I shook my head again. “Not that I recall.”
“He’s a spiritualist. He would lead people to believe he can speak to the dead. Some very prominent people, or so I’m told.”
I could feel my heart fluttering in my chest. Wondering whom he had spoken to, how much he had been told. Hiram has never been one for idle talk. Both when his mind is deranged and when it is quite clear, conversation has a goal, a purpose. I was pressed to believe that wasn’t any different now. He had heard something. How much? I wondered.
“Some of the things they do, what I have read, is quite fascinating,” I whispered.
“Fascinating,” he repeated. “The Lord is fascinating, as are his prophets, the rest of you are all merely common. Fascinating. How fascinated were you Elizabeth?”
I swallowed my breath, my heart. “Was I?”
“Yes, he must have made an impression one way or other, am I not correct?”
“He?”
“Paschal Beverly Randolph.”
“I—”
“Albert Raleigh. The chimney sweep. I ran into him at the dry goods store. He saw you in the audience. Saw you sitting in the balcony.”
I shook my head. “I know no one by that name.”
“You don’t have to. He knows you. At least he recognizes you. I heard Mr. Pratt was there, also, basking in the blasphemy. Randolph, Pratt, tables floating, and spirits thumping. It sounds to me as if the whole gathering was little more than a recruitment evening for the Devil, and who should be seated among the disciples but my dear little wife?”
I turned, the peeler in hand. “It wasn’t like that at all.”
His eyes had changed now, empty and on fire.
“I listened,” I said. “He spoke to my mother!”
Hiram threw the teacup. “He spoke to the Devil!” He came around the table now, began to roll up his sleeves. I backed away. “And where were you when you were supposed to be home, while I was away on business? Where were you, Elizabeth? Did I ever give you permission to travel to Edgartown?!”
“I didn’t see the harm, the animals were taken care of.”
“The animals? You worry about the animals, after I have dedicated my entire life to”—he pounded his fist on the table—“worrying for your soul!”
“He says he is Christian.”
Hiram narrowed his eyes. “And how would you expect the Devil to arrive? Bathed in flames, with wings and horns? Oh no, he is much too clever for that. He will come disguised as prophet. Deceiving the people and making false promises. “‘And there was given unto him a mouth speaking great things and blasphemies; and power was given unto him to continue forty and two months!’”
I hid the potato peeler behind my back, determined to strike out should he hurt me again. Hiram stopped though, muttering nonsensically, his eyes shut, and a full sweat broken at his brow. The tongues had taken him. Languages I could not decipher. Jumbled and pressured, and spoken in fast frenzied fury. His body trembling. I had seen this happen to him before, but never so violently. He opened his eyes then, but they were completely rolled back. Nothing visible except the whites. I let out a cry and he lunged toward me.
I swung the peeler in hopes of connecting with him before he landed upon me, hoping just to scrape him, startle him, but he caught my wrist in mid-swing, squeezing it tight. His eyes had rolled back into place, and he focused on my hand as he squeezed, looking both mesmerized and enraged, and I could feel the skin bruising, the bones beginning to weaken. I let go of the peeler. It dropped to the floor. I let out another cry. And then he raised his fist. I flew back against the stove, and he came forward, all the while, reciting Scripture, words coming too fast for me to completely understand then. His voice so loud, it echoed throughout the house. But there was no one to hear. No one close by. It was just me and my husband, high above the town, alone on our hill.
37
Ford drove down Route 123, off-island, leaving Brockton and entering Willington, past Eldio’s, where they used to go for beers on Friday nights, and past the road to Ames Nowell State Park. He was on his way back from the courthouse. He had a couple speeding tickets he had needed to take care of from before they moved—he had received a summons three weeks earlier—and after he visited his friend Toby, he would still have one more thing on his agenda. An item that needed to be tended to; it had been on his list as long as he could remember.
He didn’t like going away and leaving Diana alone on the island—for all he knew she was entertaining her friend right at that very moment—but he had to get this done, and besides, it was a good test. If she lied again, he would catch her.
