“I’ll say it again, that’s not my daughter, everything is wrong about her. Her father will tell you, if she dares to call him. If you want to speak to him, I will call him for you.” She tried to exit the bedroom but Father Crosby not so casually sidestepped in front of her. “She won’t call him.”
Another strange smile wiggled about the woman’s frantic face.
“And this all started with bad grades?”
“Stopped going out with her friends, stopped paying attention at Mass. You would’ve seen her had you been here. It was obvious then, I hoped it was just a phase. She’s ruining my life, Father.”
This troubled Father Crosby. He examined the room, the hair on his neck crawled, and his hands felt like ice against each other. The girl returned. For how long Father Crosby was uncertain, but she stood in the doorframe with her head lowered.
“He’s on the phone.”
He didn’t dare touch her although he wanted to show some kind of affection, he knew the girl must’ve been starved of it. “Please come downstairs with me.”
“No! Don’t go alone with her.” Jessica trailed them.
“Yes, please come with us.” He invited her downstairs. On the way down he paused, what had bothered him about the photographs was a bit clearer, and he quickly understood what was occurring. Jessica looked ten years younger in the photographs, but aside from Catherine Ann’s sunnier disposition she looked the same. Whatever was happening was happening to Jessica. His mind went to the most obvious, her husband was abusive, and Jessica was taking it out on her daughter.
In the kitchen the phone sat on the counter. He picked it up.
“Hello?” He heard nothing on the other end.
He cleared his throat and said, “This is Father John Crosby of St. Peter’s.” He waited, and in a moment a voice came over the line, distant and confused. It was Catherine Ann’s father.
“I understand that you may be busy, but I came for a visit at your wife’s request, and I am concerned about your wife and daughter’s relationship.”
He listened as the husband and father admitted there was tension.
“I was wondering if there was a nearby relative which I could place Catherine Ann in the care of briefly, at least while you, your wife, and I can have a talk.”
He immediately mentioned his own mother and father who lived just down Monument Avenue, close to the mall.
“Would you have any concern over me driving her there, or would it be possible to have your parent’s come pick her up?”
They would be there right away he agreed.
Jessica’s eyes never left Catherine Ann the whole time.
“Catherine Ann, do you have any thing you would like to take to your Grandparents’?” The girl nodded. Jessica entered the kitchen and took a seat on a barstool.
“If she harms them, that’s blood on your hands.” Jessica clawed at the counter. The scraping was irritating. “She’s just putting on an act for you. Why can’t you priests see what’s going on here?” She rattled her head trying to shake a sad expression that overwhelmed it.
“More sweet tea?” Father Crosby did his best to remain cordial but was not returned as much.
“Don’t touch my food. You aren’t a servant of God, are you?”
“The best to my abilities. Please, Jessica, I understand what you must be going through.”
“But you must believe in possession and the Devil. Yet you ignore it. She plays this act of innocent just for you. What if I told you who she thinks about when she …is filthy?”
He knew no reply would divert her.
“She thinks of her math teacher, and the UPS delivery guy. She thinks of you Father. She tells me this.”
A couple of miles drive downtown at this time of day could be near a half hour, thought Father Crosby, he considered the grandparents’ age as a factor and knew it could be a very long time.
“What about your husband? What has he seen or heard?”
“Oh she thinks about him, too.”
Catherine Ann returned with a backpack on her shoulder.
“Why don’t you go wait up in your room until they get here?” Father Crosby let the girl retreat back upstairs.
Something in the house fell. It did not come from upstairs.
“She does that on purpose.”
“She does what on purpose?” the priest asked.
“Stomps. The little witch is always stomping.”
Father Crosby looked at her with great disbelief, but he knew something was not right. Then the sound of a doorknob jiggling yanked him around. He stared at the door leading beneath the stairs.
“Is there anyone else here?”
She guffawed. “She’s playing tricks on you. Why won’t you listen to me?”
He left the kitchen and headed towards the door. Now with his own eyes he saw the knob twisting.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
Jessica sat on the stool shaking her head behind the priest. He called out again, the doorknob stopped turning and clanged back into place. He heard the sound of a weight shifting on steps, steps to the basement. He looked at the handle and asked for God’s protection. A loud breath roared, the air conditioner in the window kicked on and cool air shot against the side of Father Crosby’s face.
“Is there some one down there?” He asked Jessica.
She replied as if it were a punchline, “not yet.”
He turned the knob. “It’s locked.”
“That door doesn’t have a lock, look again.” Sure enough there was no keyhole it was just a handle. But it would not budge. He tried again; it felt as if someone were holding it tight on the other side.
“Hello? If someone is there, answer me.” He laid his ear against the door and listened for breathing. He could hear nothing over the hum of the air conditioner.
“She won’t let anyone down there anymore.”
“Who won’t?” she didn’t answer him. He called upstairs, “Catherine Ann? Honey? Are you okay?”
The girl leaned out halfway down the stairs a few seconds later. Father Crosby fumbled his hand into his pocket and entangled his fingers in his Rosary.
