Devil Entendre

by Lawson, John Edward

  “Oh, Picardi, is that you?” Her voice came from the bathroom, the door to which was slightly ajar.

  “Yes it is, and don’t call me that.” After a moment, he added, “Maybe I should come back at a more convenient—”

  “It’s convenient for me to talk with you while I’m changing. That way, I can get on with something I actually want to do when I’m dressed.”

  A retort almost leapt from his lips, but he managed to reign it in. There would surely be a war of words between them, but at the time of his own choosing—not hers. Instead he listened as the woman prattled on about receiving communiqués from the Church inquiring about his “progress” and asking after his “performance.”

  “How shall I say you perform, Picardi?”

  He snuck a peek into the bathroom, spying the sink’s edge, upon which rested a bottle of alcohol, the brand of which rhymed with that infernal name she insisted on calling him. “Say what you will, Abbess. It will make no difference in the end.”

  She went on at length about her suspicions of bad blood between “Picardi” and his superiors, trying to wheedle information out of him about his past work; he was no fool, and the information stayed his personal property. Through the sliver of space between the bathroom door and its frame, just below the hinges, he could view the mirror. She stood before it in what he considered “old lady underwear.” She sported a pearl necklace and large gold rings, striking pose after pose as if attending a Hollywood movie premier. Every time he sidestepped her interrogation her face contorted into a hideous mask of primal anger, fangs bared, at which point in time she’d gnaw at a strip of jerky. Only, it seemed far too raw to be dried meat.

  “Woman, have you ever considered that one of the Lord’s servants should be held to a higher standard?”

  “No.”

  “Rubbish. You’ve concocted this whole thing to try and trick vital details from me because you know precisely what is going into my report. You’ll not turn the truth against me.”

  “Father,” she said, in mock surprise. “Are you insinuating that I’m turning tricks?”

  “You go too far! I’ll only tolerate so much blaspheming! Repent to me or face the consequences.”

  “Um…wouldn’t it be God I repent to, not a mere mortal such as yourself?”

  Seeing that the conversation would lead nowhere he left abruptly, bent on completing his report and leaving the following day. On the way out he ran into those bizarre brothers once again, only this time Normal and Sane were entertaining a guest in the conservatory. She looked to be in her twenties, a raven-haired beauty in tight jeans. They sat on her lap and Father Picard found himself overcome by an urge to knock them away from the young woman.

  “Good evening boys. And who is this?”

  Normal was utterly perplexed. “Who?”

  Picard wanted to shout, The bimbo whose tits are slapping your face, damn you! Instead he calmly said, “Please allow me to introduce myself, ma’am. I’m Father Picard.”

  The boys squirmed from her lap like maggots in retreat. She stood and shook his hand. “A pleasure to meet you Father Picard. You can call me Lil, or Lilly, or if you prefer my given name Lilli—”

  Normal tugged at her arm. “Just Lil will do fine, sister.”

  Sister? Was Picard’s mind cracking?

  A bemused smile crept across Lil’s face. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen my brothers. I do hope you’re taking good care of my flesh and blood.”

  The woman was a step closer now, and the aroma of flowers and fruits washed over Picard. Trying to ignore the subtle yet tantalizing bouquet, he said, “Well now, what a pleasant surprise. I didn’t realize that you boys had an older sister.”

  Silence served as the boys’ reply.

  Lil chuckled. “I see this stint in the orphanage hasn’t done anything to improve their manners.” The boys glared at her; she simply stuck her tongue out at them and elbowed Father Picard good-naturedly.

  Picard experienced gales of inward laughter. Ha! In your face, you punks!

  “You guys always were such a drag,” she continued. “I mean, Jesus Norm, you could at least shave or something. You’re like a little wolfman. I don’t know how all the other children can sleep with you around. Take a Weed-Whacker to that bush, boy,” she said, tugging at the longer hairs along his jaw line. Then a look of realization crossed her face. “Oh no, did I just take the Lord’s name in vain? Please forgive me, Father.” She placed her hand on his shoulder as she spoke.

