by Greg Herren
He hadn’t dreamed that.
They left Pittsburgh at the end of the school year, saying goodbye to all of their friends and neighbors at a going-away barbecue, selling all the furniture and things and once again taking a night train out of Pittsburgh. He didn’t want to go—she said they were going to keep the Lindquist names for now, but not to get used to them—he was starting to grow and he was starting to notice boys, and there was a boy in the neighborhood he really, really liked. But there was no arguing, no point in asking if they could stay longer. When she made up her mind to move on, she made up her mind, and that was that.
This time it was Atlanta where they landed, and she found a nice little house to rent in a quiet neighborhood.
It was in Atlanta that she found a man who wanted to marry her.
It was in Atlanta where he changed from David Lindquist to David Rutledge, taking the name of his mother’s new husband.
He’d liked Ted Rutledge, who was a lawyer for a lot of big companies and had a huge house in a rich suburb of Atlanta. The house they moved into was huge—six bedrooms, six bathrooms, every room enormous and immaculate and beautifully decorated. She couldn’t keep the house clean herself, but a team of cleaners came in once a week to clean from ceiling to floor—and she watched them like a hawk, not tolerating any slacking or missed spots. Ted had a big booming laugh and always seemed to be in a good mood. But he also worked a lot, and even though his wife liked spending his money…about six months after the wedding he could tell his mother was getting restless again. He could see it in her eyes, the twitching of that muscle in her jaw, the way she sometimes stood in the window and stared out at the street across the vast expanse of grass that passed as a front lawn.
“Don’t mess this up, Mom,” he warned her one morning before he left for school, “this is a good thing and we should make this work for as long as we can.”
She’d just smiled at him and nodded.
“You never could trust in your own good luck, could you, Mom?” he said as he poured more water onto the kitchen floor.
He stood back up and leaned back, his hands on his lower spine as it popped and cracked.
But she’d lasted much longer than he thought she would.
He was a senior in high school, straight-A student, letterman on the football and baseball teams (he didn’t care much about playing sports, but it meant a lot to Ted) when he came home from school one day and found them both.
“They’d been fighting,” he said numbly, still in shock, to the police officer who’d come in answer to his call, the call he couldn’t really remember making. “I don’t know about what. I know my mom was going out at night while he was at work but he never seemed to mind, not that I know about.”
His new guardian, Ted’s law partner, told him much later that it seemed like she’d killed Ted and then turned the gun on herself. He just nodded, the same way he nodded when he was told how much money there was and that it was probably best to sell the house and get rid of everything, all those bad memories. He just nodded and went to live with his new guardian until it was time to go away to school.
No one ever wondered about the deaths.
No one ever wondered if maybe it wasn’t just a little bit strange that she’d waited until after her son went off to school before shooting her husband over his breakfast and then turning the gun on herself.
No one ever figured out that he’d walked into the kitchen that morning with one of Ted’s revolvers in his hand, came up behind where his mother was sitting and fired the gun into Ted’s face, and before she even had time to react, put it to her temple and pulled the trigger himself. No one ever wondered if he’d then taken the gun, put it into her hand, and fired it again at Ted’s chest, so she’d have powder residue on her hand.
No one knew that she’d caught him with a boy, seen him in the pool kissing Brad Brown, and that once Brad had gone home they’d both told him he was going to be sent somewhere to be cured.
Sometimes you have to make your own luck, like she always said.
He finished the floor and got back to his feet. The sunlight was already starting to fade a little bit, but the floor was finally clean. He glanced around the kitchen. Once the floor dried he was going to have to come back in and clean some more, get those spots he’d been noticing. The grease on the stove back, on the vent, the spots on the front of the dishwasher—he couldn’t just leave them like that. He’d never be able to sleep knowing the kitchen was so filthy. And he needed his sleep.
Tomorrow was going to be a big day for him.
He walked into the living room and gave the room a critical once-over. There was a cushion on the couch that needed fluffing, and the magazines on the coffee table weren’t centered quite right. The TV screen shone in the sunlight, and there was no dust on any surfaces. He fluffed the pillow and moved the magazines, fiddling with them a bit until they were just right, the perfect distance from each edge of the table.
He sat down on the couch and looked around. He loved this house. He was glad he’d found it, had made it his own. He’d carefully selected every thing in the house, and everything was in its perfect place, as though it had been specifically made to go there. Ten years—it had been ten years since he’d bought the house, had moved in, made it his home.
And now it was all his again.
He’d miss Josh, of course. You live with someone for long enough, and you’re bound to miss him when he leaves, no matter how bad things have gotten between the two of you.
Josh had been like his mother, he realized, and that was part of the initial attraction. Josh was a hustler, with no family and no past, just like she was. Josh was good looking with his green eyes and thick brow and bluish-black hair and slavish devotion to his appearance. But like his mother, Josh wasn’t a whore. And they’d lasted for eight years, eight years with minimal strife, very few fights, very few disagreements. As long as Josh got to go to the gym and lie by the pool in the briefest of bikinis and had money to buy nice clothes, Josh was very agreeable. There was enough money so that neither of them had to work, of course, and he didn’t care if Josh wanted to go out to clubs at night. He didn’t even care if Josh met people and slept with them, as long as Josh was there for him when needed. And he always was. Josh never pouted if he had to change his plans and stay home as directed.
