The Death of Annie the Water Witcher by Lightning

by Audrey J. Whitson

  KRISTIAN

  Seventeen years old, a petty thief, meth head, liar, about-to-be deadbeat dad and now, murderer. Old enough to go to adult court. Old enough to get Life. This is what I’ve come to.

  “You’re in with a bad crowd,” my old man said last winter, and I mimicked his bad English to his face: “Bad crowd, huh?” What an understatement. I mean look what I’ve done. This old guy who loved Miss Annie, and it was so hard to love her, and they were parted for so long, and they finally got together and he was her one true love. All these friends of hers and she had such a hard life and she finally got all her shit together and I come along and royally screw it up again, don’t I? Like I screw up everything and everyone around me? I mean there’s no coming back from death. That’s it. I know. My mom died. The Old Man and I, we just look at each other most days. We don’t know what to say. We sit across from each other at the table and eat the roast beef or the pork chops or whatever it is he’s cooked for us that tastes like the insides of an old rubber tire. I know he cries himself to sleep at night. I do too. It’s like we quit being a family when she died. Quit going to sports days, to church suppers, to town.

  Why can’t I just be normal? Why can’t I have a head like everyone else’s? Why did my mom have to die and leave the Old Man and me all by ourselves? My ma knew about my seeing. She saw the same way. She explained things to me, what it all meant. She made me feel normal. I felt good in my own skin. Like Kelsey. God, I miss her. And I don’t deserve her.

  MIKE

  The last hymn has hardly been sung when they arrive through the lobby of the hotel. There are three of them, hair in weird combinations of slicked and shaved, muscle shirts and tattoos up and down their arms and on their cheeks. At least one has a St. Christopher’s medal around his neck. He seems to be the leader. When he sees the priest and the coffin and the packed-in crowd, he hesitates. Then he spots Kristian, who still has his head in his hands, sitting on a chair in a far corner, rocking himself.

  I poke Bob in the ribs, who looks at me, looks where my eyes direct him, turns his camera on the Musketeers and starts to film. By then Alex sees them too and signals to Buster. Jack rises and looks around, one arm leaning on Annie’s table, his cane ready to move. The five of us, by unspoken agreement, converge from our difference corners, stop a few feet short of the threshold and form a kind of wall. Buster greets their leader, the guy with the medal.

  “What would you be looking for, young fellow? You’re not a Gallagher are you?”

  Buster is being polite; we’ve seen a couple of them driving around town before.

  One of them tries to cover his face from the camera. The leader keeps a steady stare as he speaks, “Stand aside Old Man. We just want to talk to that dude in the corner,” and flicks his head in the direction of Kristian. Kristian can’t hear them for the din in the room.

  The five of us move over to block their view. We take a small step towards them and then another, like a shuffle, until Buster is towering over the lead kid.

  “I’m not as old as you might think,” Buster drawls. “Besides, I’m pretty sure we outnumber you.”

  One of the kids starts to laugh until Bob zooms the camera in on him. “Hey! Stop that. There’s such a thing as privacy rights!”

  “Not in a public house,” Buster quips.

  The kid hiding his face takes a step back and his friends with him. We take another step towards them and nearly have them backed into the mail counter.

  “Awful bad luck to harm anyone who’s bereaved,” Buster continues. “Especially when the reason for their sorrowing might find its way back to you.”

  I look out the window; it’s still light. Take out the blank notebook I keep in my shirt pocket and write out the make and model of the dark SUV sitting there on an angle in the middle of the lane right where they left it. “END 223.” I say aloud. Their licence number.

  “Hey,” the young fellow says. “We’re not doing nothing wrong.”

  “Hey,” Buster says in a quiet voice, “you’re disturbing the peace and trespassing.”

  Just then Father Pat comes over, still in his black robes, and the young fellow with the medal freezes.

  “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Some of the local outlaws,” Alex says.

  “Let’s get outta here,” St. Christopher says to his buddies.