There was more snow up here than on the Vineyard. The banks already high, brown, and crusty, pocked with black holes. He had picked Toby up, and they had gone out to drink a few beers and play a few games of pool. Toby was short and stocky with squinty eyes, big lips, and a cheesy little mustache. He waddled when he walked—his heels pointing inward—but he was tough as hell, and Ford had known him since they were something like five years old. Now he was already divorced, and back living with his mother, running his own salvage business out of her yard. After a few games of pool he bought a gram of coke from a greasy guy at the bar, came back smiling, sniffing exaggeratedly to let Ford in on it. He would leave Ford a line on top of the toilet in a bathroom stall at the bar, and Ford would go in right after him, snorting it up off the cold white porcelain, and it was still early evening when Ford asked him if he wanted to take a ride by the old place with him. He told him he needed to go see his father.
Toby set up four more lines, two each, in the car before they left. He had brought out a Lynyrd Skynyrd mirror—a skull with a cowboy hat and sunglasses, the rebel flag tied into a kerchief around his neck—and tossed it in the car when Ford picked him up. The mirror looked like something Toby had probably won at the Brockton Fair, and he probably had. Back in the eighties, back in high school.
They finished the second gram with the last four lines, and Ford was speeding now. The coke numbing everything and dripping at the back of his throat. Toby had saved a tiny bit to do a freeze, first rubbing some baking soda around their gums, then the coke, and then Toby was making funny faces, lips numb and shifting all over the place like it was hard to speak.
Ford pulled out of the parking lot and started back down 123. It was almost dark now, a gray and foggy late winter dusk. Exhaust fumes clouding in the cold. The town had changed so much in a few short years. GTR Finishing where they painted sheet metal for computers and appliances—Ford had worked there sweeping up on Saturdays and after school in high school—was gone, closed. As was the old Mister Donut. They used to get stoned behind Mister Donut, and then Ellie, dark hair and big eyes and looking for a husband used to give them free coffee, free food. And once in a while, a free blow job. Mr. Bicycle across the street was gone, too, and that had been there since the forties. Mr. Bicycle himself, Ford figured, must have checked out.
Toby had found Black Sabbath on the radio. “Fairies Wear Boots.” Toby would never get over Sabbath, never outgrow them. Would never outgrow most things. He was stuck back in time. The seventies and eighties. Ford didn’t want to be stuck back in time, he wanted to move forward. That’s what it was all about, getting away, moving forward, onto the island. And now, visiting Big Daddy. Moving forward.
The outdoor light was already on above the crumbling front step of Ford’s parents’ house. The house was tilted at an angle and did look to be sinking. Toby was right. Ford’s old man had knocked down most of the walls on the first floor to make it one big open room, and that hadn’t helped things. Less structure. Less support. His parents had tried to sell it a few years back, but no one would buy it, no one would touch it.
Now smoke poured out of the side of the house, rising into the cold winter air. Big Daddy had installed a coal stove in the kitchen some years back, kept a coal bin out in the yard. It had been Ford’s job to haul in the coal, feed the fire. Everything inside was always covered in a
thin layer of soot, tasted that way. Food. Beer. Everything. There was an RV parked on the side of the house, and farther back the big bus they had used for camping when they were small. The bus. A regulation-size school bus, painted baby blue, with silhouettes of giraffes, elephants, and lions painted on the side. Now it looked like something out of a made-for-TV movie—goddamn pedophile, Ford thought, it was too fitting. Ford didn’t know whether his father fooled around with other people’s little kids, but he doubted it; he didn’t have to—he had enough of his own. And Ford didn’t know how many of them he had touched. Might have been three, four. Or maybe just one. Didn’t matter though. One was enough. And the one wasn’t lying.
Ford knew.
