Having enjoyed that, both Kenner and I knew Laslow’s tricks. When he finished with the toughs, he then zeroed in on other kids. Mostly friends. He almost always missed us, on purpose it seemed, picking on just about everyone else. Then finally, near the end of our training that summer, just when Kenner and I were convinced that we had successfully escaped, I heard my name. Then Paul Kenner’s.
We were next in the ring.
Now standing in a circle of howling boys with your best friend isn’t something I would wish on anyone. Especially at fourteen, but good training for real life I guess. Kenner and I tapped together our gloves, as we had no other choice, and took our places. Me on one side, Kenner on the opposite. Laslow rang a bell and we closed in, jabbing kind of halfheartedly. We danced around for a few minutes, barely punching, careful not to mix it up until I heard Laslow’s voice screaming in my ear.
“What are you, girls? I said box!”
We tried to make a show of it, Kenner and I, while not actually injuring one another. But Laslow, smart old fox that he was, knew that. And he started to get more involved with his refereeing, pushing us together, even getting the other boys in the circle to cheer and goad us on. Then it happened. I was jabbing to the face when I caught Kenner hard in the eye. It wasn’t on purpose, but he didn’t know that.
Laslow crowed, “Come on, Kenner. Fight back.”
Kenner jumped off the ground, where he had landed in all the excitement and he came after me, his fists up and flying. I had to defend myself or get killed.
“Guard up, Whitmore. I said up!”
“It is up!”
“Higher!”
Just then Kenner hit me with an uppercut, right into my stomach. I fell to one knee, thinking for a moment that I was going to throw up, but I didn’t. I just got mad.
Laslow loved it, you could tell by his expression. He was grinning, his eyes cranked up wide and hungry. The other kids loved it too, for they knew what was at stake, a friendship built over the years, piece by piece.
Kenner countered my punches with a right that landed. I spun for a second yet somehow I recovered. But my dignity never did. I was incensed now, so angry that I could hardly even think. I came up like a bull at full speed. Two fast punches wobbled him, dropping his guard. Another punch drew blood from his nose. Then a last one stunned him. Kenner turned once and fell hard to the dirt, whimpering and crying like a baby.
We were never friends again after that.
I told Marbury this story partially because I felt that it was happening all over again but also because I remembered it, and I still felt bad. He listened patiently before commenting.
“Did you apologize?”
“I tried to. But Kenner was humiliated. I showed him up.”
Kenner never even spoke to me after that. And the next year he was gone, transferred to another school. I changed everything with that punch and our friendship with it.
“I betrayed his trust.”
“You just got into a fight, Peter. It didn’t warp the guy.”
“But he changed after that.”
“He was probably changing before. Only you didn’t see it.”
Marbury was right. Kenner was beginning, even at that tender age, to rebel against his parents’ authority. He started smoking cigarettes on the sly and other things too, but I just attributed that to kid stuff.
“Do you think so?” I asked.
“Sure. It happened to me.”
Marbury said that he was changing in Wheelersburg but nobody could see it. He couldn’t even see it, though in retrospect it was obvious.
“That was my problem. Thinking I could leave there intact.”
Marbury explained that the snow had finally stopped the next day, though it was hard to tell. Outside the wind howled, picking up drifts and moving them around from one place to another. He said that it looked like pictures of the desert in a storm, only colder. And he began to wonder if he would ever leave.
He kept on wondering that when the power went out.
It started with a dull buzz throughout the building. Marbury said that he could see the power lines swaying outside and he thought for an instant that he saw something else, a bright orange flicker or sudden power surge. Then only blackness. The town went dark and everything with it.
Voices rose several decibels. In the hallways, where special emergency lights were supposed to go on, only about half did. There were malfunctions everywhere, including the main generator designed to protect this from happening, and people were running around scared.
Marbury ran into Abigail.
“We lost the generator. They’re working on it but—”
“What about Helen?”
“No power, no life support. We’re running on prayers, Father.”
Marbury went into the darkness looking for Helen’s room. An emergency light was on down the hall and he made it there by following the beam, only to find Barris sitting with a match burning in his hand. His shadow flickered against the wall, long and eerie.
“What the hell’s happening?”
“It’s the wind. Everything’s knocked out,” said Marbury.
He bent down and listened to Helen. She was breathing strongly.
“I already checked her. She’s a fighter.”
Barris dropped the match and stomped on it with his foot. It was dark for a good moment before he lit another one.
Marbury said, “They’ll fix it.”
“Idiots. More like they’ll kill us first. Find Lucy.”
“What can she do?”
“Are you blind, padre? She can do anything. Look at my Helen.”
“She’s only a child, Barris.”
“To you maybe. But I know better.”
“What do you know?”
“She’s not your ordinary kid. Hell, I’ll admit it. I didn’t want her. I’m too old for children and I told Helen that. But she isn’t just any child, said Helen, you’ll see. Damned if I didn’t. Even as a baby Lucy was different. She had me running around like a pig hiding from New Year’s dinner. Walked at nine months, she did. I’m seventy-two, padre. Too old to baby-sit anymore. I’m all used up.”
