The Christening Day Murder

by Lee Harris

  The smile that I always wait for broke as soon as he saw me. Although the first thing he does when he comes in is take off the gun and put it away, we got to each other before he had a chance, and when we wrapped our arms around each other, I could feel it against my right side. Before he’d come in, I’d had a couple of hunger pangs, but once our lips touched, once his hands caressed my back under the sweatshirt, I forgot all about food.

  A long time afterward, we found the front door ajar. It made me feel good. I like a man who can forget his work sometimes.

  Two weeks later I got in my car and left for Studsburg.

  2

  Baptism is unique among the seven sacraments. It is the only one that can be performed by a layman. It’s not hard to understand why. If an unbaptized baby dies, its soul doesn’t go to heaven. So if you give birth far from a Catholic community, you can perform the rite without a priest. As children we were taught how to do it.

  A baptism can be performed virtually anywhere—a church, a home, an apartment. Although the church in Studsburg had not been used for decades, it was still an appropriate place for a baptism as long as it was clean and had not been desecrated. I assumed the family would take care of the former before Sunday morning.

  As I drove along the southern tier of New York State, I remembered baptisms I had attended. Some were for the children of old school friends like Maddie, others for the children of former students of mine at St. Stephen’s who had, for one reason or another, decided to bring their babies back to the convent for this all-important occasion. Needless to say, every baptism is a pleasure, and in this case, I was more than a little excited at the prospect of seeing a town and a church that had emerged from the deep after thirty years. To my literary soul it suggested the rebirth of the church, its symbolic baptism in the lake.

  Since I normally awaken quite early, a relic of fifteen years of early morning prayers, it wasn’t hard to get myself out and on the road that Saturday morning. I wanted some time to look around the town in the afternoon before the festivities got under way. Maddie had invited me to dinner at a cousin’s house, so all I would have was a few hours between arriving and getting ready.

  I checked into the motel and paid cash in advance for my stay. With my life-style, it’ll be a long time before I qualify for a credit card. I had a strange feeling entering my room. In all my thirty years, I had never spent a night alone in a hotel. True, I had traveled, but always with another woman. On those occasions we had immediately covered the bedroom and bathroom mirrors to prevent ourselves from seeing our reflections. Today I was free of those restrictions but still near enough that I rarely lingered at a mirror.

  I put my bag on the luggage rack and unpacked what needed to be hung up. As I organized the hangers, I had a surprising sense of independence. Much as I had wanted Jack to join me, something in me was glad I had come alone.

  The young man at the desk gave me easy directions to Studsburg. “Just take a right out of the parking lot and go up to the first crossroad. A left for two miles, then a right at Millburg Road. I saw this morning that someone had put up a sign saying Studsburg. I think they’re having some celebration at the church there tomorrow.”

  “A baptism,” I said. “My friend’s son.”

  “Well, that should be something to remember. That town was underwater when I was born, and I’ve been watching it surface for almost a year now. You going over to have a look?”

  “I thought I’d like to see it before tomorrow. We’ll probably all be too busy then.”

  “Well, if it’s anything like last weekend, you may find a few cars parked near the edge of the town. They won’t let you drive right into it, but you can get pretty close. The roads are pretty much gone, and the ground at the bottom is still soft. But you won’t have any trouble walking around. Just don’t wear high-heeled shoes.”

  I smiled. “I thought of that.” I looked down at my sturdy sneakers. “Thank you. If anyone calls for me, tell them I’ll be back by five.”

  “Will do. Have a nice afternoon.”

  The new sign that said STUDSBURG I MI. included a happy face, probably Maddie’s doing. I turned onto the “other road” and bumped my way past a farmhouse and some cows. Beyond that, the land had an unused look and was set off from the farm by a forbidding chain-link fence. Farther along was an official-looking building with the word WATERWORKS on the sign out in front. I slowed and started to descend the immense, bowl-shaped depression that had been a reservoir. Clustered at and near the bottom were the remains of the town. A few cars were parked at what seemed to be the end of the unpaved road.

