Chapelwood

by Cherie Priest

  The men in the jury box got even more lemon-faced. Hugo Black said to them, and to the rest of the room, “Let the record reflect, Mrs. Gussman found the very idea of Sunday school so odious that she was compelled to seek a less virtuous arrangement.”

  “That’s not fair!” I blurted, which was the wrong thing to do, and I knew it. But I kept talking anyway, even though the lawyer tried to talk over me at the end. “I ought to be able to pick whichever church I want! I didn’t want to go to Chapelwood, that’s all. I was happy to go someplace else, almost anyplace else!”

  Fast on the heels of me saying that, he said, “Anyplace like Saint Paul’s?”

  I could tell it was supposed to be all dramatic, and it was supposed to make me embarrassed because just about everyone in the room thought Catholics were so bad, but I wasn’t embarrassed and I didn’t feel bad. “Yes, like Saint Paul’s. They were kind to me there. Kinder than my daddy’s ever been, since the day I was born.”

  “But their teachings are false, and they follow the Antichrist—or so some people would say,” Hugo Black was quick to add—I don’t know why. It’s not like anybody in a position to judge me disagreed with him any.

  So I told him, “I didn’t believe everything they taught me, any more than I ever believed anything the Methodists told me, either. And I believed even less of what they were saying at Reverend Davis’s church. That place is crazy, and I didn’t want to go back. That’s partly why I ran.”

  A murmur ran through the jury box and went around the room. I knew the reverend was a popular man, but I might’ve underestimated how popular, exactly. Tough luck, because I’d already said my piece. My neck was burning hot, and my head was starting to hurt. All right, maybe I was a little embarrassed and feeling bad—but it wasn’t due to anything Hugo Black thought was appropriately shameful.

  The lawyer lifted his butt off the edge of the table and slowly walked toward me, shaking his head like I’d done something awful. “You shouldn’t say such things,” he said, talking to me as if I were some naughty schoolchild who’d copied off someone else’s slate. “That’s very offensive to the Reverend Davis, and to the church’s members—some of whom are in this very courtroom.”

  “They . . . they are?” I didn’t like how nervous I sounded when I said it. But like everything else, it was too late for me to go back and fix it.

  “Why, I’ve attended services there once or twice myself—and I can assure the fine gentlemen of the jury that nothing strange or untoward ever takes place. Chapelwood welcomes worshippers of many faiths into the fold. It’s not at all like the vipers of the Vatican, who would make each man, woman, and child stand upon elaborate ceremonies before they enter the sanctuary.”

  “That’s not true,” I argued. “None of it’s true—not about Chapelwood, and not about Saint Paul’s. Father Coyle didn’t make me do anything in exchange for his help, he—”

  Faster than you could blink, Hugo Black snapped, “So he was helping you? You admit to this?”

  “Everybody knew he helped me. I already told you, he’s the one who married me and Pedro.”

  “Had he helped you before?”

  I hesitated. Of course he’d helped me before; he’d given me a place to go when I felt like I couldn’t go home, on more than one afternoon. He hid me from Tom Shirley once, after my daddy called him around to collect me. But if I’d said any of that out loud, they’d use it to make me sound bad and Father Coyle sound worse. So even though I’d put my hand on the Bible and made my swears, I shook my head. “He was somebody to talk to. A nice man who didn’t treat me like dirt—and when I asked if he’d marry me and Pedro, he said he’d do it.” That was another lie. It wasn’t my idea to get married, but it wouldn’t go over too well if I put that part on the record.

  “Was Father Coyle aware that your father disapproved of the union?”

  “It wouldn’t have surprised him any.”

  “Answer the question directly, Mrs. Gussman.”

  “Fine.” I crossed my arms. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. “He knew my daddy wouldn’t like it.”

  “But he performed the marriage anyway?”

  “Obviously.”

  I glared at him, just daring him to tell me to answer directly again, or properly, or in the manner of his preference. I was getting fed up with this whole courtroom-language business. It was starting to feel like a trick, like a big old game and nobody whose life depends on it knows the goddamn rules.

