Sons of Dust

by P. Dalton Updyke

  He pulled to the curb in front of her apartment and sat in the car, staring at the brick two story structure. Bo’s sisters were supposed to come and clean out the house, but he didn’t think they’d done it yet. They weren’t ready. At the funeral yesterday –God, was it only yesterday?—they’d been sick with grief and Marcus thought it would be days, maybe weeks from Krisandra and Yvanna came to sort through Bo’s clothes and knickknacks. Who knew there could be so much pain attached to the material pieces of a life?

  Climbing out of the car, he walked up the steps to her first floor flat, put the key in the lock and opened the door. Her scent struck him. Marcus inhaled deeply, drawing her smell into his lungs. The light switch was just inside the door and he snapped it on, closing the door behind him.

  The apartment was bright and airy. Bo didn’t like clutter. “Too weighty,” she said. No couch because “they’re made for three people, but no one likes to sit in the middle, so there’s always this space. Couch space is just dead air.” Four chairs were grouped around a coffee table. The chairs were covered in a bright geometric print she’d picked from a catalogue. Soft green pillows and curtains. Home.

  He searched the living room and kitchen first, but didn’t find anything. Finally, he went into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made. A pair of black leggings were tossed on the end. He took another deep breath, expecting to feel the biting pain of loss assault him, but it didn’t come. He felt her. She was still here, some part of her, and that gave him peace.

  He looked through the bureau, lifting neatly folded stacks of sweaters and tee shirts, searched the book shelves, pulling each book out before putting it back in its place. Nothing. He didn’t even know what he was supposed to be looking for – just something. Marcus sat on the edge of the bed he’d once shared with the woman he loved, thinking. His eyes moved over the room, came to rest on the closet doors. He crossed the room in four strides. The card was in the pocket of her tweed coat.

  Psychic Readings.

  He called the number on the card without thinking about what he’d say to the woman on the other end of the line. He listened to the rings, his mind curiously blank. Two rings. Three. Four. She answered on the fifth.

  “Hello?” her voice was soft, young. Southern.

  “My name is Marcus Kivale and I wonder if I can ask you a few questions, Ms.--”

  “Suzanne,” the woman said. “What kind of questions, Mr. Kivale?”

  “I think a woman came to see you. Bosauvia Caveleska.”

  The silence stretched out. Finally, Suzanne answered. “Bo talked about you. She loved you very much.”

  The words twisted something in his gut. He closed his eyes. Pictured her. Held her there. “Why did she come to see you, Suzanne?”

  “It was a party, a group reading. One of the women had just found out she was having a baby. Her first.” Jane Withers, Marcus thought, “One of her co-workers thought a group reading would be a fun way to celebrate.”

  And now Marcus could remember Bo telling him about the party. “Silly,” she’d said, “but it should be good for a laugh.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  The woman hesitated again and Marcus thought Suzanne would hang up without saying more. “I read Bo last. She was reluctant to be read, but the others talked her into it.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “It was…difficult. I’ve been doing readings for nine years and I’ve never read anyone like Bo before.”

  “Why was that?”

  “She wasn’t alone. I know how silly that sounds, Mr. Kivale, but she wasn’t just Bo. She had a spirit attached to her soul. An evil spirit, hanging onto her, like a shadow stapled to her heels. She laughed it off, but I could tell my words disturbed her deeply. But it was even more than that – she knew it. I could see instantly that she felt and understood what I was saying. She called me the next day and asked for a private reading. She came by that afternoon and we talked. I saw things when I read her that I didn’t understand, but I could tell she did. At the end, she asked how she could get rid of this spirit. I told her to pray.”

  Chapter 32

  Alex

  It was going to rain. Alex could feel it in the wind, could smell the scent of the storm in the air. He put his hands into his pockets and strode down the street, his eyes on the pavement. He was afraid of running into one of his parishioners. And if he did, how could he have a conversation with them? How could he pretend to be normal? Sane?

