Or maybe she’d call the nursing home in Santo Verde and tell the nurses off again, threatening to haul them to court if she saw any more bruises on her mother’s arms. Maybe this time, she’d accuse them of sexual abuse as well. It was all lies, of course - Olivia hadn’t visited her mother since Christmas - but it had been such fun getting the staff riled up; it filled the emptiness inside her, however briefly. Yes, giving them another call sounded like a fine idea but once home, she fell onto the couch into an immediate and deep sleep.
And dreamed of Mr. Jones.
* * *
Hours later, when Nick opened his eyes, he was thirsty as hell. His head still ached and he felt shaky - but nothing he couldn’t handle. He recalled the earlier conversation with the padre as if it had been a dream.
But he was fully sober now.
He got up, pulled on his jeans and a gray T-shirt, and padded to the bathroom to take the leak to end all leaks, then guzzled about a gallon of water, straight from the tap. Scrubbing his teeth and rinsing his mouth, he stared into the shattered mirror, wondering again how it had broken.
He splashed on Old Spice - he didn’t care if it was for old dudes, he liked it - spritzed his pits with Right Guard, and wet his hair, smoothing it down. He wasn’t quite as fresh as a wilted daisy, but he wanted to see if the padre was still around, and at least now, he wouldn’t knock the poor guy out with his stink. Unless he got real close, anyway.
The priest stood at the kitchen sink, opening a pack of ground chuck. “It lives,” he said as Nick took a seat at the table.
“Barely.”
“But you look better.”
Nick held a hand out and waggled it: So-so. “What time is it?”
“Just after six. Ready for me to fire up the grill?”
Solid food … Nick took it as a good sign when his mouth watered. “Sure. Will you be all right on your own? I really need a shower.”
“It’s under control, Bullet.”
Bullet. Apparently he had a new nickname. Could be worse. He smiled.
“How do you like your burgers?”
Nick’s enthusiasm was returning. “Burn that bitch like a witch at the stake, Padre.”
Tom gave him a little salute. “I come from a long line of witch-burners. I’ll do my best to make my people proud.”
Nick took his time in the shower, scrubbing himself down in scalding temperatures as if washing away his sins, and by the time he stepped into fresh clothes, he was a new man. A new man with a residual hangover, but a new man nonetheless. Emerging from the bathroom, he was greeted by the heart-stopping fragrance of nearly burnt meat.
Tom had set out everything they’d need to build the kind of burger only a man who hasn’t had solid food in over twenty-four hours can appreciate: sliced tomatoes, onions, three kinds of cheese, lettuce and pickles, mayonnaise, mustard, and ketchup. He’d also bought some cherry Coke and several bags of chips.
“Just in time,” Tom called from the patio. “Take a seat.”
Nick did, and within moments, the padre entered carrying a plate stacked with half a dozen patties, several of them black as charcoal briquettes. Just how Nick liked them. “You’ve outdone yourself, Padre.”
The priest set the plates down, tossed Nick a cherry Coke then cracked one open for himself.
Nick started building his burger, slathering and cramming everything within reaching distance onto the bun. Finished, he added an extra patty for good measure, then poured about half a bag of wavy Lay’s on his plate.
Tom was more methodical about his burger, but Nick was pleased to see he liked it just as loaded and burnt as he did.
Nick took a bite and thought he might die of rapture. And there were certainly worse ways to go. “Jesus Christ, this is good!” The curse found its way around the burger and past his lips before he’d had a chance to stop it. “Sorry,” he said. “Old habits.”
The padre bit into his burger, showing no sign of offense.
Nick wolfed his down in a few huge bites, swallowed, and built the next.
For several moments, they ate in silence and when Nick’s appetite reached a semi-normal level, he said, “I appreciate this, Padre. It was good of you.”
Tom wiped his mouth. “You’re welcome, but before you start thinking I’m too nice a guy, we need to have a chat.”