  But we don’t leave it there. We follow them out, six of us now, a couple of us crippled but all of us tough birds, filming them all the way to their car and even as they make a “U-ey” and head back to the highway.

  10

  BUSTER

  After the wake proper is over, and the intruders have been suitably dispatched, Bob and I are waiting for the young priest by the tea station. The man is a tea drinker still in this day and age. I say, “Here he comes,” poking Bob in the ribs. “Now’s your chance.”

  His cup’s full and he’s loaded up on some of Daisy’s baking.

  I thrust out my right hand, pull Bob along by the shoulder.

  “Father Pat, you remember me — from church suppers and graveyard cleanup days and the like. I’m with the Majestic ecumenical committee. United Church.”

  The priest nods but keeps his distance.

  “This here is Bob Taylor. He’s new to these parts, but he’s expressed some interest in the real estate you’ve got on offer. I said I’d introduce you.”

  Bob steps forward, offers his hand. “Nice to meet you, Father.”

  Father Pat gives him a once over while they shake hands. Has he seen him before? Best to push on.

  “Bob’s a carpenter by trade. Thinking of repurposing the church into condos for city people maybe. Mind you, I told him, no citified folk are going to want to live next door to that old hotel or in the middle of this godforsaken — Oh excuse me, Father — this forgotten outpost. All these farmers and roughnecks and tool pushers and land men — it’s all oil and gas around here, your Reverend. Oil and seismic and farming, but the farming hasn’t been so prosperous these last few years. Enough to make people lose faith. But like I was saying, he can’t be talked out of it. Maybe that’s ’cause he’s a city person himself and an atheist.”

  “An atheist?” Bob looks offended.

  “Well, you don’t belong to any church, right?”

  “Well, that’s true—”

  “Fallen in love with the romance of living in the country, haven’t ye.” I poke him in the ribs. He clears his throat.

  “Well, that’s true,” he says, all agreeable-like now. “I think I could really facilitate things here,” Bob says, giving the priest a meaningful look. “You see, I want to renovate the place, turn it into a set of lofts. Call it ‘country living close to the city.’ A lot of commuters around here, Father. You know we’re only an hour from the city on stormy days, forty minutes on good days. A paved road through town that runs all the way to the main highway. Can’t beat it. The high ceiling will give the lofts character. The stained glass. That foundation, a yard thick, will last forever. The place is fully insulated. Well, you saw to that.”

  The priest stretches his neck, practically starts to preen himself. I give Bob a nod of appreciation. Flattery is the best card to play in the presence of the petty powerful.

  “And you’re not religious?” Father Pat asks.

  “Not at all.”

  The priest takes a sip from his teacup. Sets it back in the saucer. I look for a flag in the pinkie finger. Sure enough. “You’re very familiar with the property, Mr. Taylor.”

  “No more familiar than anyone else who knows the business and lives in a small town.” Bob folds his arms.

  Yeah, we never miss a trick, I was about to add, but thought better of it. Instead I take the Father’s side. “R-400 insulation. Latest energy-efficient furnace.”

  The priest’s Adam’s apple is dancing like a water pump, his fine hand squeezing the big cross that hangs from his neck. I can see we are having the desired effect.

  Bob keeps playing h
is cards. “The windows are an extravagance and a liability with gas bills, but they add interest. City folks are always looking for enticements. Some might like the idea of ghosts afoot.”

  Father Pat ignores the reference to haunting. There’s never been any rumours about ghosts in that church. Mind you, it’s never been abandoned before.

  “What do you think the property is worth, Mr. Taylor?”

  “Hard to say,” replies Bob, evading the question. “The land is not worth that much.”

  Everyone knows that the first person to set the price is the one at a disadvantage. Always better to counter-offer. I step forward. “What are you asking for it, Father?”

  “Well.” The priest looks around first to see if we might be overheard, fidgets with his teacup. “Five thousand.”

  “Five thousand!”

  The padre waves his free hand in front of me, as if to say, keep it down.

