Heretics

by Greg F. Gifune

  Harry chose one of the few vacant tables near the edge of the property, close to the road, and ordered vodka on the rocks. Sitting beneath the sun-faded umbrella, he smoked a cigarette and tried not to stare at a pair of young women sporting bikini tops at the table next to him. He slid his sunglasses on, curious if anyone other than the waitress had even noticed him. Doubtful. In his wrinkled flowered shirt, khaki pants and scuffed canvas slip-ons he looked like just another tourist, another guy alone on vacation; another guy approaching middle age with a spare tire around his waist, a receding hairline and a moderate drinking problem—an All-American man for a new millennium.

  An ethereal guitar riff escaped a boom box several tables away, drawing his attention. Madeline was at play again, floating over the patio, feet dangling, bare toes brushing the umbrella-tops, pores still dripping gasoline, lips moving silently so as not to betray the language of the dead. Harry gave a quick blink and she faded away, swallowed by a brilliant shaft of sunshine. Ironic.

  The waitress returned with his vodka, but he’d yet to take his first sip when he noticed Brent making his way across the street from the beach parking lot. A shiny new Benz sports coupe—bright red—was parked behind him, and he made sure to set the noisy alarm with a push of a button on his key chain so everyone at the café would know the trophy was his. Harry christened his drink and watched him quietly from behind dark sunglasses.

  His brother hadn’t changed. He still had the same overconfident strut, the same full head of thick hair—styled to perfection—a year-round tan, a sinewy and athletic build from years of golf and tennis and swimming and boating, a healthy complexion, and eyes as bright and clear as fine gemstones. More than seven years older than Harry, on his worst day Brent looked at least that many years younger.

  Despite the passage of time—nearly five years now since Harry had last visited Virtue, since he had last laid eyes on Brent, and even then only in the form of a quick stopover for their mother’s funeral—despite the vast gulf that had always existed between them, and despite his best efforts to resist it, he still felt a twinge of nostalgia, if not outright love for his brother.

  Brent stopped at the outskirts of the patio, pulled off his mirrored sunglasses and quickly scanned the area. Harry raised his drink as if in exaggerated tribute, and caught his attention. Something that more closely resembled a gas pain than a smile twitched across his face, and he quickly returned the mirrors to his eyes as he slid between the tables. Still wearing tennis whites and matching sneakers, he looked as if he’d been called away in the middle of a set and was none too pleased about it.

  “Harry,” he said, offering his hand. A heavy gold bracelet on his wrist glimmered in the sunshine.

  Without bothering to stand he shook his brother’s hand. “How are you, Brent?”

  “I’m well.” He sat down, sliding the chair out far enough so that he could comfortably cross his legs. “And yourself?”

  Harry shrugged, sipped his vodka. “You know my life, big brother, pure and perpetual bliss.”

  The waitress revisited their table long enough to flirt with Brent, who returned the favor while ordering a wine cooler. Once she’d moved away he leaned back a bit in his chair, ever the triumphant adolescent. “I apologize for being so abrupt on the phone the other night but, I—well, I wasn’t exactly expecting to hear from you. You know how it is.”

  “Yes, I know how it is.” Harry gently shook his glass just to hear the ice cubes clink.

  “Well, at any rate, it was—it was good to hear from you.”

  Harry lowered his head so he could peer at his brother over the top of his sunglasses. “No it wasn’t.”

  “Hey, whatever.” Brent suspended his annoyance while the waitress delivered his wine cooler, then leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “I love it, you’re giving me attitude, that is so you. You’re the one who asked me for the goddamn favor, Harry and I—”

  “And you’re happy to do it because the faster you help me out the faster I’ll go the fuck away and leave you alone.” Harry threw back the remainder of his vodka and placed the glass between them. “Let’s tell the truth, Brent.”

