“Fame and attention.” Wolfgang stared into the shadows. “That is what most villains crave, Susannah. Advancement. To be promoted inside an organization built on hate. Which means he has plans on Making the Walk soon.”
“Come on, Wolf. Let’s go.” Susannah took Wolfgang by the arm and started him down the hill. She followed Wolfgang home and they lit a fire. They shared a bottle of wine and Wolfgang told her about his mother’s visit. In the silence that ensued, Susannah stood from the couch and lifted one of the violins on the floor. She laughed as she tried to play. Wolfgang joined her back on the couch, where the heat of the fire had warmed the cushions. She giggled, gripped Wolfgang’s shirt, and pulled him close, so close he could smell the sweet wine on her breath. “I feel safe right now,” she whispered.
It was snowing outside again. The doors were locked. The fire snapped beside them. Shadows caressed the angles of her cheekbones, the curve of her lips, the rounded turn of her chin…and no one was watching. Wolfgang bent down, closed his eyes, and softly pressed his lips against her mouth. He felt as if a bolt of electricity had struck him. Her mouth eased open.
She ran her fingers across the back of his head and through his hair. And then suddenly she pushed him away. Wolfgang dropped to his knees beside the couch, staring at her, mortified. How could he have done it?
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Don’t be. I can’t…I just can’t. I’m sorry.” She turned away and closed her eyes.
He stood up, hobbled because his right food had gone numb, and backed away. He blew out all the candles. He couldn’t get the cottage dark enough, not with the fire licking the stones of the fireplace. He wanted to crawl into bed and never come out.
Eventually he drifted off to sleep, but not until he heard her snoring.
***
Susannah was still asleep on the couch when Wolfgang shot up in bed.
The porch steps creaked under the weight of an intruder.
The clock on the wall read four in the morning. A loud thump sounded against the door. Susannah shifted on the couch but her eyes remained closed. Wolfgang moved around the foot of his bed, grabbed the iron poker from beside the fireplace, and walked quietly toward the front door. The knob rattled. Something slid down the outside, calling to Wolfgang. “Doctor…” It was more of a groan than a threat.
Wolfgang kept the poker in his hand, opening the door. A male patient knelt on the porch, shivering. Blood dripped down his chin. Wolfgang recognized the thin young man from the east wing of the fourth floor, Ray Lot. He couldn’t have been far from death. What was he doing here?
“Doctor…I have a confession.”
Wolfgang knelt. Ray’s eyelids fluttered. He coughed up blood. “What is it, my son?” Wolfgang glanced over his shoulder; Susannah still slept. He returned his attention to Ray.
“I was with him…when he tossed the brick.” Ray unfolded his legs and rested back on the porch, his head in a pile of hardened snow. “I helped…that night, in the woods.”
Ray’s hands shook violently. Wolfgang grabbed them and it seemed to calm him somewhat. “Go on,” he said.
Ray had attended many of his Catholic Masses over the duration of his stay at Waverly. Now tears dripped from his eyes. “I told him not to hang that nigger. He only wanted to…to…to scare him. I promise.” His teeth chattered. “It was always his idea.”
“Who?”
“We hid our Klan robes in the shed.” His eyes widened. “He scared that boy last night.”
“Who did this?”
“This is a confession, right, Father?” Ray gulped and breathed heavily. Loose fluid gargled in his weak lungs. “Just between you and me, right?” Wolfgang nodded. “Promise me you won’t go after him.” Ray coughed up blood. “Promise me you’ll just let him die like me. Let the white wind take ’em.”
Wolfgang gritted his teeth and lifted Ray’s head from the porch. “I promise. Tell me and the good Lord shall judge you.”
“Will I go to heaven?”
“If it’s God’s will.”
Ray stared for a second. “Jesse.”
