Until now.
“It’s from my ex-husband.” I turned back to the chess game. Moved my queen. “Check.”
Alex scoffed. “That’s not a check.”
I stared at the board. He was right. Damn. I moved the queen back. I sucked at chess, but the kids loved it, so I swallowed my pride and got killed in a tournament at least once a week.
Kacey was still looking at the envelope. “You know, you’re going to have to open it eventually.”
I rolled my eyes and looked at her. “Can’t you just be twelve for a few minutes? Sit on the sofa and play Barbies?”
Her face contorted into an expression of disgust. “A: twelve-year-olds don’t play with Barbies, and B: do you know that if a real woman had Barbie’s proportions, she’d have to carry her kidneys in her—?”
I held up my hand. “Oh my God, you have been hanging out with me too long.”
I moved my bishop. No check, but it was a legal move. “Do you want me to open it for you?” Kacey asked quietly, eyeing the envelope with curiosity. I sighed. It’s possible that whatever was in there might not be appropriate for Kacey to see. It could be a nasty letter. It could be a small bomb.
Okay, George wasn’t that smart. But it could be a nasty letter. It made a tiny tinkling sound when it moved, though, which letters didn’t tend to do. And if Kacey opened it, that meant I wouldn’t have to touch it.
“All right. Go ahead.”
Alex took my bishop with his rook. “Checkmate.”
“What?” I stared at the board. “Where?”
Alex pointed to his rook, my king, and then his knight. I was cornered.
Checkmate.
“Shit.” I thunked my hand on the table. “I mean, goshdarnit.”
Alex leaned forward. “I don’t know why you do that. Mom curses all the time.”
I rolled my eyes at him. “She tries to keep a lid on it in front of you. And besides, I’ve got enough bad karma without corrupting a minor.”
“It’s a necklace.”
I looked up. Kacey was holding up a silver chain with a medallion hanging from it. I stood up and walked over to her. She was holding her hand out so I could get a closer look. I still wasn’t prepared to touch it.
“St. Erasmus,” I said, reading the inscription curving around the edge.
St. Erasmus?
Either the world is full of coincidences or there’s no such thing as coincidence.
“You okay, Wanda?” Kacey asked. My hand was shaking. I glanced at the envelope.
“Is that all that was in there?”
Kacey nodded. “Do you want to put it on?”
Did I want to put it on? Did I want to wear a saint medal from my rotten bastard of a dead ex-husband?
I shook my head. “Not now. Could you put it back in the envelope for me, please?”
Kacey stuffed it back in and closed the envelope. Alex was setting up the chessboard again. Kacey squealed and jumped into my seat. “I take winner! I take winner!”
I picked up the envelope by its edge, trying not to touch any more of it than I hid to.
“Hey, kids. Tell your mom I had to run out for a bit, okay?” They both grunted at me, attention fully on the chessboard. I headed out the back door, tossed the envelope into the back of my car, and drove straight for St. Benedict’s.
Chapter Eleven
“Forgive me, Father, but I’m still not Catholic.”
It was hard coming up with clever lines all the time. The drive from Elizabeth’s to St. Benedict’s took twenty minutes, and that was the best I could come up with. It still got a chuckle out of Father Gregory, though, so it was worth it.
“Wanda, how are you? Done anything meaningful yet?”
I shrugged, which probably wasn’t terribly effective through the grate. Do something meaningful was still on my wall, as were Identify phantom music and Tell Walter and Go see parents and Figure out what I want. But I had made some small gains.
“I got a haircut.”
“Well, that’s a start.”
“My ex-husband is dead, Father Gregory.”
There was a long silence. I sat back and stared at the cathedral ceiling. It was a beautiful mix of ivory shadows, and I couldn’t imagine how in the world they kept it so sparkling clean. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Don’t be. I wished him dead, Father. I wished him dead a million times. And now I feel... hollow. I’m not relieved, but I’m not sad. I’m just... I’m numb. I don’t feel anything. Shouldn’t I be feeling... something?”