“Is there someone in the basement?” He asked Catherine Ann this time. She shook her head part way then stopped, her eyes locked with her mother’s. She leaned back out of sight.
A knock came on the door.
The front door.
Father Crosby let go of the knob and walked over to the door. He was thankful the grandparents’ had arrived much sooner than he had predicted. He swung the door open.
There was no one. He looked up above the buildings across the street; the sky had taken on an ominous gray cloud for one o’clock in the afternoon. He reminded himself of the frequent afternoon storms that rolled through on hot summer days like this one.
The telephone rang.
He leaned back into the house.
“I don’t see the point to it. Do you Catherine Ann? Is there a point?” She turned and directed harsh words at the stairway where Catherine Ann was now crouching against the wall out of her mother’s view.
He wished his line of work provided back up. He did have the pastor he might be able to drag back with him.
Jessica began to hum along with the air conditioner. “See that, she’s touching herself.”
“What?” He looked at Catherine Ann. She was merely grasping her book bag. He shook his head at Jessica.
Jessica rolled her head around her shoulders and returned with the hair draped over her face. Then cocked her head back so her smile could be seen. Father Crosby wanted to explain so much to Catherine Ann, about depression, about how her mother loves her and doesn’t mean what she’s saying. But he couldn’t. Not now. He had to get her away. He could feel it now, the whole house felt like something was there, something thick hanging in the air wanting to harm. A pressure, Father Crosby thought.
“Your cross is too heavy.” Jessica blew her hair forward and let if fall back against her lips. Her
maddening eyes shining behind the brown strands.
Upstairs several things fell. Father Crosby imagined what they were: the Crucifixes, one off each door, one in every room. The thought made him worry more about the basement door. He had never felt so unsafe in his life. In the back of his mind the echoing of anger yelled from parent to parent.
The handle to the front door shook.
“Jessica!” a man’s voice cried from outside. The voice was panicked as he called again and again. “Jessica!” Father Crosby could recognize the voice; he had heard it on the phone. “Jessica, let me in!”
At last the door burst open. William was shocked to see Father Crosby and his daughter on the stairs, frightened.
“The Grandparents?” Father Crosby inquired, eyebrow in check.
The man shot a glare at his wife, just over the priest’s shoulder. “On their way.”
He entered and hung his keys on a rack by the stairs. He smiled at his daughter who did not offer anything more but the biting of her lip.
“You’re the new priest.”
“I’m sorry it is not under better terms, but perhaps the worst of terms is the best, if it is the worst it will ever be.” He looked to Catherine Ann as if to say, your grandparents are on their way.
“Can I get you some tea?” William walked into the kitchen.
Father Crosby couldn’t have been mistaken. It sounded as if the doorknob on the basement door was let go. That quick chime of metal gave him a long pause.
“Sweet tea?”
“Yes.” He wondered if William would be more forthcoming.
“Is there anyone else here?” Father Crosby asked.
“What? I don’t follow, you mean aside from us?”
“I mean in the basement.” The priest watched as Jessica squirmed.
William shrugged and turned to his daughter, Father Crosby knew he was about to tell her to go and open it. The thought terrified him. “Catherine Ann…” he started but the sound of a rattling muffler outside signaled the grandparents had arrived.
Father Crosby jumped at the chance to point it out, “That must be them.”
“It is.” said William. “Why don’t you meet them outside, hon.” He said to Catherine Ann. Her feet scampered to the door the door. Father Crosby sidestepped to the bay window and peered out to see the Grandparents partially exit their vehicle, just enough to give Catherine Ann time to get there and help her self into the back seat.
William handed Father Crosby a glass of tea and took a seat in the living room. The priest wasn’t sure how to begin.
“Perhaps you will be going now, Father.” The man said.
Father Crosby was at a loss for words.
Jessica slid off the stool and joined her husband on the couch.
“We’re happier than you think. It was only a few months ago that we thought we lost Catherine Ann forever. But God saw fit to give us an option. She’s our daughter, alive. That’s all we asked for. Maybe we should’ve asked for more?”
“Your wife…” Father Crosby started his lecture.
“My wife is stressed.” William argued. She whimpered an apology at his side.
A door creaked inside the house.
It wasn’t the basement door.
“Old homes, here in Church Hill, have their quirks to say the least.”
“Yes, this area has quite the history, I am excited to get to know it.” Father Crosby started and ended as if to say, “But this first.” He was sensing how unwelcome he was. Even the floor seemed to rise a bit, putting pressure on his knees as he sat. He had been nervous before in his life, that’s all this had to be. He was breaking ice with a couple he did not know, with his first parishioners in a new town. Why should he not feel nervous, invasive, and even unwanted?
“Just be careful how much you get to know.” William threatened. The priest looked at Jessica, the obedient wife tucked around her husband’s arm, as if sewn into the couch no more than a decorative flower; a wilted flower.
“What would you do if your daughter died, Mrs. Milton?”
She paused. Her mind had a different answer, but she responded with a shudder, “That’s a dark thing to consider.”