A huge ball of rage suddenly arose in Wolfgang’s throat. Jesse—Ray’s roommate, whom Wolfgang had taken under his wings, the young man who had eagerly claimed to be interested in the priesthood. Weeks ago, Wolfgang had entered the chapel and Jesse had given him a note, claiming it had been left on the altar. Or had Wolfgang nearly caught Jesse in the act of writing it? He’d claimed to be illiterate, but it dawned on him that Jesse had probably written those anonymous letters to the police. He was the reason they’d been snooping around the train tracks weeks ago. And Jesse had the size, thought Wolfgang. He was getting stronger, closer to Making the Walk. Jesse must have only pretended to be simple-minded, and he’d gotten close to Wolfgang, conning his way into the chapel, so as not to be expected of the crimes he’d committed.
“We got the ether from the hospital…to knock him out. The rope from the shed. It was Jesse’s idea…” Then Ray closed his eyes. “Our secret.”
Wolfgang waited until Ray was silent before checking his pulse. Finding none, he stood and retreated inside to wash the infected blood from his hands.
Chapter 32
Wolfgang stood at the foot of Jesse’s bed the next morning and watched the doughy farm boy stare at Ray’s vacant bed. Wolfgang had checked Jesse’s records before starting his rounds or playing the first song on his request list. Jesse was twenty-five years old. One of five brothers. Born in Louisville but currently living just north of the river in southern Indiana. Wolfgang knew that the Klan was heavily entrenched in Indiana; one in every four men supposedly wore the white robes.
“He died on my doorstep,” Wolfgang told him.
Jesse’s eyebrows furrowed. “He was a good kid, Father. I prayed for him last night.”
He’s mocking me, thought Wolfgang. Wolfgang cleared a divot of snow from the footboard of Jesse’s bed with his fingers and flicked it to the floor. He hoped Jesse’s tuberculosis spread painfully and quickly. What an odd feeling for a man of medicine and God, he mused. Unfortunately, Jesse appeared stronger than the day he’d arrived. The fresh air was helping.
Wolfgang just smiled. “Rest up,” he said and walked away.
***
Determined to take advantage of the sunny weather, Wolfgang scheduled another rehearsal that day. He wheeled Frederick out to the fourth-floor solarium so he could get some air and be closer to the music.
The musicians’ sense of ensemble reflected their growing camaraderie, and with the addition of Cecil on the clarinet and Beverly on a second violin, they played like five functioning chambers of the same heart. The choir’s quality had increased tenfold just by the addition of Herman’s booming voice, which gave the others the confidence to sing even louder. Herman—without his fork—was allowed out of his room for the first time in several days and stood in his typical spot away from the rest of the choir.
“Herman, why do you insist on standing away from the group?” Wolfgang asked him before rehearsal had started.
“I don’t want to catch their TB,” Herman said.
Wolfgang stared up at him, wondering if he’d crack a smile. He did not.
Anne Barker arrived ten minutes into rehearsal. “Room for another?” she asked.
“Of course.” Wolfgang walked her over toward the women’s section beside Susannah. Anne Barker apparently knew her music. Her voice was soft, overshadowed by the rest of the women, but she already knew most of the pieces. Her smile was a pleasant addition to the chorus, and her arrival at Waverly had made her husband less belligerent. He was by her bedside every day, and often Wolfgang had seen them laughing.
They were barely over their allotted time when the choir suddenly stopped.
Wolfgang turned, his arms still in midair. Dr. Barker stood behind him. He was staring at his wife in the
crowd. “Shut it down, Dr. Pike.”
“But—”
“Shut it down.” His voice was somber, his eyes sad. For once Wolfgang didn’t argue. Dr. Barker held out an envelope. “This came today from the diocese.”
Wolfgang took the envelope and waited until everyone had left before opening it.
February 1st, 1929
Dear Dr. Wolfgang Pike,
The diocese has learned of certain activities on your part deemed deceitful and unethical as pertaining to the Catholic Church. We have received word that you have been performing the Sacrament of Penance and saying Mass in the name of Christ without the authority to do so, and, on occasion and with witnesses, given communion to fellow Catholics under the impression that you are a Catholic priest. We have been in contact with the abbot and monks at the abbey at Saint Meinrad in regard to your status as a student, and although they explain your importance as a doctor at the Waverly Hills Tuberculosis Sanatorium and admit that they allowed you access to their books and vestments during this horrible epidemic, they couldn’t deny the fact that you have not been to the abbey in years, nor could they, with any confidence, say that you would ever return. Although we don’t like to deny anyone what they consider to be their calling, we feel it is within our rights to remove you from any further positions within the Catholic Church should we learn that your behavior continues and you have not enrolled “officially” at the abbey by the end of the month.