“Have you forgiven him?”
I shook my head. “Sure.”
“Would you like to say a prayer for his soul?”
“Hell, no.” I could hear that one bounce off the confessional, right on up to God. I put my face in my hands. “Is there a patron saint for someone who can’t keep her stupid mouth shut?”
He laughed softly. “I’ll have to research that one for you.” There was more silence. It was Sunday afternoon, and there would likely be people waiting. But I didn’t want to rush. I still hadn’t gotten to the point yet.
I heard the bench creak as he shifted his weight. “I tell you what. Go home. Take some time to think. Try to find forgiveness in your heart for your ex-husband. Then come back, and we’ll talk about it a little more.”
I felt tears sting my eyes. “What if I can’t forgive him?”
“You can always forgive. It’s not a feat, it’s a choice.”
“Oh, for crying out loud, Father, can’t you cut me some slack? Just once? Sake of variety?”
“If you wanted slack, you wouldn’t have come here.”
I sighed. Fine. I swiped at my face. “Hey, Father Gregory?”
“Yes?”
“Remember when you told me to buy the St. Erasmus medal?”
“Yes.”
I inhaled. “He got me one.”
“What?”
I spoke louder. “He got me one. Before he died. The bastard shoved it under the door of my apartment.”
Silence. I could hear him breathing. But he didn’t say anything.
“Father Gregory how could he have known that? I mean, I’m not Catholic. How could he have known?”
He sighed, and I heard the bench creak again as he shifted. “Sometimes people just know things.”
“So, what?” I said, exasperated. “So he just turned psychic? Just like that, right before he croaked?”
“I don’t believe in psychic ability,” Father Gregory said. “I believe in God.”
I chewed on that one. “That doesn’t help me, because I don’t know what to believe.”
Father Gregory gave a light chuckle. “Sometimes, Wanda, that’s exactly the point.”
I made my excuses and got out. The confessional seemed smaller than usual. I needed some air. I walked out into the parking lot, not sure what I was going to do next. I got into my car, looked at the envelope on the backseat containing St. Erasmus, patron saint of navigators.
“Fine,” I said to St. Erasmus, starting up the car. “I’m gonna drive. You tell me where to go. If it’s good, I won’t flush you down the toilet.”
***
Molly wasn’t home when I got there, so I sat down in the driveway next to the back gate. The Great Dane, who was named Putter after Greta’s love of golf, was lying down in the backyard. When he saw me, he got up, lumbered over, and plopped himself down, resting against the gate. Had to admit, the company was nice.
The St. Erasmus medal was still in the car. I hadn’t touched it after throwing it onto the backseat. It enraged me, this idea that George bought me a Catholic symbol, like he was using me to get a last-ditch shot at heaven.
Even more infuriating was that it was one I’d wanted. How could he have known? Or did he not know, and it was just some elaborate joke God had cooked up to get at me for flirting with priests in the confessional?
“Do you think the world just converges sometimes, Putter?” I said, sticking my fingers through the gate a
nd scratching behind one tremendous ear. “Do you think that sometimes stuff just happens a certain way because it’s supposed to? Do you believe in coincidence?”
His body heaved in a contented dog sigh. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just a dog.”
Molly and Greta pulled up about a half hour after I got there. I helped them carry groceries into the house. They made me iced tea.
“So... he’s dead?” Molly was having trouble getting used to the thought. Maybe she was jealous. Her ex was in jail, but he was still alive. And he had a parole hearing every two years.
“Yeah,” I said. “I identified him. Looked pretty dead to me.”
Molly nodded. She looked like she was in about as much shock as I’d been. Maybe she’d wished him dead, too. Even when someone was a rotten bastard, and even when you were in touch with reality, it was still hard not to feel a little guilt when he dropped dead.
“The thing is,” I went on, “I don’t feel anything. I did at first. I was a mess. It was an intense five minutes. Then, after that, it’s like... nothing.”
