by Karen Hall
“Grandpa, I’m serious. I saw my mom!”
“I believe you.”
“But . . . she’s dead.”
“I know.”
“Dead people can’t just come back and talk to you.”
“Apparently they can.”
“What is the thing I’m supposed to do?”
“I don’t know. But you will, when the time comes.”
“But—”
“Michael, what was the one thing Jesus told every person He cured?”
“Not to sin anymore.”
“Besides that?”
“I don’t know.”
“He told them not to mention it to anyone. Which they all promptly ignored, but that’s not the point. Why did He try to keep the miracles quiet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Because He knew that faith based on magic tricks is a shallow faith. He didn’t want them all to get so caught up in the supernatural that they didn’t hear what He was saying to them. All you need to worry about is the message. Stop worrying about how the message came to you.”
The logic made sense, but Michael had never been able to follow the advice. The vision changed his entire personality. Up to that point, he’d been outgoing and gregarious, and loved running around the neighborhood and hanging out with his friends. Afterward, he felt too removed from them to be very interested. He spent a lot of time alone in his room—reading, writing, thinking. Wondering about the other reality . . . this realm that was out there, somewhere just beyond his reach. Trying to keep himself ready for this mysterious thing he was supposed to do.
Michael had been convinced that Danny Ingram was the thing. He still could be. Maybe he’d blown it. Obviously he’d blown it. A tragedy with that much forewarning should have been averted, and he should have been the one to avert it. He asked himself, for the billionth time, if it would have ended differently if he had taken it more seriously before it was too late. He’d never know the answer, but it didn’t really matter. It certainly didn’t matter to the Ingrams.
He finally fell into a ragged sleep.
It was almost dark when he woke. He changed clothes and went downstairs. Barbara was on the phone. He could tell by her forced-patient tone that she was talking to Monsignor Graham, even before she looked over and rolled her eyes.
“Mortuary,” Michael mouthed, and she nodded.
He left a note in the kitchen, telling her to lock up and turn on the alarm when she went home. He had no intention of being back anytime soon.
He drove slowly through the neighborhood, looking at all Vincent’s houses and wondering what to do with himself. He’d lied about the mortuary—he’d already called from the hospital and been told there was no reason for him to go there. Vincent had already picked out and paid for everything. Michael was glad about that. Faith or no faith, rooms full of coffins gave him the creeps.
After weighing the options, he got onto I-85 south and headed downtown. He’d decided that a trip to The Varsity, his favorite fast-food restaurant, would solve both his problems: hunger and the need for a religious experience.
The Varsity, an Atlanta institution, was a glorified hot dog stand on the outskirts of Georgia Tech. Michael wasn’t sure exactly how old it was, but everyone in Atlanta acted as if it predated the Civil War. Tradition and atmosphere were probably larger draws than the actual food, although the latter left nothing to be desired. Michael had loved the place all his life. So had Vincent. It had been “their” place. Vincent used to say that when he died and before he went to Heaven he was going to stop by The Varsity for a fried peach pie. Remembering that, Michael smiled to himself and wondered if he was going to The Varsity just to make sure Vincent wasn’t there.
He’d managed to hit a rare slow time. He made his way up to the mile-long counter. There was no system for standing in line. The next person to get the attention of one of the surly, red-shirted cashiers, by whatever means, was the next person to be served. Right now that posed no great challenge, but after a Georgia Tech game it was an awesome undertaking, to be risked only by the bravest or most foolhardy.
Michael got a couple of hot dogs and fries and sat in his usual place, an upstairs corner that overlooked Spring Street. He felt somewhat guilty about having an appetite, even though he’d had nothing but coffee in the last forty-eight hours. He was also sad to realize the place wasn’t as much of a comfort as he’d thought it would be. He tried to think about all the good times he and Vincent had had here, but he couldn’t get his mind off the fact that they’d never come here together again.
