by J. D. Horn
McAvoy led them into his consulting room and motioned for Ruby to take a chair. “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked, expecting any number of the usual ailments. He pulled his stethoscope around his neck and reached over to grab a tongue depressor.
Ovid snatched off the hat he’d been wearing, holding it with a white-knuckled hand. “She’s been vomiting. She isn’t bleeding,” he said, almost in a whisper, his dark eyes pleading with the doctor.
“Not bleeding?” McAvoy asked, not registering the full import of the situation at first. “Oh,” he said after a moment. “How long has this been the case? How long since your last ‘visit’?”
The girl looked up at him with reddened, terrified eyes. “A month or so now. Maybe two.”
“Is there a young man in your life?” McAvoy asked. The girl trembled. She looked at her father, then her eyes darted up to the doctor before returning to the floor.
“Yes, sir,” the child responded again, just staring down at her scuffed shoes this time. McAvoy sighed. He knew she was lying.
Looking back now, McAvoy knew that this was the first moment he’d failed her. He should have found a way to help. He should have taken her away from the Judge then and there.
Ovid leaned in toward the doctor, a worry line forming between his eyebrows. “You can fix this, can’t you?”
“We can send her away. Tell everyone she’s gone to boarding school up north, maybe Europe. The Catholics aren’t good for much else, but they do have facilities set up where she can give birth. They’ll see to it that the child’s basic needs are met, until it can be adopted or is old enough to cope on its own.”
“No.” Ovid began trembling, shaking even more than his daughter had done. “I cannot live with the thought of it out there. Alive. I am asking you to fix this. Not only for my sake, but for the sake of my father’s memory. Or have you forgotten your friendship with him?”
“I have forgotten nothing,” McAvoy said, a sudden anger causing his pulse to pound in his ears. That Ovid would turn him into an accomplice to his own sins infuriated him. Ruby fell forward out of the chair and at their feet. McAvoy knelt down and felt for her pulse. She was a strong, healthy girl. All of this had just proven too much for her young system. “Help me get her up.” The two of them picked up the birdlike girl without difficulty and lifted her onto an exam table.
The Judge ran both hands, fingers linked, over his head. “Will you do it? Will you fix this for me?”
McAvoy nodded, a weariness entering him that he hadn’t to this day been able to shake. “I will fix this, as you say, but let me warn you now, Ovid. Never again.” Ovid’s shoulders collapsed as he breathed a heavy sigh. The doctor looked Ovid over from head to toe, sickened by the relief that had flooded over the man’s face. “Shall I make sure the need for this type of procedure can never arise again?”
McAvoy watched as Ovid considered the possibility. At first his eyes opened wider, as if the doctor had presented the solution to a particularly vexing problem, but then his face went slack. “No.” He shook his head. “She’s my only hope of having a lineage. Leave her intact.”
“I wasn’t talking about her,” McAvoy said, his voice cold. “I was talking about castrating the worthless bastard who done this to her.” They looked each other in the eye as an understanding passed between them.
The doctor and the Judge had never spoken of the unpleasantness again. He’d told himself that the understanding they shared was enough to protect Ruby. Truth be told, he had no idea. Truth be told, he hadn’t wanted to know.
A tapping at the window startled the old doctor, pulling him back to the present. He saw Lucille on the other side of the glass. “Damned fool of a woman,” he thought, angry that she had alarmed him, as he waved her around to the front entrance. She hesitated, but then went to the front of the house.
He opened the door to find her fidgeting. “I am sorry for disturbing you, Doctor. I rung the bell at the back of the house, but you didn’t seem to hear me.”
The bell had stopped working months before. He’d never gotten around to having the darn thing fixed. Lucille looked over her shoulder. “It’s the Judge, sir. I’ve been checking in on him, every hour, like you told me. But he’s had a bad turn. I think you had better come.” She tossed another look behind her. “Quick, sir, please?”
