He fumbled through some platitudes about faith and the mysteries of God’s will and compassionate understanding, whatever that was supposed to mean under the circumstances. There was a hymn and a benediction, after which the black-clad crowd poured through the open doors, struggling not to trample each other.
The rumors were already flying as the lot of us shuffled out into the comparatively cool air of early evening: comments about frenzied madness and delirium, whisperings of witchcraft and diabolical forces.
The Old Man walked slowly, my mother’s hand on his arm.
“Are you all right, Dick?” she asked.
“Fine,” he said unconvincingly.
“It’s his ear,” I said.
He nodded.
“I can’t believe they’re still having a reception after that,” my mother said.
“Would it be better to let fifteen grand go to waste?”
“It might,” she said. “Are you sure you’re all right, Dick?”
“I’m fine,” said the Old Man. “It’ll pass.”
“We should go home,” my mother said, her voice transparently broadcasting her reluctance.
“I just need a drink,” he said.
Together we walked out through the parking lot to the sidewalk. The torches along the path seemed sinister and ominous after what we had just witnessed. I remembered a story I’d read in school about a young Puritan man during the time of the Salem witch trials who sneaks out to the forest for a secret rendezvous with the devil, only to find everyone in his life whom he’d ever thought of as pious and moral—including his young wife, the rather bluntly named Faith—congregated at the Black Mass that was to be the young man’s infernal baptism. “Now are ye undeceived,” the devil cries. “Welcome, my children, to the communion of your race!”
By the time we reached the reception, long lines already stretched back from both bars. Clearly ignorant of what they’d missed, the band—an R & B combo fronted by an elfish, bearded keyboard player and an enormous female vocalist in a metallic orange evening gown—were working hard to win over the understandably restrained crowd. The singers traded verses and blended harmonies on “Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing,” segueing seamlessly into “I Heard It through the Grapevine.” The horn section, all wearing wayfarer sunglasses, swayed back and forth in unison.
“There,” my mother said, pointing to a table at the corner of the portable parquet dance floor farthest from the bandstand. “Anita and Kiki.”
I walked behind them as we approached Miss Anita and Kiki Baumberger, sipping chardonnay and trying to look serene.
“Alice,” Miss Anita said.
My mother stooped to receive her one-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Oh, Anita,” she said.
“That poor girl,” Anita replied. “We’ll pray for her, won’t we?”
My mother nodded fervently.
“Did you sense something like this was going to happen?” Kiki asked.
“I wish I had,” Miss Anita said. “Not that it would have made any difference.”
“You might have stopped it,” Kiki said. “You might have spared poor Leigh.”
“The sight doesn’t work that way,” Anita said.
“As soon as it happened,” my mother said, “I thought it was what you saw yesterday when Brad Culver came to the house.”
“No, dear,” Anita said. “That was something else.”
“What was it, Anita?” Kiki asked.
“I couldn’t bear to tell you,” Anita answered. “I haven’t any idea what it meant anyhow. Sometimes the things I see are meaningless—just an old woman’s crazy notions.”
My mother and Kiki Baumberger exchanged a knowing glance.
“Would you like something to drink, honey?” the Old Man asked.
“Please,” she said, lifting her face to the Old Man’s.
“Come along, Richard,” the Old Man said. “Let’s get your mother a drink.”
I followed him as he shuffled over to the bar, my eyes scanning the crowd for green bridesmaids’ dresses.
“White wine and a scotch old-fashioned, please, Oscar,” the Old Man said.
“Yessuh,” the bartender replied.
“And a ginger ale,” the Old Man added.
“Uh-huh,” Oscar answered.
The Old Man pulled his money clip from his wallet and peeled out a twenty. He held it in the air in front of his furrowed brow. After a long pause, he laid it on the bar.
“Shoot a little something into that ginger ale, will you, Oscar?”
“Happy to, Mr. Askew.”
The Old Man motioned me over to the edge of the tent, his own drink in one hand, my mother’s wineglass in the other.
“Thought you might need that,” the Old Man said, nodding to my drink.
“Thanks,” I said.
For a moment I felt as if the future had arrived. Here we were, Dad and me, two men having a drink together. It was almost enough to make me forget what had brought us there.
“Dad,” I said.
“Hold that thought,” he said. “Let me deliver this. And son, about that drink—if you say a word to your mother . . .”
“I know,” I said.
The bridesmaids emerged from the house and gathered at the front of the bandstand. There appeared to have been some sort of mutual agreement to behave as if nothing unusual had happened. The groomsmen joined them as the band played “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”
“Hello, Rocky.”
Patricia was standing a few feet away, in the shadows at the edge of the tent. A jolt of guilt came over me. I looked back for the Old Man. He had taken a seat at the table next to my mother. I turned back to Patricia.
“It’s been quite an evening, hasn’t it?” she said.
“How could you?” I said.
She frowned in dismay.
“How could I?” she said. “How could you, Rocky? I don’t recall twisting your arm for information.”
“You said you wouldn’t tell.”
“So did you.”