Yours in Christ,
Father Reinhart, assistant to Bishop Floersh
Diocese of Louisville
Wolfgang’s hands shook as he lowered the letter. The concert was only a couple days away. It was mid-February. He had only two weeks on the hillside.
***
The pressure to finish his requiem was now magnified, bearing down on him that night. Every so often Wolfgang glanced over his shoulder at McVain, who appeared asleep. Occasionally McVain’s eyes opened, watching Wolfgang or staring out toward the woods.
Wolfgang’s couch had remained empty ever since the kiss, and Susannah had only spoken to him in fits and starts, mostly about work, nothing meaningful. He contemplated telling her about the letter but dreaded the actual conversation. He’d decided to wait to tell anyone, just in case he found a way out of it. How could Dr. Barker do this to him? A fellow doctor? He was trying to deceive no one. He was simply filling a void, hearing confessions, and helping to ease peoples’ souls before they passed away.
McVain startled him by calling out from his bed.
“Where is she?”
Wolfgang touched the pen to the paper. “Who?”
“Who do you think? Susannah.”
“She went home early. She felt tired.” Wolfgang returned to his work. He began to play again, stopping every so often to jot down notes. Ten minutes later, when he looked over his shoulder, McVain sat with his knees propped up below the sheets as if hiding something in his lap. Wolfgang quietly lifted off the piano bench and hurried to McVain’s bedside. McVain was slow in shoving an envelope under the sheets.
“What do you have there?”
McVain scowled. “Nothing.”
“Looks like a letter.”
“Speaking of letters, what did yours say?”
“Church business, McVain, which means none of yours.” Wolfgang sat down on the chair beside the bed. “You’ve been here for how many weeks without getting one piece of mail? Who’s it from?”
McVain pulled the letter out from under the sheets. The envelope looked as if it had been through hell getting into his hands. The penmanship on the front was curvy and elegant. McVain held up his left hand, showing Wolfgang the nubs. “You wanted to know how I lost my fingers?”
“It has something to do with that letter?”
“Long story.”
“I’ve got all night.”
***
In May 1918, just before Wolfgang came home from the seminary for the summer and met Rose, Tad McVain was dodging bullets in Europe and praying to God every night to keep him safe. He had a wife at home in the States. He had a bright career; before the Selective Service Act had taken him, he’d been making his name as a pianist and composer. He’d begun to garner acclaim, not only in his country, but also from other countries around the world. He prayed every night for the Lord to keep his hands safe.
The Germans were closing in on Paris, breaking the French line to pieces. McVain was in the Third American Division, sent to defend the Marne, up to Chateau-Thierry to fight under French command. Chateau-Thierry was a nice river town thirty-five miles northeast of Paris. When McVain’s division arrived, most of the citizens had fled. But by the time McVain stepped onto the abandoned streets of the small town that would endure forty-one days of continuous fighting, he had already mentally checked out. Months of killing and trying not to be killed had all but locked him up. He moved around stone-faced and answered no one. He smoked constantly. His hands trembled so violently that he struggled to even aim his gun. Twice he’d frozen during combat, tempting fate as the Krauts closed in, only to be saved by his fellow soldiers.
“McVain…” They called out to him. “McVain…”
A buck-toothed soldier from Iowa they called Jaw Scratcher dove and knocked him out of the way of enemy fire on day five of the fighting. Jaw Scratcher lay on top of him in a ditch. “McVain? You froze out there, man. Gonna get yourself kilt.”
“But I’m a pianist.”
“Not no more, piano man.” Jaw Scratcher helped McVain up and handed him his gun. “Now snap out of it and start killin’ some Krauts.”