  “No, it’s quite all right.” The consternation of the boys was worth whatever transgressions this woman performed. “Perhaps you can answer me a simple question, though…”

  “I’m at your service.”

  “Uh,” he began. “It might not be my place to ask.”

  “Fire away,” she insisted while adjusting the waist of her jeans.

  “Most of the children here have nowhere else to go, nobody to turn to. But these…young gentlemen…” He had to stop and clear the bitter taste from his mouth after saying that. “They have a big sister.”

  “Wellllll, can you keep a secret?”

  “I haven’t received confession in a while, but I can hold my own.” He heard one of the boys whisper something about “priest humor.”

  Lil ignored them and leaned in close. “I work in a bordello.” Picard straightened up stiff as a board. After an awkward silence Lil began to laugh. “What do you take me for? Don’t be silly. I already have kids, and, well.” She shrugged.

  “I’ll rip the marrow from their bones!” Sane bellowed, and was immediately struck a sound blow across the face by his older brother.

  Reprimanding them crossed Picard’s mind, but a more pressing thought nested in his skull. “Certainly you and your husband could negotiate whatever, ah, idiosyncrasies the boys have.”

  “Husband? No, no, Father. I’m a single mother. Widow.”

  “My condolences,” Picard replied, feeling foolish for bringing it up. He cursed himself for being a ham-handed leper in social situations.

  “It’s been hard, but I manage. If I ever decide to get married again, maybe I’ll ask you to do the honors.”

  “Do the honors?”

  Lil smoothed out her blouse. “You know, marry me.”

  “Marry—?”

  She laughed again, blushing. “I mean, you know, do the ceremony.”

  Normal spoke up. “Oh, I suspect he knows how to ‘do it’ quite well. You ‘do it’ all the time, don’t you…Father?”

  Picard was unsure how to react. Of the impulses struggling for dominance in his heart, virtually none were of the Fatherly persuasion.

  “In terms of taking the boys in, you should ask their uncle why he sent them here. They only lived with him for a few months. After the funeral.”

  This was strange news indeed. “An uncle you say?”

  “Sure,” Lil said. “He lives in Calgary.”

  They spoke at some length about the uncle, a man named Zachary Withers. Picard decided to speak with him at the earliest possible convenience. Eventually, Lil prepared to depart.

  “I’ve got to write a review of local travel destinations to pay for this little visit.”

  “Oh, so you’re a travel writer then?”

  “Actually, I’m a book reviewer, but I do some freelancing from time to time. Right now I’m consuming The Courier de L’Egypte—are you familiar with it?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t mind telling you, it’s truly delicious.”

  “I see.”

  The boys laughed.

  Who could say with any certainty whether or not this woman was truly a relation of the boys—then again, why would anybody ever go out of their way to spend time with two such hideous children? One thing was
for sure, though: if this Zachary Withers proved to be as freaky as they were, Picard might not treat him in a manner befitting a man of the cloth. As he bade Lil farewell she gave him a light hug, after which the boys walked her to the exit. He was not fond of public displays of affection that went beyond handshakes, no matter what the intent, and was a bit unnerved by the embrace.

  When Picard turned, he found young Sister Leatrice’s cold, hard stare awaiting him. “Father Picard.”

  “Sister Leatrice—”

  “It looks as though you’ve made quite a good ‘friend’ today.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Not with me you won’t, that’s for sure!” So saying, she stormed away.

  On the train to Calgary he contemplated Leatrice’s recent mood and determined it likely had more to do with his line of questioning at the close of their previous time together. Painful memories of her parents’ demise had been jostled by his probing and prodding. That explained the last day’s encounters, during which she grew all the more contrary. To escape the dreary intrigues of Perpetual Mercy he’d gone to lunch with Lil—merely for the sake of getting to the root of whatever psychic disturbance held sway over her siblings. Besides, she covered his meal as part of her business expenses. During the brief interlude he was able to focus on Lil’s entertaining conversation, the feel of her eyes on him, and forget the troubling facts piling up at the orphanage.

