by Tim McGregor
“Oh? The wise Tammy Lanza has a flaw or two?”
“Change. It rattles me, too, sometimes.” Tammy thumbed through her phone and then laid it on the bar and pushed it across to her friend. “Remember Rowena?”
Billie looked at the picture on the screen. A woman their own age, with almost silver hair and sharp features. Intense, piercing eyes. “I think I would have remembered someone like that.”
“She came to Jen’s barbecue this summer,” Tammy said, taking back the phone. “Maybe you were drunk, I forget. She’s a metal artist, welds all kind of crazy shit. I shot some of her work for that fancy arts magazine.”
“Did I see that piece?”
“I’ll get you a copy. Anyway, I spent a couple days with Rowena at her studio, shooting her at work. She’s all kinds of awesome, right? Anyway, I ran into her last week at the Whitehorse show, we caught up and stuff. Then she called me last night.”
Emptying the washer, Billie stopped, hot glassware in hand, waiting for the rest of the story. “And?”
Tammy rubbed her eyes, shaking her head slowly. “She asked me out.”
“Like on a date?”
“No, to church, stupid.” Tammy let her arms drop to the bar. “Yes, on a date. She said she’d been thinking about me a lot since the show. And not just in a friends kind of way.”
Billie wasn’t that surprised. Not that she was about to admit that to Tammy. The woman was clearly conflicted about it and didn’t need any Ah-ha nonsense right now. The only surprising thing was, in fact, Tammy’s reaction to it. Setting the glasses aside, Billie propped her elbows on the bar and huddled closer. “You weren’t expecting that.”
“No. I mean, maybe I had a hint. Rowena likes to flirt, likes to say outrageous things, but I figured it was just her, you know? She likes to shock people.”
“And that’s not what this is?” Billie clarified. “She didn’t say it just to shock you?”
Tammy shook her head again. “No. She called just to ask that. And she wasn’t hesitant about it. Just straight out.”
Despite the breezy bravado, Tammy was clearly in knots about this. Billie considered her next question carefully. She should have known the answer already but realized that she didn’t. Had she been totally oblivious?
“You’ve never dated a woman before?”
“Dated? No.”
Billie said, “Maybe you’re over-thinking it. Do you like her?”
“Yeah, she’s amazing,” Tammy replied. Then she shrugged. “But I don’t know if I like her that way. Romantically, I mean. It’s never come up before. If this happened a year ago, the answer would have been a flat no. But now? I don’t have a fucking clue.”
“Change is scary, huh?”
“Don’t be smart.”
Billie laughed, then pulled away. Customers were waiting for her, lingering down the other end of the bar. “Hang on.”
Three people stood patiently, eyes fixed on the bartender. Two men and a woman. None of them smiled, none made any move to unzip their coats or settle in.
“Hey,” Billie greeted them. “What can I get you?”
“Are you Billie Culpepper?” The woman spoke. Sandy hair tucked under a woollen cap and matching scarf. Not your typical Gunner clientele.
“That’s me,” Billie answered, her back getting up. Trouble. She half-expected the woman to hand her a subpoena. “Do I know you?”
“No, we haven’t met before,” said the woman. “My name is Sophia. This is Jerrod and Leo.”
The two men nodded a curt hello. The woman held a brochure in her hand. She laid it on the bar. Billie glanced at it. A picture of a dove on the cover.
“We would like to invite you to a meeting at the Ministry of Eternal Salvation. Tomorrow afternoon, at two. Are you free?”
Watching it all, Tammy exchanged a look with her friend. Billie skimmed through the brochure. A church meeting, some flowery language about redemption.
Baffled, she opted for politeness. “Oh. Thanks but I’m not really into church.”
“I think you need to come, Miss Culpepper. It is offered in a spirit of redemption and forgiveness. I think you need our help.”
The puffy-faced man named Leo spoke up. “It’s a matter of life and death, to be frank.”
The whole thing felt wrong. Not the least of which was the tight earnestness of the woman’s features. She seemed ready to explode. “How do you know my name?” Billie asked.
