Sons of Dust
By
P. Dalton Updyke
Text copyright © 2013 Patricia Updyke
ISBN-13: 978-1482762495
ISBN-10: 1482762498
All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by any means, without the written consent of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, locations, characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitiously used. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Any trademarks referred to within this publication are the property of their respective trademark holders.
Cover illustration by Jo-Anne Poirier.
For my grandmother,
Beatrice Kowalski Dalton,
and her Dalton Gang.
Prologue
Bo
The sliver of light was almost gone.
Bo leaned back against the cold stone and forced her eyes to stay open. The crescent of light was no thicker than a finger now and she needed to see it for as long as she could. Hours ago, she’d thought that the rats were the hardest part, but when the darkness didn’t abate, Bo changed her mind. It was the black that was the worst.
In the darkness, she lost all sense of time and place and even self. Above her, the city existed as it always had. She could hear voices, faint whispers of noise, children yelling and once, so clear the woman must have been standing right over her head, “Rita Louise! I told you! It’s time to come in now! Why do you make me come down here to get you?”
A little girl’s voice rose in indignation and Bo could picture the child, eight or ten, with a ponytail and a jump rope in one hand. “I’m coming! Jeez, Mom, we were just playing.”
Somehow, it struck Bo as funny and even though it hurt to laugh, she did, laughing so hard tears streamed from her eyes and her stomach folded in on itself.
We were just playing.
A horn blared and she heard a man’s voice shout, “Asshole!” She could hear everything. But no one could hear her.
“Magic,” she whispered in the dark. “His magic.”
When she woke last, the splinter of light was bright enough to make her squint. She stared at it for a long time and then realized if she turned her head a certain way, she could see the church. It gave her comfort.
It might not be St. Stand’s, a tiny voice in her head spoke up. It might be some other brick building. You don’t know for sure it’s St. Stands. “But I feel it,” she said. “It’s right there. I know it.”
It had to be. He wouldn’t have taken her far. He didn’t have the power. Oh? That voice said again. And what makes you think that?
“He isn’t strong.” Yet.
Bo swallowed and her throat made a dry, clicking noise. No spit left. No voice left, for that matter. From someplace far away, she could hear the sound of rushing water. The walls glistened wet even in this dark. Raw. That was the word that came to mind
The pain was cycling again. Gearing up for another round. She knew it was probably psychological, but the pain ebbed as the sliver of light grew and increased as the thin fragment of sunshine faded.
“Magic,” she whispered again.
Soon she’d scream and that would be okay, really, because she wouldn’t be able to help it. It didn’t do any good, didn’t bring a rescue party or even the curious, but it was instinct. Human nature. It was all she had.
Her limbs were rods of agony, the pain in her chest so immense she knew in a few moments she’d be praying for the release of death.
“Don’t think about it yet, Bosauvia.” Her voice was foreign to her, hoarse and broken. “Don’t think about the pain. Think about something else. Anything.”
Think about the church.
And somehow, that made her think of Katie. Not the grown-up Kate, living somewhere in Vermont, but the Katie who was Bo’s best friend. The twelve-year old Katie, with reddish hair and freckles sprinkled across her cheeks. Sun kisses, Katie’s mom called them.
If Katie was here, in the cold and the dark, she’d be apt to say, “For heaven’s sake, Bo, you have got to get control of yourself.”
“Control,” Bo whispered. “Get control.”
The sliver of light was narrower. Bo twisted, winching as a stab of pain pierced her hip. A car thudded overhead. The tires made a whop whop sound as it passed over the grate. Dust and silt drifted over her face. She pushed herself up higher, so that she was sitting more or less upright. Stretching out her left hand, she groped along the ground, feeling for the sticks. She’d tied them together with a shoelace. Her hand moved in a sweeping arc, knocking aside loose rock and stone. Her grandmother’s silver ring glittered in the dark. It wasn’t until her fingers closed over the wood that she realized she’d been holding her breath.
Gripping the wood tightly, she sat up again, breathing heavy now with exertion. Sweat dripped down her back, stung her eyes. She blinked, looking up again for the thin bar of light and was relieved to see it was still there.
A horn blared. Someone shouted, but everything was muffled and weak. Bo closed her eyes, drifting, the homemade cross clutched to her chest.
Marcus was looking for her. Bo knew that. She was supposed to call him Sunday. What day was it now? Tuesday? He’d be looking for her because it wasn’t like Bo to break a promise. He would have called her office and Marge would have told him Bo hadn’t called or come in. They’d discuss her absence with growing alarm and when Marcus hung up the phone, he’d start the search.
“Marcus, I’m here,” she said. “Please, honey. Find me.”
It felt so good to drift, to let her mind skim over the past, floating in a sleepy haze. BO! Katie’s voice said in her head. Wake up! You have to stay awake! He’ll be coming soon!
Forcing her eyes wide, Bo strained for any sound in the dark. A stone skittered someplace close and she was instantly wide awake. Barely daring to breathe, she turned her head to the left, her eyes probing the inky blackness.
