The Forgiving

by Wesley McCraw

  “Flowers are for ladies.” Grip curtsied and tied the necklace around his neck. “You’ll be sorry when I’m the only one that makes it out of here alive.”

  “Grip bought it for me,” Howard explained to Isabel. “It’s supposed to ward off evil spirits.”

  Isabel shivered and smiled grimly. “He should have bought me one too. This place—I know there are no such things as ghosts, but—”

  “It’s because it's unfamiliar,” Howard said.

  Grip stepped up behind Isabel and said into her ear, “Christen some of these rooms and it won’t feel so alien.”

  “If you don't mind me asking,” Ophelia interjected, “what kind of relationship are you people engaged in?”

  Grip made eye contact with Howard. “One of these days, I’m going to get Howard to dress in leather.”

  Howard looked away and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Don't worry,” Ophelia said to Howard. “I understand. My grandfather was a vegetarian.”

  Howard smiled politely, his face reddening. He wasn’t ashamed of his relationship with Grip but also wasn’t used to being so open about it.

  Ophelia continued to the next room. “In addition to this spacious dining room, we have the heart of the house.”

  They entered a surprisingly bright, modern kitchen that featured a classic island layout. Three sets of track lighting lit the space. All the fixtures looked new. Shelving held stacks of china near the door to the dining room. It seemed like a different house.

  “Wow,” Grip said. “You were holding out on us. This is amazing.”

  Howard checked his watch again.

  “Before my husband died, he'd imagined this place as a McMenamin’s. He used his life savings to restore the kitchen before he was killed.”

  “Your husband was killed?” Grip said with morbid curiosity.

  “He became obsessed with his own skull. He said he saw the bone under his skin. He kept digging at it like his skin was wallpaper.”

  Isabel stepped forward. “No offense, but maybe we should focus on the house. I know a house is a house, but hearing about the horrors that happened here—I mean, I know logically it’s all history, but that kind of stuff can affect the subconscious. My mind is already playing tricks.”

  Howard stepped next to her. “Maybe we could explore the rest of the house on our own.”

  “What?” Grip asked, confused.

  “To get a feel for the place, without all the history.”

  “How about ninety minutes?” Ophelia asked.

  Grip snorted. “I think Howard was thinking more like fifteen.”

  “An hour and a half is good.” Howard nodded, still hiding his anxiety. Something horrible upstairs was hidden behind the red doors at the top of the stairs. “We’ll get a feel for the place.”

  “It's getting dark!” Grip protested.

  “Scared?” Howard challenged.

  “No.” Grip folded his tattooed arms.

  Ophelia rummaged through her purse. “I'll get my flashlight from the car in case there’s another power outage. There's also another flashlight upstairs near the entrance to the attic.” She handed Isabel an old-fashioned key. “Here, for upstairs.”

  Ophelia left through the swinging door to the bar.

  Isabel examined the trefoil shaped bow and the bit at the other end. The bit resembled a jagged puzzle piece. Could it really open an actual lock? It seemed purely decorative.

  Howard took a deeper than normal breath. “Guess we should explore upstairs.”

  Grip shivered. “If only we had all that ghost hunter stuff from Paranormal State. The EKGs and shit.”

  Howard rolled his eyes. “It's called an EMF meter, and what would you do with one of those? You have trouble operating a microwave.”

  Grips eyes lit up. “Whoever sees the first apparition should win a prize!”

  Howard put an arm around Grip's shoulder. “Yeah, like a trip to the nut house. There are no such things as ghosts.”

  “This was a nut house. Remember?”

  Howard rubbed his knuckles against Grip's scalp. “We should make an offer. You'd fit right in.”

  Grip laughed and tried to squirm away. “I’m not the one obsessed with cults. Freak!”

  Isabel watched them roughhouse. “Guys.” They were like children.

  Grip slipped away and Howard gave chase.

  “Cradle robber!” On the other side of the island, Grip faked one way and then the other.

  “Oh! You’re asking for it.”