  I think they do it that way on purpose.

  Finally someone made a call for “recess,” and they let me get down off the stand. I could hardly get away from it fast enough . . . I even had to stop myself from running down the aisle toward Chief Eagan. I took a real deep breath and mostly held it, putting one foot in front of the other until I reached that back row.

  He stood up and smiled real big, and he said, “I’m proud of you, girl. They didn’t take it easy on you, did they? But you said your piece all the same.”

  Then Inspector Wolf leaned over the bench and said, “Unfortunately, I doubt they’re finished with you yet.”

  The chief turned around, surprised to see him—but he didn’t look unhappy about it. “Inspector, what brings you here?”

  “A combination of things, but mostly I wished to support Mrs. Gussman, and to see what steps toward justice were under way, with regards to Father Coyle’s murder.”

  “Feeble ones,” Chief Eagan muttered.

  We all got real quiet then. The courtroom was emptying out, and Hugo Black was coming down the aisle. I didn’t mean to stare at him. I think he likes it when people stare at him, and I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction on purpose. He looked right at me as he went on by, and spared a glance for those who stood around me. He gave Chief Eagan a bob of his head that was supposed to be polite, but I think it only meant that he’d seen him, and that he was glad the chief was getting to watch him work.

  That man is truly a bastard, in the nastiest, coldest sense.

  The chief wouldn’t give him a smile or a nod in return any sooner than I would; but those of us at the back row were the only ones who weren’t grinning at him and trying to shake his hand as he left, swarming him and telling him how good he was and what a great job he was doing. He was eating it up, and his appetite was strong.

  I looked around and watched the jury men whisper back and forth to themselves as they either stayed in place or wandered off in clusters, sneaking peeks at me when they thought I wouldn’t notice—like I had no idea who or what they were talking about. Jesus, but Hugo Black only told them I was a delinquent. He didn’t tell them I was an idiot.

  Inspector Wolf had been exchanging pleasantries with Chief Eagan but I hadn’t heard them, until he said, “But I am terribly sorry—where are my manners? Chief Eagan, Mrs. Ruth Gussman . . . this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Miss Lizbeth Andrew. She’s joined me from Massachusetts, to assist with my investigation.”

  “Like Father Coyle used to?” I asked, since he’d mentioned they’d sometimes worked together.

  “Very much like that, yes.”

  I shook Miss Andrew’s hand and said it was nice to meet her.

  She said, “Likewise, Mrs. Gussman, I’m sure. And I know it is terribly difficult, but you handled yourself admirably up there. It’s very brave of you to stand up to them.”

  “Everyone keeps saying that.” I didn’t mean to sound fussy, but I probably did. “It’s not brave, though. It’s just what Father Coyle deserves, after all he did for me. So Miss Andrew, are you some kind of inspector, too? Do they let ladies do that in Boston?”

  She blushed, and I hoped I hadn’t said something rude without meaning to. “Please, call me Lizbeth, dear.”

  “Only if you’ll settle for Ruth in return,” I said back, and that seemed to please her.

  “As you like, Ruth. But to answ
er your question, no, I’m not a proper investigator. I’m more like a . . . consultant.”

  She was leaving something out, but that was fine. We were all leaving something out.

  “I’ve never heard of a lady being a consultant before,” I said, and maybe I shouldn’t have, but I was distracted. The last of the jury men were filing by, and the recess was only supposed to last for thirty minutes. I wanted some air, so I said, “Let’s get out of here, if you don’t mind. It’s all stuffy, and I feel like I’m surrounded.”

  Outside the courtroom, I didn’t feel any less surrounded by the folks who were milling about in the lobby. I tried to keep from looking at them, face by face, to figure out who I might’ve seen at Chapelwood and who I hadn’t . . . and it didn’t matter much. Even if I hadn’t seen these men and women at church before (and there were a handful of women, too—but it was mostly men) . . . I knew some of them from the newspapers.