The man at the next table was disregarding the NO SMOKING sign, and the smoke from his cigarette was drifting straight into Michael’s face. Michael waved it away and looked over. He was planning to ask the guy to put the cigarette out or move, but the words stopped in his throat the minute he got a good look. The man was in his midthirties, wearing an obviously expensive black leather jacket that did nothing to offset some intangible smarminess. He was staring at Michael intently, with a look that said he was hoping Michael would say something so he’d have an excuse to vent a lot of pent-up rage. Michael quickly turned his attention back to his food. After a second, he glanced over. The guy was still staring.
Oh, for Pete’s sake. Like I need this.
Michael picked up his tray and moved to the other side of the room. When he glanced up a few minutes later, the guy had turned in his chair so he could continue to stare at Michael.
He has that look.
Did he, or was Michael just imagining it? No. It was a real thing, regardless of its meaning. It showed up in the eyes, as if they were glazed over by a film of something very nearly colorless, like the thinnest possible coating of milk. No sign of life underneath. Soulless eyes.
Michael had seen the look before—in fact, had noticed it often in the course of his travels, even though he didn’t know what it meant. The first time he’d seen it was when Vincent had shown him the Winecoff Fire scrapbook. One of the clippings showed a photo of a man who had been suspected of starting the fire. The alleged arsonist, a career criminal named Roy “Candy Kid” McCullough, was the son of a well-known murderer who was executed in Georgia in 1933. McCullough had the look so blatantly it seemed as if someone had tampered with the photo. (In fact, Michael had half suspected that this was what had happened, until he got out into the world and noticed the look over and over again.) Michael had always been fascinated by McCullough, since he had no one else to blame for his own parents’ deaths. (Certainly more comfortable to blame an ex-con than to blame God.) The rumor was that McCullough had gotten into a heated argument with another participant in a big card game that had been taking place on the third floor. He had stormed out, threatening to get even, and had returned a couple of hours later and set the place on fire. Apparently he had bragged about it to several of his friends, but the authorities had never been able to come up with enough proof to make an arrest. In the meantime, McCullough was convicted of another crime and sentenced to life in prison, and the police let it go at that.
Of the many things he’d read about McCullough, there was one description that had returned, during the Danny Ingram episode, to haunt Michael. It came from a book written by a man who had known McCullough in prison: “Nobody could be better to you than Candy, if he liked you, and nobody was more dangerous than he was if he hated you. . . . Don’t know that I’ll ever understand how Candy could be a warm friend one minute and totally heartless the next, void of any basic human emotions.” Michael could never understand such a thing, either, before he met Danny. Now he understood all too well.
The Danny Ingram affair had started simply enough. In the middle of an ordinary day, Michael had received a phone call from Kevin Ingram, an old St. Pius classmate whom Michael barely remembered. Kevin, who now lived on Long Island, had tracked Michael down through the magazine; he needed advice. He was having a horrible time with his oldest son, and the priest at his parish had been very little help and, in fact, was
now becoming annoyed by Kevin’s continued pleas for assistance.
“What kind of problem is your son having?” Michael had asked.
“I think he’s possessed.”
Michael had laughed. Not because he didn’t believe in possession (though he didn’t) but because he thought Kevin was joking. Most parents of fifteen-year-olds were convinced their kids were possessed. When there was no laughter on the other end of the phone, the realization had hit Michael—the guy wasn’t kidding.
Michael had asked why Kevin thought such a thing, but Kevin’s answers were vague: “Weird things happen around him. And he’s not himself anymore. Plus there’s this thing . . . can’t describe it, it’s a feeling . . . the air in the room gets thick and it bears down on you, like gravity has suddenly doubled or something. I know this doesn’t make any sense. You have to come feel it for yourself.”
Michael had agreed to go over to the house and feel it for himself.
The Ingrams lived in a beautiful, solidly upper-middle-class Cape Cod in the suburb of Plandome, on the north shore of Long Island. Kevin was an investment banker and his wife, Maureen, was an attorney in private practice. Their house was decorated in perfectly coordinated fabrics and expensive antiques. A little too heavy on the hunt prints for Michael’s personal taste, but it definitely reflected careful attention to detail and two sizable incomes.
