“It's hard to explain right off the bat,” he replied, more interested in the dog than me. She had torn the cigarette box to pieces and moved on to sniffing at his sweatshirt in the hopes of finding another one to chew on.
“Did you make a flow chart or something?”
I glanced around the room as I asked, thinking that I might find another folder filled with newspaper clippings and maps like the one that he had made up when we were looking for Miss Mercier's killer.
“Not yet, but it's a different sort of thing.”
“So you keep saying, but you haven't explained how yet.”
He picked up Mea and placed her in his lap, continuing to pet her as he looked over at me.
“I just mean that it's hard to explain without telling you about the town, first,” he said.
“What's there to know? Other than that there are only a few hundred people, that is.”
“Tons.” He gave me a mischievous look that lit up the darks of his eyes. “Did you meet Father Taggart?”
“Is that the priest?”
“How many other people do you call 'father' besides for priests?” he said, throwing me a look. I turned my head to the side to avoid meeting his eyes, the guilt from the conversation with my actual father edging its way back to me.
“He seems nice enough,” I said.
“He is.” Jack scooted back so that he was leaning against the wall, and Mea pawed at his pillow curiously. “You know he lets me stay here free of charge?”
“Maybe because it's not fit for human habitation,” I said, throwing another glance at the messiness of the room. Jack ignored me.
“He was the only one who welcomed me when I first came up here,” he said. “What with it being such a small town and all, no one was too pleased to have me here – especially not for community service. He made sure no one gave me too hard of a time.”
“That was nice of him.”
“It was,” Jack said to counter the flatness of my voice. “And he's just as adamant as I am about what happened here last week – that's more than I can say for everyone else who never believed us back on Bardom Island.”
“So what did happen?”
Mea was content to chew the corner of his pillow and her tail was flopping back and forth against his leg as he watched her do so. Waiting while he chose how to answer me, I shifted in my spot on the uncomfortable wooden chair.
“There's a family here in town,” he said, “the Perennas. They live up in that big house on the hill – did you see it?”
I squinted as I tried to remember it from my brief walk through the town before shaking my head.
“Well, they're kind of the unofficial leaders of the town,” he went on. “Jim Perenna – the head of the household – is a businessman who owns a bunch of the shops and whatnot here. And his wife – well, I'm not really sure what she does – but whatever it is, she's definitely got a presence around here and people sort of just do what she tells them.”
“And?”
“And last week, their daughter died – she was sixteen. They're calling it an accident, but it doesn't seem like one.”
“How so?”
“Well, first of all, their son died in an accident a couple of years back. His seems legit – maybe. He was out hunting grouse and got hit by another hunter, and since the hospital's thirty miles that way –” he indicated to the wall behind him, “– he didn't make it.”
He looked at me expectantly as he waited for my reaction, but it seemed plausible enough so far.
“What's a grouse?” I said, picturing something between a moose and a grizzly bear.
“It's a bird, Nim. And that's not important.”
“Okay, so how'd the daughter die? Another grouse hunting accident?”
“Not quite.” He shifted uncomfortably on the mattress and began to pet Mea again, seemingly unwilling to tell me the details quite yet.
“Don't tell me that they found her hacked to pieces in the woods,” I said warily.
“No, it wasn't like Miss Mercier,” he said evasively.
“Well, she wasn't thrown off a cliff into the water,” I said, noting from his expression that he knew I wouldn't like the response, “seeing as there's none around.”
“No, it wasn't like that, either.”
“So?”
“So … she was sort of found in her house,” he said with a shrug. “In … in the bathtub.”
I blinked.
“You mean she drowned?” I said, unable to keep myself from getting annoyed with him. Though he had assured me that what had happened was nothing like the deaths at Bickerby, he had clearly known that it was all-too similar to what had happened to my mother. “So she committed suicide?”
“She apparently committed suicide.”
“By drowning herself,” I said irritably.
“No, by slitting her wrists,” Jack corrected. “So it's different than what you're thinking.”
I threw him a look and shook my head, unable to believe that he could have possibly thought that I would want anything to do with the matter.
“No, it's different than what you're thinking,” I countered. “She killed herself, Jack. It's as simple as that.”
“But she didn't – that's the thing. She wouldn't've.”
“Sure she would have: people do it all the time for no reason at all.”
“There's always a reason,” he said, trying to placate me but failing.
“So you're saying that she had no reason not to kill herself?” I asked. “And you know this how? Because she seemed happy? Because her life was perfect?”
“No, not … not exactly,” he faltered. “I mean, it looks – I can see why the police and her family think that she might've done it, but she didn't. It just doesn't match up.”
“What doesn't match up? It's not unbelievable that someone would kill themselves, even if it's unheard of around here.” I pushed the chair back a bit so that I could face him better, preparing myself to talk sense into him before he could talk me into another of his ideas. “Her brother died; maybe she was upset about it.”