McVain did kill another Kraut that day and he killed him good. The poor boy had red hair like McVain’s and was probably only eighteen or nineteen years old. Younger version of himself, thought McVain. They both drew their weapons, but McVain shot him first. When he got close, he saw blood gurgling from the boy’s neck. But he was still alive and choking up blood. McVain looked down on the boy, hoping he would hurry up and stop breathing. God damn it, he was looking right at him and trying to talk, but he couldn’t on account of the gurgle. It was a sound McVain would never forget, and he had to end it as soon as possible. He pulled the German boy by his arms over toward a wall of rubble. He knelt beside the boy and took out his knife. He entertained the notion that he was killing his German twin. Before the idea grew legs, he slit the boy’s throat, and the boy didn’t try to talk anymore. Bullets whizzed by and bombs exploded. Blood spread from the boy’s body, but his arms and legs still moved. McVain sat next to the German boy and gripped the kid’s hand. He held it until the boy had completely stopped moving.
“McVain,” someone called out. “The fuck you doing?”
Another called out, “Holding that Kraut’s hand. McVain…”
McVain dropped his gun on the slain boy’s chest and walked back through the fighting, oblivious to the passing bullets, ignoring the men around him calling his name. He took his helmet off and concealed his hands inside it as he instinctively ducked and moved back toward base.
He never fell asleep that night. Just smoked one cigarette after the next, and half of them were wet and tasted like trash. But he smoked them to help calm the trembling in his hands. Every day he fought cautiously when everyone else around him was brave. Then the Germans were threatening their position and McVain’s division was called to the west bridge to make a stand. But McVain had seen too many limbs blown off. He’d had too many friends come back with massive head injuries. He didn’t want to fight anymore. So he ran.
They’d been fighting on the outskirts of Chateau-Thierry, so he hurried back to the abandoned town and ducked inside a small stone house. He cowered in the dark corner of a back bedroom that smelled musty. He listened to the fighting in the distance and flinched every time a shell exploded. Light flashed against the walls, flashing and fading, flashing and fading…
Eventually the fighting die
d down, like rumbling thunder moving away. The room was pitch-black. He dropped on the bed against the wall. The sheets were tousled, as if the former occupant had left in a hurry. Somehow he dozed off—with his pistol on his lap. He awoke a few hours later with a fuzzy glow inside the room. He aimed his pistol at it, and the tremble immediately started again with his hands. He doubted he could have even hit his target if he’d tried. Standing right there in the middle of the room was a woman holding a candle. A French woman with short dark hair and dirt on her face. She was pretty, probably in her twenties, and she wore a blue dress and no shoes. The candle shook in her grip as she stared at McVain’s gun. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
McVain lowered the pistol and waved her closer. She hurried to the bed, buried her head in McVain’s chest, and started crying. He rubbed her back and rested his chin on her head, and for some reason wondered if Jaw Scratcher was dead.
He moved his lips next to her ear. “Shhhhh. It’s gonna be okay.” He wondered if she’d lost her husband, or parents, or siblings. Or possibly even her children? She appeared old enough to have had them. McVain leaned back against the headboard and accepted her weight against his. She nestled her head beneath his shoulder and then fell asleep while he stroked her back and hair. He looked at his hands, which were still stained from the German boy’s blood. So much dirt and grime under his fingernails. He blew out her candle on the floor and closed his eyes. He fell asleep again to the imagined sound of a piano.
McVain loved his wife, but that life seemed so out of touch with his current reality that he’d convinced himself he would never see her again. The Unites States might as well have been on another planet. That night he cheated on his wife. Being close to the French woman was the only thing that made sense to him. Part of him wondered if what they’d done during the night had been a dream. Visions of her moving on top of him swarmed into focus. Her hair tickling his cheeks. Her breasts pressing against his chest. And when the sun shone through the window, he noticed that she was naked under the sheets and his shirt was off. She kissed McVain on the cheek and then hurried from the room. Cabinets opened and closed in the other room, and moments later she returned with a bottle of wine, a block of moldy cheese, and some stale bread. She slipped back into her dress and they ate like they were starved.
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