Directly above the old exorcism room was Isabel’s class.
The classroom door opened to the hall. Becky, the headmistress, stood in the doorway, her expression stern. Her bony hand beckoned.
Isabel set down the hand sanitizer.
Becky studied Isabel's face. A marker smudge had marred the beautiful Hispanic teacher's cheek. The headmistress wrinkled her nose. “You coming to Sunday Mass?”
“Of course.”
Becky had her arms crossed, and her shoulder held open the door. She glanced down Isabel's body. Isabel became hyperaware of any exposed skin; was her modest Sunday dress still not conservative enough? “We missed you last week. If you can't manage—”
“I was sick.” Isabel had already explained her absence more than once. It was the one time she had missed Mass since starting at Lumen Christi six years ago.
“How would it look to the parents? I mean, one of our teachers never attending services.”
Isabel un-tucked the collar of a child's coat that hung by the door. She knew Becky's real issue. Last summer, someone had discovered Isabel's relationship with Howard Stark. Together for more than eight years, she and Howard were as committed as any married couple was, but the school board saw it differently. Without vows before God and the church, they were living in sin. To her shock, the board had let her stay on (some were just happy she wasn't single), but ever since then, her coworkers, especially Becky, had stopped hiding their contempt.
Becky continued in a whisper. “The last thing we need is another scandal. After that boy.”
“You mean after that boy's two mothers.”
“You know very well what I mean. We couldn't let him enroll. What kind of message would that send? You need to start taking your job more seriously.”
Isabel remained mute. She had already fought to have birth control covered by the school’s health insurance plan and fought the banning of books from the school library. She reminded herself that any teaching opportunity was a godsend after all the budget cuts and that this school paid better than most.
“Make sure you attend. There have been complaints. You're on thin ice.” Becky slipped away and let the door shut in Isabel's face.
Old dingbat, Isabel thought, trying to minimize her anger. Becky was here to stay, as much a fixture of the school as the gargoyles on the front of the building.
The children continued to draw in grim concentration.
“Ten more minutes,” Isabel announced to the class.
After college, she had volunteered in Venezuela, and the kids there had always been playful and eager to learn—impoverished but quick with smiles and laughter. She missed them, or more precisely, missed being the naïve idealist who viewed every child as a growing seed of hope. It felt like a lifetime ago.
She did her job at Lumen Christi—put in long hours, did as she was told—but no longer risked emotional investment. That didn't mean she didn't take pride in her work; it just meant being practical, conserving her energy, and protecting her heart. Like with the rest of her life, she gave what was needed and tried to require as little as possible in return. Now everything ran smoothly.
A startling skittering sound flittered back and forth in the classroom and gave her a frightening chill. The sound stopped before she could pinpoint its source. Was it the pipes again? It seemed unlikely. It reminded her of dusty moths and filthy cockroaches and rusty machinery, like a propeller blade maybe. The lights had flickered too, but none of the children seemed to have noticed. Was it her vision that had flickered? Did I just have a stroke or something? she seriously considered. No. I’m fine. Everything is fine. Why would I even think that? Whatever it was, things felt normal again.
Over the summer, an electrician had installed brighter lighting. Despite this (and the rainbow alphabet, silly posters, and day-glow bulletin board), the room still held its gloomy atmosphere.
Of course, she'd heard the stories about the basement, but ghosts didn’t exist; why would Satan’s minions trouble themselves with moving around furniture and making strange noises just to scare the custodians? When someone died, they either went to heaven or went to hell. Faulty wiring and unreliable power sources made lights flicker, not the spirits of the dead. Her parents had been superstitious. She was not.
Alexander Stonecipher’s hand shot up.
“Yes. Alex.”
Still sitting at his desk, the boy held out his drawing. Its subject matter faced the floor and the lower chambers. Isabel crept forward, her hands clutched at her chest. It was a child’s picture, that’s all, yet dread made her hesitate. She knelt and took the picture: a big crayon sun.
