the priests in their colorful robes. One was waving incense. The smell was strong, like the incense Landon and her friends once used to mask the stench of pot. But this was different. It was like pixie dust being disseminated among the parishioners, permeating every part of the church like magic.
Goose bumps ran down her body. Maybe she was here for a reason.
The choir followed. They were singing “O Come All Ye Faithful.”
Landon wondered if she was one of the faithful. Her life was a mess. But she wanted the words of the hymn to include her. She wanted to belong. In fact, she had to belong. Maybe she’d return to this church. Maybe she’d be able to let her guard down with these Episcopalians. They had a reputation of being accepting. She wanted that, too—to be a person of interest, a stranger taken in, no questions asked.
Landon noticed that not everybody was dressed up. A few men wore jeans. Across the aisle, a couple of girls were holding hands. She wanted to believe they were partners. Perhaps this was for her, if she could get past this place where she was stuck in life. She recalled the scripture that called believers “the fellowship of the mystery.” Landon imagined how they might get together to ponder what they didn’t understand and, through that pondering, become able to transcend.
One of the priests started speaking words she didn’t know. She glanced down at the program. This was the Collect for Purity. Everybody sang the “Gloria,” a hymn of praise. She couldn’t find a hymnal, only The Book of Common Prayer. The congregation was singing from memory. The priest prayed. He read from the Old Testament. For the New Testament reading, another priest walked down the aisle toward the center of the church.
“Praise be to God,” the parishioners said in unison.
When it was time, she followed Jet to the front to partake of the bread and wine.
“Take, eat: This is my body, which is given for you.”
Then, “Drink this, all of you. This is my blood of the new covenant, which is shed for you.”
Landon wasn’t sure she was fit to participate in the Eucharist. She was sinful. She was lost. As she accepted t
he wafer, she tried to tell the priest with her eyes how sad she was, how alone. He made eye contact with her. She thought she noticed a slight nod, as if he did indeed know who she was, what she needed, where she might find it. She was caught off-guard, confronting not just where she was but who she was—a woman with no compass, no star to guide her, no destination. The past was behind her, gone.
For so long, Christmas Eve had been her wedding anniversary. No longer. There was nothing to celebrate. There was simply this mass. Its history. Experienced by people all over the world.
By the end of it, they were all on their knees, including the priests. The idea that they, too, made mistakes, were mortals like the rest of humanity, got to Landon. When Father Patrick took a knee, she wanted to cry. She had seen Christmas pageants. But this wasn’t pageantry. This was real. The saints were almost palpable. The dead—her mother, father, and brother, who had long since left this earth. Everyone there, all in one place, all of one accord.
Landon thought she might return to this church. She looked ahead in The Book of Common Prayer to see what came after Christmas. The Epiphany, when the Magi beheld Christ and knew who he was. They recognized him.
Something deep within Landon understood this. The Magi—the Wise Men—were simply a few pagan astrologers from the east who saw a star that didn’t jive with the night sky as they knew it. They wanted to check it out, and they did. And that was what Landon was doing now.
Landon told Jet all this when they got back in her car.
“I like that, too,” Jet said. “I’m not saying I believe it, but I like the part about them being astrologers.” She was checking her phone for messages as they talked. “Sam was supposed to fucking call me.”
Jet put her phone back in her purse but didn’t start the car.
“You know I was a history and philosophy major,” she said. “And with Father Patrick and all, I’ve read a lot of the Bible. There was another Epiphany, when John the Baptist was going about his business baptizing people in the name of a man he’d never met. Jesus came to be baptized, and suddenly John knew who he was. ‘Behold the lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world.’ Remember that part? I’m sure you do if you were a Baptist. It wasn’t of interest to me until I met Father Patrick and he pointed out that both the Magi and John the Baptist were part of the Epiphany because they recognized Jesus. Like all you have to do is see. Pretty cool, if you think about it.”
Jet started the car. Landon was taken aback by what Jet knew and the ease with which she talked about it. Of course, just because she talked about it didn’t mean she believed it.
Jet began to drive, then reached over and bumped Landon’s arm with a soft fist. “Did you like Father Patrick?”
“Oh, yes.”
“You think he’s hot, don’t you?”
“What makes you think that?” Landon asked.
“I’m just observant,” she replied.
They were heading up Cullom Street by then.
“Do you think he is?” Landon asked.
“If he weren’t a priest, I might think so.”
Landon shrugged. That he was a priest was the very reason he might appeal to her. He was an impossibility. During her manic periods, she would have thought it an enticing challenge—to bring a man of the cloth to his knees, not at midnight mass, but alone.
MR. KASIR
Mr. Kasir always woke up early, around four. He would put on his jacket and head outside, where he sat in a patio chair to look at Venus. He liked to think of it as the morning star, even though he knew it was a planet.
He knew scripture that spoke of Jesus as the bright and morning star, in Revelation. And then, of course, there was the mythology surrounding the planet—Venus, the Roman goddess of love, beauty, fertility, and desire. When visible, it was the most brilliant planet in the sky. On winter mornings, Mr. Kasir could make it out clearly.
It was Christmas morning, and desire, not reverence, was driving Mr. Kasir’s thoughts. When he had put an extra lock on Landon Cooper’s door after the break-in, he noticed a photograph of her when she was younger. In it, she looked just like a girl he had known. Not just known but loved. Carissa.
