by Kim Liggett
I lean the swatter against the fireplace and take a seat next to her on the couch.
We watch the flies.
It’s strangely mesmerizing, how they land for a few seconds and then buzz around a little before landing again in a different spot. Over and over again, like they’ve been choreographed.
I want to tell her everything I’ve learned about Dad, the Preservation Society, Miss Granger, the marks … but I can’t. I’m still not sure what’s really happening, what I believe. Maybe when this is all over, when I know we’re all safe. But for now, I need to put her at ease. And more than anything, I want to give her a little bit of hope.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I say as I pull the acceptance letter from my pocket and hand it to her. “Tomorrow, I’m taking Noodle to look at All Saints Academy in Murpheyville. She got in.”
She studies the paper. “Can we afford that?”
“I’ve been saving up. Dad would want this. She deserves a fresh start.”
Mom grabs my hand, squeezing it so hard I can feel her entire body tremble with the effort of trying to hold in her emotions. Tears slip from her eyes and I look away. She wouldn’t want me to see her like this.
“And tomorrow night we’re going to the Harvest Festival. The whole family. I talked with Mr. Neely. I’m taking my place on the council.”
Unable to hold it back any longer, she lets out a gasping breath as she pulls me in for a hug. I haven’t hugged her in so long. I don’t think she’s hugged anyone since Dad died. It hurts. Her sharp shoulders cut into me. I can’t believe how thin she’s gotten.
“I’m scared,” she whispers in my ear.
“Why are you scared?”
“Do you hear them?” She grips onto my shirt.
“Hear what?” I pry myself away.
She just stares at the wall … at the flies.
“You should get some sleep.” I help her to her feet and lead her up the stairs to her room. “We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”
Before I can even pull the quilt over her, she’s out cold.
I thought she was getting better, but since the anniversary she seems to have lost her footing again. Maybe she can sense what’s happening here … that something evil’s coming.
“Soon, this will all be over,” I say as I gently close her door.
Taking the envelope from my back pocket, I slip it under Jess’s door and then peek in on Noodle. It’s brighter in her room because she leaves the drapes wide open, like she doesn’t want to miss anything. She looks like an angel when she sleeps, with those long dark eyelashes, pink cheeks. She smiles in her sleep. I don’t know anybody else who does that. As I pull up the covers, I notice the mangy baby doll she’s clutching. It’s not some family heirloom. A lady gave it to her at Dad’s funeral. When I asked her why the sudden interest, she said she was practicing. All the more reason for Noodle to go to All Saints. She’s capable of so much more than that.
I know Noodle doesn’t like people messing with her hair, but I don’t know how she can sleep with those lopsided pigtails. As I go to take out the elastics, I notice the decrepit doll’s eyes are open, staring right at me, pure black orbs, glistening in the dark.
I stumble back a few feet, my heart pounding against my ribs. Its eyes were closed a second ago. I’m sure of it. And then I remembered Miss Granger’s explanation about the prophet stuff. Maybe it’s all in my head, my fear manifesting in some weird way. I clench my eyes shut for a second and take a deep breath.
Something hits the floor.
There’s a dragging sound.
I feel a dark presence all around me.
I open my eyes to find Noodle has turned over on her stomach, the doll at my feet. I nudge it over with my foot to find its eyes closed. I let out a burst of nervous air. It must’ve fallen off her bed when she rolled over. I feel a little bad for doing it, but I kick it under the bed. I know she loves that baby doll, but I’m hoping it’s an out-of-sight, out-of-mind thing.
I close Noodle’s door and start for my bedroom, but I can’t make myself go in. I might be delirious from lack of sleep, but I know the moment my head hits that pillow, I’ll dream. And I can’t face another nightmare. Not tonight.
Being mindful of the creaks, I ease down the stairs and slip on my boots and jacket.
I walk across the wheat to the harvester, to the only peace I can find.