  “Five thousand?” I manage a hoarse whisper. “Well I doubt it’s worth half that when you consider it’s up on the hill here, exposed to the elements, surrounded by the descendants of bushwhackers and railroad men. Five thousand sounds like a prosperous town down the track a ways. Besides, it looks to me like it needs a new roof.” I nudged Bob here who nodded his head on cue.

  “We had this church — this property,” the priest corrects himself, “appraised by the realtor in Victoire. They put it close to five thousand. The building — and the land.”

  “Five thousand seems high,” Bob repeats, “especially when most lots in this town go for five hundred. You can get a grave for fifty bucks. Ground ain’t worth much around here.”

  Bob is doing his best farmer talk. He’s doing all right.

  “And the building needs some serious upgrades.”

  Always unnerves the padres, farmer talk.

  “But you say yourself, city people, they won’t know the difference. They’ll pay big prices.”

  “Or not. It’s a risk.” Bob lowers his voice, makes a point of staring over in the general vicinity of Florence Enders. “Like Buster says, will they want to live next door to roughnecks and landmen and seismic crews and unbalanced women?”

  “And children,” I finish. “You saw a few of them earlier tonight. Unruly types.”

  At this last, the priest winces.

  “Mostly Catholic, I might add. The lapsed variety. Kind of like Jack Mormons. Gone wild.”

  At which the padre screws up his mouth and puts the padlock on.

  “It’s also next door to the hotel. Not a pretty picture on a Saturday night. Majestic bar where the drilling crews, the farmers, the Hutterites, and the Cree Nation meet.”

  The priest clears his throat. Takes another sip of his tea, his pinky finger rising. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Old Father Macdonnell used to say it was the most fertile place to save souls. All kinds of sinners in one room. Not to mention the bedrooms upstairs.”

  Now this last was an exaggeration. Annie had never run a house of ill repute, and there was rarely a fight between the tribes, white or red, but young city priests will believe anything.

  “Well, do you think the hotel will continue now that Annie’s gone?”

  “Oh, I think there are a couple of people with their eye on that property too,” I say, making it up.

  The priest looks crestfallen.

  I decide to press our advantage. “You have to admit it’s a pretty building,” I say. “All that brick.”

  “Yes, well. . . .”

  “Have you had any other offers?” Bob asks.

  The priest looks weary in his shoulders, like the weight of this place might bring him to his knees at any moment. “No. None at all.” He takes another sip; he doesn’t bother raising his pinky finger this time.

  “Course, the money may not matter, eh, father,” I burst in again, “what with rebellion brewing in the town.”

  “Rebellion?”

  “Oh yeah. Full scale twenty-first century Protest-antism,” I say with deliberate emphasis on the first syllable. “Some are threatening to break away and set up a new denomination.”

  “Some folks are planning a hijack,” Bob chimes in.

  “A what?” The priest almost chokes on his lemon square.

  Bob is staring at me in horror. How close should we get to the truth? I nod and wink.

  “A takeover.”

  “A sit in.”

  “I hope you’ve decommissioned the place, unblessed it, whatever you call it,” I say. “Don’t delay getting shut of the place. Could get ugly.”

  “Deconsecrate.” He clears his throat. “We have to deconsecrate it. Already scheduled, for Sunday.”

  “That’s what I told Bob here. Nothing of the Holy Spirit remaining. Just superstition and sentimentality which you won’t want to fall into the hands of former parishioners. They’re libel to make a shrine of it.”

  Father Pat straightens suddenly, leans in. “Do those women who run the parish have anything to do with this?”

  “I can’t name names,” says Bob. “They might seek reprisal, you understand.” I give Bob another jab in the ribs. “Tempers are running hot. Violence is not out of the question!”

  I have to jab him again. “But my information is that they are young people,” he adds.

  “But we hardly have any young people—”

  “That’s the rumour,” I cut in and raise my eyebrows in the direction of the Mueller kid bobbing up and down in the back corner. The young Father follows where I lead before I continue: “Young people are an unpredictable element these days. They may want it for some kind of new age sect. Illicit purposes. Sex. Psychedelics, things like that.”