Nick’s stomach tightened. He felt like a child whose mother had said, ‘Wait until your father gets home.’ He took a swig of Coke and said, “I’m all ears.”
Tom, not even finished with burger number one, pushed his plate aside. “If you don’t change the way you’re doing things, you’re going to die.”
Nick blinked.
“I’ve been in A.A. a long time and I’ve seen it happen, over and over. I wasn’t kidding when I said you’re lucky you didn’t end up in the hospital, Nick.”
Nick stared at his plate, a naughty terrier who’d piddled on the rug.
“That’s why I stayed. You might have had a seizure. I don’t think I need to tell you that the days of knowing your limits are long past you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“The point is that if you want me to sponsor you, you’re going to have to listen to me. You’re going to have to get over your ego, quit thinking you’re in control, and do as you’re told.” He paused. “Believe me, I was every bit as stubborn as you. And I did land in the hospital. More than once. I know how precious time is, so I need to know you’re serious. I don’t want to lose another friend to this disease.”
This side of Thomas Wainwright was equally admirable and frightening. “I am serious. Whatever it takes, right?”
Tom nodded. “Then the first thing you need to do is open your mind to the possibility of a power greater than yourself.”
Nick hesitated. “You mean God?” The word was like a piece of bad fruit stuck in his throat.
“No. I mean a power greater than yourself.”
“Right. God.”
Tom sighed. “Tell me what you know about God, Nick.”
“Huh?”
“Tell me what you think of when someone says ‘God’ to you.”
“Well, I guess I see a big Santa Claus-looking dude in the sky who just kind of sits there and judges us. If I’m to believe what they say, he sends the goodies to heaven and the baddies to Hell. He doesn’t do much in the way of helping out, but he’s real quick to judge.” Despite himself, Nick was becoming angry. Religion was the biggest bunch of bullshit ever created and he disliked discussing it. “That’s what I know about God.”
“Good,” said Tom. “Now I want you to fire him.”
“Uh … excuse me?”
“Fire him. Get a new idea of God. Or don’t call it God at all.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Just get some idea of something beyond your current understanding.” His eyes implored.
“Something greater than myself.” The idea was ludicrous. Everything’s equal.
“You doubt it, but let me tell you something, Bullet. Booze is a power greater than yourself. If it wasn’t, you would’ve quit years ago, right? Or were you just having so much fun you didn’t want to give it up?”
Nick let the words sink in. “Drinking hasn’t been fun in years.”
“But you kept doing it. Why?”
Nick had no answer.
“Do you see what I’m saying?”
“I get it, yeah.”
“And you’ve tried everything to quit - a new job, a new house, a new town, and I’m guessing, a few new women.”
“All of the above. Plus, exercise, diet, meditation, self-help books, autosuggestion, counseling, and hypnotherapy. Just to name a few.”
“And none of it worked?” Tom feigned shock.
Nick didn’t need to answer that one.
“So no human power has relieved your alcoholism. Can you agree with that much?”
“I certainly can’t argue it.”
“Wise man. Long story short, there are forces far greater than us in this
world, and until you can come to terms with that and surrender your alcoholism to it, your chances of staying sober are slim to none.”
Nick felt his defenses prickling, his hackles rising. “You’re saying I can’t get sober if I don’t find something to believe in.” He held the priest’s gaze. “That’s a bold statement, Padre.”
“Indeed, it is. And it’s what I know to be the truth, like it or not.” His eyes never wavered.
Nick realized he’d come against the highest, widest brick wall of his lifetime. He wasn’t sure he could get over it or around it but he knew he had to try. I’ll dig a tunnel under it if I have to. He’d taken the drinking as far as it would go. Two marriages had been blasted to pieces because of it, and now he’d compromised his new job - the job he’d dreamed of having since he was seven years old - since the accident that had killed his parents.
“If you want me to sponsor you, I need to know you’re willing to approach your recovery with an open mind. Is that something you can do?”
Nick nodded. “Whatever it takes.”