  Over here in this corner, a bunch of Klansmen chattered; over there along that wall, a cluster of shifty-eyed True Americans lurked; and the more I thought about it, the more I felt smothered by the lot of them. The judge was a wizard, once—and maybe he still was. My own representative, Mr. Mayhew, told me he didn’t participate in that group no more, but he could’ve been saying that to make me feel better, if he was so inclined to bother. Hugo Black—everybody knew about him and the True Americans. And all those grouchy old men in the jury box were peers of my daddy’s indeed.

  I spotted the jury foreman chatting with Hugo Black. The foreman had a button on his lapel. It had the letters “TA” with a red, white, and blue background behind them, and it was disgusting. Not just because it was a signal, a reminder that all these men were in the same club and they all ought to hang together—but because they gave themselves that name: True Americans. That’s horseshit of the highest order, and I can’t stand it. There’s nothing true about them, and American? Sixty years ago they were willing to fight a war to keep from being Americans. Besides, American ought to be a good thing, the kind of thing that brings everybody together instead of deciding who’s good enough to be one and who isn’t. I’ve read in my history books, I’ve seen pictures of the statue in New York, the lady who greets all the people coming in from other countries. She doesn’t pick and choose; she takes everybody. And that’s how it ought to be.

  This “True American” business—it’s nonsense, plain and simple. No, it’s worse than nonsense, because I think they actually believe it.

  I might’ve started swearing about it, or even crying out of pure frustration with it all, but then the front doors opened and in strolled the Reverend Davis, just as easy as you please. He walked in like he owned the place, and I guess, in a sense, he did. He looked around the room and settled on me, and gave me this nasty little half smile that made my stomach drop. But there he was . . . dressed in ordinary clothes, no spooky robes or funny gloves. He still looked strange to me, though . . . like his arms were a bit too long, or maybe his hands had too many joints. When he moved, it didn’t look natural—maybe that’s what I’m trying to say. It looked like someone had built a person-shaped puppet and had done a real good job, but not quite perfect. Even in a gray cotton suit and with a politician’s grin, and even with his hair slicked back just as shiny as his shoes, he didn’t quite look ordinary.

  I fought the urge to retreat; I wanted to back up against the wall, or hide behind the big, sturdy shape of the inspector. No, that’s not true at all. I wanted to run screaming from the building, just like I always wanted to run screaming from Chapelwood every single time I went there.

  “Dear, are you all right?” Miss Andrew asked me. I mean, Lizbeth did. She put her hand on my shoulder and stepped closer, all protective-like. She smelled like fancy rosewater cologne and powder makeup. She smelled like money, and someplace else—and that’s how she sounded, too.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m all right,” I lied.

  Then I noticed that she was looking right at the reverend—she just picked him out of the crowd, like she knew without even asking. Her eyes settled on him, but he didn’t look our way again. Once he’d finished trying to scare me, he’d lost interest in me—or anyone I was talking to. But she looked at him hard, so hard he must’ve felt it.

  He frowned, and glanced up over his shoulder. He probably would’ve looked away in a flash, but her gaze hooked him hard.

  Chief Eagan growled to them both, “That’s the dread reverend, it is. He’s the man who owns and operates the church at Chapelwood.”

  “Reverend Davis,” Lizbeth murmured, still holding his stare, blink for blink.

  He couldn’t have heard her over the ruckus of the courthouse visitors, but he saw that she mouthed his name. He nodded, but he didn’t give her that same condescending sneer he always saves for me. He didn’t give her any look at all . . . all he did was give up and look away.

  I was shocked. It was a little thing, I know, but it gave me great joy to see him back down from someone—from this lady I’d only just met, this tiny thing, really—an inch or two shorter than me, and she was wearing square little heels that gave her a smidge of lift.

  She was the one who made a condescending sneer, and she sent it in his general direction. He wasn’t looking anymore, but she didn’t do it for show; she did it because that was how she felt about him. She sniffed and said, “I’ve tangled with worse.”

  The inspector shook his head. “You don’t know that yet.”