He’d almost loved Josh, really. It wasn’t even like he hated him, either.
He’d just tired of him, the way his mother had always gotten bored.
If he had to put his finger on the time when he decided it was time for Josh to go, he couldn’t.
It was just one of those things, like his mother always used to say when she’d decided to move on.
This morning, when he woke up, he knew that it was going to be today. He just knew it, somehow, and that knowing was what made him think of his mother for the first time in years.
It felt right.
He wished he didn’t have the ties for a moment, the house and the car and the credit cards and the bank accounts. He could understand her wanderlust now, the need to just cut all ties and start all over again somewhere new, the need to be free from anything and everything, the ability to just pack some things and just go, walk away from your current life. He was tied to this house now, he was tied to being David Rutledge, didn’t know if he could just change his name and start all over again somewhere else the way she used to do.
It might not even be possible now—with computers and cell phones and tracking and Homeland Security. It had been easy back in the day to start all over again without too much fear of someone from the past tracking you down.
No, he knew it was a foolish thought—even if he moved away to some remote place in Central America, someone would be able to hunt him down eventually if they were so inclined.
No one ever suspected a thing about his mother and Ted, had they?
No one would suspect a thing about Josh, either.
“Once the floor dries,” he decide
d, “then I’ll use the lye.”
The floor was now nice and clean, spick-and-span, gleaming.
Not one trace of blood had escaped his eyes. He’d gotten it all up.
Yes, no sense in taking the lye into the back bathroom now and tracking up that nice clean floor until it dried—not after all the effort he’d spent scrubbing it clean, like Mom always did.
Besides, it wasn’t like Josh was going to get up and walk away from his resting place in the bathtub, was he?
And no one was going to miss him, anyway.
It was going to be nice living alone again.
Acts of Contrition
“Help me, Father,” she cried. Her brown eyes were wide open with terror. The rain was falling, drenching them both, soaking her white T-shirt so that it clung to her body. Her dreadlocked hair was dripping with water that ran down her face, streaming from her chin as she gripped his arms with her black-fingernailed hands. She reached for one of his hands and drew it to the crevice between her breasts. “Please, Father,” she pleaded again. He didn’t pull his hand away from her cold chest. He knew in his heart he should, but somehow he couldn’t. He let it rest there, feeling her frantic heartbeat through her cold wet skin, and closed his eyes. This is a test, he reminded himself, a test. But still he left his hand there, betraying the collar he was wearing, betraying his God. He tried to pray for strength, for guidance, but all he could think about was the feel of her skin beneath his hand. Push her away, reprimand her for her temptation, do something, anything, don’t just stand here with your hands on her…be strong, find strength from your love of God, but don’t just keep standing here…
His hand remained where it was.
And she began to laugh, her lips pulling back into a smile of triumph. Her eyes glowed with triumph.
“Fallen priest, fallen priest,” she chanted between her laughter. “You’re going to hell, aren’t you, Father?”
He pulled back from her, staring at her face as it changed. She wasn’t Molly anymore, the sweet young runaway he was trying to help, she was something else, something evil. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out.
“Fallen priest, you’re nothing but a fallen priest.” Her voice deepened and she took a step forward, her lips still curled in that horrible smile. She tore at the collar of her T-shirt, ripping it downward and exposing herself. She grabbed his hand again and pulled it to her breasts.
“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he finally managed to choke out, provoking her to more laughter. It echoed off the alleyways, and a light went on in a house a few yards from where he was standing. “Stop,” he whispered, glancing at the lighted window.
“What are you so afraid of, fallen priest?” She leered, her lips pulling back even farther. “That you’ll be exposed for what you are?” And she laughed again, throwing her hand back and sending the sound upward, to the spires of the cathedral, and more lights were going on up the alleyway.
“Please,” he said, and pulled his hand away from her. Where the knife came from he had no idea. One moment there was nothing and in the next it was there, in his hand, the sword of the Lord. It glowed with a righteous cleansing blue fire. It pulsed and throbbed in his hand with an almost unimaginable power. Tears filled his eyes as he raised his hand. “Please,” he whispered again, not wanting to do it, knowing he had no choice. He brought the knife down into her chest. Black blood splattered, spilling down her stomach and onto her wet denim skirt. Yet still she laughed, and he brought it down again, tears flowing down his face and mingling with the rain. She must be cleansed, she must be cleansed, she must be cleansed, he thought as he kept swinging his arm. She must be cleansed…cleansed…cleansed…and he hacked at her, the blood spurting and splashing, mixing with the rain, and yet still she laughed…
He sat up in his bed, wide awake and shivering, his body damp with sweat, his short graying hair plastered to his scalp. He wiped at his face. It was still raining, the windows fogged up. He sat there, hugging his thin arms around himself trying to get warm. The digital clock on the nightstand read 9:23 a.m., but it was still dark as night. Lightning flashed, so near it was merely a sudden bright light blinding him, followed almost immediately by a roar of thunder that rattled his windows. It had been raining for days, one storm rolling in after another, filling the gutters and streets with water, swirling as the city’s pumping system desperately tried to keep up. The ground was soaked, the big elephant ferns outside his door waving in the wind and drenching him every time he walked outside. He tried to slow his heartbeat by taking deep breaths, and he slowly felt warmth creeping through his body again. He threw back the covers and swung his bare feet down to the cracked linoleum. He walked over to the opposite wall.