Tom smiled. “That’s all I need to hear. The rest will work itself out. Now finish your burger before it gets cold.” At last, he released Nick from that probing stare.
“Is that … all?”
“For now, yes.” Tom gave him a friendly wink and swigged his Coke.
“Good, because you had me pretty nervous for a minute.”
“I’m glad to hear it. You scared the hell out of me last night. Now we’re square.”
“I have to say, I never thought I’d see the day when a priest told me to fire God.”
“Your idea of God - the one that’s got you so pissed off that it’s closed your mind to all other possibilities.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, organized religion has a way of doing that to folks.”
That caught Nick off guard. He had to ask: “What about your God? You have to believe in the church’s idea of God, don’t you?”
“I don’t have to believe anything I don’t want to, Nick, and between you and me, I think there’s an awful lot of nonsense in religious doctrine. An awful lot.”
“That’s pretty … ballsy. What would your parishioners say?”
“It’s none of my business what they’d say. And don’t think for a minute that every one of them doesn’t come to my church, or any church, with their own ideas of God. Just because they’re all in the same place at the same time, listening to the same words … that doesn’t mean they experience spirituality in the same way. They may think they do, but they don’t.”
“Just don’t ever tell them that, huh?”
“Perish the thought. That’s why nations have gone to war in the name of religion since the dawn of time. But in truth, we all have a different experience of God. For some, it’s church. For others, it’s being in the mountains, dangling your feet in a stream. Some dance nude beneath the full moon. Some people paint. Some play music. Others write poetry. It’s a personal relationship to a deeper source of power that doesn’t need to be shared with anyone else. That’s the beauty of it.”
Music. ‘Some play music,’ he said. Nick thought about it. I rarely drink when I play. I don’t have to. He’d never made the connection before. “I think I’ve got a handle on what you’re saying.” He sipped his Coke. “It’s the worship part that puts me off. I don’t see why I have to worship something.”
“You don’t. That’s the difference between religion and spirituality. It’s a power greater than yourself, period, not a power greater than yourself which requires promises, praise, and applause.”
This, of everything the padre had said, hit Nick the hardest. “You believe that? Really?”
“Really.” Tom looked thoughtful. “Here’s the bottom line: to get your body and mind healthy, you need to be spiritually sound. And that requires a connection to something deeper than your own ego. The details will present themselves in their own good time, according to your needs. You’ll find a suitable path, so long as you keep an open mind. End of story.”
“I get it, Padre. I really do.” And it wasn’t nearly as daunting as he’d expected. “It’s going to take some work, but … yeah. I’ll get my mind wrapped around it.” He chuckled. “Just so long as you don’t try to drag me to church, that is.”
Tom gave him a smart-assed grin. “And sully the house of the Lord? You flatter yourself.”
Nick laughed loud and hard. It felt fantastic.
Until it was cut short.
The table gave a sudden jolt as condiment bottles and soda cans tipped and spilled. “What the-?” As if by magnetic force, Nick’s chair slid and jerked away from the table. The same happened to Tom. They had time to exchange shocked glances before the table began to bounce, rocking like a bucking bull, tossing plates, napkins, vegetables, and chips onto the floor.
Earthquake?
Then the cupboard doors crashed open all at once, slamming into each other. The dishwasher fell open, then the fridge’s door, spilling contents onto the linoleum. Nick jumped to his feet. Tom too. Lights flickered like strobes and the kitchen table slid, dream-like, moaning as it dragged itself across the floor.
And the room was suddenly still.
Then the sink faucet shot on, full-blast.
Then nothing.
For a moment, the only sound was the shooting water.
“You saw that, right?” asked Nick.
Tom looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Of course I did! What in God’s name just happened?”
Nick walked to the sink and flipped the faucet off.
“That wasn’t an earthquake,” said Tom. “No way.” He looked at Nick like he wanted confirmation.