Jeannie was older than him. Two years. And she must have been thirteen then, old enough to be beginning to understand it, to want to get away. Most of the kids were out of the house that day—gone with their mother to cash in McDonald’s gift certificates the old lady across the street had given them for Christmas. Ford’s old man had confiscated his—he had forgotten to take out the trash the night before, and so Ford didn’t go, had been up the street shoveling snow instead. And Jeannie hadn’t gone either. She didn’t like McDonald’s, she said, and she had sold four fifty-cent certificates to Cybil for a dollar.
Ford had come into the house, nose running. Gloves soaked, and hands frozen. Everything outside was frozen. Tree branches, windows, fire hydrants. The town was covered in a sheet of ice—he had to use the shovel like an ice pick to break through the crust of snow before shoveling. He had taken his boots and coat off by the door, hung the coat on the rack, and he was warming his hands by the stove when he heard the noises. His parents’ bedroom was just off the living room, at the foot of the stairs, and the door was open just a crack. A small slant of light. He could hear the television going inside—a repeat of Gomer Pyle USMC, and other voices. His father’s. If it was daytime, and his father was home, he was either usually fixing his truck or he was sitting at the kitchen table drinking. Watching everyone come and go. Or he was sleeping. But right now, he wasn’t sleeping—Ford could hear his voice. Barely audible above the blaring TV.
“Just like that,” he was saying, “just like that. I told you I could make you feel good. You just need to get used to it.” And then there were other noises. The bed. And his father sounded as if he were speaking through clenched teeth, stifling a cry. And then there was more crying, but it wasn’t his father. It was Jeannie. Ford almost put his coat and boots back on to go back outside. Better to be gone, better not to know. But then Jeannie was standing in the doorway. Blue-striped panties, and a blue T-shirt with the spaceship logo from the rock band Boston ironed on the front. And behind her, sitting up on the bed, his back turned to Ford, and not a stitch on, was their father. Jeannie’s face was streaked with dried tears, but as soon as she saw Ford, any sadness she was feeling moved right to anger.
“What are you looking at, you retard?” she asked. Ford’s father turned then, his face flushed and glasses on, belly enormous, and he caught sight of Ford, and then Ford was running. Out of the house.
He grabbed his boots, and his coat, but he didn’t get to put them on until he reached the bus. It was almost dark out now, and he hoped his father hadn’t seen him run to the bus—he had gone up the street a little ways, then cut back through a neighbor’s yard, hopping over the bridge of rocks on the stream that separated their properties, hoping to lose his trail, hide his tracks. But it was cold, he was wet, and he didn’t want to be outside anymore. He crouched low once he reached the bus, and watched the yellow windows of the house beginning to stand out against the darkness. Waiting to see his father’s silhouette pass by. Either there or at the back door. His black mass contrasting against the gray of the dusk, the white of the snow, as he made his way across the yard. Breath fogging in the cold. Ford would see him and he would be ready. But he didn’t see him. Not until he heard the bus door open, and he was standing in the stairwell, looking over the bus monitor’s seat. Smiling.
“Hey pal,” he had said. “Whatcha doing out here?”
Ford didn’t answer, and his father climbed up the steps, his bulk filling the aisle, blocking the light from the house.
“Cat got your tongue?”
Ford shook his head.
“Well, answer the question.” His father stepped closer.
Ford pressed his back against the seat. He wanted to jump into the aisle, run. Hit the emergency door at the back of the bus, but there was too much crap blocking the door. Coolers, and lawn chairs, the rain canopy, and the rusty old grill they used on the beach. Flashing Miller High Life signs his father’s friend who worked in a bar had given him. Broken. Piles of junk.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Nothing.” His father stepped a little closer, and Ford could smell the whiskey. “Well, it looks to me like you’re hiding. And you know why you’re hiding?”
Ford’s heart was pounding. He had been here before. Came back here in dreams, and didn’t want to be here again. He should’ve run. Just kept going.
“No.”
The cold was fogging his father’s glasses. He took them off and wiped them on his T-shirt. “You’re hiding,” he said, “because you’re a snoop.” He took a breath. “And you can’t mind your own goddamn business.” He put his glasses back on then, and before Ford could flinch, he brought his hand down hard against the side of his head.