  “Bring it on, old man!”

  Howard pinned Grip against the shelving beside the door to the dining room, rattling the china. “Got you.”

  Their smiles faded.

  They kissed roughly.

  “Do you love me?” Grip was now solemn, still pressed up against the shelving.

  “What do you think?”

  “Then fuck me.”

  “We don’t have lube. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Maybe I want you to hurt me.”

  They scrambled with each other’s belts and flies.

  “Stop!” Isabel shouted. The men stopped and looked at her. “We’re buying a house together!”

  The two men shifted their weight off the shelving. A shoulder-high shelf gave out and sent down a cascade of plates. The men tried to save as many as they could. Most shattered on the floor, the cacophony obscenely loud in the now silent house. They stacked the few plates they had managed to save on the counter and zipped their pants back up.

  “God!” Isabel said. “Am I the only one not completely naïve?”

  Taken aback, Grip and Howard were at a loss for words.

  “We’re not normal!” It wasn't what she meant, but it was true enough.

  “We kick normal’s ass,” Grip said proudly.

  She had doubts. God, she had doubts. What if she never told them and everything went wrong because she’d been afraid to say what was on her mind? “What if my school finds out?”

  “They won’t,” Howard said.

  Grip shrugged. “And if they do? Fuck’em.”

  “What do we tell our kids?”

  Where is all this coming from? Howard wondered. She had never had a problem with their relationship before. And then he realized, “You’re pregnant again.”

  “I’m not pregnant!”

  Grip reeled with the implication. “You were pregnant?” This was news to him. “When were you pregnant?”

  Isabel and Howard gave each other a look before looking back to Grip.

  “It was before we met you,” Howard said.

  “Why didn't you tell me?”

  Howard put his hand on Isabel’s shoulder.

  Isabel pulled away. Why couldn’t she face her own feelings? She had two amazing men for support; they would help her through anything. A surge of love for them rendered her speechless and ashamed.

  So Isabel wouldn’t have to, Howard said, “Taylor died of SIDS when he was three weeks old.”

  “SIDS?”

  “Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.”

  Overwhelmed with concern, Grip said, “Isabel.”

  The depth of their love was too much. She wanted to run.

  “She wouldn’t talk to me.” Howard looked back to Grip. “She went on birth control. Then we met you. You helped us move forward.”

  “I love kids,” Grip said.

  Howard remembered back. “Grip, you were a mess.”

  The first few weeks, Grip had been trying unsuccessfully to hide his withdrawals. They nursed him back to health. They were patient. Slowly, Grip pulled himself together and rewarded them with his devotion. It had been a relief to help him instead of grieve Taylor.

  “You can still have kids,” Grip said. “I’d be a good dad.”

  “Grip. Leave it alone.”

  “We'll tell them, ‘Hey little Bobby, or hey little Susan, you have two daddies.’ My parents were cool . . . ish.”

  Howard snickered. “Your parents
were just thankful you hadn't died from an overdose. When was the last time you even talked to them?”

  “I said ‘ish.’ ”

  Not amused by the men’s banter, Isabel left through the swinging door into the chapel living room.

  The wind outside had finally relented, and the chapel living room hummed with silence.

  She adored them both. Why did being loved back scare her so much?

  A threesome relationship inherently kept love and commitment at bay, at least for a time. Everything went at half-speed as they made sure everyone was comfortable and on the same page. If things got serious, jealousy was supposed to sever the developing ties. No one took this kind of love affair seriously, and skepticism was healthy, but here she was house hunting. Before she realized what had happened, the new love and the old love had entangled her. To her amazement, jealousy had never materialized. But things could change. Everything was always so tenuous.

  At first, Howard had seemed to include Grip in their relationship just to humor her, but she had seen his tenderness toward Grip grow. She had also seen Howard’s passion come to a head, his need for Grip’s body as strong as anything he had ever felt for her.

