The doorbell rang again.
“Unfortunately, talented though she may be, Miss Tiramaku has not yet mastered the trick of being in two places at the same time. You will excuse me, Mrs. Keenan, for a brief moment.”
The priest shuffled off, leaving Holly quite alone in the room. She imagined voices in the distance, the woman chatting on the telephone and a conversation in a lower register at the front door, but in truth, silence had insinuated itself upon the room, and all she heard were her own questions. Why had she come here this morning? What made her think the priest might offer some answers or consolation? Years ago when Jack was first diagnosed, she could hardly bear to name his condition; an ocean of prayer poured out of her, only subsiding in time as he grew worse, not better.
Outside, the flurries and bleak sky had given way to weak sunshine, and as the warmth reached the windowpanes, the glass ticked as it expanded. A sense of folly crept into her thoughts. She resolved to simply go, make some excuse to the priest in the foyer, and escape this austere place. She licked the wet crumbs from her fork and sipped her coffee, but it had grown cold. Behind the aroma of cake and coffee came the musky smell of the old man’s house covered over by furniture polish, the sharpness of unaired rooms. Across from her, the painting on the wall took on a new aspect in the changing light that made her feel woozy. She could feel the sea roll, and the doomed ship pitched ever so slightly on the swells. Those poor people soon to drown. Land in sight, but no way to reach it past the icy waters. The wooden deck groaned in the storm. Another presence had entered the room, the floorboards creaked beneath the shifting weight. The noise reminded her of that night in the house when something had landed on the roof, disturbing the stillness. Holly thought it must be Father Bolden returned from the interruption, and in that moment, she resolved to mumble her apologies and be on her way. As she rose and pivoted to leave, she cried out softly at the sight at the door, an older Japanese woman with one dark eye and the other clouded by a milky scale. Her gray hair was pulled back severely, accentuating the left side of her face, which drooped a bit, as though she had once suffered a stroke. Her lips hung open at one corner, exposing pink gums and small, white teeth. Like one of Jack’s off-kilter drawings.
“Jesus,” Holly whispered. “You shocked me.”
The woman’s good eye searched the room, and when it landed on Holly, her expression turned to mild disdain.
“Are you Miss Tiramaku? If you’re looking for Father Bolden, there was someone at the door.”
The woman nodded, as if to thank her and acknowledge that indeed she was the housekeeper and in search of the pastor, but she did not depart and, in fact, appeared to be considering some remark in the back of her mind. Impassive as a statue, she wore a black dress that hung like sackcloth and plain sensible shoes out of fashion a generation ago.
“Good cake,” Holly said at last. “You were kind to make it.”
“You shouldn’t say that.”
“About the cake?”
“No, you shouldn’t say ‘Jesus’ unless you mean it.”
She had forgotten she was in a priest’s house. “Sorry, but it was only because you startled me—my mind was elsewhere.” She hid her mouth behind her hand.
“You were frightened by the painting, the Wreck of the Porthleven? I don’t know why he insists on keeping it there. Did he tell you about the yurei, too?”
“The what?”
Stepping closer, Miss Tiramaku cast a glance toward the entrance to the room, making sure the priest was not close enough to overhear. “The yurei are spirits of the dead condemned to haunt the living until the wrong that has been done to them has been set right. Did he tell you about the people who drowned? Legend has it that the captain took a foolish risk in a storm. The yurei want to be freed from their misery.”
“I’m sorry,” Holly said, “but I don’t believe in ghosts. Or yurei.”
“Don’t be so sure of things you cannot see. The mind conjures the mystery, but the spirit provides the key.” With a nod, she gestured to the painting. “Poor souls beneath the sea.”
Coming here was a mistake, Holly thought. She searched for some polite way to excuse herself.
Like a spider scrutinizing a fly, Miss Tiramaku stepped closer, a look of sudden recognition on her face. “You are Mrs. Keenan. The mother of that boy.”
Her words sounded like an accusation. What had the priest been telling her about Jack? Or was it common knowledge around town that her son would not willingly leave the house? Was there some cabal of housekeepers gossiping about the strange child and his hapless family? That Keenan boy. Stricken by a dizzying nausea, Holly wanted to run away, but the one-eyed witch in the doorway blocked the passage.