  The address he’d discovered was accurate. Zachary Withers, who banished his orphaned nephews, kept his house in a state of disrepair, the grounds unkempt and window shutters askew. “This should be good,” Father Picard muttered while knocking. Standing at the precipice of enlightenment as he was he couldn’t help wondering about Sister Elizabeth’s classroom. Two empty seats caught his eye before leaving, and she passed it off as due to the illness going around. Suspicious to the Nth degree he tried to find the students elsewhere but couldn’t, nor was he able to locate the brother and sister mauled in the “bear attack.”

  After knocking repeatedly he at length heard stirrings within the house. A voice called out, “What do you want?”

  “It’s official business, sir.”

  The door opened a crack, allowing a paranoid eye to stare out. “What’s this about then?”

  “Sir, I’m with the Church—”

  Before the man could close the door Picard rammed into it with his full weight. Withers fell back onto the floor while the man of the cloth rushed in, ready to fight. Seeing that no one else was present he relaxed and closed the door, locking it to prevent either of them escaping. He wouldn’t leave without getting the answers he wanted.

  “Are you Zach Withers?”

  The fallen man averted his eyes from Father Picard’s glare. “Yes.”

  “You have a deceased sister, Ophelia Withers?” He did. “And she was the mother of those two freaks you shipped north to Perpetual Mercy Orphanage? Confound it, look at me when I’m speaking!” He hauled Withers to his feet and pressed him against the wall. “Stand up at least, you simpering fool. Now answer me!”

  The man began to cry. Between sobs he managed to invite his guest in for some tea and a game or two of cribbage. The musty abode was rife with heaps of old newspapers, food wrappers, and myriad dirt. Father Picard reluctantly accepted the invitation, realizing the man wasn’t quite all there. He took the seat his host cleaned off for him, then waited patiently as tea was prepared. The drink was served lukewarm, a trespass he couldn’t abide.

  “This would’ve been a perfectly good cup of tea if you had made the effort. Look at you, man. Sloth has you in its vices.”

  “So they’re at it again, aren’t they.” Zachary downed his tea, then added gin to Picard’s tea and drank that as well. “You don’t need to beat around the bush here, priest.”

  “It’s ‘Father,’ Father Picard, and—”

  “Whatever. The point is I should have killed the little bastards when I had a chance. Only…I was afraid back then.” They sat in silence for a bit while both men absorbed what had been said. They moved on to what his sister Ophelia was like. Withers showed Picard a photograph of her taken when she was younger. As it turned out, she became pregnant with her first child at the age of sixteen.

  “Died young then, did she?”

  “Yes, but none too soon, if ya know what I mean.”

  “No. No I don’t. Explain that comment.”

  Instead Withers stood and left the room, getting lost in one of the dark chambers out of sight. After much cursing and clatter he reappeared, lugging two suitcases. They dropped heavily to the floor. “Here. Take ‘em.”

  “And what might these be?”

  “You could say it’s the boys’ personal effects. Maybe they’ll help you. I certainly don’t want ‘em no more.” Having said that, Withers pulled a revolver out of his pocket and, before Father Picard could take action, stuffed it in his own mouth. His brain and bone fragments added to the general disorder of the home.

  Knowing that the authorities would likely be summoned by neighbors, Father Picard suppressed his fury at not getting any straight answers and left with the suitcases. Being no stranger to the arts of stealth he made it to the train station unmolested and—to ensure no suspicions were cast his way—he kept from inspecting the contents of the two suitcases. Heavy as they were anything could be within, more than likely decades-old garbage, but there stood the chance there were unsavories waiting to be unveiled, things not fit for the public eye.