The walls of his apartment were cracked, the plaster buckling. The ceiling was covered with brownish water stains, and he could hear the steady plopping of water landing in the pots and pans he had set out in the kitchen to catch the leaks.
In the center of the wall was a huge crucifix. Jesus’s face was turned imploringly to the sky, blood running down the sides of his face from the crown of thorns, his beautiful features twisted in agony. Blood leaked out of the wound in his side, his ribs pressing through the pale skin. The nails in his hands and feet were drenched in red. He grabbed the worn rosary from the small table and clutched it. He carefully lit the votive candles, then sank to his knees and began praying. His knees ached from contact with the hard floor. The Latin words rolled off his tongue easily, feverishly, as he counted the beads with his fingers. After a few minutes, when his heart had slowed to a normal pace and he felt calm again, he finished his prayers and crossed himself. He rose to his feet and walked to the window. He wiped the condensation away and looked out into the street.
Such a horrible dream. He still felt chilled, rubbing his arms to increase the circulation. Was it a sign from God, he wondered. The feelings—of lust and desire—the girl aroused in him had been dormant for so long. He knew they weren’t wrong, but after so many years of self-denial through prayer, his vows were ingrained so deeply in his head he couldn’t shake them off that easily. There was no reason for him to feel ashamed of his feelings or to deny them, but even though he was no longer a priest, he kept his vows. Maybe she was a test, sent by God to test his dedication to him. He’d been released from his vows for nearly five years now, so perhaps it wasn’t really a test of some sort…but then again, God moved in mysterious ways. Maybe he was supposed to save her.
No one knows the mind of God.
She was one of the street people, a runaway. One of the disposable teenagers, the thrown-away children who somehow made their way to the French Quarter to hang out in coffee shops or in doorways, cadging change and cigarettes from passersby. She couldn’t be older than fifteen, he thought, but then again, as he got older he found it more and more difficult to judge the age of the young. It was possible she was older. He had found her—was it only three weeks since that evening he had found her asleep in one of the back pews at St. Mark’s when he’d gone in to pray? At first he’d thought it was just a bundle of rags someone had left in one of the back pews. Then the pile had moved, and he jumped, startled. It had only been three weeks. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since that moment she’d sat up in the pew, coughing.
Three weeks only.
“What’s your name?” he’d asked, slipping into the pew beside her.
She just smiled and said, “Call me Molly, Father.” He opened his mouth to correct her, but closed it again without saying anything.
It was the smile that brought the memories back, memories so strong he had to catch his breath. There was something about her that reminded him so strongly of Carla Mallory…the girl he’d loved when he was young, before he’d answered the call and entered the seminary. She’d been so angry when he told her his plans. Her pretty face had contorted with rage before collapsing into tears. But I thought you loved me, she’d accused him, I thought we
were going to get married.
“The streets are dangerous, Molly,” he’d said to her, putting thoughts of Carla firmly away. “There’s a killer out there, preying on girls like you. Don’t you want me to call your parents? Don’t you want to go home?” There had been a story in the paper just that morning about the latest girl, found near the French Market, her young body carved up. Just another teenager thrown away, not missed and with nobody to mourn or care. She was the tenth one in the last eight months.
Molly looked back at him with eyes suddenly old and tired. “Sometimes home is more dangerous then the streets, Father.”
He’d taken her hand, rough and dirty with the nails painted black. “Please be careful, and know you can always come here. We minister here to homeless kids, Molly. You can always come here, get some food, take a shower, get cleaned up.” He gestured back to the office area at the rear of the chapel. “I can get you a list of shelters…”
“And sometimes shelters are just as dangerous as home.” She shook her head, the multicolored dreadlocks swinging. “But a shower would be cool.”
“But where…” He shook his head. Sometimes there was nothing he could do for them. “Come with me.” He stood up and started walking toward the front.
It was after hours, and against the rules, but he used his keys to open up the shower area and get her a fresh towel. Father Soileau would not be happy, but there was no need for him to know or find out. Besides, even if Father Soileau did find out, the most he would get would be a reprimand, and not a strong one for that matter. Father Soileau depended on him too much for the work he did with the teenagers, and it would be hard to replace him. Who wants to work for the pittance they pay me? he thought bitterly as he handed her a towel and shut the door behind him.