Ushered through the foyer, Matthew stepped into the large house, recollecting how they’d chase Ruth under the sprinkler, how Emma Carmichael would bring them lemonade. He noticed the historical decorations the instant he came through the door; Carmichael was a Civil War buff, and on the hallway walls were paintings of Lincoln, Lee, Grant, John Pope, and Jeb Stuart. Positioned around them were the different versions of the American flag in its various stages. Emma preferred a more European flavor to the decor—a French-styled writing desk, Victorian rosewood furniture set under the shelves where Swiss clocks sat beside reproductions of La Pietà and Rodin’s The Kiss.
Gusto pranced, and Carmichael shooed the dog off. Gus lay in the middle of the hall, so they had to step over him. “Damn nuisance, watch yourself, ’cause he can’t see nothing.” The smell of lemon became stronger. “You planning on staying long, Mattie? I suspect you’re here about getting a room, not that I wouldn’t have enjoyed a visit from you just to shoot the baloney and such.”
“I’ll be in town for a few weeks.”
“Heck, you know this place, always a bed here for most souls who needs one, long as he ain’t drunk or on the lam or got too much of a dirty mouth, which seems to be the case more and more lately. Must be that you’ve been gone some, what, four, five years since you left town?”
“That’s about right.”
“Glad you’re doing so well for yourself in New York City. I went there once, long time ago, and a man nearly pissed on my shoe, a Wall Street type too, damned uncivilized bastard. Had a hell of a time getting out damn Grand Central Station too. Should’ve just gotten back on the train. Here, let me introduce you to the other guests. My Emma doesn’t believe that calling them boarders is friendly enough, and I think I agree. You look bushed, Mattie, but it’s a matter of course I let the others get a glimpse of you so they don’t think they’re being burgled if they spot you wandering around.”
Matthew swallowed a groan and ventured a weak grin. His ankle could hold him up a little while longer, but the migraine had worsened and the edges of his vision pulsed with white light. Wards had to be set soon, or he’d foul them in his fatigue. He touched the walls, searching for the Goat, and came away with a gritty feeling he couldn’t explain.
They passed the empty kitchen, and Carmichael tossed his apron onto a Formica countertop. “Doing the dishes makes me feel like a suffragette. I have more respect for my mother the longer I live.”
They came to the den, faintly lit and paneled in dark brown grain, cooler than the rest of the house. He touched the wall again and felt the same corporeal oddness. Matthew licked his finger when Carmichael turned, and tasted a stew of death, revenants, and anguish: A house this old would have a cryptic history, but something didn’t sit flush.
At a small mahogany table, two elderly men faced each other, playing chess; both had their elbows propped, resting their chins in their hands and smothering gray beards, sharply regarding the board. Neither spoke nor looked up as Matthew and Carmichael entered. Determination and near-fanatical intensity creased their wrinkled brows. Anything can take you over. Foreheads mottled from the strain, mustaches wet with nervous spit. Except for their alert eyes, they didn’t move at all.
Carmichael leaned over and whispered, “These two are the Happy Boys. Hoffman and Kessner. They ain’t much in the conversing department, so don’t feel obligated to sit and chat. They play a lot of chess, so if you ain’t that whasisname Bobby Fischer, I suspect you won’t have a lot to talk to them about anyway. Besides, neither one speaks a heckuva lot of English. Don’t ask me what they do speak in, all those foreign accents curl my ears, but I’m stupid that way. I don’t mind, ’cept Emma keeps bustin’ my chops about being neighborly. I try my best, but they don’t care. That’s all right by me.”
Matthew gave a brief wave of his hand, waiting for Kessner or Hoffman to respond or at least move a piece. They did nothing. “Hello.”
Through the den and down another short hall Carmichael walked him into an immense, old-fashioned, deeply centered living room. A woman a few years younger than Matthew lay on the couch napping, arms splayed over her belly. Jodi, having become so lovely. Petite with rich curling black hair and small attractive features that some might have called ‘elfin.’ She actually zzzzed in a cute way when she exhaled through her partially opened lips. Carmichael took a red and black crocheted blanket and covered her with it.