  An officious-looking sign proclaimed: STUDSBURG. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK. I did.

  I don’t know what I expected, but what I saw along the easy slope down was a path already worn, and beyond it the remnants of the old town, mostly concrete foundations and, amazingly, tree stumps. If the slope had been treed, which it probably once was, it would have provided a sense of compact safety to the inhabitants. Even now there were weeds popping up along the slope, and here and there what looked like seedlings. I sometimes think in the long run vegetation will out, especially the lowest forms.

  But what dominated the scene in front of me was the hollow-eyed church with its soaring steeple. I tramped through alternately dry and muddy paths, stepping occasionally on rectangles of sidewalks and chunks of streets, till I reached it. It was a classic Gothic design, shorn of windows and doors, a fairly large church for so small a community. Perhaps at one time it had drawn worshipers from nearby towns. Or more likely, perhaps the town had once known better days and a larger population.

  I walked through the doorless doorway, wondering what had become of the massive doors that had once filled the emptiness. Inside, the sanctuary was stripped of anything movable, leaving a large, empty space that reminded me of descriptions of the cathedral of Chartres where once the poor camped out on a sloped floor that could easily be washed down.

  Inside St. Mary Immaculate a few tourists were looking around, and several young people were sweeping away rotting debris.

  “Come on in,” one of them called cheerfully to me. “We’re just cleaning up for tomorrow.”

  “What’s happening tomorrow?” a woman visitor asked.

  “Somebody’s having a baptism.”

  “Here?” the woman said with disbelief.

  “Yes, ma’am. Ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Can we come and see it?”

  “Don’t know why not.”

  I walked along the already-cleaned side of the church. There were no confessionals, but that wasn’t surprising as they’re often built of wood and would have been removed along with the pews. But the interior wall looked as sturdy as any I’d ever seen. Whatever material was holding the stones together looked hardly affected by three decades of water, although scattered on the walls were patches of white and green stuff that looked uncomfortably like mold.

  Along the side of the sanctuary was a small room that I recognized as the sacristy, where the priest kept his vestments. It had only one window and it smelled dank and moldy. I took my trusty flashlight out of my bag, a relic of a recent time when I had needed it in an old apartment house in New York, and flashed it around the bare room. A doorway at the other end led to another room that may also have been used for storage. This one was larger and also had a second door, one that would give access to the other side of the church, where they were now cleaning up. I retraced my steps so as not to get in anyone’s way and went back to the sanctuary the way I had come.

  Then I went back outside, deciding to return after the baptism and wander some more. The tourists were taking pictures of the church and of the scenery, although there wasn’t much to look at from an esthetic point of view. I wandered away from them off to my right, leaving church and people behind. Some distance away, an elderly couple stood together, cameraless, looking, if not bewildered, then at least full of wonder.

  I raised my hand in a wave as
I neared them and said, “Hi.”

  “Afternoon,” the man said. He was wearing overalls and a plaid shirt under his jacket. “Drive up to see the town?”

  “I came for a christening. My friend’s son is being baptized tomorrow in St. Mary Immaculate.”

  He smiled and offered his hand. “You must be a friend of the Stiflers then. I’m Henry Degenkamp. This is my wife, Ellie.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Chris Bennett.”

  “That’s the Stiflers’ place right down the street there. Third house from ours.” He pointed away from me down an imaginary road toward a nonexistent house. “Stiflers and Degenkamps were neighbors for generations. Kinda thought it would go on forever, but the government had other ideas.”

  “Was this your house?”

  “Right where we’re standing. Raised our kids here. That stump is where my mother planted an acorn about a hundred years ago. Hard to believe that’s been underwater for thirty years.”

  “It is.” I placed my palm on it. It felt like any stump that’s been out in the sunshine for its whole life.

  “You believe in miracles?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, somewhat embarrassed to be caught in the midst of my own recent crisis of faith.

  “Well, I don’t have much longer to live—”

  “Don’t say that, Henry,” his wife interrupted.