17
BY 9:00 A.M., I’ve cleared out another seven acres, cleaned myself up, and told Noodle we’re going on an adventure. Just the two of us.
“Wear something nice,” I tell her as I head outside and wait for her in my truck. I can’t bear to sit in the kitchen, watching Mom desperately try to rally with that haunted look in her eyes. She’s like one of those willow seeds clinging to my windshield wipers, teetering on the edge, waiting for one stiff breeze to blow her into oblivion. I watch the seed drift away toward the Neely ranch. Maybe seeing her old friends tonight at the Preservation Society, her old life, will do her some good.
Noodle comes skipping out of the house wearing her purple and pink fairy costume—wings and everything. I pull my cap down low and try to hide my grin. I know I should probably tell her to go in and change, but this is the nicest outfit Noodle can think of for herself. Why spoil it?
“You look perfect,” I say, as I hop out and let her in the truck.
“Thanks.” She slides over to the passenger seat, carefully placing her wand next to her.
As we drive down Route 17, across the county line, Noodle finally asks where we’re headed. I get the feeling she doesn’t even care as long as we’re together. That’s how it’s always been between us.
“I’m taking you to Murpheyville.”
“To the auto parts store?” She pulls the map out of the glove box. She doesn’t even seem slightly disappointed at the prospect.
“Nope. I’m taking you to All Saints.”
“The place with the big steeple? Wow. What for?”
“Well…,” I say as I dig the letter out of my pocket and hand it to her. “You, Miss Natalie Anne Tate, have been accepted as a student.”
She smooths the paper on her lap, fiddling with the edges. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s a school for smart kids. Like you.”
She swallows hard. “You’re not leaving me there, are you?”
“Of course not.” I reach over and give her arm a squeeze. “I’ll take you every day and pick you up.”
She studies the map. I can tell by the way her eyes light up that she’s doing math in her head. “But that’s forty-six miles each way.”
“It’ll give me time to think. You’ll be doing me a big favor. It’s not all good looks, you know. I’ve got a lot going on up here.” I tap the bill of my cap.
She giggles. “Like thinking about Ali Miller?”
I can’t believe it was just last night that Ali was lying here in my truck, right where Noodle’s sitting. On pure instinct, I reach for the stereo, forgetting that I ripped it out a couple of days ago.
“What happened here?” She touches the wires.
“Broke.” I squint into the sun.
“You know, Ali’ll be at the Preservation Society tonight, the Harvest Festival.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You should dance with her.”
“You think?”
She nods her head emphatically.
“And who are you going to dance with?”
“Maybe Mom.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Jess, if she’ll let me.”
“Don’t pay any attention to Jess. She’s going through a phase. Best if we let her alone.”
“She’s just sad ’cause Dad died.”
I feel a tiny stab in my heart. Maybe Noodle’s right. I should probably cut Jess some slack. She may look grown up, but she’s still just a kid. I need to remember that.
Noodle rolls down the window, carving her hand through the air like it’s a paper airplane, and sm
iles over at me. All it takes is something simple like this to make her happy. I hope she can stay like this forever.
“Do you want me to sing for you?”
“Sure.” I chuckle.
Noodle starts singing a tune I recognize. It’s this weird counting song she made up when she was little. I can’t believe she still remembers that.
With the sun in her hair, her fairy wings flapping in the wind, and that toothless grin, I feel something I haven’t felt in over a year. Hope.
As I pull off the highway into Murpheyville, the church comes into view. It’s all dark-gray stonework surrounded by a grove of old oaks and pines. I’ve never really looked at it before, but it’s imposing, like something straight out of a history book—something you’d see in the English countryside, not some hick town in Central Oklahoma.
“Look, Miss Granger’s here.” Noodle leans up on her knees and waves at her as we pull into the parking lot.
“I didn’t know you’ve met Miss Granger.”