“This sleeping vision of beauty is my daughter, Jodi, who had knock-knees and braces the last time you probably laid eyes on her. She used to be scared to hand you the paper money when you came collecting.”
“Not anymore, I shouldn’t think.”
“No, nowadays I have to keep a shotgun around to chase off all them hormonally imbalanced little pukes in their sports cars. Like that Jello Joe character.” He tucked the blanket over her shoulder so she wouldn’t throw it off. “She’s a fine lady now, but I suggest you don’t ever wake her if you catch her snoozing like this—not that much wakes her, you understand, the crazy hours she’s keeping—but she’s mean as a wolverine in a kettle drum. Needs her coffee. Takes after my mother-in-law. In character, not looks.” He held his palms together in prayer. “Thank you, Lord, not in looks. My hand to God, I once seen my wife’s mother get into such a frenzy she bit into a telephone when some fool put her on hold. Gusto witnessed it, though I don’t suppose he seen much, him being without a face and all.” He flicked off the television, shut the overhead light, and left a reading lamp on. “Jodi’ll remember you, so that’s okay. C’mon, I’ll show you to your room. You look halfway beaten into the ground.”
Funny way to put it, here in a house where the flavor was like freshly turned graveyard earth. “I am.”
“I’m getting there myself.”
Gusto stood and followed them up the stairwell, pacing along beside Matthew, licking his hand with an unseen tongue. “You might want to take him to the dog groomer, get a bit of a trim.”
“Who?” Carmichael said, stopped at a door, opened it, and flicked on a light switch. “This’ll be your room if you find it to your liking. Sorry to say it’ll be your room even if you don’t.”
A fragrance of illicit behavior, scarlet past, and subterfuge, a good deal of lust and not necessarily a little madness.
“It’s fine,” Matthew said.
“Okay, then, let me see if there’s anything else I might be forgetting. The bathroom’s down the hall, and there’s a clean towel on your bed. We got a giant water heater, so there’s still plenty of hot water for all of us who take showers before Jodi, otherwise you’re out of luck. Breakfast is at nine, and she does a terrific job, me a bit less so if I’m needed. Don’t worry about the rent yet, we’ll work something out at the end of your stay. And now, after saying that, I’ll wish you a fine good night, Matt.”
Emma Carmichael’s whereabouts hadn’t been referred to directly—had she died? For the past hour he’d been caught up in the sense of how Summerfell hadn’t changed after he abandoned it. He didn’t know the names of the dead yet, he hadn’t even asked. His chest grew warm. “Where’s Emma? I haven’t said hello to her yet.”
“She’s down state visiting her sister Martha, who doesn’t chew through telephones, though she looks like she could with them dentures. Emma will be back in a couple of days, and everyone’ll be right glad when she is. Her cooking’s a lot better than mine, and Jodi’s too. Have a good night.”
“Thank you.” He watched the man descend the stairs. Gusto tripped and slid down the carpet on his haunches, moving with almost human intent, flopping when he hit the bottom and barking that sort of weird billy goat cry again.
He shut the door and fell back against it, the migraine now unbearable. Alone again, he was abruptly struck with more nausea, the dry heaves clawing at his belly. How can I possibly win? He couldn’t, but perhaps the stalemate could be extended another few years. Perhaps he and A.G. could find help, or teach others how to defend themselves and hold the malignancy at
bay.
No, that was a stupid way to think. He couldn’t shirk his responsibility any longer. Already too many people had paid his dues for him. He slumped and sat on the floor, hands in the air drawing arcane symbols, the heat of fever clawing at the back of his neck. When he finished the preliminary rites he closed the blinds and curtains.
From his satchel he pulled out the gris-gris pouch containing significant but mostly ineffective elements of arcana: a pair of bone dice with hand-etched Roman numerals; preserved catgut thread from the stitches of a Wiccan priestess whose drunken husband had slashed her with a shattered beer mug; a stone chip from one of the rocks that had crushed Giles Corey to death in Salem; copper bands twisted seven times around a ball of wax. The wax contained the tears of his father. A handful of other ingredients and tools he tossed on the nightstand.