  “—and all I ever wanted was to see my mother’s oak tree and step inside that church once more. Now I’ve done it, I feel ready.”

  “You look very healthy, Mr. Degenkamp. I’m sure you have many more years ahead of you.”

  He patted his midsection. “Inside is where the trouble is. Can’t see it from the outside.”

  “That’s enough, Henry,” his wife said.

  “This must have been a wonderful place to grow up,” I said, hoping to turn the conversation away from his health.

  “Best place in the world, right, Ellie?”

  “It was calm and peaceful and happy,” she said with feeling. “There wasn’t any crime, and the worst thing that happened was once in a while you’d catch a youngster smoking.”

  “We had a scandal, though,” her husband said, his eyes twinkling.

  “Henry,” his wife said sharply.

  “I was just going to tell her about the time the treasurer of the poker club absconded with the funds,” he said smoothly.

  Ellie Degenkamp smiled. “He probably didn’t get enough for bus fare to New York.”

  “Did they ever catch him?” I asked.

  “Nope. He got away with it, the son of a gun.” Henry rubbed his hands together.

  “It’s getting chilly,” his wife said.

  “Then we’d best be going. We’ll see you at the christening.”

  I watched them go, stopping as they went to point at something they saw only in memory. I walked in the direction Henry Degenkamp had pointed, toward the Stifler house. I wasn’t sure where it was, but I stopped at a huge boulder, wondering if it had adorned a lawn once. Using my sneaker sole for traction, I raised myself up and sat on it. Without realizing it, I had walked up a gentle rise from the center of town. The church was near the lowest point, the houses, what was left of them, built on higher ground. But even with low buildings and tall trees, the steeple would have been visible from every part of the village. Certainly from my perch, it was.

  I sat for some time thinking about the man who had absconded with the poker funds, and the kids caught smoking. In those days, the crime of smoking meant a cigarette, and the prescribed punishment a trip to the woodshed. Just sitting here made me feel transplanted to another time. Finally the chill that had made itself felt to the more sensitive bodies of the older couple got to me, too, and I jumped off the rock and started back to the hotel.

  The dinner party that evening was pure pleasure. I hadn’t seen Maddie’s parents since I’d entered St. Stephen’s fifteen years earlier, and it was nice to catch up on the intervening years. Little Richie was as good as any baby I’d ever seen, sleeping peacefully except to wake up on schedule to be nursed by his adoring mother. And Frank Clark, Maddie’s husband, a nice-looking man only slightly older than the two of us, was the typical doting father. There was a lot of laughter, a lot of retelling of old stories, mostly about Studsburg, and a lot of good feeling. I left happy to be part of this warm family reunion.

  3

  The Stiflers had managed to track down Father Gregory Hartman, who had baptized Maddie thirty years ago, and he had agreed, without much persuasion, to come to Studsburg for the baptism of young Richard. The day was scheduled to begin at ten with a mass followed by the baptism, and go on to a lunch at the home I had visited for dinner. I intended to stay over Sunday night so that I wouldn’t have to leave the festivities early.

  The Degenkamps were already walking around outside the church when I arrived at nine-thirty on Sunday morning. Today they were dressed quite formally, he in a suit, she in a silk dress that peeked out from beneath her coat. We exchanged hellos and Henry said, “Come on over here, I’ll show you something.”

  We walked away from the church, leaving his wife behind.

  “Here it is.” He rubbed his shoe on the earth. “See over there?” He pointed straight ahead, across the flat part of the town. “That little bridge?”

  I had missed it the day before. “Was this a river?”

  “A stream that ran right through the middle of town. We used to fish it when I was a boy, not down here but over that way.” He pointed toward the far edge of the basin. “Trout. Every spring.”

  “There isn’t much left of the stream, but that bridge looks pretty sturdy.”

  “That’s how they built them, built everything to last. That one over there was on Main Street. Kinda narrow, but no one was in much of a hurry. If a car was coming from the other side, you just waited your turn.”