I looked up at Molly. She was staring at her hands. Greta had tears in her eyes. She didn’t even know me or George. It must be hard to get up in the morning when you’re that empathetic.
“I loved him once,” I continued, a little quieter. “He was a total shit, but for a long time, I loved him. Am I a horrible person for not feeling anything now that he’s dead?”
“No.” Greta’s voice was low and choppy. “You have feelings. You’re just shut down. They’ll come, in time.”
I nodded. “How long, do you think? Because I’d really like to... you know... move on.” I made a sailing upward motion with my hands. “I don’t want him to have power over me... still. I need...” I sighed and rolled my eyes, knowing I was going to sound like Father Gregory. But maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. “I think I need to find it in my heart to forgive him.” Molly nodded emphatically. “I know what you mean. But how can you?”
“I don’t know. I mean, how do you forgive something like that? Have you forgiven your ex-husband?”
Molly paused, looking down at her hands, which were resting on her abdomen. After a moment, she shook her head.
“And how many years has it been?”
“Five.”
“Jesus!” I said, throwing my hands up in the air. “I don’t have five years to burn on this man.”
Greta stood up. “I have an idea.”
***
The campground was almost empty. Mid-December was not a big camping time in Tennessee. We emptied out Molly’s SUV of everything we’d brought with us. A tent, three sleeping bags, pillows, wood, a little food including the necessary s’mores ingredients, Putter, and two boxes.
One Molly’s, one mine.
Molly and I got the tent set up under Putter’s relaxed supervision while Greta made the fire. Greta had grown up in the great wilds of Montana, which made her our unofficial camp headmistress. By the time we’d thrown the sleeping bags inside the tent, the chill and gray of dusk were being held at bay by a tremendous bonfire.
I settled into the flannel shirt and jeans I’d bought when we hit the Wal-Mart. I put on the thick socks and the carpenter’s boots and felt one with nature, style-wise, anyway. If any form of wildlife came near me, I’d scream and hide behind Putter, but that was a bridge I’d cross when it came scurrying toward me.
Greta pulled out what looked like a big batch of small twigs and lit them at the edge of the fire. Molly and I sat down on some tremendous logs that encircled the fire pit, with Putter inserting himself between us at our feet.
I leaned over toward Molly as I watched Greta waving the smoldering twigs in the air, apparently saying some sort of prayer, although I couldn’t hear the words between the crackling of the fire and Putter’s awe-inspiring snore. “What is she doing?”
Molly smiled, watching Greta with an expression of pride. “She’s burning sage. It’s supposed to clear the energy.”
“Clear the energy?”
“Yeah. It’s called smudging. It’s a Native American thing.”
“Is she Native American?” I asked. Tall. Skinny. Blonde. She looked Swedish to me.
“No, but you don’t have to be Native to smudge. You just have to believe.”
Greta moved to the other side of the fire. We could barely see her through the flames.
“What’s she doing now?”
“She’s saying a prayer to the east, west, north, and south. Then all the negativity will be gone, and we can continue.”
“No offense,” I said, reaching into our food bag and pulling out a handful of Cool Ranch Doritos, “but it seems kinda weird to me.”
Molly laughed, her freckled face glowing in the light of the fire. “Yeah, I thought so, too, when she did it in every room of the house. But I’ll tell ya, I haven’t had any negative-energy problems.”
I shrugged. I had to grant Molly that. Their home radiated peace. I might be picking me up some sage on the ride home.
Once Greta was done, she sat down next to us. “Okay. Which one of you is going first?”
Molly and I looked at each other. I reached behind me and picked up my box.
“Okay, what do I do?”
“Release him.”
I sighed and clutched the small cardboard box tightly in my arms, trying to figure out what ‘Release him’ meant in terms of standing in front of a fire with a box full of stuff. I didn’t have anything that actually belonged to George, so on Greta’s instructions, I had purchased things that represented him. The first item I pulled out of the box was a Harley-Davidson T-shirt.