  For a second, she seemed uncertain. Then she straightened up, set her jaw, and said, “Well, I’ve tangled with just as bad. Don’t worry, Ruth. If he picks a fight with you, he picks a fight with us; and I promise, that’s more trouble than he’s prepared for.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, I appreciate it,” I said, and I truly did.

  But standing there beside her, and the inspector, and the old police chief, and nobody else . . . I felt well and truly surrounded, regardless. I’d seen the awful red, white, and blue button on the reverend’s lapel, and I knew where he stood. I knew where all of them stood—they all wore it on their collar, on their sleeve, wherever.

  Someone was passing out the damn buttons—yes, there she was. A tall woman with a box of them, standing by the front door. I only just then saw her. She was smiling real big and greeting everyone who came and went, offering a button and a pamphlet. Most everyone declined the pamphlet, because most everyone already knew what they were all about. But everyone took a button.

  The thirty-minute recess was almost over, and people started filing back into the courtroom. One by one, two by two, animals into the ark—each of them wearing one of those TA buttons, putting on a united front against the four of us, and it wasn’t hardly fair.

  The woman at the door shook her box as if to see how many buttons she had left, then looked up when another man came inside. With a bright “Good afternoon!” and a huge smile, she held one out to him.

  He pushed her hand away and told her to go to hell.

  Inspector Simon Wolf

  SEPTEMBER 29, 1921

  Over by the front door, someone told the button-pushing blonde with the awkward hat that she ought to go to hell, and I thought, “I know that voice . . .” Indeed I did: It was George Battey Ward. He shoved past her into the lobby, or foyer, or whatever you call that space between the front door and the courtroom; he scanned the place, spotted Ruth and myself, and made a beeline for us.

  He took her by the arms as if he meant to shake her—or convey something very, very important and he wanted her full attention. “Ruth, are you all right?”

  The poor girl was somewhat rattled by this weird how- do-you-do, so she stammered, “Yes . . . yes, sir, I am. Are . . . are you? All right, I mean?”

  “Me? I’m fine. I only . . . I’d heard . . . It’s just . . .” He paused to collect himself. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone.” He released his grip on her, which caused Lizbeth to relax
. For a moment there, I thought she was going to produce an axe and smack him away from the girl. It might’ve been a sight to behold, but I’m glad she restrained herself.

  George looked like a maniac, and I say that with all the casual affection of someone who was actually quite pleased to see him. His hair was mussed, his shirt rumpled, and there were smudges of dust at the top of his thighs—presumably where he’d wiped his hands after foraging in that bizarre basement downtown. Storage Room Six had not been kind to him. I had a feeling that it wasn’t kind to anybody.

  “I’m not alone,” Ruth said bravely. “The chief’s been here all along, and I can’t remember if you’ve met the inspector or not—”

  “I did, the other day,” he cut her off. He shook my hand and said, “I’m glad you’ve come to lend your support.”

  I told him I was happy to oblige, and then said, “I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, a consultant from the Boston area. Miss Lizbeth Andrew, this is George Ward, former city commissioner and friend of Father Coyle’s.”

  He took Lizbeth’s hand and gave it a genteel kiss. “Charmed, I’m sure.” Then, to Ruth, he added, “I’m sorry I haven’t been here, girl. I’ve been studying, researching. Trying to find some foothold, you understand? It’s distracted me, and again, I’m very sorry. But I’m here now, for I thought you might need me.”

  “I’m happy to see you, sir,” she told him. “But why now, in particular?”

  “Because . . .” The courthouse door opened with a creaking swing, and a bailiff darkened its threshold with another man in tow. Quickly, George told her before she could see it for herself: “They’re bringing in your father. He wasn’t hurt in the jail cell, he was drunk on a gift from the reverend. Now he’s up and about, and he’s deigned to appear for the second half of the day’s testimony.”

  The girl went pale, but her mouth was fixed in a firm, straight line. “How’d you know?”

  “It was all the gossip at the police station. I still have a few friends there, at least until Tom Shirley figures out who they are and sends them packing.”