Marbury said, “Maybe you’re using her instead. Broken bones, cuts. Something isn’t right here, Jacob.”
“Don’t blame that on me.”
“I’ve seen her file. It’s as thick as my finger.”
“She gets hurt. What can I say?”
“Other people might not agree with your assessment.”
“What others?”
“Child welfare. They might see a pattern.”
“Damned if I don’t hear a threat.”
“Take it any way you want. I’ll call them, Jacob.”
Darkness again. But Barris sounded nervous.
He said, “I swear I don’t beat kids. On the Good Book, I don’t.”
“Then how do you explain the injuries?” asked Marbury.
“Try the man upstairs. He’s your culprit.”
Barris found another match and lit it. Light flickering.
He said, “Lucy saw a kid biking once. He fell off and busted himself up real good. Hell, I can’t explain it. All I know is that she gets busted up too. But the other kid gets better. I don’t know why or how it works.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Man, it’s the Gospel. People get healed. Just look at my Helen.”
Barris reached out and touched her at that moment, by instinct, as if to affirm Helen’s life for himself. But even in the dark Marbury could feel his reaction. Agony. And then a gasp.
“Sweet Jesus!”
“What is it?” cried Marbury.
“She isn’t breathing, Father. My Helen, she isn’t breathing.”
Chapter 8
I left Marbury in his office working on his sermon for Easter Sunday and hopefully thinking about everything that we had talked about and more, even considering his options. Not that he had many.
My day was ending wit
h Louise Howser, the bookkeeper at Marbury’s shelter, and what she knew about the missing money. I met her over tea in her home, a comfortable old house on Summit Avenue, not far from my office. Her story was an interesting one. She married late in life to her husband, Alfred, now dead, who had long since separated himself from the family’s old railroad money and struck out on his own. But he wasn’t very successful. Several of his businesses had failed and the only one left, a small tax preparation service, was hanging on, in part, only from the talent of the head bookkeeper, Louise Howser. Alfred wanted to sell the business completely but Louise talked him out of it. She explained to him how the business could be even more profitable if he would expand, especially if he would provide other services that she felt clients were looking for. Financial and estate planning being only two of the examples.
Alfred thought about it and having no other means to support himself, did as Louise suggested. He opened more offices. And he advertised. From tax and accounting work to all facets of money management, including discounted brokerage services, which at that time was virtually unheard of. Eventually the two married, but not before a small chain was built, which Alfred sold, just two years before his death, to one of the big firms in New York who took the idea nationally.
Louise, despite not having to work, still loved to keep books, which she did on a part-time basis for the shelter. It was her way of giving something back but also keeping in touch with the one thing that she loved most in life. Numbers.
She said, “Of course I saw him with money.”
“How much? If you had to estimate the amounts.”
“No idea. Father always had checks with him. He was asking everyone in town for money, you know. He flashed around that nonprofit status like a sheriff his badge.”
“Did you ever see him with cash?”
“He had a cash box, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Who reconciled it?”
“He did. It was petty cash. A few hundred here and there.”
“But you had receipts?”
“We aren’t IBM. Besides, if he needed something, I trusted him.”
“Even after the shortage came up?” I asked.
“Well, I blamed myself mostly. My eyes aren’t what they used to be. Oh dear, you’re not implying—”
I just looked at her.
“—Father was one of the most honest souls I’ve ever met.”
“But you’re missing over twelve thousand dollars.”
“Yes.”
“And you admit that he had access to cash.”
“Not twelve thousand dollars’ worth.”
“It all adds up, Mrs. Howser.”
Later that evening.
I could see Marbury sitting in the bar even from here, from my car parked across the street. It was dark inside, a heavy, wood-paneled place, low lights except for the pink and green glow of a jukebox and a flickering television playing in the background. A basketball game was on. Marbury was sitting at a table by himself, half eating a bowl of peanuts supplied by the bar no doubt. He looked lonely.
His expression changed when I walked in. First a wave and a big smile, then he cringed as I took off my coat.
“Not your collar. Not here, Peter.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a bar, for God sakes.”
But nobody seemed to care. The few patrons were watching the game or else staring into their drinks. Either way I was safe.
“Nobody can see me. It’s too dark.”
“They don’t need to see you. Your vibes are enough.”
And sure enough, the bartender, who before was only standing there, wiping out glasses with a cloth, walked over. I saw one of his feet drag for an instant, almost hesitate when he saw me, as though he didn’t know quite what to do next. Even whether he should come over to our table.
Finally he said:
“Name your poison, Father. Mineral water, soda, I even have wine.”
Scotch. Double it up, please. And save the ice.
What I wanted to order. In my mind I sounded exactly like Humphrey Bogart, except Bogie with a clerical collar. The bartender just looked at me. Maybe he blinked once or twice, thinking that I would disappear, but I didn’t.