  “Come on, Henry,” Mrs. Degenkamp called. “I want to sit where I can see what’s going on.”

  “We’re coming,” he called back, and together we went into the church.

  The Stiflers and Clarks had had several rows of chairs and kneeling pads placed in the front of the church, and two young men were making sure that only invited guests had first choice. A number of visitors clustered in the rear, and several people had already found seats up front. The priest was shaking hands with a few in the front row, an unexpected reunion. Maddie had told me that a number of former Studsburgers had been invited, her mother and grandmother having kept up with them. There were more than the usual number of gray heads and more than the usual exclamations of surprise as people recognized one another.

  I waited at the side till Maddie entered the church, then joined her. Frank insisted I sit in the first row with them, and I did so happily. As we approached, the Degenkamps looked around and stood to hug and kiss the Stiflers and then ooh and ahh over Maddie and her baby. The last time they had seen Maddie, she was the size of little Richie.

  Promptly at ten, without benefit of music, Father Hartman began the mass. When it concluded, Richard Clark in his magnificent white christening dress was baptized a Catholic.

  Father Hartman came to the luncheon and regaled us with tales of Studsburg as it once was. He had spent only six years in the town and was now, I estimated, in his late sixties, a tall, good-looking man with graying hair and dark eyes. To hear him tell it, those were the six best years of his life. In fact, to hear any of them tell it, Studsburg was the kind of town you could only love. It was a place of contentment, a town where people knew and trusted one another.

  At some point during the afternoon, Maddie’s cousin hauled out an old photograph album and passed it around. There in black and white was the last day of Studsburg’s official existence, the Fourth of July, the christening day of Madeleine Stifter Clark, wearing the very same dress her son was wearing today. When the book was finally passed to me, I turned the pages slowly, identifying young Father Hartman, the Degenkamps in their fifties, not their eighties, Maddie’s cou
sins, her mother, almost a wisp of a girl. All were seated at picnic tables somewhere outside the church. The woman sitting next to me on the sofa kept looking over, pointing out faces and attaching names to them. Further along there were snapshots of fireworks as the town celebrated its final moments and the birth of their country. When I was finished, I noticed that the crowd was thinning. It was late afternoon.

  I passed along the album and stood. Mrs. Stifter told me Maddie was upstairs nursing the baby, and I found her in a bedroom.

  “This is wonderful, Maddie,” I said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Don’t tell me you’re leaving. I won’t let you.”

  “I want to get a last look at Studsburg before I go. It could start to rain tomorrow and the whole town could be underwater by summer.”

  “Come back and see us tonight, Kix. I’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you.”

  “OK.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes, I promise. This was such a wonderful idea, Maddie. I hope Richie gets to see St. Mary Immaculate when he’s old enough to appreciate it.”

  Maddie smiled and touched the little face with her finger. “It’s been a little ovewhelming,” she admitted, “but I’m glad we did it. Go,” she ordered. “And don’t forget to come back.”

  There was only one car parked at the edge of the town when I got there, a beat-up old blue something-or-other. The afternoon had become cold and I was a little sorry I hadn’t gone back to the hotel to change but I wanted to see the town while there was still a remnant of daylight. I pulled my shoes off and put on the sneakers I had had in the car all day. Then I started for the church.

  The chairs had all been removed and the sanctuary was clean and empty. Usually when I visit a church I light three candles, for my mother, my father, and my Aunt Meg. I was sorry I hadn’t thought ahead and brought some, but at that moment, a gust of wind blew through the windowless openings, chilling me and letting me know my candles would not have survived.

  I walked around the left side where the boys had been cleaning yesterday and found the door to the priest’s sacristy as I had anticipated. Just outside it was a curving flight of stone steps leading, I supposed, to the basement. I took my flashlight out of my bag and started down. The dank, fishy smell was more pronounced and I almost turned back, but the knowledge that this was the only chance I would have to see it kept me going. There was debris on the stairs and I walked carefully, shining the light just enough ahead that I could see my way.