  Sane. He felt insane now, full of doubt. What if it was all true? What if Hell was a real place, waiting for them in the end? Please, he prayed as he walked, not to God, but to himself, don’t let it be real.

  The church was ahead. A looming hulk of dark stone. Alex stopped walking and stared. St. Stanislaw’s. St. Stand’s. The church defined so much of who he was, not in a religious sense, but in a personal one. He loved the scent of incense, the feel of Holy Water, the sound of risers clacking into position as parishioners knelt to pray. He loved the way the light filtered through the stained glass, lighting the statues of Saints, the ornate altar and the crucifix that was the center of his religion. Yes, he loved his church. Pity he’d never believed in it.

  As he was standing on the sidewalk, staring at what had become his home, he became aware of a shadow next to him. He turned, his heart springing to his throat, half eager, half terrified. A little girl of about six stared up at him, her eyes wide. “Father Alex?” she had a slight lisp. She smiled and Alex saw the reason for her speech impediment. Three of her front teeth were gone. He tried to remember her name but failed.

  “Hi honey, how are you?” To his relief, his voice was steady and calm. The little girl smiled wider and a dimple appeared in her right cheek. There was a smudge of dirt on her left sleeve, a dribble of something that looked like chocolate on her pink blouse. She was dressed in jeans with an elastic waist and pink roses embroidered on the pockets. On her feet were pink sneakers with Barbie’s head embossed on the sides.

  “Whatcha doing Father Alex? How come you’re staring at the church?”

  He squatted down, his hands between his knees to be on eye-level with the little girl. Hannah? Holly? “Sometimes I just like to look at St. Stanislaw’s. It’s so pretty. Like you.”

  The little girl giggled and the sound soothed Alex in a way faith never could. “I like to look at St. Stanislaw’s, too,” she said shyly, dragging out Stan-is-law’s into three long syllables. “Only we don’t call it that. We call it St. Stand’s.”

  Alex nodded. “That’s what I used to call it, too. Easier to say.”

  The little girl’s hair bounced around her face as she nodded. “Plus it’s the truth, my Mom says.”

  “What’s the truth?”

  The little girl gave him a scornful look, “My Mom says it’s okay to call it St. Stand’s because the church stands for God and Jesus. She says it isn’t disrespectful because St. Stand’s is a true name.”

  He started to stand up, but the little girl put a hand on his sleeve. “Father Alex?”

  “Yes?”

  She hesitated, her blue eyes on Alex’s face as if searching for something there. He felt a momentary panic. Did she see his uncertainty? Could she read the lie of his life in his face? “At Mass, are you gonna talk about all the people dying?”

  For a second, Alex’s mind went blank. He didn’t know what he expected to hear from the child, but her question caught him by surprise. “I suppose I will,” he said slowly. “I haven’t thought about Sunday’s sermon yet, but I think you’ve given me an idea.”

  The little girl’s smile flashed. “My Mom said you probably would. When I asked her how come so many people were getting killed, she said it was because of wicked men. I asked her how come God lets wicked men kill nice people and she said sometimes that just happens and it’s all part of God’s plan. She said you’d probably tell us about it on Sunday. Is it true? It’s God’s plan?”

  This time Alex did rise to his feet and he
r eyes followed him as he stood. “Your mother sounds like a very wise woman.”

  The child frowned and Alex knew his answer hadn’t pleased her. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Why are you outside alone? Does your mother know you’re on the street?”

  She shook her head. Her eyes dropped and she looked at her shoes. “She told me to stay in the yard, but I wanted to go see Bethany. She’s my best friend.”

  Alex squeezed her shoulder gently. “Where do you live?”

  She pointed at a three-story house across the street.

  “I want you to go home right now, before your mother worries. You don’t want to scare her, do you?”

  “Noooo! I just want to play.”

  “I know, but right now, wicked things are happening.” She was staring at him again, her eyes wide and solemn. Alex lowered his voice. “I want you to stay in your yard, close to your house. Don’t go anywhere without your mother, don’t go to Bethany’s or Spritzi’s or anywhere by yourself. Okay?” She nodded, dejected. “Go on now,” Alex said. “I’ll watch you cross the street and go in.”