Danny was in his room, where, according to his parents, he’d been all day. He’d been told Michael was coming and apparently was not thrilled about it; he’d been in a morose stupor for hours. Still, the way things had been going, Kevin said, they preferred catatonia to the other options.
“What’s been going on?” Michael asked.
“A lot of weird stuff,” Kevin said. “Things happen . . . lights go on and off . . . the toilet flushes itself . . . one night I was in the den paying bills, and the TV just came on by itself. When I pushed the button, it wouldn’t go off. I finally had to unplug it.”
“Things fall off shelves,” Maureen chimed in. “A couple of times, the gas flame on the stove shot up about a foot high, for no reason.”
“What makes you think Danny’s responsible for all that?”
“It didn’t start happening until a few months ago,” Kevin said.
“About the same time Danny started behaving strangely.”
“And how has he been behaving?”
“He has these bizarre mood swings,” Kevin said. “Before all this, he was a pretty normal kid. A little shy, but nothing to worry about. All of a sudden, he starts flying into these fits of rage, without any warning or provocation.”
Maureen nodded. “He throws things, screams—and he uses the vilest language you can possibly imagine.”
“The rest of the time, he’s just kind of sullen and morose, hardly talks to us anymore,” Kevin said. The pain of it was obvious in his voice. “Every now and then he’s his old self, but not very often, not anymore.” He shook his head, then added: “And there’s that feeling, you know, like I told you. Sometimes it’s a lot stronger than other times, but it’s around all the time.”
“Father, I know my kids,” Maureen said in a mildly defensive tone. “When Danny was little, he would get ear infections, but he didn’t react to the pain, so there was no way to tell. But I always knew. I’d take him to the doctor and tell him Danny had an ear infection, and Danny would be running around like a wild man, and the doctor would stare at me like I was a lunatic . . . until he looked in Danny’s ear and saw that I was right. I’m not saying I’m psychic. But I know when something is wrong, and there is something in Danny that is not Danny.” There were tears in her eyes and she could barely talk. “I don’t care how crazy you think I am, I know I’m right.”
“I didn’t say I thought you were crazy.”
“Well, I know you think it.”
“I promise you, I haven’t had a thought one way or the other. I’m just listening. The minute I think you’re crazy, I’ll tell you, okay?”
Maureen nodded and even smiled a little. Kevin reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
“We’re both pretty wrung out,” he said.
“How long has this been going on?” Michael asked.
“Six months, more or less.”
“And you haven’t been able to get anyone to do anything?”
Kevin shook his head. “Father Garra came over one night and blessed the house, but Danny started screaming obscenities at him and he got mad and left. I think he writes Danny off as a spoiled, obnoxious rich kid who resents authority.”
“Father Garra grew up in Brooklyn, in a very poor family,” Maureen added. “I think he was done with us the minute he saw the house.”
“Well,” Michael said, smiling, “Kevin probably told you that I grew up a spoiled, obnoxious rich kid. And I still resent authority.”
Maureen and Kevin both laughed, but their eyes were filled with fear.
After talking with them a little longer, Michael met with Danny alone, in Danny’s room, the walls of which were covered with posters of heavy-metal bands and pictures of skeletons and winged demons—drawn, apparently, by Danny. The furniture was draped in clothing, mostly jeans and black T-shirts also sporting heavy-metal logos. Danny was a thin, pale-skinned boy with shoulder-length blond hair and watery blue eyes. He sat on the bed and stared into space, answering Michael’s questions with shrugs and two-word sentences. None of which was a sign of anything other than youth. He did seem to be more depressed than the average teenager. His eyes had a peculiar unstable quality, as if he couldn’t see anything in the room, but saw something else in its place. And the air did seem heavy somehow, although Michael couldn’t be sure if he really felt it, or just felt it because he’d been told he would.