“Sure, silly. She’s always at Oakmoor when I help out Mrs. Gifford on Saturdays. She makes the best Rice Krispies Treats. And she came to Dad’s funeral, remember?”
I don’t remember her being there, but then I don’t remember a lot about that day. It’s weird to think she’s been watching me all this time. Watching all of the Preservation Society kids.
“I like her,” Noodle says. “She’s nice.”
Miss Granger waves back. She’s standing in front of the chapel with two nuns. She’s wearing a blue blouse that I saw hanging in her closet with a slim tweed skirt, her hair pulled back in its usual tight knot.
“I like her, too,” I say, feeling a little embarrassed about rummaging through her things last night.
We get out of the truck and Noodle practically drags me across the lot like a Clydesdale to meet them. I’ve never seen a nun in real life. They’re pretty intimidating looking, but Noodle doesn’t seem fazed in the least.
“This is Sister Agnes and Sister Grace,” Miss Granger says.
“Hello, Natalie.” Sister Agnes smiles down at her warmly.
“It’s Nood—,” I start to say, but she steps on my foot.
“Yes, I’m Natalie Tate.” She reaches out to shake their hands.
Fresh start. Maybe she’s been craving it, too. Natalie. That’s going to take some getting used to.
“Are you a good fairy or a mischievous fairy?” Sister Grace asks.
“I count things.”
“Oh, well that’s a very useful fairy skill, indeed,” Sister Agnes chimes in.
“I’m not a real fairy. It’s just a costume. I like your costume, too,” Noodle says, as she admires their black robes. “Do you have wands?”
“Afraid not,” Sister Agnes replies.
“I can make you one if you want. I can teach you my counting song, too.”
“That would be lovely. Let’s show you around, a private tour.”
I start to follow, but Miss Granger holds me back. For a second, I forgot why we’re really here.
Miss Granger leads me up the steps to the chapel. She opens the heavy carved door and my stomach coils up in knots. I peek in to see two grim-faced priests dressed in fancy robes and weird hats standing at the end of a very long aisle.
I glance back to give Noodle a reassuring wave, but she doesn’t need it. She’s skipping along with the nuns, holding their hands, her head held high.
Miss Granger pulls me inside the chapel and bolts the door behind me, shutting out all the natural light.
18
THIS PLACE is over the top—carved mahogany pews, frescoed ceilings, marble floors, a gold pipe organ. Hundreds of candles line the sides of the cathedral, casting an eerie red glow on the stained-glass windows.
This looks like a place God would live.
Nothing like Midland Baptist. All we’ve got are plain rickety oak benches, an upright piano, and dusty windows cluttered with decorations some kids slapped together at Sunday school.
As we walk down the center aisle toward the priests, I try to match my heartbeat to the steady sound of Miss Granger’s heels clacking against the marble floor, but the closer we get, the quicker her footsteps become.
She’s nervous, too.
“May I present Cardinal Machiovini and Archbishop Antonia.”
Their names and titles all blend together in my head.
“Hey, I’m Clay Tate.” I stretch my hand forward to greet them, but they don’t move a muscle. They just stare down at me from the altar like I’m some kind of disease.
They’re all decked out with massive rings on their fingers and heavy gold crosses around their necks—they’ve got more bling than any rapper I’ve ever seen. Reverend Devers, over at Midland Baptist, he always wears the same suits he got from Sears twenty years ago. The only jewelry he owns is the tarnished wedding band he still wears, even though his wife took off with an oil rigger a couple of years back.
Miss Granger stands up even straighter than usual. “As we’ve discussed, I believe Clay is a prophet. He had a vision of the golden calf. It appeared to him, freshly slaughtered, and then disappeared. He’s also had a vision of the rebirth ceremony of the dead.”
The priests begin to whisper in another language … Latin maybe.
“What’s going on?” I sidle next to her.
“They’re deciding how to proceed.”
“Don’t forget the cat,” I add.