  She rubbed the goosebumps on her arms, looking again at the mirror: a spider web in a gilded frame. She was drawn to it for some reason, vaguely aware of the many superstitions linked to mirrors. She hadn’t seen anything supernatural, she told herself. It had been a trick of the fractures, that's all. She was better than this. The lower hall was just a hallway. Taylor's death wasn’t from a curse or an act of the Devil; it was just something that had happened. Some babies were just too gentle for this world, and God took them to heaven early. She searched behind the bar for a drink.

  Grip and Howard came through the door to check on her. One thing about being in a relationship with two men: alone time was a rare commodity.

  “I don’t think I’m over Taylor,” she said, still finding it hard to speak.

  Howard said gently, “I know.”

  She stopped searching the bar and let Howard take over. “I thought I was. I thought teaching was enough. That my love for God, for you and Grip . . .”

  “But you still want a baby.” Howard pulled a bottle of brandy from a cabinet. “That’s why we’re here, looking at this house.”

  Grip lined up three shot glasses on the bar.

  “First I want to live together,” she said. “To make sure we work, but I want a child. Desperately, I think.”

  Howard put an arm around her shoulder. “So do I. You know I do.”

  “God!” she said, on the verge of tears. “I didn’t even know I felt this way. I thought I was past this.”

  Grip put an arm around her too, joining Howard. “Between the two of us, we should be able to knock you up, no problem.”

  She laughed despite herself. “This has to last. You know that, right? I would die without you two. You’ve spoiled me.”

  Grip kissed her cheek. “Damn it, Howard! How did we get so lucky?”

  Howard poured brandy. One by one, the three shot glasses filled with red liquid. “It’s not luck, Grip. God wants this.”

  “Amen.” Isabel believed it now more than ever. God gave her Howard and then He gave her Grip. They would see her through.

  “Come on,” Howard said. They each raised a glass. “To us.”

  “To us!” Grip and Isabel said as one.

  They downed their shots.

  “Kick ass,” Grip said.

  “Very robust,” Howard said.

  Isabel noticed the key in her hand. “What’s taking Ophelia so long? Wasn't she getting us a flashlight?”

  8

  Graves

  “She locked us in,” Howard said.

  Grip smirked. “Who wants to get schnockered on the rest of the brandy?”

  “Or we could be grownups,” Isabel said. “We have ninety minutes.”

  The low sun cast shadows over the fountain and the empty drive. The gate beyond was chained and padlocked. The threesome stood on the veranda. It would be dark soon.

  Grip refused to think of prison, to panic, to let this place trigger a downward spiral. “It’s not like she’ll forget about us. I mean, like she forgot about the flashlight.”

  “Come on, I want to see the rest of the grounds.” Isabel descended the veranda steps.

  “You think this place has potential?” Howard said, more than a little surprised.

  “Potential.” Isabel looked back up at the house. “Potential isn’t the issue. Could we fulfill that potential? That’s the question. Or would it just bankrupt us to try? Oh! Look at the bargeboard.”

  “The what?” Grip said.

  “The carved board along the gable,” Howard said, joining Isabel on the gravel.

  The board had an intricate, woven border that framed carved branches, leaves, and a plethora of fruit. Behind the bargeboard, a smattering of abandoned hornet nests clung to the façade of the house.

  Howard and Isabel slowly followed the board east, studying the carvings.

  Grip, still feeling trapped, clutched the veranda railing and studied the courtyard. The property needed a lot of work. The fountain needed to be cleaned out and probably re-plumbed. Creeping brush and vines grew along the front outer wall. The gate was closed, razor wire topped the wall, and the crazy old woman had locked them in. He chose to focus on more pleasant things.

  Potential, Isabel had said. Noonday sun brought perspiration to Grip's brow as he cut through blackberry bushes with long-handled clippers. He would do his best to fulfill that potential. Thorny vines fell to the grass. He'd do yard work. Honest work. Isabel stood on the veranda in a flowing white dress, a newborn to her breast. Howard stood next to her, shining with pride.