Nick nodded. “Definitely not.” The table now sat at the far end of the room, blocking the dining room entryway. Silverware had bounced out of the dishwasher and lay strewn on the floor amid a shambles of lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and wavy Lay’s. It looked as if a tornado had touched down in his kitchen. “I thought it was … just me.”
“What?”
“The bathroom mirror. I thought …” Nick looked at the padre. “I guess I thought I was losing my mind. Or having DTs or something.”
The priest’s eyes bugged. “This has happened before?”
“Nothing this … big.” He heard Beverly Simon’s words again: ‘You’re not alone in that house,’ and, ‘something is trying to contact you. It’s not a spirit exactly, but something like it … ’ He shook his head. “I thought I was losing my mind.” But it’s real, all of it. The footsteps, the silhouette in the curtains, the stacked pillows, messed bed, and shattered mirror. “It’s real. I’m not going crazy.” He was torn between relief and a new brand of terror as he told the padre about the earlier incidents.
“What do you think is going on around here, Nick?”
Nick’s mouth was as dry as Vegas in July, but knowing he wasn’t losing his mind was like tossing off shackles. “I don’t know. But I think I may know someone who does.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How would you like to come with me to, uh, talk to somebody who might be able to help?”
“Now?” Tom’s voice was thin, his eyes still buggy, his face the color of Elmer’s Glue.
“Yes. Right now,” said Nick. “Definitely right now.”
“Let’s go.”
“Great. I’ll explain on the way.”
Lamebrains and Baby Jane
The register had been short fifty bucks. Not a few cents, or even a few dollars, but fifty bucks. After putting the CLOSED sign up, Madison had checked - and re-checked - the books. Then she ran through them a third time, just to be sure. Fifty bucks, gone. It made her feel incompetent. She or Dette had either made a whopper of a mistake - or someone had put their hand in the till when they weren’t looking. The whole thing had fouled her mood and when Dette had asked to stay the night at her place again - claiming she was just too tired to drive home - Madison had tried to tell her no because she really didn’t
want to deal. But her friend looked genuinely exhausted and Madison had relented.
Now, they sat in the darkened living room, Alejandro in the recliner, Madison and Dette on the couch, sharing a blanket and a bowl of extra-buttered, extra-salted popcorn - which Alejandro had tried and vehemently disliked. His preferred snack was a milk-free bowl of Cheerios into which he’d stirred tremendous amounts of honey. His eyes were glued to the television where Bette Davis and Joan Crawford held him in rapt attention.
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? had been Madison’s idea. She thought it would get her mind off the missing money. She loved the movie but found herself watching more of Alejandro than Baby Jane. In a pair of blue-and-white checkered pajama bottoms and the beige Winkie the Golden Hedgehog T-shirt, he brought a dripping spoonful of the cereal-goo - like a giant, oozing lollipop - to his lips.
It was as if Alejandro had never seen a movie. He watched with a buoyant expression of joy as the pretty little girl who played young Bette Davis sang I’ve Written a Letter to Daddy. His eyes widened as Davis mowed Crawford down in the driveway and crippled her, and he looked terror-stricken when he saw the clown-faced monster the pretty little girl had grown up to become.
Now Joan Crawford sat before a large silver platter, her face a mask of horror as she discovered her dead pet bird. At this, Alejandro’s eyes bugged and he looked at Madison. “That lady killed the bird! And she wants her sister to eat it!” As if seeking comfort, he reached up and touched Pirate - who perched at the back of the recliner, nibbling the sticky Cheerios offered him.
Madison laughed. “Remember what I told you. It isn’t real.” She’d had to explain fact-versus-fiction when he’d begun reading Dark Lily and gotten the idea that, since he was on the cover, the story must be an account of his missing past. He’d grasped the concept of fictional novels pretty quickly, but when it came to television - or any kind of technology - he was utterly baffled. “It’s fiction,” said Madison. “Just like the book.” But given that he’d only watched TV shows like Tomorrow’s Singing Stars and Family Feud, she wasn’t sure he understood.
The Angel Alejandro Page 30