TWENTY-FOUR
Corinne felt grateful for the privacy the sleeping porch afforded her. It gave her shelter, without making her feel as if she were truly under the Dunnes’ roof. She extinguished her light and rolled up the Roman blinds, watching through the screen as fireflies punctuated the darkness. A stillness enveloped the whole scene; the only sounds were the chorus of the croaking frogs and rattling grasshoppers. Corinne’s prayer for a breeze went unheeded.
She focused on the sharp slice of new moon, a poor source of light, but a familiar companion all the same. The same moon had followed Corinne from San Francisco to Korea and now to Conroy; it watched over her almost as closely as Elijah’s parents had been surveying the young couple. Ava had a strong sense of propriety, so she insisted that the two be chaperoned at all times until the wedding. Elijah had set up a cot in the barn because she’d claimed it wasn’t proper for the two of them to sleep under the same roof until they had the blessing of the good Lord to do so. It broke Corinne’s heart to think of him out there alone, trying to come to terms with the news of his friends’ violent deaths. Corinne considered the wisdom of sneaking across the fields to the barn to join Elijah on his cot. She heaved a sigh. Without a doubt, Ava was sitting upstairs near her own window, keeping a lookout to prevent just such an encounter.
Corinne’s eyes scanned right to left from the barn, running along the timberline before stopping where the moon reflected off the pond. She had learned over a nearly wordless lunch that the water ran cold because it was spring fed, and that it was much deeper than the surface area would lead one to believe. The heat of the day hadn’t surrendered with the light that had brought it. She longed to dip beneath the water, to feel herself breaking its surface before her body started to bob up and down in its cool liquid embrace.
“Corinne.” The sound of her name carried over the field to her, almost as if the grass itself had called to her. “Join me, Corinne.” The voice seemed to come from within her own mind. Unfamiliar, feminine, irresistible, as if it were touching her in places she kept hidden even from herself. “Join me.”
Corinne saw a movement down by the edge of the water. A naked paleness, so white that it shone nearly blue in the moonlight. “I shouldn’t,” Corinne whispered in response to the summons, but her hand was already pressing against the screen door. It let out a low plaintive cry as she pushed it open and insinuated herself into the gap. It was too early and hot for dew, so the dry grass scraped against the bottoms of Corinne’s bare feet.
Silently she descended toward the water. The pale figure before her left the shore and submerged itself in the water. Several seconds passed, and Corinne stood frozen in place. In the woman’s absence, Corinne felt that a spell had been broken, that her own better sense had been returned to her. She nearly turned and ran back to the house, but in that same moment, the woman broke the surface, water cascading off her black hair, down her opalescent breasts. She had been under water for what seemed like an eternity, but when she rose, she didn’t gasp for air as Corinne surely would have needed to. She stood there, beautiful, still, composed, like a granite statue. Her head tilted to the right and she looked up with eyes shining as blue as the hottest edge of a gas flame.
“It’s you,” Corinne said, recognizing the heart-shaped face and delicate features of the woman in the photo. The photo with which she had been unable to part. “Ruby.”
A smile formed on Ruby’s lips. “Of course it’s me, darlin’. Who else would it be?” The extreme oddness of the moment nearly broke through to Corinne, but she felt as inescapably drawn to the pond as a hooked fish being reeled in to dry land. “The water is so, so nice, Cori
nne. So refreshing. Join me.” Ruby held out her hands and took a few graceful steps toward Corinne, but it wasn’t necessary. Without intending to, Corinne had already begun her own course toward the water, which was a sharp contrast to the warm night air. Weeds tugged at her ankles, making their weak attempt to stop her progress, but nothing would stop her, could stop her, from becoming one with the light shining in Ruby’s eyes.
Growing wet, Corinne’s gown at first clung to her legs, but then billowed up around her hips as she was drawn deeper into the water. Ruby held her arms out wide in welcome. Soon Corinne could no longer touch bottom; the mucky floor fell clean away, and she found herself treading water. How could Ruby be standing there so stationary? Corinne was an excellent swimmer, but as treading lost its efficacy, she shifted into an awkward dog paddle, unwilling to look away from what awaited her. She drew up close to Ruby, who reached out and pulled her into an embrace. Stabilizing Corinne with one arm, Ruby caressed her face with her free hand, her long cold fingers sliding along her captive’s cheek, down the side of her neck, then across her shoulder.