“George,” I said. My voice was faltering. I felt like an idiot. And that fire was hot. I stepped back and turned to Greta. “I feel like an idiot.”
Greta stood up. She took the T-shirt from me and smiled kindly at me. “Let me get you started.”
She held up the T-shirt to the heavens. “George Lewis, this is Wanda, releasing you.” She threw the shirt into the fire. The blaze grew a bit, then died down. She turned to me.
“What’s next?”
I reached in the box and pulled out a girlie magazine.
“George, this is me, releasing you.” I threw it in the fire. Naked woman after naked woman curled up and burned.
It felt good. I threw more items in the fire, gaining more enthusiasm for the process as I went. Next was a bumper sticker that read “Don’t like my driving? Call 1-800-EATSHIT,” followed by chewing tobacco. In hindsight, I probably should have taken it out of the plastic case first. When the black smoke cleared, I threw in a dangling skull-and-crossbones earring, which wouldn’t really burn, but it was more about the gesture, anyway. As each item went into the fire, I released him. It felt good. It felt right. Even if I woke up the next day feeling just as crappy as I had that morning, at least for a brief shining moment, I felt as though it was me being released.
Greta was definitely onto something.
Finally, all that remained in the box was the St. Erasmus medal and a bottle of Jim Beam.
I handed the bottle to Molly and winked at her. “This is George’s gift to us.”
She smiled. I walked over to Greta and gave her the medal. “I want to keep this. Can you do your sage thing with it? You know, smudge all the negative energy away?”
She grabbed the smoking hunk of weeds from the edge of the fire.
An hour later, after Molly had released her ex into the flames, we were all sitting on the logs, watching the fire wane, drinking Jim Beam and Coke from plastic cups. We talked about our histories. I found out that Molly had lesbian tendencies before George ever touched her. Greta was an artist and made jewelry that she sold at local shows. Molly was freelancing as a marketing consultant. They agreed to come down to Hastings and get their pictures taken with Santa Bones.
“Trust me,” I said. “It will be the best day of Bones’s life.”
Later, curled up in a tent with two lesbians and one tremendous dog, I fel
l into one of the deepest, most comfortable sleeps I’d had in a long, long time.
And when I woke up, I still felt good.
***
My mind was racing through the entire ride home. It was a good thing I had St. Erasmus around my neck, helping me navigate, because when I pulled into Elizabeth’s driveway, I couldn’t remember driving back.
I opened the front door. Elizabeth was on the sofa, reading. Kacey was sitting on the living room floor, the PlayStation wide open and guts hanging all over the place. I dropped my bag on the floor.
Elizabeth dropped her book and hopped up off the sofa. “Thanks for calling, doofus! I was so worried about you.” She ran over and hugged me, then gave me a semiplayful push. “You scared the hell out of me. What were you thinking? I was this close to calling the police!”
I cringed. “Oh, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t think about it.”
Elizabeth gave me a light smack on the back of the head. “Call next time! People worry.”
I smiled at her, trying to come up with something to say. I’d been alone for so long that it hadn’t even occurred to me that anyone would be worried by my taking off for a day. She turned and headed toward the kitchen. “I have to call Walter. I called him to see if you stayed at his place last night. He’s been out looking for you ever since.”
“Oh, Christ,” I said, rubbing my hand over my forehead, feeling like a big dope.
“Unless...” she said, pausing and jerking her head gently in the direction of the phone. “Do you want to call him?”
Yes. I shook my head. “Tell him I’m sorry.”
She nodded and retreated into the kitchen to make the call. I took a few tentative steps toward Kacey.
“Hey, Kace. PlayStation broken again?”
Kacey didn’t even look up. I could tell from her stiff movements that she was upset. I walked over and sat down next to her, being careful not to step on any random parts. I gave her shoulder a gentle shove with mine.
“Kace, I’m sorry. Really. I wasn’t thinking. I had some stuff I needed to deal with.”
She turned her face toward me a little. “We didn’t know where you were.”
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