“Very good,” she said tightly, still not relieved. “I’m sure your mother will love this.”
“Why do children die?”
Some of the other children looked up from their drawings.
Alex’s father had died of pneumonia only six months before—his mother had sent Alex to school with a handwritten letter that looked like it was from the 1800s—and so it was no wonder death occupied his mind. “Well, Alex, all things die eventually. It’s part of God’s plan. Don’t worry. You’re going to live for a very long time. Here.” She tried to give the picture back, but he shook his head.
“It’s for you. Because you lost your baby.” The drawing wasn't a sun, as she first assumed. A yellow snake ate its own tail. Loss hit her in the gut, a physical pain. “It’s an ouroboros,” he said with pride.
She grabbed his arm. “How did you—” Because of the tears in her eyes, she could no longer make out the snake, only the circle it made. Taylor had died over six years ago, yet to remember was still a sucker punch. An empty crib. A silent apartment.
“It’s not your fault,” Alex said. “They all lose their babies to the House of Skulls.”
◆◆◆
Despite the sunshine outside, rain fell on Old Town Chinatown, and people hurried for cover under eaves and inside shops. Grip didn't mind getting wet. The rain would pass. He searched for a rainbow but didn’t see one.
Deep under his feet ran the Shanghai Tunnels, an underground system that connected much of downtown to the waterfront. Northwest Paranormal Investigations classified the Shanghai Tunnels as the most haunted place in Oregon. Supposedly, phantom women strolled the long subterranean corridors accompanied by spirit orbs and the disembodied sounds of crying children. Many of the buildings in the area had basements that connected to the tunnels. It was one explanation for why supernatural activity thrived in the city.
Despite his search for a haunted artifact, Grip didn’t really believe in all that supernatural hogwash. It was just—the idea of ghosts was so entertaining! While he was serving time at Oregon State Penitentiary on a drug possession charge, more than one tough guy had lost his shit while cleaning out the creep-tastic boiler room. Hardened criminals in a tizzy over creaky plumbing never got old.
A sinewy Chinese man in an A-shirt transparent from the rain worked a flower stand near the spiritualist shop. He used a puntilla knife to slice off thorns from a heap of roses. Grip looked over the myriad of colorful bouquets, still searching for a suitable gift.
The Chinese man looked to the sun and rain. “Make flowers fresh.”
“Shenlong must like us.” Grip picked up a bouquet of Stargazer Lilies, pink tulips, and seeded eucalyptus. “How much?”
“Too much.”
“I’ve got money.”
“Too much for young love. Young love, red rose.”
“Fine, red rose, but I'll need three. And leave the thorns.”
The Chinese man's smile revealed many missing teeth. “Yes, love has thorns. Yes. Very wise.” He wrapped three thorny roses in a black cloth. The man was also missing both his pinky fingers.
Unpaid gambling debts, Grip assumed, not for any good reason. His mind often took flights of fancy.
He reached for his wallet and a shadow passed over him, accompanied by an unnatural skittering that sounded like flapping wings and claws on rusted pi
pe. He looked up for what had made the sound. A bird maybe. A bat. Or hey, maybe a Chinese dragon.
From across the street, a large man named Early Hastings was watching Grip. He had been watching and following ever since Grip arrived in Chinatown. Now that Early had been spotted, he waved his big stout hand. He jogged across the street and said, “Grip,” because they knew each other. They had been cellmates.
Grip’s whole body tensed. “You got out early.”
“For good behavior.” It was ironic but humorless. The large, nervous man scratched the black-widow tattoo on the back of his hand and searched for something to say. His soaked shirt molded to his bulky pectoral muscles. “You’re buying flowers.”
The thorns were piercing Grip’s palm. He loosened his grip. “I don’t need you to check up on me. You didn’t break me.”
“I know, pal. I know.” The large man scratched the back of his buzzed head. “We were just passing time.”
“Fuck you,” Grip said with no emotion.
“I know you feel partially responsible. You need to forgive yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”
“What do you want, Early?” The rain was still coming down, and they were both too stupid to seek shelter.