Miss Granger shakes me off. “I believe he’s one of the six, but he’s been able to resist. He’s special.”
The priests continue to talk among themselves like I’m not even in the room. Their voices become more agitated with each pointed stare.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” I ask.
Her brow furrows. “They think it’s too risky.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
Miss Granger shakes her head. “Not too risky for you … for us.”
The priest with the tallest hat says something final sounding and they turn their backs on us.
“I’m willing to stake my career on this.” Miss Granger steps forward.
The priests turn, eyes searching.
“He’s the one.” Miss Granger holds her ground. “He can save them all. We have a unique opportunity to study them from the inside. Clay can help us get the proof we need to sanction the exorcism before a single life has been taken.”
This seems to get their attention.
The priest with the reddish beard looks at me, and it’s like he’s staring straight into my soul. “Tu autem casus?”
“What?” I ask. I have no clue what he’s talking about, but he’s making me seriously uncomfortable. I look to Miss Granger for help.
“He’s asking if you’ve been chaste.” A deep blush creeps up over her collar. “If you’ve…”
“What … if I’ve had sex?” I drag my hands through my hair. “What does that have to do with anything?” They just stare at me stone-faced. “Wow … okay … that’s really personal, but no.”
As the priests begin to confer again, my eyes veer toward the exit. I had the same feeling in Miss Granger’s bedroom surrounded by all those crucifixes. I just want to get out of here.
They finally say something to Miss Granger. She nods, shooting me a tight smile.
“What’s happening?”
“They’ve agreed to baptize you.”
“I’m already baptized. They did it when I was a baby … in the river.”
“The Catholic Church doesn’t recognize a Presbyterian baptism.”
“I’m not a Presbyterian. I’m a Baptist.”
“In the eyes of the Catholic Church, it’s the same thing,” she says.
The priests crowd around what looks like a birdbath, murmuring some kind of prayer.
“I don’t know about this.”
“Clay, please.” Miss Granger looks up at me. “It won’t take long.” She presses a robe into my hands and leads me to a flimsy screen on the left side of the altar.<
br />
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I say as I duck behind the screen and take off my shirt and pants. I put on the robe. It’s not soft like those ones you see in fancy hotel commercials. It’s thin and scratchy and smells weird.
I step out from behind the screen. Miss Granger blocks my path. “Socks and underwear, too.”
“Seriously?”
She looks at me pleadingly. “Ali needs you … I need you.”
With a deep sigh, I maneuver out of my boxers from under the robe and pull off my socks.
She brings me to the center of the cathedral, where the light’s streaming in through the stained glass.
The priests step down from the altar, carrying small silver bowls, forming a circle around me.
“Time to disrobe,” Miss Granger says.
“What? No way.” I cross my arms across my chest awkwardly.
“Clay, they have to check you first … make sure you don’t bear the mark.”
“Well, I can assure you I don’t have it. I take a shower every day … sometimes twice a day—”
“I believe you, but it’s the only way.” Miss Granger places her hand on my arm. “Keep your eyes closed if that helps. Think pleasant thoughts. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I let out a deep sigh, close my eyes, and untie the robe, letting it drop to the ground.
“Hold your arms out, please,” Miss Granger instructs gently.
I do as I’m told and try to hold still, but my insides are trembling. I can feel her warm touch on my wrist. I can feel her breath on my skin, running from my fingers all the way up to my left shoulder. “Clear,” she whispers.
The priests chant a prayer. Something cold and wet splashes on my skin. I suck in a startled breath.
“It’s just holy water,” she whispers. “To protect you.”
They do the same thing with my right arm.
Miss Granger then steps behind me, running her fingers across my shoulder blades, down my spine; my skin prickles up in goose bumps. But it’s not just from the cold or the shock of water on my skin … it’s her touch, and that’s the last thing I want to feel in this moment. Miss Granger is a beautiful woman, but she’s still my guidance counselor. The holy water splashes across my back.