He ground the dice in his fist until he drew blood from the heel of his palm, then released them gently on the floor. Instead of rolling smoothly they bounced and spun with vicious energy, clattering together like teeth biting, until settling one atop the other. He knelt and retrieved them: a IV and a I, signifying the northeast. Not much, but it would give him a place to start tomorrow.
Matthew knew he should place the seals and sigils around the windows and across the center of the door, however little protection it might prove, as well as commit himself to the speaking of the prayers, but was too tired to care about safety anymore. He hadn’t come back to be safe.
The Goat would approach; it always did. But it wouldn’t attack tonight—there was still too much blood to be let.
Compelled to perform at least one ritual of defense, he drew a piece of twine from his back pocket and tied it quickly and precisely into an elaborate series of knots, spiraling them together until they became like beads, forming a Litany Web. Then he put it in his mouth and spoke his name, then placed it on the bedpost. It resembled a luna moth.
He lay on the bed.
Chapter Six
Debbi told him to pedal faster as they laughed and rode down the sand-swept shore roads.
“C’mon! … Watch the gravel over there…. Faster!”
His legs were already hurting him, and his face dripped sweat, red from the summer sun and the exertion of pumping up the rolling curves of these streets. Her giggles spurred him until he felt light-headed.
Jutting wooden mailboxes planted along the curbs made him swerve out of the shoulder. Cars hitching trailered boats sped by. Trucks occasionally blared their horns, and a surfboard hanging from a luggage rack nearly knocked Debbi off the handlebars.
“Hey, creep, give me a break!” Her weight threw the bike off balance, and he feared they might fall over into the path of the Freightliners. She kicked out a Top Forty tune on his front spokes—ka-tinka-tinka ka-tinka ka—singing along with the melody. “C’mon, you know the words,” she said, genuinely wanting him to join in. He tried staying attentive, but the abrasive burlap bag dug into his neck and collarbone, and it hurt like hell.
After nearly four miles of riding he was tired, and he strained to keep from losing control; twice during the spring, they’d both skinned their hands, knees and elbows from skidding and somersaulting head over ass into the road after losing traction in the sandy gravel. Already the front tire rubbed against the inside fender, and the chain was beginning to slip.
She grabbed his wrist suddenly and yelled, “Watch it!” He shifted hard and narrowly missed a scattered six-pack of bottles lying in the thick weeds on the shoulder. She giggled and gave two triumphant claps over her head. He couldn’t keep from chuckling as they veered and maneuvered downhill between scattered glass.
Caw-cawws of hungry seagulls and the smell of the ocean brought on strong thoughts of other summers and other sunburns. He didn’t really like when it happened; it made him helpless somehow, as if he had no control over where his mind went. He vividly recalled coming to the beach with his parents: too distinctly, though he used to love it.
His dad would make shadow animals against the walls of the snack shack, and his mother would slowly eat a cherry ice as she strolled along the boardwalk, her sandals snapping against the soles of her feet like firecrackers popping. She used to wear black bathing suits even when they weren’t in style, looking like sealskin when wet. How she loved old-fashioned wide-brim hats with silk scarves that trailed around her neck like smoke. At the end of the day she’d sit by the wishing well where the goldfish swam among shining coins, while his father took him to the showers to rinse the salt off, getting the sand and seaweed out of their shorts.
Afterward, as the crowds left and the vendors shut down their stands and closed their umbrellas, his dad would sit beside his mother and rub the dried grains of sand from her legs with slow, sweeping strokes that made her hum. Then the two of them would flick their change into the fountain, laughing quietly about nothing in particular, watching the fish dart into the reflections of the sun.
Seagulls dove and picked at debris around them. Debbi’s billowing hair clung to his sweaty forehead, and he wished that she would be with him like this forever. Ka-tina-tink tinka-ka-tink. He thought about dumping the rest of the Summerfell Gazettes in the sewer, but knew he wouldn’t be able to do it. Later this afternoon he’d finish delivering them and apologize to his customers for being so late. Spiteful old man Owsley would throw another fit, his only tip this week a sermon against sloth, which sounded like some of the greenish stuff Owsley hacked up and spit on the lawn.