  A baby! The four of them would be a family! Grip had never wanted a family, or more precisely, never seriously considered it. Now the idea was enrapturing. Their child, with one mom and two dads, would always have someone to play with, someone to love, and someone to be loved by.

  Love.

  Why was love, what seemed to be the most basic of human emotions, so hard for Grip’s parents to comprehend? While they had mostly grown out of physical abuse (his mother still wasn’t above the occasional slap), they still believed love was something actors pretended on TV. Marriage, at best, was an agreement to put up with another person’s shit. Family was a begrudging endurance test of misery and responsibility, only marginally better than the soul-crushing freedom of being alone.

  “Don’t come crying back to me when it all falls apart,” his mother had said after he had told her about Isabel and Howard. His parents didn’t understand how hard he had fallen, how there was life before Howard and Isabel and life after.

  Isabel, smiling brightly beside Howard on the veranda, motioned Grip inside, out of the blazing summer sun, to a tall glass of ice-cold lavender lemonade. They'd have a home together, a real home. They'd thank God, and Grip would find faith.

  Howard and Isabel prayed before meals. Grip often wished he could join in, wished he believed in God too, but his atheism made him an outsider, eternally. Howard had believed in God since childhood, even with all his research into NRMs. He was like a stone tablet inscribed by a lightning bolt. Isabel had only cemented her faith during her missionary work in Venezuela. When she had gone on her travels, she hadn't been much younger than Grip was now. Her stories of salvation and survival in the jungle were harrowing and miraculous. He believed her stories, every word, but they weren’t enough. God was still just something other people talked about. He would need to witness his own miracle if he was going to truly believe in something as benevolent as God and His angels.

  I'll have my own miracle, he daydreamed on the veranda. The birth of a precious baby boy or girl. The baby’s paternity wouldn’t matter; they'd be fathers together. Sometimes Grip and Howard played sports together, worked out, or (Grip’s favorite) pleasured Isabel, and Grip felt profound camaraderie with Howard. Fathering a child would be that much bet
ter. They would create a little life. Grip imagined holding the newborn in his arms, holding proof that light and goodness existed, proof that love could bring even more love. Divinity.

  “Grip, are you coming?” Howard called.

  Divinity. It wasn't something Grip thought about much. He hurried to catch up to his lovers at the east side of the house. But maybe divinity wasn’t such a foreign concept. Maybe Howard and Isabel's faith in God was enough to save him too. Maybe it had saved him already.

  The distance between the house and the east wall was about fifteen feet. A cellar door, locked with a padlock, sealed off a passage under the house. Howard pulled and rattled the lock back and forth and found it secure.

  Grip wisecracked, “I guess all the cult stuff will have to wait.”

  Suspended in a lone bush was Zelda’s cornhusk doll. The wind made it dance.

  Isabel plucked it from the branches. Six inches tall, it had a brittle cornhusk dress and braided-leaf arms and legs. Corn silk hair framed its blank face. It reminded Isabel of the American Indian women Ophelia had mentioned who sold their bodies in Jacobi House.

  “It’s the little girl’s,” Howard suggested.

  “Maybe.” Isabel carefully shoved the doll into her back pocket.

  They continued to the back of the house.

  The backyard consisted of dead patches of sunflowers, cornstalks, creepers, and a log toolshed near the back wall. A large crow flew from a marble birdbath. All three interlopers pictured the crow pecking out the eye of a corpse. Howard pictured a naked woman. Isabel pictured a priest. Grip pictured himself.

  “It's big,” Grip said.

  “It's creepy,” Isabel said.

  Grip looked down. “It has gravestones.”

  There was a rectangular marble plaque in the ground. “DANIEL JACOBI - FOR THE SINS OF ADAM.”

  “ ‘For the sins of Adam,’ ” Grip read. “It's the Jacobi family plot.”

  “Perfect,” Isabel said.

  “It's just a graveyard.” Howard ambled further into the garden. “I thought we were taking the whole the-idea-of-ghosts-is-ridiculous route.”

  “He has a point.” Grip went off in his own direction to explore.