“Who invited you here?” Danny suddenly asked, in a voice surly beyond his years.
“Your parents.”
“And what do you think you’re gonna do?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Just couldn’t pass up the chance to get into a teenage boy’s bedroom?”
“Wrong number, pal. But points for keeping up with current events.”
“What then? Little girls?”
“Sheep. I grew up in Georgia. Why don’t we talk about you for a while?”
Danny stared at him and said nothing.
“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” No answer. “Your folks say you’ve been having a rough time.” No answer. “Look, I’m arrogant enough to think I might be able to do something for you, but you’re going to have to give me a hint.”
“Leave me alone!” Danny screamed. He picked up the lamp by his bed and hurled it across the room; it crashed against the wall and fell to the floor in a thousand pieces. Michael tried to stay calm. Danny was breathing hard and still trying to stare Michael down.
“You already had my attention,” Michael said calmly. No response. Just a glare that made Michael grateful there wasn’t a second lamp. Whatever was wrong with this kid, it was beyond his area of expertise.
Michael surrendered from the glaring contest, turned, and headed for the door. He was about to open it when he heard Danny speak.
“Father Kinney?”
Michael turned around. What he saw stunned him. Danny had collapsed on the bed; he was sitting slumped over as if exhausted. The murderous glare was gone, replaced by a look of fear and complete helplessness. Danny was barely recognizable as the same kid. He didn’t speak again or look up. For a moment, Michael thought he’d imagined hearing his name called.
“Father Kinney,” Danny whispered. It was a statement, as if Danny were somehow introducing the thought of Michael to his brain. Absorbing it.
“Yes, Danny?”
Danny still didn’t look up.
“Do you really think you can help me?” he asked in a small voice.
Michael couldn’t speak for a moment, he was so shocked by the transformation. The kid on the bed was a portrait of humility.
“I’m going t
o do my best,” Michael finally said. Danny nodded. He stared at his hands, which were in his lap, trembling. At that moment, Michael swore to himself that no matter what it took, he was going to find a way to help Danny Ingram.
Kevin and Maureen were waiting for him in the kitchen, eager to have their suspicions solidly confirmed. Michael knew he couldn’t do that, but he was not going to be one more priest who wouldn’t take them seriously.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he said to them, “but there’s obviously something. What I’d like to do, as soon as possible, is get someone in here who knows a lot more about this kind of thing than I do.”
“How long will that take?” Kevin asked, ready for another runaround.
“How’s tomorrow?” Michael had no idea how he was going to pull it off, but the outpouring of gratitude and relief that followed was enough to cement his promise.
He’d called his secretary, Linda, on his way back to the office and told her he needed to find someone who had experience with exorcisms.
“Exorcisms?” she asked, in her usual charmingly patronizing tone. (No one on the staff could pour a cup of coffee without an editorial comment from Linda.)
“I’m not joking and I’m pressed for time.”
“Where are you?”
“Plandome. Long Island. First thing you’d better do is check and see if there’s an official exorcist for the Rockville Centre diocese. I seriously doubt it, but I don’t want to get anyone’s nose out of joint.”
“And if there isn’t?”
“I don’t know, try the Yellow Pages. Figure it out. I’ll be back there in about half an hour.”
“I’ll find someone by the time you get here.”
Linda was true to her word, and when Michael got back to his office there was a list of names and phone numbers waiting. Michael looked at the local names and, flying by instinct, called one Father Robert Curso, a parish priest in the South Bronx. According to Linda’s note, he worked at a soup kitchen on 124th Street during the week; there was a number, Michael could probably reach him there. It took a little effort to get in touch with him, since the person who answered the phone at the mission spoke no recognizable language. (Michael tried three and gave up.) He finally got through to Father Curso (“Call me Bob”), who had a brusque smoker’s voice and sounded like a former drill sergeant. Michael explained who he was and why he was calling, then started a brief summary of the case. Halfway through Michael’s spiel, Bob cut him off.