In the distance, looking west toward Etcher’s Point, the lighthouse loomed over the ocean, silhouetted in the haze of sunlight. He understood why she needed to come here so often, and was content to do whatever would please her. Sitting together in the surf and feeling the tug of the tide, watching the sandpipers, collecting seashells she kept on a shelf beneath her ballet trophies, putting the lotion on her burned back until his fingertips quivered—and it made him special when she called and asked him to come here with her. A.G. laughed sometimes and made fun, but he didn’t care much. Besides, nowadays A.G. acted the same way where Ruth Cahill was concerned, though nobody else would admit it yet.
The lighthouse had always been off-limits. Several of the older kids had spent anywhere from a couple of hours to a few days in county lockup because they’d been too drunk or high to notice the cops coming up behind them as they tried to break through the chains on the door. Wanting to get in to go even higher, climb the catwalks naked, dare each other to walk the rim wasted.
It wasn’t the same with Debbi. When she spoke about the ocean he saw how her blue eyes dimmed, hardening and dampening until they turned a shade of gray, then grew brighter. Her voice rose when she talked, words rattling. Like now, going, “Wheeeeee! Hey, hey, you think we can get our own boat soon? You know, a small one, like that one….” She gestured fiercely with her hands in the air, pointing—”Over there, there, look there, there!”—out at the rippling water.
He was entranced, realizing how alike they were in these instances. How they could both crack through the bone-wearying boredom at the same time, when you couldn’t take the routine any longer, even at thirteen. You would just sit, and maybe—if the day hit you wrong—let just one or two gasps escape you like a geriatric’s sighs. His father would walk by his door and say nothing.
Debbi’s own father had been a fisherman who went out on his trawler on a clear morning and never returned. That frustration left her stuffed with questions she never talked about with anyone except him—so he chose to believe.
And yet everyone could tell that it still slashed at her whenever she came in view of the harbor.
Their other friends thought she was stupid to spend so much time at the beach when it brought on dark thoughts and made her cry, but she could always hope her father would come back And wasn’t that why she wanted to be here? He could understand how she’d been driven to keep watch over what the lighthouse watches.
He was thirteen years old and his mother had been dead for less than a year.
> “I want you to do something,” Debbi said, and he was already nodding. “I’m going to show you what I’ve found. It’s pretty weird. Don’t bother asking me what, because I don’t know. But if anyone can find out about it, you can, right? Say right, I know you can. I want you to go to the library and study and learn whatever you can, you’re good at that. Will you do it for me?”
He sighed a long breath.
She already knew he would do anything for her.
“Almost there,” she said.
Chapter Seven
Sipping coffee, Roger Wakowski reviewed this week’s stack of files.
He drew a small piece of metal from his shirt pocket and rolled it between thumb and forefinger, caressing its dents and creases, hardly aware that he held the fragment. The action proved a conditioned response, as much as any well-learned lesson. While studying the reports, he made notes of his own. Interesting to see how the doctors described certain patients’ activities here: Over the past fifteen weeks he’s made a great deal of progress facing his own physical and sexual inadequacies and the corollary rage exhibited towards women who make him uncomfortable—that from Dr. Patterford, referencing materials on a twenty-year-old kid who raped and scarred four nurses because he was striking back at his mother, who had hurt his feelings when she made him wear a jacket and tie for his second-grade class photo. Insanity could be that simple; you could trace it almost to the instant.
Patterford lacked even the properly balanced semantics, wording the paragraph to make it appear that the attacks had been provoked by the women, that they acted without discretion and “made him uncomfortable.” That’s all it took to beat somebody so out of shape, the moral structure so terrifyingly weak. Psychiatrists would look for other causes, try to unwrap the melted fusion of feeling, and never be able to get it done. Insanity came in a ketchup bottle. In a murmured insult, perhaps spontaneously generated.
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