  “Okay.” Her smiled flashed. “You’re not mean at all,” she said suddenly, and then she was gone, running to the curb, looking carefully both ways before darting across the street. Alex watched her climb the stairs and open the tenement door and then she turned and waved at him. He waved back, and the little girl slipped inside.

  He thought about her last comment you’re not mean at all, and wondered if that was how the younger parishioners saw him. It was funny in a way. He’d worked so hard to present a carefully crafted image, to be the kind, thoughtful priest who loved everyone. Apparently, he hadn’t been entirely successful.

  He climbed the stairs to St. Stand’s, hesitating one last time before the oak doors. St. Stand’s is a true name, he thought, and then he opened the doors.

  It was dark inside the church and Alex flipped the switch that operated a single bank of lights. He didn’t bother lighting the whole church; there was no need. He knew every inch by heart. Some of his flock thought he was being frugal, a response to the ever-tightening budget situation. There was even talk about closing St. Stand’s, joining his parish with St. Rose’s across the city. The parishioners were battling the archdiocese, arguing against closing the religious center of their neighborhood, but Alex had a feeling they were going to lose. St. Stand’s could become a thing of the past, a boarded-up relic. It would a travesty.

  He walked up the right hand aisle, purposefully turning his thoughts away from the task at hand. It was easier to think about the politics of Catholicism than it was to think about the chore Vinny sent him on. He reached the altar and climbed the carpeted steps to the sanctuary, thinking about the Cardinal and the meeting scheduled for next month; the organization the parishioners had formed to save their church and how they met in the basement, discussing how to raise the money needed to keep St. Stand’s open over coffee and cinnamon cake. He thought about Father Michael, and how sad he looked and how utterly unable the good brother was at dealing with anything remotely political—

  and then Alex stopped thinking at all.

  A rat sat on the altar table. Its black eyes gleamed, long whiskers twitched. The rat was enormous; its thick body covered half the table, long tail hung over the edge. He’d never seen a rat in St. Stand’s. Never. And a rat this big—

  The rat leapt off the table and trotted behind the altar. “Have to call the custodian,” Alex said aloud. “Tell Joe to leave out rat poison. Bait.”

  But bait wouldn’t be enough. Not if what Kate said was true. The rats were part of it, whatever it was. Alex closed his eyes and tried to find a prayer. “Help me,” he said aloud. “Help me find strength. Help me find faith.” But as always, there was no answer. Alex opened his eyes, no longer able to think about the politics of religion or Sunday’s homily and anything remotely normal and sane.

  Vinny had told him to look through ledgers, to try to see if there was recorded history within the church. Like every Catholic Church, St. Stand’s had dealt with possession and exorcism. In the past, exorcism had worked; maybe it would work for them now.

  He opened the door to the lower level of the church and stepped into the darkness that led to the ledgers. As he went, he heard the little girl’s voice again. “St. Stand’s is a true name,” and he found himself hoping she was right.

  Chapter 33

  Kate

  Somehow, she’d expected the Historical Society to be a dark, gloomy place full of dusty relics and stuffed birds. It was a pleasant surprise. The front door opened into a lobby area that resembled a bed and breakfast more than a museum. The walls were painted a soft cream, the wood trim a darker shade of gold. Bright patterned wool rugs covered the polished wood floor. Dwarf trees potted in woven baskets were strategically placed in corners. Facing Kate was the desk, again more suitable to a hotel than a building housing Chelsea’s history.

  A young woman was behind the counter, curled up in a chair, engrossed in a book on her lap. As Kate closed the door behind her, the girl stood with a smile. “Can I help you?”

  She was a pretty girl with long, wavy brown hair and freckles splayed across her nose and her cheeks, dressed in a woolen sweater and skirt. Kate found herself smiling back. Her nose had stopped bleeding and Kate thrust the bloody tissue into her pocket.