He wanted to see the picture again, maybe even to tell Landon about Carissa, about whom he’d never before told anyone. He was going to find a way to drive to Cullom Street that day. Since he and Mrs. Kasir entertained their grown grandchildren on Christmas night, he had most of the day free. He feared that Landon might have nowhere to go, nobody to see.
He looked at his watch. Mrs. Kasir would be getting up around six o’clock. He started to think of reasons, excuses to tell his wife. Perhaps he needed to warn his tenants that a cold wave was coming, to leave their faucets trickling so as to avoid frozen pipes. But the front was still several days away.
He went back inside to the kitchen and retrieved his notebooks from where he kept them in a cabinet above the washer and dryer. He set them on the kitchen table. Every tenant had his or her own file. They were ledgers where he recorded rental payments, but they also held details about repairs made, as well as general comments.
He got some coffee started and sat down. Then he pulled Landon’s notebook from the stack.
When Mrs. Kasir walked into the kitchen—a bit after six, as he knew she would—Mr. Kasir looked at her face and realized he need not feel guilty or make up a lie about where he was going. His wife was kind and would likely be distracted by Christmas planning.
She fixed pancakes.
While they were eating, he mentioned Landon. “She has no family here,” he told her.
“Well, should you go see her?” she asked, putting her fork down.
It was so sweet and direct a question, he wanted to cry. He had kept his secret from her and carried the weight of guilt all these years, burying his thoughts of love lost under the everyday trials of marriage and business. But now, Mrs. Kasir was making it easy, making it aboveboard—the idea that he wanted to see Landon’s photograph, to think of Carissa.
“And you can take her one of those banana nut loaves I baked.”
He reached for her hand and squeezed it.
“Have you been up thinking about Abe Jr.?” she asked.
Their son had caused so much pain over the years. Even after he got out of prison and started doing light construction, he never came home to be with his parents. Christmas had become a particularly sad time for the Kasirs. Abe Jr.’s absence left its handprints all over the holiday.
“No,” Mr. Kasir said firmly. “I’m not thinking of him.”
“Good,” she said.
Mr. Kasir helped his wife with the dishes, then went to the den to watch TV. All of the local channels were overrun by Christmas—ways to make the holidays better, what airports were closed, what was delayed, all reported by news anchors who must have been miserable.
Finally, at eight o’clock sharp, Mr. Kasir reached for his phone. He reasoned that by then it wasn’t too early to call. He prayed she’d answer.
And she did.
“Landon?”
“Hi, Mr. Kasir.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“Caller ID.”
He just couldn’t wrap his brain around anything the least bit technological. Nothing was private anymore. He didn’t know what Facebook was, he hardly knew what online meant, and yet all of his tenants asked him for his email. Mrs. Kasir operated an email address for both of them. He worried about identify theft. He didn’t understand that either, but it was a phrase that bothered him.
“Mrs. Kasir has baked you a loaf of banana nut bread, and I wanted to bring it by, unless you’re busy.”
“I’m not busy at all,” she said. “It’s just me and Alejandro. I’ve made some hot apple cider, and there’s nobody to drink it but me. Come on over.”
He put on his jacket and his gloves. Mrs. Kasir wrapped the bread in aluminum foil and was about to hand it to him but stopped.
“Abe, it’s cold out there. You’ve got to w
ear a scarf and a cap of some kind. Here, wear one of these.” She reached for two toboggans.
Once he was fully insulated, she handed him the bread and asked him to call her if he was going to be longer than a couple of hours. He kissed her on the cheek, then the lips.
“Something’s wrong with your head today,” she said.
He wondered why she wasn’t bothered by his need to see Landon. Then again, when you were married as long as they had been, were as old as they were, things like that didn’t enter your mind.
His gloves made it hard to grip his cane, and holding the bread didn’t help. Once he was on the truck’s running board, he tossed the bread across to the passenger side and hoisted himself up into his seat.
There was no traffic. His neighborhood was quiet. Younger families had moved in and, as a result, the homes were decorated with lights on the eaves, wreaths on the doors, and plastic Santas in the yards. He knew the children in those homes were all busy opening gifts, tossing wrapping paper here and there, trying to ride their new skateboards inside. But they had yet to bring things outdoors. When he returned, the streets would be buzzing with bicycles, fathers putting on training wheels, boys breaking in footballs, girls jumping up and down on pogo sticks or dancing with hula hoops.
When Abe Jr. was young, they had spoiled him on Christmas. One year, they even gave him a much-coveted Radio Flyer sled, even though it snowed only once in a blue moon in Alabama. Abe Jr. still believed in Santa long after his friends had given up, and one day got into a fight over it, tussling in the yard with a schoolmate. There was no way of knowing then that he would never stop fighting. When he returned from Vietnam, still a young man, he was already drinking heavily, with the drugs not far behind. Mr. Kasir did all he could to help his son, but after Abe Jr.’s war, he was too far gone.
He took Highway 31 rather than the interstate from Vestavia, where he lived, then on through Homewood, where Landon used to live, and then down the crest of Red Mountain just a bit, down Cullom Street to Landon’s house. He parked right in front of her place, took the bread in one hand, and—trying to avoid using his cane—slid down from his seat to the running board, then to the curb.
Once in a Blue Moon Page 7