“You doing okay besides all that? You find a job? I could hook you up.”
“You worried about me?”
“If you break it, you bought it.”
“You didn’t break me,” Grip repeated.
Glass crashed somewhere nearby.
The snake terrarium had smashed on the sidewalk in front of the spiritualist shop, the mass of snakes writhing amid the shattered glass, many cut and bleeding. The shopkeeper stood over them. The terrarium must have slipped from her fingers.
“One day, they'll be forgiven,” she said, grief distorting her pleasant features.
The white mouse wriggled out of the cut stomach of one of the snakes.
◆◆◆
Loosely sketched snakes emerged in a tangle from a gaping wound in a naked man’s stomach. The man, a holy sacrifice, was bound by the wrists to an altar. His eyes were rolled back as if he were about to faint from agony. A cloaked figure stood near him holding an S-shaped knife. All of this was depicted in one of the many engravings in the Book of Three.
A hand turned the page. The next page depicted the knife in more detail: its distinctive S-shaped blade lined with markings, its hilt unadorned.
“More cult stuff?” Allen said. An unsightly comb-over did him no favors. He wore a nametag and a large button that read, “Ask Me About POINT CLUB.”
“Rajneesh buried this book seven-feet deep out in the High Desert,” Howard said, also wearing a nametag. “Or at least his followers did.”
“Why?”
“Rajneesh didn't like what it said.” Howard went back to the book. “I dug it up last year. A rattlesnake almost got me. And then I almost passed out from dehydration on the way back.”
The two men staffed an information desk in Powell’s City of Books on the third floor next to the rare book room. A Portland institution, Powell’s was supposedly the largest independent bookstore of new and used books in the world. In addition to the local regulars, tourists came from all over, including the occasional ghost hunter wanting a tour of the rare book room.
With its large glass windows facing in to the rest of the store and its many books on mediumship, demon worship, and torture, the rare book room was supposedly another haunted Portland site. Allen swore he'd once been tapped on the shoulder while high on a ladder, retrieving a rare book from the top shelf. Howard had only experienced a few cold drafts. He didn’t believe in ghosts. He researched cults and NRMs, not the supernatural.
The store was overstaffed today so the two men had some downtime. They liked each other but had never hung out outside of work. This was their rare time to socialize.
On the next page, lines emanated from a woman holding the S-shaped knife. She could have been a saint or an angel. Howard, who had read the book countless times before, still studied it in awe. Customers walked by without realizing the book's significance. The way of the world, he thought. People are oblivious.
“Oh, man! This shit always freaks me out! Okay, fine, Howard, what’s this one about?”
“It's an English translation of a Gnostic text: the Book of Three. It says Mary wasn't willing to sacrifice Jesus, and because her sacrifice was involuntary, Jesus's blood failed to cleanse the world of original sin. In short, it says women have power. And because that power was ignored, humankind is still damned.”
“Again with the feminist crap,” Allen half-joked. While happily married, he wasn’t big on women’s lib.
“It’s not crap.”
“Uh huh.”
Howard studied the book. “When I'm with Isabel, I can feel it, that sacred female core.”
“It's called a vagina.”
“I'm serious. It's spiritual. I can’t explain it, but . . . she can set me free. She’s my savior.”
“Wow. If the sex is that hot, why aren’t you guys hitched yet? Isn’t she Catholic? Or does she get off on living in sin?”
“She’s Catholic. But I wouldn’t say she’s Orthodox. I give her what she wants. Marriage isn’t on her wish list.”
Allen gave a skeptical look.
“What? She’s not some radical or something. I mean, she wants us to buy a house together. It’s just . . . We're not like you: marriage, kids . . .”
“You do realize beautiful people aren't immune to heartbreak, right? You’re handsome and all, but you could lose her to the next hot stud that catches her eye. Tie that shit down!”
“You don’t think buying a house together is enough of a commitment?”