  “I hope so, I’m…” up until that moment, Kate hadn’t thought of the need to make up a cover story and she covered her momentary stall as best she could. “I’m Professor Ayotte,” she said smoothly. “I’m doing a research project on Chelsea’s history.”

  The young woman smiled again. “Sounds interesting. What’s the topic?”

  Bo’s lie sprang to Kate’s lips and slid flawlessly from her mouth. “Seventeenth century crime and punishment.”

  The girl’s eyebrows rose. “Wow. That’s a heavy topic.”

  “It’s a subject I’ve always been interested in. I’m wondering if you might have any records that may help me.”

  “There are a number of ledgers upstairs. At one time, we had the books displayed, but they’re old and fragile and we were afraid--”

  “—of too many little hands flipping pages ready to turn to dust.”

  The girl’s smile flashed again. “Right. A few years ago, the oldest records were put into storage. They’re only taken out for special requests.” As she spoke, the girl came out from behind the counter and motioned for Kate to follow her. Her name tag flashed in the sun. Hilary, it read. “We don’t allow visitors to use the journals, I’m afraid. But we do have a number of books that have been written based on the journals. Those could be helpful to you.”

  “I’m sure they would be. And probably easier to read, as well.”

  Hilary nodded, obviously pleased. “Do you know anything about the Society?”

  As Kate shook her head no, she knew she was about to learn. “The Chelsea Historical Society was formed in 1897, when Mrs. Wilson Packett organized a woman’s club dedicated to preserving Chelsea’s history.” Kate followed the girl from the lobby area to a small room on the right. The room was decorated as a late nineteenth century parlor, complete with period furnishings and tapestries. As they moved through the room, Kate realized that this portion of the Society was set up as a museum, designed to begin with Mrs. Packett’s vision of Chelsea’s history and working its way forward as well as back.

  Over the fireplace was an oil painting of a heavyset women with jowls. “Mrs. Packett,” the guide said with pride and Kate murmured “Ah.”

  “By 1899, the Society had grown to over 150 members and donations of materials increased. By the turn of the century, the artifacts were no longer able to be stored at Mrs. Packett’s home, and the Society began to search for an appropriate site. At the time, this house was owned by the city, having been taken for the non-payment of taxes. Mrs. Packett petitioned, successfully, for the town to donate the house and land to the Society. The house was turned over to the organization in 1907 and
we’ve been here ever since.”

  Kate wondered how many times the young guide had repeated the brief history. Somehow, she didn’t think there were many visitors to this old building. Hilary turned and led the way through a set of pocket doors into a spacious hallway. A curved staircase graced what must have been the main entrance at one time and as Kate looked around, the guide hesitated. “Would you like a quick tour?”

  “I’d love one, but I’m on a tight schedule. I’d like to come back another time, though, to learn more. It’s all very interesting.”

  Hilary led Kate up the curved staircase. She continued to talk as they went, but Kate barely heard her and her voice became background noise. When they reached the top floor, Hilary led the way to a room set in the eaves of the house. She put her hand on the doorknob and turned to Kate.

  On impulse, Kate asked, “Do you happen to know Mrs. Maki?”

  The young woman’s eyes widened in surprise. “Yes. She’s been involved with the Society for years. She was instrumental in obtaining federal grants for us.”

  Relief washed over Kate. If this young woman knew Mrs. Maki, then part of Vinny’s theory was wrong. “When I was a little girl, Mrs. Maki helped me with some research I was doing.”

  The girl looked confused. “Oh, you must be talking about Adrianne Maki. I was talking about her daughter-in-law, Lynne.”

  Kate’s heart stopped.

  “Adrianne Maki was a wonderful supporter of the Historical Society. When she died, her daughter in law, Lynne, stepped in. I think at first it was…personal with Lynne. Lynne was very close to Adrianne. They were like best friends, which was great because so often you hear about mother-in-laws from hell. Adrianne wasn’t like that. She was terrific, or so everyone says. I never met her, of course. She died way before my time here, but I’ve heard a lot about her.”