When he was finished, Ford lay on the aisle floor, in between the rows of seats. The ridged rubber matt wet with melted snow, mud, beneath him. His father panted heavily, trying to catch his breath. He went to crouch down, to get closer to speak to him, but couldn’t squeeze his body between the lower part of the seats. Ford covered his face and head. He didn’t want to look at him, and didn’t want him to see him crying, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. His side hurt, as did his legs, the side of his head.
“Okay now, pal?” his father asked.
Ford didn’t move, and his father kicked him. One last time.
“I said, okay now?” his father asked.
Ford whimpered, nodded.
“Okay, then,” his father gasped. “Remember. Nobody likes a snoop. Especially snoops with big mouths.”
Now Ford stared again at the house. His mother’s car wasn’t there—at least the car she used to drive—and that was good. He didn’t want her to be home. Didn’t want her to see this. She was weak and pathetic, and she disgusted him, but still, he didn’t want her to see this. Ford opened the car door, and put one foot on the pavement. He snubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. Toby opened his own door.
“No.” Ford looked at him, tried to focus. He was seeing two of him. “Stay here. It’s better if I talk to him alone. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“You’re going to be nice, right? Not do anything stupid?”
“I just want to say hi. Like you said, for old times’ sake.”
Toby made a clicking noise with his lips, his teeth. Coke mouth. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just wait here.” He shut the door, sealing off the radio, and Toby, warm in the car behind him, and then he stepped around to the back of the car and took the bat from the trunk.
Toby rolled down his window. “Ford, don’t be an idiot. What do you need that for?”
Ford put his finger to his lips. “Shh‥It’s not what you think.” He stumbled forward a bit, and the house seemed to grow as he sloshed through the snow. Moving like a film taken with an unsteady camcorder. Footsteps loud. The beer and whiskey, his head spinning, but the coke was keeping it a little bit clear, maybe, a little bit steady. That was good.
There was a quagmire of footprints in the slush, the mud, leading to and from the house. Out to the driveway, and around the side. To the trash, the RV. His father’s old rig. Footprints everywhere. Ford thought about just going in—he doubted the house would be locked, never was—but then decided against it; it would be better to see the old man’
s face when he came to the door and saw Ford, standing on the steps.
Shit belongs with shit.
Hey pal, cat got your tongue?
You’re hiding because you’re a snoop. A snoop.
Crybaby. Always whining. Such a little fucking crybaby. Always … whining.
All the noise. The shouting. A knock, his head. His mother on the floor, crying, curled up in a ball, trying to protect herself. There, then gone. It could always be gone unless you wanted to bring it back. And now he wanted, needed, to bring it back.
The house was dark upstairs. He wondered if anyone ever slept up there at all anymore. Wondered if any of them ever visited. No one up there but the ghost, he thought. The goddamn ghost. Ghosts of a lot of things. Bad times, bad energy. But the lights were on in the kitchen, and through the windows of the door he could see the heat coming off the coal stove. Could smell the soot. The sewerage. The house never changed. Nothing here would ever change. Music was playing inside. Something by The Killer. Jerry Lee Lewis. The fat old man was rocking out today.
Ford rapped on the door. Nothing. He waited a minute and then rapped again. He could ring the bell, but he knew it wouldn’t work. Never had. He waited. Rapped again.
The SoCo and beer were beginning to defeat the coke. Fog battling clarity. But he had to stay clear, just a few minutes more. He rapped a fifth time. And then he heard the muffled sound of a toilet flushing. The bathroom door was straight across from his line of sight, and Ford watched as the knob turned. Slowly at first. Then complete. The door flying open, and the fat bastard standing there, staring at the floor as he hitched up his pants. He looked nearly the same, maybe a little shorter, shrinking, fatter, but still no grays. Barely any wrinkles. His hair high and slicked back from his forehead. He squinted through his glasses, staring at the door, and with the front light off outside, Ford knew he couldn’t tell who he was.
In the Midst of the Sea Page 25