“We know all about you,” Sophia said.
“We know what you’ve done,” added Leo. He seemed wound even tighter than the woman. “What you are.”
“The first step is simple acknowledgement,” Sophia said. Her smile looked forced. “I think you’ve been lost for a while now. No one has shown you the way, so how could you know any better? Come meet with us, and we’ll guide you away from the sinners who led you astray, back to the waiting arms of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.”
Tammy’s brow stitched up in confusion, watching the bizarre exchange.
Billie clenched her jaw, anger pushing confusion aside. She handed the brochure back to the woman. “I’m not interested. I don’t know why you picked me and I don’t care. Goodbye.”
“I told you this was a waste of time,” said the silent man. Jerrod. His eyes were narrowed to slits of contempt. “Only you would try to save a witch, Sophia.”
“That’s enough.” Tammy swivelled her barstool to face the do-gooders. “Time for you to leave.”
“We know what you are,” the angry one snarled. “You can’t go about spreading evil like that without consequences.”
“Jerrod!” Sophia uttered, turning on her companion. “This isn’t how we were going to handle it.”
“Jerrod’s right,” spat Leo. “You can’t redeem these people, these psychics and stupid dabblers.”
Billie marched out from behind the bar and shooed them to the door. “Get out. And don’t come back.”
No one moved. Tammy stood up, chest puffed out in a belligerent pose. For a moment, Billie thought it would escalate into an actual brawl, but Sophia pushed her companions to the door. The two men backed up, their eyes fixed hard on Billie the whole way.
“Please reconsider, Billie,” Sophia said as she left. “We only want to help you. God forgives all things, no matter how thoughtless or wantonly evil. Please.”
They vanished but a greasy strain of tension still hung in the air. The eyes of every patron in the room on Billie.
“What the hell was that all about?” Tammy asked, sliding back onto her barstool.
Billie slipped back to her post, searching through the brochure she’d been left with. She had a tiny suspicion where the odd trio had come from. The back page of the brochure held a block of fine print about the church, this Ministry of Eternal Salvation. There, at the bottom, was a name and the photo of a man she recognized. The Reverend Reginald Joy.
Tammy asked to see the flyer. Billie balled it up in her hand and pitched it into the trash.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “Pious bullshit.”
~
The family didn’t come home until after dark. Brunch had been a needed respite from their torment and no one was eager to return. They hopped a bus out to Stoney Creek and visited Robin’s cousin, Claire. The visit stretched out to dinner and the little family of three with one on the way almost felt normal again. No clammy sensations, no cold spots, no thumps from the floor above.
Maya, curled up next to Claire on the sofa, turned to her mother and asked, “Can we stay at auntie Claire’s?”
They couldn’t, of course, but none of them wanted to leave. A short bus trip home, Maya asleep in Noah’s arms as they trudged up the snow scalloped steps to the house on Cavell Avenue.
Robin’s hand went to her mouth when she saw the shattered mirror on the floor but she stifled her cry to keep from waking her daughter. In the kitchen, the fridge door hung open like a broken jaw. The contents splayed over the old linoleum tile as if the applia
nce had vomited it all out. Noah turned away, the little girl asleep on his shoulder, and went upstairs. Robin gaped down at the mess and wanted to cry.
Noah eased the girl into her bed without bothering to put her into her pajamas. Maya opened her eyes as he tucked her in, groggily recognizing her own room.
She blinked at him, sleepy and vulnerable. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“Shh.” Noah smoothed his hand over her hair. “Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep.”
“But it’s not,” she said. “It’s the opposite of fine.”
“We’re gonna make it fine. I promise.”
She appeared unswayed but said nothing, turning over onto her side.
Returning to the kitchen, he found Robin on her knees, squatting awkwardly as she wiped up a smear of ketchup.
“Let me get that,” he said, helping her up. “Sit down.”
Robin eased into a chair, her left hand instinctively folding over her belly. She winced in discomfort. “We can’t go on like this.”