“Right, she was – but you don't get it, Nim: she wouldn't have killed herself. Father Taggart agrees.”
“He's a priest – of course he agrees. He doesn't want to think that she's going to Hell for all of eternity.”
“That's not why,” he said. “I mean, that's probably part of it, but … It doesn't seem right. The most notable family in town loses two of their three kids? What are the chances of that?”
“Some families have a knack for misfortune.”
“Come on, Nim – you've got to admit that it seems a little strange.”
“No, it seems perfectly normal, actually,” I said. “Sad? Sure. But unheard of? Definitely not.”
I gave an indifferent shrug and stood to pick Mea up before she inhaled the feathers spewing from Jack's pillow, avoiding his gaze as he threw me an unhappy look.
“What?” I said when I had sat back down, finally meeting his eyes over the top of the dog's head.
“Nothing. I just didn't recognize you for a minute there.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I'm the one who sees things, Jack, not you.”
“Right. Only, you don't seem to be seeing things right now – at least not clearly.”
He crossed his arms and turned to look out of the small window where snow was still pelting down outside, and I bit the insides of my cheeks in annoyance.
“I'm sorry that I didn't have the reaction you were hoping for,” I said, my voice more irritable than I would have liked it to be. “But I'm not going to just jump in and proclaim that she was murdered when she clearly wasn't.”
“But you don't know that,” he said heatedly. “I'm the one who's been living here for four years – I know better than you when something's not right!”
“Then you obviously don't need my help,” I snapped back, despite the fact that I had even less desire to go home than I did to stay there.
“I mean, come on, Jack – do you really think that she was murdered, or are you just saying that so that I'll stay up here with you?”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“It means that the only reason we seem to get together now is when you have some sort of wild theory, and I feel compelled to help you.”
He looked momentarily struck, but then gave a weakly indifferent shrug.
“Maybe that's how you feel,” he said. “I would've been happy if you came up here for any reason in the last four years.”
“Don't be like that: you know why I had to stay in Connecticut.”
“I know that you needed to get a grip on things, sure,” he said. “But come on, Nim: you've just been hiding away down there for the past year or so – you didn't need to cut yourself off from civilization. That's just something you made up so that you don't have to deal with the real world.”
My teeth sunk into my tongue as I glared at him.
“I'm not the one who has trouble dealing with the real world,” I said. “You are. I mean, is this what you do now? Just hang out in small towns waiting for someone to die under weird circumstances?”
He shook his head at me, clearly scraped by the suggestion, and for a moment I wished that I hadn't said it at all.
“I just thought,” he said, “that seeing as you understand what it's like to know the truth when no one believes you, that you might want to help someone else who can't defend themselves.”
Mea dropped her head a bit at our conflicting voices and let out a low whimper, and I lowered my eyes to the floor, as well. It was odd to argue with Jack; for years we had never done so, and it had only been at the height of both of our wits' ends that we had quarreled at Bickerby. Things had altered so greatly when I thought of how I could easily get along with Karl now and yet barely speak to someone that I had considered my closest friend, and I missed who I had been with him, but hated what I had been, and one clearly outweighed the other. I had to remind myself that I was someone else now whether he liked it or not – and whether I liked it or not – and I couldn't follow him as unquestioningly as I had in the past.
“It's different, Nim,” Jack said lowly. “I can't explain how yet, but I know that it is. There's something not right about the whole thing, and I know that it's weird, and I know that it's far-fetched and whatnot – and so I don't really expect anyone to believe me. Except – I thought – for you.”
My teeth were still clamped down on my tongue, and I chewed at it momentarily as I thought of how to respond. He didn't understand that it wasn't him that I had difficulty trusting: it was myself. What I thought and what I believed could twist so horrifically and without warning, and I wanted to help him, but I also knew that I always took more than I ever gave.
But if it was a choice between staying in the too-small town to look into what I knew would only dredge up unwanted memories with the faltering hope that I wouldn't trick my mind into believing that things were different than they really were or returning home to deflect questions from Karl about why I was avoiding calls from my father, then there was no point in arguing with Jack over it. I had known from the moment that I had decided to come that I would be staying, and I knew exactly what staying would entail.
“I'm not saying that you're not right,” I said at last, my voice low again. “I'm just saying that I'm skeptical. It sounds like it is what it looks like it is – but if you want to look into it, I will.”
I paused, slightly disturbed by his silence.
“I mean, if you still want me to help you, that is.”
He tilted his head to either side for a moment, seeming to waver on his answer, but then let out a scoff.
“Course I want you to help me,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at the pack of cigarettes that Mea had been chewing on, seeming to fight the urge to light one while we were still inside of the church. “And, you know, I wouldn't have asked if I didn't think it was important. It's not like I … I mean, I know the whole Miss Mercier thing really fucked with us.”
I shrugged halfheartedly in lieu of an apology.
“I was already fucked.”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding to himself and allowing a grin to stretch over his face. “You were.”
I sighed and rolled my eyes.