  “Yeah, okay, and when’s the last time I saw you or even heard from you? When, Harry? When Mom died, right? Damn near five years ago—so don’t go getting all self-fucking-righteous with me. You want to throw yourself a pity parade, go ahead, you were always good at that, just don’t expect me to march along with you, all right?”

  The bloodletting had begun faster than Harry had thought it might, but he was far from surprised. “So, how is the family?”

  “I still see Tommy every other weekend and on special occasions,” Brent said through a scowl, “but Darla and I separated a few years ago.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Uh-huh, I’ll bet.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got the embarrassment of the family title wrapped up. It’s a lifetime achievement award, you’re safe.”

  Brent shook his head then drank most of his wine cooler in a single shot. “How long have you been in town?”

  “Only an hour or so. I called the minute I landed.”

  “Have you been to the cemetery to visit our parents yet?”

  “Tell you what, you say hello to them for me next time you swing by, okay?” Harry glanced around for the waitress. One drink wasn’t going to cut it. He signaled her but she was on the other side of the patio and he couldn’t be certain she’d seen him.

  “Still drinking like a fish, I see,” Brent mumbled.

  “Still trying desperately to be one of the upper crust crowd, I see.”

  “I wouldn’t be throwing stones if I were you, Harry.”

  “Yes, but you’re not me.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Oh, and you’re something better, is that it? You’re something to aspire to?” Harry laughed but it had been so long since he’d done so it felt strange, like an intrusion. “Look at you, Brent. Forty-five years old and still sucking up to the rich folks in town.”

  “Hey, don’t be pissed at me because I made something of myself.”

  “A brown-nosing little weasel that insures the wealthy—quite an accomplishment—way to go, man. You still haven’t figured out that no matter how much money you make, you’ll never be one of them. They might let you go to their clubs, or invite you to their little parties, some might even look the other way while you fuck their wives, but you’re little more than an amusement—a neighborhood dog, an entertaining diversion, a cute little buddy they can play with for a while then send on its way. Maybe you live a little closer to the cliffs than you did when we were younger, maybe you have a nicer car, better clothes, but you’re still a poor kid from the other side of town, and to these people, that’s all you’ll ever be.”

  Brent pushed his cooler aside as if the idea of drinking any more was making him physically ill. “What the hell is wrong with you, Harry? My God, what—”

  “I never wanted to be like them,” he said quickly. “You always did, and obviously still do. Christ, it might actually be hysterical if it weren’t so pitiful.”

  “Maybe,” he began, and then realizing the volume of his voice had increased, cleared his throat, lowered his tone and said, “Maybe, I’m just a regular guy and not a goddamn freak like you. Maybe I wasn’t a dork my whole life everyone picked on and couldn’t stand because he was an annoying little turd. Maybe I wasn’t the son who was an embarrassment and a disgrace to his family. And maybe I wasn’t the one who was suspected to be involved in the darkest day in Virtue’s history, in something—”

  “Something you and the rest of the people—and I use that word loosely—never did and never will understand, so don’t even begin to try and discuss things you have no knowledge of, Brent, things you don’t even have the ability to begin to comprehend.”

  The waitress appeared at the table, and Brent, with a wave of his hand, ordered another round. Once she’d left them, he sighed and gave a quick loo
k around, as if to be certain no one was listening. “Look, I…Harry, I…”

  “It’s okay,” he said softly. “It’s just the way it is. We didn’t ask for it to be this way.”

  “I suppose.”

  Harry almost felt connected to him at that moment, like they did in fact have the same blood running through their veins. “Were you able to get the information I asked for?”

  “Yeah,” Brent said absently. “You going to be in town long?”

  “Not any longer than I have to be.” Harry was grateful for the dark lenses shading his eyes and all that lived within them, behind them. “Did you find The Ripper, or what?”

  Brent gave a slow nod. “He’s here.”

  “I don’t…I don’t understand, how—”

  “You remember the Captain St. Pierre House over on Main?”