A faint scurrying noise reached her. Tiny nails clicking on the rough stone floor. The rats always came before he did. She gripped the cross with both hands. The rats were closer. She could smell them. She could smell him.
Fight, Bo! Kate’s voice told her. You can fight him. You did it once before. You can do it again.
Barely aware she was doing it, Bo nodded. She glanced up, one last time.
The sliver of light was gone.
Bo gripped the cross, her lips moving in silent prayer as she waited.
Chapter 1
Kate
The angel was disintegrating.
She stood in the vestibule, between the carved double doors, her wings partially unfolded, her hair blown away from her face as if by a wind mortals couldn’t feel. Her gown billowed backward, clinging to the hard lines of her body, pooling around her feet in heavy folds. Her hands were held out in eternal offering and in her hands was a half shell, filled with water.
Kate hesitated in front of the angel, taking in the chipped chin, the crumbling cheeks. She dipped her fingers in the angel’s water and blessed herself, surprised at how easily the ritual came back to her.
Organ music, heavy, mournful, echoed through the stone walls. The smell of incense was strong and conjured up images of Easter and Christmas, Communion and Confirmation. Kate took a deep breath and looked at the angel once again, staring at the vacant eyes that used to frighten her when she was a child. “Watch her eyes,” she remembered whispering to Bo, “They follow you wherever you go.”
Bo.
Kate felt a pang in her chest so sharp and strong it made her want to gasp. A triangle of sunlight pierced the gloom and a group of people hurried through the oak doors, th
eir cheeks rosy with cold.
“-I just can’t believe-,” a woman said, and the man with her hissed, “Shush now.”
The door swung shut, the sunlight disappeared.
The woman’s perfume was strong and as they passed the angel and Kate, the scent of musk mingled with the odor of incense and wax and Kate felt a fleeting déjà vu.
“I don’t know why you’re shushing me,” the woman said softly and the man mumbled, “We’re in a church, for Christ sake. We’ll talk about it later.”
“I was just saying…”
And then they were gone, following the others through the second set of doors. The organ notes stretched out in a melancholy rhythm that Kate always associated with faith.
She was home.
When she stepped back into the throng of people streaming into the church, her heels clicked against the stone floor and she tried to tiptoe. “Walk light,” she remembered her grandmother whispering, “God doesn’t like stompers.” But that was back in days when she had to have her head covered before stepping into the church, when Masses were sing-songs of Polish and Latin, when nuns wore heavy black gowns that made them look like grim reapers in drag. That was when she knew everyone in the parish and they called her “Little Katrenjia.”
She didn’t recognize anyone now.
Feeling more alone than she had in years, Kate slid into a pew halfway down the aisle. She genuflected, crossing herself as she whispered, “Bless us, Lord.” Another habit born of the past.
The coffin was covered with pink roses. The wood gleamed in the dim light. The candles burning on either side cast wavering reflections in gold on the polished surface. Kate closed her eyes against the hurt and when she opened them again, she looked to her left, at the gold flecked marble columns and then her gaze traveled to the stained glass windows brushing the ceiling. So much suffering in royal blues and purples; so much pain etched in gold. The Stations of the Cross began at the back of St. Stanislaw’s and Kate glanced at each of the twelve, at the life-size plaster Saints, the bank of flickering votive candles and then she looked up, at the curved ceiling and the mural that spanned the sphere.
It was like looking at a world cut in half. There were blue skies and black waters, forests blended into cities, straw hovels bleeding into castles. There were infants in their mothers’ arms, Saints pictured in holy agony and Apostles seated at a table laden with fish and bread. There were angels in the blue skies, angels like the one standing guard at the doors, their wings flecked with silver watching over it all.
And there were demons.
Devils painted red and black, with teeth and eyes the color of yellowed linen. They were part man, part animal, cloven hoofed. Their hands were talons, tails snaked between their legs. One of the demons was holding a small child, tiny arms up, as if begging for release. It was beautiful in its hideousness. And it was wrong. A lie. Demons didn’t look like the ones painted high above the congregation. They were handsome, seductive, dark-haired….
Kate shivered. It’s art, she told herself. That’s all. Just an artist’s nightmare. When she was a child, she used to stare at the wonder overhead until her mother poked her and whispered, “Look at the Priest now. Pay mind.”
But how could she pay attention to what the old man in the white dress was saying when there was so much to look at above him? Even now, she looked for things hidden in the mural and saw a small boy crying at a man’s feet, a young woman in a torn dress clinging to the arm of a man in a long crimson robe.
There was a noise beside her and Kate turned automatically. A woman dressed in purple slid into the pew. She glanced at Kate, then knelt and blessed herself. She rested her forehead against folded hands and began to pray. Her rosary beads made a soft chinking noise as they swung against the pew.
Kate sat back against the hard wood, feeling the edge of the bench dig into the middle of her back and the urge to cry descended again. When she left the city, her head barely grazed the top of the pew. She clenched her jaw and blinked.
There was movement at the back of the church and then the organ music changed and Kate looked at the casket.
It was time.