  On returning to Perpetual Mercy he witnessed a pale form observing his approach. One of the nuns, but which one? With the sun setting light was too sparse for him to tell. She slid out of view before he could draw close enough to discern any details. Back at the cabin there was no Abernathy to be found. The dwelling had grown exceedingly cold and food was running low. Cursing the old man, he dragged the suitcases upstairs. Inside them he uncovered sketchbooks, clothes, and something unexpected: the numerous titles the boys referenced on a regular basis. Celestial Intelligencer, Opera Omnia, even The Courier de L’Egypte which, if he wasn’t mistaken, was the title Lil had mentioned. The volumes were hand bound in decaying leather, tiny bits crumbling away when opened. If the texts were to be believed these were original printings, all over a hundred years old. How did they come into the family’s possession? These were archaic religious works, the kind found only in the collections of prominent seminaries.

  A profane thought occurred to him then. If anybody in the vicinity might be able to outline the histories of these books, it would be icy Sister Anne. The notion of giving her such satisfaction repulsed him, but he would have to ask her opinion all the same.

  “Why, Father Picard. What on Earth do you think you’re doing here?” Despite the late hour Sister Anne was still in her habit, speaking in hushed tones so as not to alert the rest of the sisters.

  “My apologies for disturbing you, but—ah—I need to ask a favor.”

  “Couldn’t this wait until morning? I have a guest.”

  A guest? Father Picard barely restrained himself from asking if the guest was of the bound paper variety lining the library shelves. Instead he opted for, “I’m afraid the matter is rather pressing.”

  “Well then.” She clenched her jaw. “By all means, make yourself at home.”

  She allowed him entry to her spartan room, and to his surprise Lil was lounging in the corner nursing a drink. He considered mentioning the Calgary visit, but thought better of it. She would be informed later by the authorities. No need for things to get messy in his presence.

  For Lil’s part, she wore a wholly inappropriate white dress that cleaved to her curves like Dr. Atkins to a steak. It was sleeveless, and shoulderless to boot. In fact, not only did it lift and separate her cleavage, but those natural endowments practically spilled over what little top there was. Metal rings were sown into
the embroidered edge around the top, and Picard used their presence to distract his eyes from the loosely tied lace-up front, which ended in a frontal zipper that began at the naval and continued on to terminate between her thighs. A frontal zipper, of all things! The makeup she wore concealed no blush of shame, no pall of embarrassment. Lil’s hair must have been done by a celebrity stylist—however rare they might be in the vicinity of Faust—while her sculpted eyebrows suggested something sinister lurking behind her snowstorm-gray eyes.

  He returned his attention to their host. While glaciers might flow, if only at a pace measured in millimeters, Sister Anne’s icy demeanor didn’t budge. “Father Picard, please allow me to introduce—”

  “We’re quite familiar with each other, Sister,” Lil interrupted.

  “A pleasure to meet with you once again.” Picard took her hand and kissed it before realizing what he had done. Anne made no comment, instead offering them rum and other spirits, a gesture that felt entirely unwholesome coming from her. Attempting to stay in her good graces—if there were such to be had—particularly after that embarrassing public display of affection, he accepted the drink and offered Lil a seat. It was all he could do to pry his eyes away from her plastic-wrapped hips, abdomen, and posterior as he guided her to the sofa.

  Although they made small talk for quite some time Picard was unable to feel out the reason for Lil’s return. The nun, meanwhile, went about cleaning her cramped quarters. At length, Lil indulged in the offered alcohol while Picard only drew a few sips. After much talk about Sane and Normal, Anne, silent up to this point, sighed greatly, drawing Picard’s attention. He feared he was boring her, or perhaps she was offended by his interest in this young woman. Instead, he discovered that her attention wasn’t even on the conversation, and she was in fact disrobing, revealing only a heavy black top beneath her habit, but still it seemed wrong. He was unsure if he should be appalled or enchanted by the notion. He considered distracting Lil, but she seemed to be aware of the event without even turning her attention to Anne.