Whistling from the hallway saved her. The tune of “O Tannenbaum” pitched loud and clear on his lips, Father Bolden trundled toward them, his face red with exertion and pine needles clinging to his cardigan and the front of his black trousers. “The Christmas tree is here. That was the man come with our big balsam, and I had to instruct him how best to set it up in the parlor. Free delivery can’t wait. It’s a beauty, Miss Tiramaku, seven feet if I’m any judge. I see you two have made introductions in my absence.”
The housekeeper had stepped aside when he had entered the room, and in his presence, she seemed far less frightening. “Yes, Father. Mrs. Keenan was just telling me how much she enjoyed my coffee cake.”
He looked anxiously at the remaining pieces on the dessert plate. “You’ll stay, Holly, and help us with the decorations. My mother left me the most exquisite glass ornaments from the old country. Been in the family over one hundred years.”
“I couldn’t—”
“But I insist,” said the priest. “We can continue our little talk while we trim the tree.”
“No, I really must be going. Last-minute shopping, I’m afraid.”
Fiddling with the thick buttons of his sweater, the priest looked as crestfallen as a schoolboy. “Perhaps the tree can wait.”
“Not on account of me. Thank you for your hospitality, but I’ve got to run.”
The priest and the housekeeper took a step toward her, but it was not till she had breezed between them that she realized they had only wanted to shake her hand. The antiseptic aroma of a pine forest drenched the front hall, and she burst out of the house, wiggling into her coat, glad to breathe in the fresh cold air. Safely in her car, she looked back at the rectory, and on the front steps stood the priest and his housekeeper, refugees from a gothic fairy tale, waving good-bye. She ripped the gearshift into reverse and gunned her way out of there.
Rather than heading straight into town for shopping, she drove along the shoreline and stopped at an overlook and parked the car. The engine ticked like a bomb when she pulled the key from the ignition. Christ, one more thing, she thought, and then it purred to silence. The gray Atlantic pushed its waves against the rocks below the cliffs, and the clouds dumped snow far out at sea. Yurei, ghosts of the drowned. She shook her head in disbelief. Her hands trembled as she stepped out into the cold, and she longed for a brandy. The wind pressed against her body. Mother of that boy. That boy. She longed for some way to force a good cry, but it was too cold for that now. There were gifts to buy, an alibi for her deceit, and so much to do before the holidays.
ii.
Tim skinned an orange for the boy and poured himself another cup of coffee. No reason not to take it easy for a while. Holly would be gone for hours, granting them a reprieve. The oatmeal bowls soaked in the sink. The list of chores on the fridge was an artifact from a distant age. A lazy Saturday morning stretched out before them, promising idleness. Padding in his slippers to his easy chair, Tim wrapped his robe tightly against the cold and settled in with the crossword from the newspaper. He scanned the clues, filling in those boxes with words readily known or deduced. On the carpet by the Christmas tree, Jip curled like a cat in his old favorite threadbare pajamas, frayed at the cuffs and outgrown by two sizes. Intent at his drawing, he humm
ed softly to himself, and only when Tim listened closely could he make out the tune his son was singing. “Little Drummer Boy.” Stray flurries wandered across the picture window. He thought for a moment of turning on the Christmas lights against the dismal morning, but he had settled in too deeply to move his bones. Stuck at his puzzle, Tim leaned back in the chair, nestled his head against the cushion, and closed his eyes.
In what seemed mere seconds, his son appeared at his side and was softly smacking him on the cheek. He opened his eyes to the sight of the boy hovering above him, bouncing on the balls of his feet, mouthing a silent admonition to wake up, wake up. The newspaper had fallen from his lap, though he still held the pen in his clenched fist.
“What is it, Jip?”
“Someone at the door.”
“I’m awake, I was never asleep. Why didn’t you just answer?” he asked, realizing at once his mistake. Jip would never risk bringing the outside in. Rousing himself from the chair, Tim gathered his robe together as he marched to the front door. Standing on the stoop were Nell Weller and her son, flakes of wet snow melting in their hair.