“Alright – so where do we begin?”
Ch. 5
When the sound of organ music rose gently through the floorboards of his room, we made our way downstairs and took a seat in the back pew. The church was scattered with people in black, and I anxiously tugged at the sleeves of my sweater, wishing for once that I owned something besides for light blue. Even Jack, whose pants were wrinkled and sweatshirt was frayed, looked more in place in his dark attire than I did. I tapped my foot lightly against the floor as several more people filed into the room to take their seats and then leaned over to speak to him.
“Are you sure we're allowed to be here?” I said.
From where we sat, the coffin at the front was only just visible in its shining black exterior. Though I was grateful that it was closed so that there was no chance of seeing the body, the idea of someone trapped in there for all eternity clenched uncomfortably at my insides.
“Course we are. It's a public event.”
“Right,” I said, no less uneasy than before. “But what are we doing here?”
“Paying our respects.” He shrugged indifferently as I gave him a look. “If it makes you feel any better, we probably care more about Anna's death than ninety-percent of the people who showed up.”
I glanced around the room at the other mourners, most of whom hadn't removed their coats due to the chill in the open space, and then sat back in my seat.
“It doesn't make me feel any better, actually.”
Jack rolled his eyes.
“When'd she die, anyway?” I asked. “Last week? Shouldn't they have had the funeral by now?”
“Nah, there was a huge storm on Monday, so they pushed it back.” He glanced at me. “She died on your birthday, actually. Hence why I called you so late – it was a big thing here.”
“Lovely.”
“Ah, come on, Nim,” Jack cackled. “It's just keeping up with the tradition of terrible birthdays for you. And what do you expect? Being born on the Ides of March can hardly be a good omen – Caesar put a jinx on it or something.”
He reclined in his seat and propped his feet up on the kneeling bench in front of us, his worn shoes leaving marks on the red fabric.
“Anyhow, I'm kind of curious to see how the funeral goes. It might tell us something.”
“Like the fact that we shouldn't be here,” I murmured, throwing another glance around the room. I had already garnered a few odd looks, and it was clear that even if the town hadn't been small enough so that everyone knew who everyone else was, they still would have pinned me as an outsider. I let out a sigh. “I've never been to a funeral before, actually.”
Jack threw me a glance.
“Except your mother's,” he said.
“Oh, right.” I fiddled with the funeral pamphlet in my hands, feigning interest in the song list to avoid having my expression give away that I had never actually attended my mother's funeral. “I meant a Catholic funeral. Are they different, do you think?”
“I wouldn't know. My father's funeral was Catholic – not that that was a good indication of how they go. The priest had a hard time finding anything nice to say about him, and no one else was much help, either.”
“Least of all you, I suspect.”
Jack grinned. To anyone observing the conversation, the look might have appeared quite maniacal, though to anyone who had known his father, it was rather well-placed.
“The man died in a pool of his own vomit: you can't sugar-coat that,” he said blatantly, just as shameless about his lack of regard for his father's passing as he had been seven years ago when it had happened. I was fairly certain that the only reason Jack had consented to go home for the funeral at a
ll was because he wanted the extra week off of school, though he returned soon afterwards after realizing that Bickerby classes were far less painful than spending time with his volatile grandmother.
“Is your grandmother still alive?” I asked, frowning as I thought of the old woman that I had seen him with on a few occasions.
“Yeah,” he said. “I went back there after we left Bardom Island to wait out the court sentence, which was punishment in itself. Eight months of community service was a blessing after living with her for five weeks.”
“How'd you choose this place?”
“What, Kipling?” He gave another shrug. “I was hoping for something further north, really, because I wanted someplace where the people spoke French. Those places only had work for potato farmers, though, and I had enough of farm work after the lavender fields in France, so I settled on here. Father Taggart gave me work in the cemetery even though I don't think he actually needed another employee.”
He spoke about the priest in the same way that he had about Miss Mercier, and the note of fondness in his voice was so unusual that I stole another glance at the man who was standing at the front of the church. He was short and heavy-set with nearly white hair and a soft face that had turned solemn for the occasion, and though I didn't doubt that he was every bit as kind as Jack said, I also knew how little kindness had ever given back to those who expressed it.
“Does he speak French, then?” I asked.
“Father Taggart? No – Latin, though, I think. You'd get along with him.”
“My Latin's terrible. Not to mention my piety.”
We lapsed into silence again as the organ music let up and the service began. I crossed my arms as the prayers were said, choosing instead to imagine what sort of trouble Mea was getting up to in Jack's room and looking around at the other people sitting in front of us. The ones in the first pew, who I took to be the family of the dead girl, were sprinkled in colored lights from the stained-glass windows that turned their hair and skin to blue and green. Beneath the artificial hues, they didn't look quite human, as though they were the ones who had died and returned as ghosts while the girl in the coffin laid in feigned rest.
When I Am Laid in Earth (Damnatio Memoriae Book 3) Page 6