The priest wasn’t familiar at first. It wasn’t until he flicked his chin with his thumb that Kate recognized him and then she couldn’t stop the gasp. The woman in purple glanced at her swiftly and Kate felt her cheeks turn red. The priest opened his arms and lifted his chin and when he spoke again, Kate knew she was right.
His blonde hair was a thing of the past. Even from a distance, Kate could see the thickened veins on the back of his hands. He was wearing glasses and when he moved, light danced on the lenses. His white cassock gleamed in candlelight. When he lifted the challis and intoned, “This is my body, which shall be given up for you. Do this in memory of me,” Kate heard the conviction in his voice. The utter faith.
She had a sudden clear memory of standing in the Forest Field, sweat making her shirt cling to her back as she waited for Alex to make his pitch. The Forest Field was a vacant lot on the corner of Essex and Congress Streets. The weeds grew three feet tall in some places and because that was about as close as they would ever get to timberland, the lot took on the name Forest Field.
It was summertime. Heat shimmered over the sidewalks in visible waves, the tar soft and crumbly. Bees droned in the high weeds and Alex stood on the lump of dirt they called the pitcher’s mound, a tattered softball in his left hand. The Essex Street Sluggers were winning by one run. It was the first time all summer they’d come close to a win and Kate could feel her teams’ excitement pulsing toward her like the heat waves rippling the brick buildings.
She stood in center field, watching Alex get ready to throw. He wound up, spit on the ground beside him – and stopped. Everyone relaxed. Alex looked over his shoulder at Kate, then stepped off the mound and jogged her way.
How old were we then? Kate wondered. Ten? Eleven? Old enough, anyway, for her to be in love with Alex Soklovitch. He ran toward her, his body moving with unconscious grace, his long sun-bleached hair flying in the hot breeze. He stopped in front of Kate and when he grinned, her heart flipped over.
“Listen, Katie.” He stepped so close she could feel his breath on her face. It made something inside her stomach jiggle. “That new kid up at bat is gonna hit it right at you. He always hits it down the middle of center field. Jimmy, the kid on second, is fast. He’ll make it to third no problem and Nick Vespucci is up next.”
Katie’s heart sank. Nick Vespucci was the best hitter in five neighborhoods.
“Now, I don’t know about you,” Alex went on, “but I’m damn tired of these assholes calling us the Essex Street Suckers because we lose every week.” Katie nodded. “So what I want you to do…” he flicked his chin with his thumb. His eyes were so blue; discs chipped from the sky. “I don’t want you to throw the ball to third base. Vinny’s having a bad day. He can’t catch it fast enough and if the guy makes it to third, Nick’ll have a chance to bat in a run.”
Katie looked towards second, where Bo was hunkered down, hands on her knees, glaring at the big boy on her base. “So I’ll throw it to second.”
But Alex was shaking his head. “Nah. Don’t throw it to Bo either.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“Hit the runner.”
“What??”
“Hit the runner,” Alex said again and he grinned.
When did Alex find God? Kate wondered now.
But the question didn’t seem to matter as Alex stood behind the podium. His left hand moved to his face. He touched his chin in a gesture that instantly reminded Kate of summer nights and glasses of Zarex and she was filled with a simple longing. If only she could step back…but there was no stepping back and the forward began with Alex behind a wooden altar and Bo in a wooden box. He cleared his throat.
“My friends,” he said. “Like you, I am mourning the loss of a loved one. Like you, I had called Bosauvia Caveleska friend. Like you, I am wondering why she
was taken from us so soon.”
The scene in front of Kate blurred and when she blinked into focus again, she saw that her initial impression was wrong. She wasn’t in a room full of strangers. As the parish rose to its feet, Kate recognized many of the mourners and when the funeral procession began its march down the aisle, she could name three of the men carrying Bo on their shoulders.
Chapter 2
Kate
The city wasn’t what Kate remembered. It was darker, somehow, closer, as if the buildings had taken on a lean, slanting over the streets. The noise was unexpected, too, but when the first jet flew overhead, Kate realized she’d simply forgotten.
Across the street, two small girls came out of a tenement, jump ropes trailing on the stoop behind them. Kate hesitated at the top of the church stairs, watching as the older girl took the younger by the hand and leaned close to whisper. The younger girl giggled, covering her mouth with her hand and Kate thought, Bo used to do that. She used to cover her mouth just like that.
The girls stopped on the sidewalk and paused, faces turned upward, looking at the sky. They paused because of the--
--“stupid planes,” Bo said. Kate couldn’t hear her, not exactly, the jets blocked the sound of her voice, but Kate could read Bo’s lips.
“I know,” she said back. The sound was lost in the roar and right behind it they could hear the whining of another jet. Bo shrugged, a jump rope with red wooden handles dangling from her hand and she climbed the steps to the front stoop, resting her chin in her hand.
Bo was dressed in pedal pushers and a flowered shirt and as Kate plunked down next to Bo, she was filled with a sudden, simple love for her friend. She rested her chin in her hand, a mirror image to Bo, and waited for the planes to pass so she and Bo could hear each other.
“What’s your favorite smell in the whole wide world?” Bo asked, her voice sounding small in the sudden quiet.
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