“Nick, you little ray of sunshine. Were we expecting you this morning?”
Cupping her hand around the back of his head, Nell guided the boy inside with a gentle nudge. As he was taking off his coat, Nick sneezed, covering his mouth with the lining. Nell followed her reluctant son, taking in the scene of the Keenan men in their robes, the room in quiet disarray.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “Not a cold, I don’t think. Allergies. We had to put up a fake tree this year, took Fred all day to figure out the branches. You don’t seem to be prepared for visitors at all. Is Holly home?”
Tim rubbed the stubble on his chin and smoothed his bed head hair. “Out Christmas shopping. You just missed her.”
“Shopping? I wish she had told me. I would have gone with.” She unbuttoned her winter coat and slipped out of it with a shimmy. Beneath it she wore a tight red sweater that showed off her figure and a black pleated skirt that rippled as she moved about the room, tidying as she went. “Husbands,” she said, but the tone was amused, not exasperated. “Maybe you forgot? She agreed to have Nick over for the day. Is that okay by you, or do you two have plans?”
Tim looked for his son, but the boys had disappeared, already at play in another room. “Free as a bird. Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
She nodded and followed him into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table for two tucked in the breakfast nook. Through the bay window that overlooked the ocean, she watched the few stray flakes spin wildly, launched upon the wind. With the insouciance of a waiter at a café, he set down the ceramic bowl filled with sugar cubes, the dairy creamer in the shape of a cow, and her coffee in a cup and saucer.
“Something out there caught your fancy?” He took the seat opposite.
“The sky, the sea. Funny, same as my underwear. Black on top and blue on the bottom.”
He was not sure if she was flirting with him, but he decided to try his luck. “You are looking especially gorgeous. All dressed up this morning.”
“Christmas party,” she said. “Fred’s work. He’s already at the office in his Santa suit for the little frights. Bad as their mommies and daddies. I’m skipping all the early folderol and am timing my arrival to coincide with the annual spiking of the eggnog. I can barely stand the people he works with. We would have taken Nick along, but he’s such a pill these days. Too old, he says, for Santa Claus. You’re sure it’s no inconvenience to have him here?”
“No trouble at all. Jip lives for the company.”
Red lipstick marked the edge of her cup. She leaned across the table and took his hand in hers.
“You are an angel. You both are, and I can’t thank you enough for taking Nick for the holidays. Fred and I need to get away. Some time to ourselves, patch things up a bit. You know how it can be, sometimes you just want to start all over. And, failing that, a few days on the cruise will make the winter that much shorter.”
He squeezed her fingers and then withdrew. For the length of a cup, they talked about the Caribbean trip, the ports of call, the likelihood of shuffleboard and endless buffets. Her excitement bubbled along, and he found himself watching how she spoke instead of what she actually said. He’d give a nod now and again, a smile to keep her there. He remembered that same contented look from years ago, animated by their secret. At last she looked at her watch, let out a sharp gasp, and said a hasty good-bye. From the open door, he watched her go, standing at the threshold long after she had driven away, an ache small and persistent in the pit of his soul. He waited till he caught himself shivering when the chill crept up his pajamas.
The boys did not answer when Tim called them, and he had no idea where they might be. In Jip’s room, most likely, but perhaps they were prowling around below in Tim’s workshop. He went to tidy the kitchen, pausing to look at the beach through the bay window, his thoughts drifting back to that summer’s day, the last time all of them had been outside together. Holly lost in a paperback on a distant rock, Fred asleep on a bright yellow towel. The boys, seven that year, were down in the water, as usual. A gull or two, white as paper, roamed the blue skies. Nell was stretched out facing him, a gesture intimate but guileless. Her maroon bathing suit clung to her curves, and they were talking of summer’s end, idly chatting in that circuitous way they spoke to each other, saying nothing that was not coded in a language of longing. No one saw what happened. No one could say for sure when precisely Jip and Nick had gone missing.