  He did. A combination halfway house and rehabilitation center that had been named for one of the town’s founding fathers, a captain of a local whaling vessel in the late 1700s, it had stood in town as temporary transitional housing for the disabled for as long as he could remember. “Yeah, of course.”

  “Well, that’s where he is.”

  “What’s Rip doing there?”

  The waitress delivered their drinks and was gone.

  “What the hell you think he’s doing there?” Brent sighed so heavily it came out as a quiet moan. “He came back to town about a year ago. Made quite an impact, per usual.”

  Harry raised the vodka to his lips, his hand shaking so violently he was barely able to hold the glass still long enough to drink from it. “You must have already known he was here then, why—why didn’t you just tell me when I called?”

  “Of course I knew; the whole town knows Ethan Ripley’s here and living at the St. Pierre House.” Brent looked around again; ever fearful a client of high standing might see him, or worse, overhear their conversation. “I wanted to meet with you. I wanted to know what the hell you were up to, what you intended to do once you found out where Ripley was.”

  “I only want to talk with him,” Harry said.

  Brent eyed him for several seconds, gauging the validity of his contention. “He just appeared in town about a year ago,” he finally said. “He went wandering up along the cliffs apparently, up around that crazy bitch’s old house, it’s—”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  “Oh, fucking excuse me.” Brent chuckled joylessly. “Anyway, the cops found him up there.”

  Harry stared at his hands; hopeful he could will them to stop trembling.

  “Made all the papers, even the local news. He did some time in the state hospital in Courtdale for a while, then they transitioned him back here, I guess. All I know is, he’s been living at the halfway house for almost a year now. One year’s the limit, so they must be getting ready to process him out someplace else. When they process you out of the St. Pierre House it’s either out on your own or back to the bin, so he’s looking at one or the other. The people in town just want him gone again, only now nobody’s afraid of him—not like before. He’s harmless as a puppy dog now, but he’s a bad memory, Harry. Just like you and that…girl. Least you had the good sense to stay gone.”

  “Until now.”

  “But you said yourself you won’t be here any longer than you have to be.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s best. Trust me.” Brent pulled a gold billfold from the side pocket of his tennis shorts, peeled off a twenty-dollar bill and tossed it on the table. “Look, I’ve got to run. Doubles scheduled with Doctor and Mrs. Montgomery and their niece Francine. Do whatever the hell it is you need to do and get out of town, Harry. Go back to New York or just keep right on going, just…for Christ’s sake, just don’t stay here. And…well, you know, take care of yourself, all right?”

  Harry snatched the vodka and emptied the glass down his throat as his brother stood up and turned toward the parking lot. “Brent?”

  He hesitated, looked back. “Yeah?”

  “You said Rip ended up in the state hospital for a while before they transitioned him to the St. Pierre House.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But the St. Pierre House is for the physically disabled.”

  Brent impatiently stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Right again.”

  “Rip’s not disabled though.”

  “He is now. Has been ever since the cops found him that night up on the cliffs. He’d already done it by the time they ran across him.”

  A hard swallow, and then, “Already done what?”

  “Put his eyes out.”

  4

  It was snowing the first time Madeline invited them to her home.

  The holidays had come and gone only weeks before and winter was in full force. There had already been two big snowstorms that season but this snow was different. This snow, accompanied by an unusually mild wind, was gentle, with giant graceful flakes that descended slowly from gray skies and clung to flesh and earth like crystallized skin. Though it had only been snowing for an hour or so accumulation had begun to mount gradually, like the squall itself.

  After leaving school they escaped to the beach and walked along the stone jetty, a pier constructed of symmetrically positioned boulders that extended quite a distance from the sand into the ocean. A thick granite finger pointing to an ashen horizon, it too had slowly turned white, as if painted by invisible artists, or perhaps by the creatures Madeline spoke of, those she swore lived within the sea winds.