“Ha. You’re never going to find anything affordable in the current real estate market anyway. Not on your salary. Isabel is a teacher. Unless you want something shitty out in the suburbs, I say skip the house and get married instead.”
“You live in a house out in the suburbs.”
“Exactly. And it’s shitty. I know what I’m talking about.”
“I'm telling you, our relationship is more than marriage. I trust her implicitly. Why do we need to prove our devotion to the rest of the world when I have all the proof I need every time she looks at me?”
◆◆◆
Two attractive people aggressively made love in a townhouse apartment, the man as vocal as the woman, as if there was a competition to see who could disturb the neighbors more. In the living room, bookshelves filled with books on religion and the occult ran from floor to ceiling. Ungraded homework and lesson plans cluttered the dining table.
The thrusting man bumped a coffee table with his elbow and a portrait of Howard and Isabel toppled over. The smiling portrait was from a decade ago, before Isabel lost her baby. Beside the picture lay three red roses wrapped in a black cloth.
Grip couldn't hold out any longer and climaxed inside. Isabel's long legs tightened around his trim waist. He came to rest, his muscled back slick with sweat. He'd forgotten where they'd started, but somehow they had ended up on the floor. His rain-soaked clothes were by the entrance. He hadn’t told her about Early tracking him down, not wanting to talk about the past, especially not today.
Grip rested on his tattooed forearms. “Isabel.” They gazed into each other's eyes. “After we die, will you come visit me?” She looked gorgeously bemused, having no idea what he was talking about. “I’m godless,” he explained. “I won’t have much clout. But you’ll be in heaven. After I die, I want you to come visit me. I'd be lost without you.”
She could tell he was only half joking. His concern was touching. She believed in hell but was okay with Grip’s agnosticism. She lifted her head off the carpet and kissed him.
“Even God couldn’t deny you,” he added. His eyes lit up as he rediscovered the details of her face: her full lips, her naturally curled dark lashes, even the subtle crow's feet at the corners of her eyes pleased him.
Isabel straddled him and ran her
fingers over his tattoos. The prison tats were rougher than the rest. His full-color tats were smooth, the newest a bright blue koi on the side just below his ribcage. It was gorgeous. Howard didn’t have tattoos. To him, the human body was a temple and tattoos and piercings were defilement.
“You adore me,” she said.
“God do I adore you!” He sounded breathless.
His boyish adoration, so flattering and beguiling, reminded her of times long past. Howard had that same look the first few times in bed—like a giddy teenager—but that was another life. Isabel and Howard’s shared grief had taken its toll on them both. She didn’t hold it against him. Life worked like that; given enough time, the enthusiasm and naivety of youth faded away.
Grip sat up so his naked torso pressed against hers. They kissed with their arms around each other.
Howard Stark was her hard-earned wisdom; Grip Porter was her renewed hope.
“I can go again.” Grip grabbed the last condom off the coffee table.
Despite Grip’s own hardscrabble past, he still had youth to burn. He made her alive and maternal in a way that didn’t cause her pain. His lightness was a relief.
But life couldn’t be endless play. “We need to get dressed,” she said. “We still haven’t even found the address yet. Howard is probably already off work.”
“What about nine to five?”
“Not today.”
Grip couldn’t stop himself from picturing Early out in the rain, offering a job, maybe in an effort to obtain absolution. Grip didn’t want to forgive; he wanted the past to stay in the past. He wanted it gone. He wanted more sex. “Izzi, I can go again.”
“We can’t.”
After a moment, he thought of a solution: “I’ll be quick!”
They stared at each other.
Isabel melted. If Grip wanted her, oh, and his burning gaze proved he wanted her more than anything, how could she say no? This wasn’t sinning, this was worship. And God, she couldn’t get enough.
She tore open the condom and praised the Lord for this moment, and for giving her love, and for giving her the ability to feel such pleasure, and for Grip's seemingly endless virility, and for life lived, and for their bodies, and for Grip's heavy cock, and for her loss of control, and for—
The Forgiving Page 3