He turned from the view of the water, and there the boys had suddenly appeared at the kitchen table, intent on a notebook. In unison, they looked up at him and flashed two grins. The tip of Nick’s nose was red from sniffling, but they otherwise seemed quite normal. How had they managed to sneak in without his notice? He shook the befuddlement from his brain.
“You’re like a couple of ghosts. Time for me to hit the shower, boys. You two be all right without me?”
With a wide grin and a slow nod, his son dismissed him.
Curlicues of steam rose from the sink as he lathered his cheeks with shaving cream. He dipped the razor into the stream of hot water and began to shave in confident strokes. Just as he scraped the last bit of foam, the dull blade nicked his skin and a bright red berry of blood appeared on his throat. A short agitated cough escaped his lips, for he could not remember the last time he had cut himself shaving. He pressed his thumb to the spot on his neck below his left ear, and in a moment, the bleeding stopped. The hot water had fogged the mirror, and behind him, a cold breeze fluttered the curtain. Someone had left the window open, so he forced it shut. The snow had given way to pale sunshine. He shrugged out of his robe and stripped to the skin.
The room was freezing, so he let the water run till great clouds of smoke rose, and then he slipped into the shower and closed the glass door behind him. The heat and humidity unkinked his muscles and relaxed his joints as readily as a sauna. Working shampoo into his hair, he massaged his scalp. Images of Nell on the beach crossed his mind, how she leaned toward him close enough to touch. A line of perspiration runs between her breasts, and the fine hairs at her nape glisten in the sunlight. He cupped his scrotum in his free hand. Where are the boys? She was the first to notice, springing to her feet, casting a shadow over him as he turned on his belly. Shampoo began to drip in his eyes. The temperature dropped suddenly as though someone had opened the door, and when he strained to focus his stinging eyes, he thought he saw her enter the room. Just as abruptly, the sensation vanished, and he saw on the glass shower door, now visible in the condensation, a crude drawing of a naked woman, stylized and slightly misshapen, long curly hair, contours of breasts, the thumbprints of two nipples. He rubbed at the drawing, only to discover that it had been traced on the outside surface. “Jip,” he bellowed, but of course, the boy was too far away to hear, and besides, why would he have drawn such a thing? Surely, he is too young to be thinking of naked women. For all Tim knew
, his son never thought of sex at all, or at least he had never said a word about it. The fog from the shower rose and bumped into the ceiling, billowing across the room and settling into every corner. He rinsed his hair and stepped from the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist.
Slowly swiping his hand, Tim erased the image on the glass, leaving behind a beaded trail. He felt like a criminal destroying evidence and could not shake the sensation that there was a conspirator in the room, just behind him. As he turned, a face in the mirror leapt into view. Finger-drawn on the surface was another face, a woman’s surely, but more haggard and distorted than the other. The hair was just a suggestion on a high and prominent forehead, and one eye drooped, its iris clouded and vacant as the blind gaze of a Roman statue. As he smeared the drawing, Tim wondered momentarily how he had not noticed it earlier when he shaved. “That kid,” he muttered to himself. “He’s drawing everywhere.” Just beyond his reflection, he thought he saw the one-eyed woman again, and in the glass of the shower door, the memory of the naked woman seemed to rearrange itself from the constellation of water drops. He quickly combed his hair and dressed in a pullover and sweatpants, anxious to be out of there. The mist followed him into the hallway, and he raced down the stairs.
The kitchen was cold as a morgue, but the boys were just where he had left them, busy at the table with a pile of papers. Around their heads they had fitted the hoods of their sweatshirts, so they resembled a pair of medieval scribes illuminating a manuscript. In a frigid cell without a fire. He shivered and found the problem at once: an open window funneled winter into the room. Hurrying to close it, he barked at his son. “What’s wrong with you, Jip? Why are you leaving all these windows open in the dead of winter? The bathroom was as cold as a witch’s tit, and now this. And the heat has been on all day.”
Jack Peter stopped his drawing in the middle of a line. The point of his pencil hung an inch above the surface, and he sat still and expressionless, as his father stormed around the room looking for other open windows. Nick followed with his gaze, waiting for the chance to answer the charge.
The Boy Who Drew Monsters Page 8