  Suddenly Bob finds surprising life in himself and goes for the jugular. “Understand, it’s a liability,” he parrots just like I’ve instructed. “I could take it off your hands. Avoid an embarrassing situation with the media.” He whispers these last few words.

  “The media! Okay, okay,” says the priest, squeezing his big cross against his chest now. “What’s your best offer?”

  And Bob is ready this time without prompting. “Two thousand.”

  “Sold,” barks the priest, his lemon square abandoned on his saucer, his tea still in its cup. “I’ll talk to the bishop tomorrow. Let’s shake on it.” And so we do, right there by the teapots. And if the priest had turned around at that moment, he would have seen thumbs up around the room.

  FLORENCE

  Just as they shake hands on the deal, small cries go up everywhere around the room. Someone thumps Annie’s table, and I swear I hear her speak. I don’t know if the voice is inside me or outside me, but it’s a pronouncement I hear, a prophecy, a gift, and I clutch myself to it like a mast to a ship: “Those who question will inherit the light.”

  DAISY

  Before the night is done, after Father Pat has left, and everyone has had their fill of spirits and sandwich plates and squares, we get her into the coffin Bob fitted for her the very day of her death, without a pattern, just her measurements, all mitred and planed and varnished, not a board out of level. Jack supervises. It takes six of us. Two holding her feet, two holding her arms and two holding her head and shoulders to prevent any injury. Ever so carefully, like we are carrying a piece of China. Florence and I open the lid, holding it for balance. It weighs nothing. Simple birch, unlined, unadorned. Long thin boards. Air tight. Varnished clear and full of light. At the end, we throw her grandmother’s crazy quilt on top and gently close the lid.

  The pallbearers shoulder her the old-fashioned way from the hotel, out the back door, make a ragged procession to the sanctuary, cats from her home place in tow (some have taken up residence at the hotel since her death), all of us swaying and catching, traipsing over the lawn behind the hotel, zigzagging up the hill to the foot of the church, up the stairs, where Florence and I shoo the cats away, through the front doors and finally to the vestibule. Just like Annie herself has done for decades. Someone runs ahead to find the bier at the back of the chur
ch, an old wooden table they’re using for the purpose, and moves it into the main aisle, just through the vestibule, into the church proper.

  Funny, how back becomes front, how life becomes death, when turned around. How breaking bread and bearing becomes bier. How torn becomes mended or a pattern completely new.

  Vera leads us in another round of hails and responses, this time to the psalm about dark valleys and pastures, mountaintops and feasts where cups of wine are taken. “Remember her,” we murmur. And I can tell by the force of the words among us that we are praying just as much for ourselves as for Annie. So human to want to be remembered.

  FLORENCE

  Jack says he will stay the night again with the body. I offer to spell him off, but he says he must have one last night with her alone. Her spirit is still there. He can feel it he says. “I don’t know what it is. I think she has something to say to me.”

  I nod my head. “The water,” I say. Nodding at the baptismal font at the back of the church. “Try the water.”

  He laughs, his mind off somewhere, shakes his head. “Of course. The water. Thank you.”

  “Thank you, Jack Ramsey, for loving her.” I take both his hands in mine and give them a squeeze. “I am truly sorry for your loss.”

  He does not reply right away but collects himself, looks down and looks up again. “Thank you.”

  JACK

  I say, “Leave the casket open, I’ll watch her.”

  The women are nervous about flies and birds and me.

  I adopt my best farmer talk: “Go on with you,” I say. “It’s not my first time through.”

  I admit though it gets harder and harder: this giving and taking. This having to start all over again from scratch. From the smallest routines: when to get up in the morning, what bed to sleep in at night, how much to make for supper. To the largest: where to put these arms, this love I have for everything.

  Florence closes the casket in the end. Closed or open, it is no matter to me. Her presence permeates this space. There is not a molecule of air without her mind directing it. I babble nonsense; I am an old man. Finally, they bow their heads, they bob, they duck, they leave me be.