“He’s never gonna love you. Not really,” Ruby said. “Not like he loved me, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of Conroy and head on home.” She leaned in and placed her lips near Corinne’s, so near they almost touched. “Take this as your only warning.” Pressure began to build behind Ruby’s touch and, before Corinne could process what was happening, both hands were pinning her shoulders, forcing her head underwater.
Corinne struggled against the downward pressure, surprised when her head easily broke through the water. No one was holding her; she was alone. She gasped in the night air and fought her way back to shore.
TWENTY-FIVE
Lucille had waited in the old sewing room with the door shut tight, sitting on a footstool, not daring to move, barely daring to breathe. The feeling in the house reminded her of when she was a small girl, swimming in the pond with her brother. He held her underwater without the intention of harming her, but he’d kept her there for too long, nearly drowning her. She’d never been able to forget the pounding in her ears, the burning in her lungs in the moment before he finally pulled her back above the surface. And just as her depleted lungs had welcomed the sweet air, she felt a relief every bit as precious sweep over the house. She knew in her heart what it meant: Ruby had left.
Still cautious, she’d made her way back to the Judge’s bedside, forcing her hand over her mouth to stifle a shriek. He was completely naked except for the sheen of his own blood. A loose flap of skin hung nearly torn from his thigh and, revealing a similar gouge that had been torn into his neck, his head was thrown back over a blood-soaked pillow. Still, he lived. His eyes pleaded with her, his quivering hand lifted as if to reach out for her, but she stepped back, moving beyond his reach. That was when she ran from the house, not stopping until she reached the doctor’s residence.
Lucille let Dr. McAvoy lead the way to her employer’s room. She suspected the Judge would be long dead by now, and she’d seen enough death to last her a lifetime. When she went to check on him earlier, she’d immediately realized he wasn’t alone. The house’s atmosphere changed within moments, feeling unnaturally heavy. Whispers were floating down from the Judge’s room, whispers that sounded an awful lot like Ruby’s voice. Lucille had witnessed Ruby’s handiwork the previous night by the light of that burning cross, so she knew better than to interrupt. A part of Lucille’s conscience pecked at her now—she should have done something, should have tried helping the old man. But no, whatever had happened in that room was simply the Judge’s own sins coming home to roost.
She followed Dr. McAvoy as he moved stiffly up the stairs, weaving a little. Lucille could smell the alcohol on him. Well, maybe that would help him get through what was coming. She watched as he hesitated outside the Judge’s door.
“Ovid?” he called. “It’s me.” There was no response. He crossed the threshold and entered the room. Lucille followed a few steps behind, but she didn’t want to take even a single step into that room. Even from the partially eclipsed view afforded from the doorway, she could see that the bedding was soaked through with blood. Lucille knew it would fall to her to clean up, but she would not, could not while the Judge was lying there. Had death closed his eyes, or had they stayed open, glassy and wide in terror?
The doctor bent over the Judge and pressed his fingers against his wrist. It was at that moment the Judge gasped in air, his hand shooting out to catch McAvoy’s.
Lucille failed to suppress a startled caw. Until that moment, she’d felt certain the Judge had passed on.
The doctor looked at her, his face ashen, his jaw quivering. “Lucille, find some brandy. Or some whiskey, rum. Whatever the Judge keeps on hand. And don’t even try pretending that this is a dry Baptist house.”
Lucille fled downstairs and found her way to the Judge’s office. She entered, but not before flipping the switch that illuminated the large overhead chandelier the Judge rarely used. The tantalus chest stood in the far corner, behind the Judge’s desk. She tried to lift the lid, but she wasn’t surprised to discover the Judge kept it locked. She attacked the desk itself, intending to look for the key to the tantalus in its drawers, but they, too, had been secured. Finally she spotted the Judge’s letter opener sitting on the desktop, and used it to jimmy the chest open. She’d probably end up paying for the repair if the Judge lived.