I said, “Anything diet for me. And a beer for my friend.”
The bartender left shaking his head, probably the high point of his evening. But Marbury wasn’t so amused.
He said, “Some mood you’re in.”
“We’re not supposed to be happy on Good Friday.”
“Since when?”
“Since I talked to Louise Howser.”
I leaned back in my chair and told Marbury everything that the bookkeeper had told me, even going as far as producing a statement from her, which he read. He listened patiently while I spoke, rocking his body back and forth, a dumb grin on his face all the time.
It took a moment but he said, “Sure, I had money.”
“You admit it then?”
“Well, you can’t give away what you don’t already have.”
He stopped rocking and looked square at me.
“People needed it. It’s one thing to feed and house someone, another to get them a job. Hard to get a job without a phone or when you stink. Try it.”
“You gave money away for that?”
“Yes. You expected something more exotic?”
“I expected you to exercise some common sense.”
“I thought I was.”
“Twelve thousand dollars, Marbury.”
“I don’t know. I never counted.”
“Well, I did.”
The bartender came right by then and handed us both our drinks. I could see Marbury across from me, biting his lip. Half in humiliation, half in anger. But instead of taking a drink from his beer, as I would have, he just played with the condensation on the glass. Drawing faces. Clowns.
“I’d give away a million if it would help. Now if that’s a crime—”
“It’s a crime of judgment,” I said.
“Whose? Yours or mine?”
“You just can’t hand out money.”
“I didn’t. I checked people out.”
“You checked them out? How?”
“I spoke with them first.”
“Like how you talked with Tricky and his girlfriend?”
When he didn’t respond I did.
“You remember Tricky. Quite the upstanding citizen.”
“You’ve seen too many movies, Peter.”
“Have I? Ask him that. You gave him money.”
“Who?”
I told Marbury what Father Stone had related to me. A man whose street name was Tricky hung around the shelter for a few weeks and Marbury eventually helped him, especially after he told everyone that he was going straight.
“That Tricky. He just got out of prison.”
“OK, I made a mistake.”
“See, that’s what I mean, Marbury. You’re an easy mark.”
“Is that what Stone told you?”
“He thought you were too kind.”
And I couldn’t disagree with that assessment. For I’ve been a recipient of that kindness myself on several occasions. I remember one Christmas in particular when he gave me his car, a risky thing because none of us were supposed to have vehicles of our own, but nobody knew. I had missed my bus. And the only way I could get back to Minnesota was by car, which Marbury supplied, that old half-running Volvo. He even filled up the gas tank for me and gave me enough money to make it back in one piece. For he knew that car. Fresh oil every hundred or so miles, and driving on ice-slickened tires only made the ride more treacherous. But I survived and I never forgot the favor.
He smiled. “Is that what you think? That I’m too kind?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should talk to Jill. She might suggest otherwise.”
Marbury said that he moved in with Jill right away. He didn’t own very much, hardly more than the clothes on his back, so the move
was an easy one. At least from that perspective. But the house that Jill lived in, a one-bedroom farmhouse right off the highway, the same house that Jill lived in with her ex-husband, looked like it was ready to fall down. Walls leaned in opposite directions. The roof was flaking off and leaky. Windows were broken. Steps crumbling. Weeds everywhere. For the first few months, Marbury said that he did little else but work and go to school. He rebuilt entire doorways by hand, replaced windows and dry rot, but nothing seemed to help. Once he finished with one project, another would present itself. If it wasn’t the roof, it was the flooring. And the more that he worked, the faster the house just seemed to collapse.
The exterior of the house wasn’t the only thing in need of repair. Nearly everything inside was broken as well. Only one burner on the stove worked. Lights were knocked out. The toilet ran over and flooded everything. Stairwells wobbled. Mice ran roughshod over the kitchen. But it wasn’t always this way. When Jill and her husband first moved into this house, it was in good condition. Jill’s husband, a real loser who spent most of his days drinking or out with his buddies, got the place on loan from a friend of his named Jack to settle on an old debt. But the only thing settled was the decay of the house. What began as flaking paint escalated into something horrible, an entire foundation that started to rot and sway beneath their feet. And the worse the relationship got, the more the house declined, like some kind of physical metaphor, until reaching its present state of disrepair.
Jill’s husband, when he was living there, did nothing to stop it and actually cheered on the demise of the house by his neglect. He didn’t work at all. He barely got up in the morning. Not that Jill contributed much herself. Between school and her job at the grocery store, the house came last. And when Marbury walked onto the scene he said that he felt what firemen must feel in the face of such destruction. Just tragedy.
Marbury began to work day and night. The sound of sawing and hammering broke any illusion of peace. And even Jill pitched in. Measuring boards and hauling out trash. She nailed as well, joining the project like any good assistant. But Marbury needed more than assistance. It was like filling a huge sinkhole. Once he got enough dirt together, it just disappeared into the earth without hardly making a dent.
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