He mopped up the red goo, like dayglo blood, and tossed the dripping paper towel into the bin. Ripped another sheet from the roll.
“We need to sell it,” Robin said. As if this was something they hadn’t thought of yet, hadn’t discussed a dozen times before. “Sell the house, move to another neighbourhood. Maybe up the mountain.”
“It’s too late to have that discussion again.” He dropped the red-stained paper towel into the garbage and rinsed his hands under the tap. “Let’s just clean up and go to bed. Pray that tomorrow brings an answer.”
The scream from the second floor shattered them equally. Noah took the stairs two at a time, flying to Maya’s room.
Chaos, absolute and incomprehensible, enveloped the room. Debris swirled through space as if drawn into some invisible black hole. Picture books and lego blocks, hair clips and crayons, churned through the air in a vortex of madness.
“Maya!”
The bed was empty. The screams, staggered and intermittent, were coming from the closet.
Noah flung the door open. Maya lay curled into a tight ball of elbows and knees under a quilt. Screaming in pain.
He pulled her out fast, an odd sickly smell hitting his nose.
Tears ran hot down Maya’s cheeks. She clutched her left arm. Blazened over the elbow was a blotch of burned skin, pink and raw.
Robin staggered into the room, saw the burn mark on her daughter’s wrist and went automatically into mama-bear protectoress. Snatching her daughter into her arms, she pounded back down the stairs with panicked velocity, her unborn child bouncing along for the ride.
“Slow down,” Noah called after her as ran to catch up.
Robin was already in her boots, throwing her coat over her shoulders.
“Robin, wait!” He snatched her arm. “We can’t run. We can’t let it win. The Reverend said—”
“To hell with the Reverend! We are getting out of here now!”
The glass in the door cracked from being flung open so hard. Robin was already stomping down the porch steps.
“Please,” he said.
She spun around and the wrath in her eyes was lethal. “I am leaving with my daughter and we are not coming back until that fucking thing is gone! If you stay here, Noah, you can’t come home to me anymore. This place is haunted and we can’t fix it. The Reverend can’t fix it. You either come with us or you stay.”
Noah dipped his head, twisting in the wind. She walked away, her daughter in her arms. He darted back inside and re-emerged a moment later with his coat in one hand and Maya’s pink parka and boots clutched in the other. Banging the door shut, he ran after his family without bothering to lock up.
Chapter 17
DRIFTING UP FROM a troubled night’s sleep, Billie remembered what day it was and immediately thought of Saint Agatha. One of her mother’s favourites. Mary Agnes, small town psychic and fortune-teller, was also weirdly orthodox and saw no division between her faith and her own abilities. It all came from the same place as far as she was concerned. She was mad for the lives of the saints, and the weirder the saint or the more gruesome their martyrdom, the better.
Saint Agatha’s biography was a bloody one and Mary Agnes would tell Billie her story on her feast day, February 5th. Born into a noble family in the third century A.D., Agatha was renowned for her beauty and sought after by many suitors, but she rejected them all after secretly converting to Christianity at a time when the early church was still being persecuted. Her troubles began when she rejected the hand of a Roman prefect named Quintianus. Upon discovering that the object of his desire had secretly devoted herself to Christ, the prefect had her thrown into a brothel. Here Agatha was beaten and mistreated but somehow maintained her virginity. Frustrated with the obstinate girl, the brothel owner complained to Quintianus and the prefect ordered her to be taken to prison and tortured. Her breasts were cut off with iron pincers, but later during the night, she was miraculously healed by Saint Peter himself. Enraged, Quintianus ordered Agatha to be raked over broken glass and hot coals until dead.
“And, in some parts of Italy,” her mother added, winding up the tale, “they celebrate her feast day with little cakes shaped like boobs! Isn’t that adorable?”
This was the story she was told on the fifth morning of February, the feast day of poor Saint Agatha, her mother perched on the edge of her bed as she woke Billie up. There was, of course, another signifier to the day, but that always came after the grisly hagiography.
The phone was already ringing. Billie swung her feet to the floor and fumbled up her phone. “Hello?”