The priest said to himself it was time to leave, but stood firm, “Consider it, as mature adults, in the world we live in, facing the death of a child is something we can’t prepare for, but the possibility, it’s around every corner. Now, I will not tell you how to raise you child. I’m sure you will ask me how I raise my children. And my response is, you, you both are my children. I will raise you by being understanding, by being on your side, every step of the way. I won’t give up on you. I won’t be ashamed of you.”
One of them snickered. Father Crosby was not certain which.
“Well, again thank you for the visit, but…” William started.
“Do not raise your daughter with hate and anger.”
William shook his head, utterly disgusted by what Father Crosby had insinuated. His wife pinched his thigh and whispered to him.
“I thought he could help us, just make him leave, he’s not going to.”
The whispered carried even over the hum of traffic just outside. William knew the priest had heard his wife and looked him over, inspecting him and speaking in a tone for both his wife and the priest.
“Is he afraid?”
The roman collar touched Father Crosby’s chin and he bowed his head as if to meet the challenge. He could feel his face reddening as if the very fabric of his faith had been called into question. But still the sad lump of urgency rested in his stomach, pleading with him to leave. Echoing with the words of his predecessor.
Avoid, politely.
“Our daughter came closed to death than you can imagine; or are willing to imagine. Do you know how that makes a parent feel?” William asked as if the priest had answered his challenge. “You asked what we would do if our daughter died. We know exactly what we would do. We did it.”
Father Cosby was ready to leave, he’d just watched William descent into the same kind of display or madness Jessica had. His mind worked through the steps and research he would have to make to understand the steps of protecting young Catherine Ann. He’d never had to contact Child Services, but he knew that’s why it existed, it offered more than he could hope to provide himself.
“Perhaps you should have that look in the basement, Father.” William stood.
Father Crosby had enough, this encounter had to end. He stood as well.
“Come on, have a look down there. There’s something down there, don’t you think?”
“Don’t.” Whispered his wife.
“Have a look, Father.”
Jessica urged her husband against the idea again. Father Crosby looked towards the basement door. It sat, harmless, as any other door. Calm and rational thought told the Priest it would prove his suspicions wrong. He had let his imagination get the best of him. But giving in would also provide a strange sense of victory for the madness of Catherine Ann’s parents. William walked to the basement door, smiling back at Father Cosby. He didn’t move as William placed his hand tauntingly on the knob. William taunted the priest’s curiosity by raising his eyebrows and motioning with his eyes towards the door.
Father Crosby swallowed hard; his roman collar was like an alarm bell. It’s chafing sent him to the front door, a look of disgust on his face. He thought the little girl, slouched in the chair, her deathly stare, poor Catherine Ann.
William gripped the doorknob, and turned it completely but did not open the door just yet. He held it within the doorframe; still a draft seemed to escape. His graying hair fluttered up for a moment. Father Crosby could imagine someone on the other side of the door, waiting, arms crossed and waiting, waiting, and holding their breath. Just on the other side of the basement door something evil.
William cracked the door a hair. The Roman collar nearly dug up into Father Crosby’s jaw.
“I will see you all on Sunday. I hope we can speak on better terms. I
did not wish to get off on a bad foot, forgive me.” His feet were itching to leave, his hand had already opened the front door, but more than politeness kept him from running out. Everything in him told him to run, but he had to know. He had to ease his fears, remember that the Devil exists in the hearts of man not in basements.
Still he found himself warmed by the sunlight as he stepped out of the Miltons’ house. It was as if God himself was lighting his way to safety. Behind him William called out to him in a voice also warmed by daylight perhaps, “Welcome to Richmond, Father.”
THE END.
MAD DOG DONALDSON
If you had told me when I got out of bed this morning that today was the day I died, I might’ve laughed at you. The Wild West, as those back east liked to call it, had started to simmer down. There were real towns and real nice places to live. There was even law you could appreciate here in out little town of Pinewood.
On account of the heat I’d planted my keester in Old Mac’s Saloon. Whole town had decided to take the day off except Mac. He still had a healthy slab of ice keeping the beer cold.
Of course being that the whole town was in one building we all had to look when some one walked in.
I almost laughed that it would be Mad Dog Donaldson who walked through the door when I was sitting so nicely on a stool already. Of course this Mad Dog was looking for a fight.
When he told us his name was Mad Dog Donaldson the whole place went quiet and still like a cow out of grass.
“I don’t need no more trouble. But I can hand it out if that’s the way it’s gonna be,” he told us. He handed out his first share of trouble to Old Mac. He wanted the hard stuff, but Mac doesn’t share that with strangers. Mac liked to know who could handle their drinks.
“You gettin’ smart on me! I should gun you down right here.” He showed the pistol he intended to use. I hadn’t seen anything like it before. It was so shiny it looked as if it had never been fired.
Our fine Sheriff Roy Woods stood up and he got to see that black hole all pistols pertained to have.
“Not in here. No, sir,” Sheriff said.
“I can do my killin’ in the heat too, Law Man.”
Uncollected Blood Page 8