  When the storm picked up they left the jetty, returned to the sand and sought refuge in the tall grass at the base of the cliffs. Sprawled out and laying back in the newly formed blankets of snow, searching for cloud formations through the swirl of flakes, they laughed and talked—about everything, and nothing at all—then smoked a joint from Rip’s personal stash.

  The noises of the ocean vanished, as if it had frozen solid, the familiar squawking of seagulls had been silenced and even the wind made no sound. The world was asleep.

  Harry laughed, though he couldn’t quite remember why. Laying next to him in the grass, just inches to his left, he felt Madeline stir.

  “It’s so quiet,” she said dreamily. “Isn’t it strange how silence, in a way, has a sound of its own?”

  “That’s deep,” Rip said through a giggle.

  “Sometimes there’s so much to think about, so many things to consider in this wide world, it’s overwhelming, you know?”

  “Maybe you just have too many brain cells firing at once,” Rip told her. “Luckily, The Ripper Man has the solution right here.” He leaned across Harry, dangling what was left of the joint over Madeline’s face. “Life is never uninteresting with the proper weed, Lady Madeline.”

  “I said it was quiet, not uninteresting. Life is never uninteresting. Even when it’s horrible.”

  Madeline waved his hand away so Harry intercepted the roach and finished it.

  Wet flakes tickled their eyelids, and the quiet returned.

  “Let’s go to my house,” Madeline said suddenly.

  Harry sat up, ignored the tingling in his arms and legs and behind his eyes, and drew a deep breath of winter air. The closest either of them had ever gotten to Madeline’s house was here, in the tall grass, or a bit higher up along the dunes.

  “Is your dad home?” Harry asked.

  “Yes, but he’ll be in his office,” she said. “Probably on the phone.”

  “Count me out, kids.” Rip brushed his jeans off and got to his feet, his long hair spotted with snow and fluttering in the breeze.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “The cliffs, Madeline?” He laughed. “Are you crazy? I can’t go into that neighborhood. I get within ten feet of your house and Chief Dunham or one of his fucking goons will be on me faster than stink on shit.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Harry stood up between them but remained quiet. He knew Rip was right.

  “I don’t go to that part of town
anymore.”

  “But that’s ridiculous. You have the right to—”

  “Remain silent, that’s the right I have.” Rip was smiling, but serious. “With my rep it’s not worth it, okay? Someone sees me walking around up on the cliffs and all of a sudden somebody’s missing something or something goes wrong, the next thing I know the cops are gonna head right to my house. You know, ‘cause The Ripper must have done it, right? Nobody else in Virtue ever does nothing wrong.”

  Madeline watched him a moment, thinking. “But I want you to come, as my guest. I’m inviting you, all right?”

  “I can’t.” Rip shrugged, glanced at Harry for backup.

  “But I’m inviting you,” she insisted.

  Harry tried desperately to think of something to say but the words refused to come. They had spent a lot of time together, these three, but never at Madeline’s house, and he knew this gesture held great meaning for her. An invitation meant their friendship was deepening. “I’ll go,” Harry finally said. “If you’re sure it’s okay with your dad.”

  Madeline continued staring at Rip, her jaw tight. “Will you come too?”

  “Sorry, no can do.” He held his hands out like a victim of crucifixion, dropped his head and backed away through the grass. “You guys go for it.”

  Harry and Madeline stood at the edge of the grass, watched him walk away across the white sand until he disappeared, cloaked in snow. “He wanted to come,” he told her.

  “Then why didn’t he?”

  “Because what he said was true. It’s hard for Rip the way the cops ride his ass. Things aren’t the same when you live where we do, you’re not treated the same and—”

  “Oh, you think because I live on the cliffs my life is a storybook?” She spun toward him, hands on her hips. “Is that it?”

  “No, I—that’s not what I said.”

  Her face grew darker than he’d ever seen or thought it capable of. “I’m sure you think it’s easy for a rich girl to say this, but I promise you there are worse things than being poor, Harry.”