“Happy birthday!”
Aunt Maggie. Since going to live with her aunt, the birthday tradition had changed. No more gruesome stories about mutilated saints. Instead, a bright and cheery salutation for many a happy return.
“Thanks,” Billie beamed, glancing at herself in the mirror. Her hair a medusa’s tangle of bedhead. “What time is it?”
“Half nine,” Maggie said. “You worked last night, didn’t you? I’m sorry I woke you, honey.”
“Nah, I was just getting up anyway. How are you?”
“I’m sorry I can’t be there today. Do you have anything fun planned?”
“Nothing too fancy. Dinner with Ray and a few of the ladies. I might treat myself to a movie this afternoon.”
“That sounds nice. Did you get my card?”
The birthday card stood on her dresser, under the mirror. A picture of a wet kitten on the front, a 50 dollar bill taped to the inside.
“It’s very sweet,” Billie said. “But you can’t go sending me money like that, Mags. It’s too much.”
“Never you mind. Stick it in your pocket and spend it on yourself today, all right?”
Billie opened the card and looked at the cash taped inside. Maggie lived pretty tight, not a lot of wiggle room in her budget these days. She wondered if there was a way to sneak the bill into her aunt’s purse the next time she saw her.
“Okay. And what about you? Are seeing the physical therapist today?”
“Chiropractor,” Maggie corrected. “Which I should get a move on. It snowed during the night, so the roads will be a bit tricky. Are you coming down next weekend?”
“That’s the plan. Hopefully I can steal Ray away from work that long.”
“Are they still keeping him busy?”
Billie padded to the kitchen, the tiled floor cold under her feet. “They keep messing with his schedule. I think his boss is pissed off at him for some reason.”
“Well, try and get him to come. I miss both of you.”
“I will. Drive safe today. Love you.”
Maggie returned the love, wishing her a happy birthday once more before hanging up.
Waiting for the coffee to brew, Billie slipped into her tattered housecoat and wished she had fuzzy slippers to go with it. The apartment was freezing this morning and, looking out into the living room, she wondered if it wasn’t just the drafty windows th
at had dropped the mercury on her. The flat was empty and lifeless. No sign of Tom and that irked her a little. It was her birthday after all. It would be nice to have some family with her. Maybe she could regale him with the horrid tale of Saint Agatha, carrying on her mother’s bizarre tradition.
Then again, she thought as she poured the coffee, Poor Tom probably wouldn’t want to hear stories of torture and death.
Why wasn’t he here? She wondered when his birthday was. Did he even know? Had he ever celebrated it? Did people celebrate birthdays back then?
Taking her coffee out to the living room, she noticed something out of place. A big triangle of paper on her little desk near the window. She let out a tiny squeal as she unwrapped the flowers, a colourful burst of hydrangea, pink roses and gerberas. The tiny white card nestled in the petals was brief and simple. Love you. More later. R.
They’re just flowers, Billie told herself. Nothing to cry about.
~
The museum hours were posted near the main entrance, Monday being the one day it opened late. Gantry snagged breakfast at a wretched cafe down Dominic Square, but the bright lighting and stark decor made his head throb after a while so he left. Killing another hour wandering the narrow streets, he crossed the church green and walked around the cathedral. Chilled from the damp, he retreated into another cafe for more coffee.
It galled him, having to wait. Breaking into a locked museum in the predawn hours was a cinch. The vexing part was having to wait to go back during business hours to find out what happened to the stupid stone box. Like a tourist, hanging about near the doors, waiting to get in. Dead embarrassing. Like most people, John Gantry’s perception of himself was that of being different. Unique, iconoclastic, a special snowflake with little in common with the unwashed masses.
An hour later, fully caffienated, he was standing outside the museum entrance in a slight drizzle, waiting for the doors to open like any other mouth-breathing tourist. One other person waited with him, a boy of about ten. His eyes glued to the front door.
“Are you here to see the chopped-off hand?” the boy asked, looking up from under the hood of his blue anorak.