Unlike the Judge, Lucille didn’t imbibe, even though the events of the past day and night were threatening to drive her to it. She didn’t know what the bottles contained, so she grabbed two of the four and one of the tumblers the Judge kept near the chest. She stiffened her spine and made her way back upstairs.
“I got your alcohol,” Lucille said from the hall, not wanting to return to the Judge’s side.
“Well, bring it in here, woman,” Dr. McAvoy snapped.
Lucille obeyed, but her aversion to entering the room was so strong, it felt like she was dragging a ball and chain along with her. She knew deep down that the fetter was her own better sense. She handed the glass to McAvoy and held the bottles up before him. “The rum,” he said, and when Lucille hesitated, the annoyed doctor reached out and yanked away the bottle that contained the clearer of the two liquids. Lucille took several steps backward and set the unwanted bottle on the small table near the door. She hovered near the exit as she watched the doctor pull out the stopper and pour a good amount of the liquor into the tumbler. He held it out to the Judge, but the wounded man didn’t even have the strength to rise.
“Give us a hand here, Lucille,” McAvoy ordered.
It took every bit of her resolve not to turn and flee. She took cautious steps toward the bed, moving to the side opposite McAvoy. She forced herself to reach out and put her hand behind the Judge’s shoulders. She flinched at the sight of his neck. It was still bloodied, but there was no longer any wound there. Her eyes shot down to the Judge’s ravaged thigh, but the flap of flesh had closed and healed, leaving not even a sign that the skin had been broken. Lucille had seen the damage done to the Judge, and now it was as if it had never been. There was no longer any room for denying that some unnatural magic had come to Conroy.
A cry began to build in her throat, but she swallowed hard. She wasn’t going to let on that she knew anything. Besides, even if she did tell the doctor what was going on here, he’d never believe her. Probably wouldn’t even take the time to hear her out. He’d just think she was another high-strung female. She let the muffled cry turn into a silent prayer, even though she wasn’t quite sure what she should ask the good Lord to do about this. Besides, the sting of having lost her husband and now her babies made her wonder if God even gave a damn about anything going on below him anyway. A cynical thought, but it felt justified.
Lucille slid her hands beneath a still-white part of the twisted bedsheet. She tried not to make contact with his skin, but even through the cotton barrier, she could feel his clamminess. She used gentle force to
help him rise, and the doctor held the rum to his blue lips. The Judge took a deep draught, but immediately began to cough.
“What happened here, Lucille? There’s a lot of bruising, but no wounds to account for the amount of blood here. I’ve never seen a plain illness cause this degree of blood loss.”
“I don’t know, sir,” Lucille lied.
McAvoy set the glass on the night table and took the Judge’s wrist again to check his pulse. He glanced at his watch, but then turned his full attention to Lucille, seeming to be awaiting a different answer. He moved his hand toward the Judge’s neck, but the Judge whimpered and pulled back with a start, pressing his weight against Lucille’s already trembling hands.
Lucille nearly dropped the Judge back on his pillow. She felt her body go cold and begin to tremble. Her knees weakened, so she reached out and grasped the headboard to keep from collapsing.
“Pull yourself together, woman,” McAvoy said, flashing an angry glance at her. He refilled the Judge’s glass with more rum and handed it to her. “Drink this.”
Lucille held her palm up to the doctor as she struggled to form words. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t imbibe.”
McAvoy pushed the glass toward her. “It’s medicinal. Drink it. I need you to help me, not faint.”
Lucille’s hand shook as she took the glass from him. She held it to her lips, then let the fiery liquid slide down her throat. The rum lent strength to her spine, and after a moment she released the headboard. McAvoy nodded and turned his attention back to the patient. “There’s blood on the bedding, but no obvious injury.” The way he spoke told Lucille that the old man was speaking to himself, trying to suss out what had happened. “Ovid,” he said, focusing on the Judge, “I think we should get you to the hospital in Tupelo.”