Patricia crossed her arms, her breasts resting across them, as if she was thrusting her cleavage at me to weaken my resolve.
“If you didn’t want me to say anything,” she said, “why did you tell me?”
“I shouldn’t have,” I said.
She sighed.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have either,” she said. “Then again, maybe it was also for the best.”
“How can you say that?”
“Charles was very understanding,” Patricia said. “And why should Leigh be ashamed? She was the victim. The victim of men she trusted.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
I thought she was referring to me.
“You’re not your brother, Rocky,” she said. “Besides, her father’s surely the one who’s at fault here. What an atrocious thing to do to a young girl! And furthermore, he’s known all along about her other problems.”
“What other problems?” I asked.
“Leigh is very sick, Rocky,” she said. “I suppose we might have noticed the signs. Had he known, Charles might have gone through with it. He might even have loved her. But to accept a proposal of marriage without disclosing such a condition—it’s unconscionable, really.”
She tilted her head and touched her right hand to her chin, as if lost in thought. Despite lacking its former support, her right breast remained upright, if not quite as well secured as its counterpart. If the manipulation of her breasts was a calculated distraction, it achieved the desired effect. As incensed as I might have been, I couldn’t stay angry at her, busy as I was imagining her naked.
“I expect she’ll go off for another rest,” Patricia said. “After that, who knows?”
The sanctimoniousness of her tone restored my indignation.
“You act like you care,” I said.
“But you see, I do,” she said. “I care deeply. I honestly want the best for her. She was going
to be my sister.”
“She never trusted you,” I said. “I guess she was right.”
“Are you suggesting that I’m to blame for what happened in that church? Please, Rocky. You give me too much credit. From what I’ve heard, this wasn’t the first time.”
I remembered Leigh’s mention of her “episodes.” Even all those years ago, there was talk that she was “a little off.” People protected her then, I think, because of what had happened to her mother. When I’d seen her just a few days before, popping pills and rambling obsessively about her past, I’d assumed it was all due to the stress of the story she was telling and her impending arranged marriage—not because of some preexisting condition.
“Even so,” I said, “it didn’t have to happen in front of all those people. You can’t deny that you—that we had something to do with that.”
“Please, Rocky,” Patricia protested.
“I wish you’d stop calling me that,” I said.
“All right, Richard,” she said. “But really. Why do you think she told you all those outlandish stories? Did you know that impulsive, self-destructive behavior is a classic symptom of manic depression? Did you know that paranoid delusions are also among those symptoms?”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”
I hadn’t thought of Leigh as depressed. We weren’t all into labels just yet. People like Leigh were just thought of as being a little kooky.
Patricia gave a long sigh and glanced off over her shoulder.
“I’m frankly a bit hurt,” she said, “that after all we’ve shared, you’d be so quick to accuse me. It’s actually quite painful.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
I looked back toward where my parents were sitting with Miss Anita and Kiki. The Old Man was watching us, his eyes darkened with suspicion.
“I guess it’s just hard for me not to feel responsible,” I said.
“It would have happened anyway, Richard,” she said.
“We don’t know that.”
“We can’t say it wouldn’t have either.”
“It was so awful,” I said.
“As horrifying as it may seem, I’m told it’s not all that bad,” Patricia said, taking on her professorial lecturer’s tone. “Apparently the brain chemistry involved in an acute psychotic break resembles the effect of a very powerful narcotic or hallucinogen. So while it’s very disturbing to observe, to the victim it feels pleasurable—even euphoric.”
“Terrific,” I said. “I feel so much better now. Come to think of it, she looked like she was having an absolute blast.”
She moved closer to me.
“This is very upsetting for me too,” she said, more softly. “I wish I could hold you.”
“Maybe we could talk again later,” I said. Even under the circumstances, I was still thinking about getting between her thighs one last time.
“No, darling,” she said. “That’s impossible. We’ll go to the hospital to check in on Charles. After that, we’ll prepare to take the horses to Florida tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I asked, my voice keening with incredulity.
“I know it’s sudden,” she said. “But Mummy and Daddy are too horrified to face anyone. They want to get away for a while. So we’re all driving down together, a week earlier than planned.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“This can’t be happening,” I said.
“It hurts me too,” she said. “But we knew this day would come, Richard.”
She was right. But knowing something’s coming and experiencing it are two different things entirely. Besides, I’d thought I’d have another two weeks to prepare for it, even if, technically, Patricia had already let me go. I was sure she hadn’t really meant it—that once Leigh and Charles were off on their honeymoon, we’d be back in the hayloft, for a little while longer. I couldn’t have been more floored if I’d woken up that morning to learn she’d died in her sleep.
“I’m sure you’ll fall in love with a much more worthy girl before I see you again,” she said. “At that point you’ll be ready to thank me.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Hello, young Richard,” a voice said, startling us both.
Brad Culver appeared behind us. He held a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. The smoke wrapped around his face like a veil.
“Daddy,” Patricia said, sighing. “You’re smoking?”
“On a night like this,” he said, “you can’t begrudge a man one lousy cigarette.”
I looked over to where the Old Man had been sitting. He was already on his feet, headed in our direction.
“We’ll be leaving soon, Patricia,” Culver said. “Your mother’s waiting in the car.”
“All right,” Patricia said.
“Make sure you see whoever you need to see,” he said.
Culver wheeled and disappeared, leaving the still-smoldering butt of his cigarette on the grass beside us.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” I said.
“I know,” Patricia answered. “It’s a bit like we’re fleeing the scene of a crime, isn’t it?”
She lifted the hem of her dress and extended a high-heeled pump to stamp out her father’s cigarette. Then she leaned in and gave me a light peck on the cheek.
“Be sweet, won’t you?” she said.
I was too dazed to think of anything resembling a witty riposte.
“I’ll try,” I said.
I stood with slumped shoulders as Patricia trudged off in that ill-fitting dress to intercept my father. She shook the Old Man’s hand and nodded and smiled and shuffled over first to my mother and then to the bridesmaids, pecking each of them on the cheek. I touched the spot where I could still feel the faint brush of her lipstick, cool on my face in the dry night air. I clenched my eyes shut. When I opened them again to look for her, the Old Man was standing in front of me, holding a drink in each hand.
“Culver left, didn’t he?” he asked.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“That son of a bitch.”
The wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he studied the spot on the ground where Culver had dropped his cigarette.
“Doesn’t even have the nerve to face me, does he?” he said.
“They’re leaving for Florida,” I said. “Tomorrow.”
“That figures,” the Old Man said. “He’s just the type to light a house on fire and then skip town while it’s still burning.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, or why Brad Culver was suddenly a “son of a bitch” again or wouldn’t want to face the Old Man. I nodded guiltily, assuming it had something to do with me.
“Here,” he said.
He handed me one of the two drinks—another ginger ale spiked with a generous splash of bourbon.
“Dad,” I started, ready to make my confession.
“I know,” he said, as if he didn’t want to be told.
Everyone at the party seemed to have concluded that the most polite thing to do was to get drunk and behave as if nothing unusual had happened. The band drew the crowd back with a spirited medley of “Proud Mary,” “Celebration,” and “Shout.” Old men sated with scotch and shrimp cocktail shed suit jackets and merged into the mass of shambling bodies, their necks straining against tightening collars, grinning and twisting, twirling the arms of younger girls and adventurous wives. Together they threw their arms up toward the taut white canvas skin above them. I wondered whether, at that very moment, Leigh Bowman sat huddling in the corner of some padded cell, dressed in a straitjacket, dosed up to her eyeballs with tranquilizers, swimming toward the receding dream of another life.
The Old Man placed his hand on my shoulder. It warmed me at first, this contact—this rare sign of physical affection. Then the hand grew heavier. I felt myself start to slip. Too late, I realized that the Old Man was not consoling me but rather grabbing for purchase as his knees buckled beneath him and he crumbled to the ground.
I d
idn’t have to call for help; they were already around me, around him: the good men of Spencerville, poised and ready, as if they all sensed we had not yet seen the last of the night’s calamities.
Another doctor—Inman Fox, an orthopedic surgeon—knelt over the Old Man, checking his vitals.
“It’s his ear,” I said. “He gets vertigo.”
I can still see the Old Man’s stricken face as Dr. Fox loomed over him and began to administer CPR. I remember how his lips parted and remained open; how his head bobbed with each compression; how his eyes rolled up above our faces, staring at the roof of the tent as if he could see something other than a blank field of white.
Part Three
Blood on Blood
12
OUR TOWN FED ON the corpse of Leigh Bowman’s disastrous wedding until only the bones remained. For weeks, it seemed, no one could talk of anything else but the haunted wedding where the bride was diabolically possessed in front of a whole congregation of believers. Being able to say that you were there, that you saw it with your own two eyes, was like having seen Hendrix play “The Star-Spangled Banner” at Woodstock. Rumors flew about witchcraft and hippie thrill-kill death cults in the mountain West. A saline abortion at the Monacan Mountain Rehabilitation Center became a ritual baby sacrifice or a desperate attempt to prevent the birth of the Antichrist. Some went so far as to suggest that the demon bride had telepathically zapped the father of her cruel ex-boyfriend for having the indecency to show up at her daddy’s circus-tent wedding reception while she was being tied up in a straitjacket on the fifth floor of the Baptist hospital.
Almost immediately, Charles Culver left to resume his globe-trotting business career. After a few weeks, the Culvers returned and resumed their relatively solitary lives at Twin Oaks. Patricia remained in Florida, “eventing.” As she had predicted, Leigh Bowman disappeared, off at some undisclosed “place of rest.”
BEFORE THE OLD MAN came home, it was still possible to think that he might experience a full recovery. Even up to and after Thanksgiving, with his daily therapy sessions and his slurred promises that he would soon be back to work, we still believed that he might at least regain a modicum of self-sufficiency. There was no reason for us to feel this way. Call it misplaced faith in the power of positive thinking.
Only Love Can Break Your Heart Page 14