by Edward Lee
Jerrica blushed. “Oh, Annie, you didn’t have to do that. It’s no big deal.”
“It shore is if ya ask me. You’re a guest, after all, and a friend’a my niece. I can’t have my handyman houndin’ ya.”
Alexander raised another brow, but Charity couldn’t help but smile. “When are you leaving for Richmond, Father?”
“Right now,” he said and stood right back up. “I’ll be back late afternoon or early evening. See you all later.”
“Bye, Father,” Annie and Charity said nearly at the same time. But Jerrica jumped up and chased him into the foyer. Charity tried not to appear that she was eavesdropping, but she couldn’t help it. “Father!” Jerrica said from the other room. “Let me go with you!”
A pause. “Oh, all right,” the priest agreed.
Then they were out the front door.
“Poor girl,” Annie said. “She’s taken an awful fancy to Father.”
“It seems so,” Charity said.
“But I gotta admit, I find him a might attractive myself, an’ even more so on account’a his faith.”
`“Priests always have that effect. I guess because they’re off-limits, so to speak.”
“You got that right, dear. Ain’t nothin’ more attractive than a man ya cain’t have.”
Charity sat still, thought about that. Why can’t I have a man? she wondered. How come everything goes to pot, and I don’t even know why? She felt inclined to talk further on the topic, maybe even take her aunt into confidence. But what point would there be in that? All she’d do is make herself look foolish.
“But let me ask you somethin’, Charity. Is it my ’magination or does Jerrica look a bit funny?’
She noticed too, Charity thought. But what could she say? “I think you’re right. She seems…anxious. But it’s probably just because this is so different for her,” she excused. “She’s a city girl. She’s not used to the country.”
Annie nodded. “Never thought’a that.”
Charity changed the subject. “Would you like to gather some flowers now, walk out to the cemetery?”
Her aunt canted her head, put a hand to her brow. “It ain’t reglar that I miss a day, but honestly, Charity, I feel so pooped out, what I’m gonna do right now is take a nap, if ya don’t mind.”
“You should,” Charity agreed. “With all that excitement last night? Go get some rest. I’ll be fine.”
“You shore?”
“Of course, Aunt Annie. Go take a nap, and we’ll talk later.”
“You’re such a dear.” Annie got up, heading for her room. “But I promise, tonight I’ll fix us up a supper like you won’t believe.”
“Okay, Aunt Annie. Rest well.”
Charity watched her aunt trudge off. Then she found herself alone, wondering what she would do today.
Then—
Her eyes opened wide.
I know, she thought.
(II)
“Out with it,” Alexander demanded.
“What?” Jerrica said, buckling her seatbelt as the Mercedes turned off the exit to 23.
“Don’t give me that what shit. You’re high. You’re fucked up, Jerrica. You’re acting like you’re sitting on the third rail to the fucking Metro.” The priest scowled. “What is it? Coke? Flake? Speed? You’re on something.”
Her head could not have hung lower. “Coke.”
“Asshole! I knew it!” Alexander came close to shouting. “I won’t even bother with the lecture, Jerrica—you’ve heard it a hundred times. All I’ll say is this. Life is a fuckin’ gift from God…and look at what you’re doing with it.”
She sobbed silently; she knew it was all true. “I—” she began. How could she explain it? How could she tell him about her curse, and how if it isn’t one thing, it’s another? He’d bury her. So all she said was this: “I have some problems.”
“Oh give me a break!” he bellowed. “Let me rosin up my fucking violin, Paganini! You have problems. Shit, Jerrica, everybody has problems, but they don’t use those problems as an excuse to be a drug addict.”
The term—drug addict—chinked, like a hammer to stone. I’m a drug addict, she realized, but deep down, even for the years she hadn’t touched the coke, she knew that. The priest was simply infuriating. “I stopped for years,” she said, her throat hitching. “I didn’t want to do it again until I met you.”
“Oh, so it’s my fault you’re a cokehead, huh?”
Her teeth clacked shut, her fists clenched. “It’s because I fell in love with you!”
Now he really went off. “Are you out of your mind? I’m a fucking PRIEST, Jerrica! I can’t be in love with you or anybody!The only person I’m in love with is JESUS CHRIST! What, some cute blond says she loves me and I’m supposed to throw my collar out the fucking window, forsake my vows to God, and piss it all away?”
“I’m just telling you how I feel!” she shrieked.
“Yeah? Well how you feel is fucked up! You just sit there and shut up and you don’t say a word for the rest of the trip!”
“God, you’re an asshole!”
Alexander lit a Lucky, laughed. “That’s right, baby. I’m an asshole. Asshole is my middle name. But you want to know what your middle name is?” For a moment, he looked like he might actually strike her. “Your middle name is junkie.” And with that, he slammed the brakes, screeched to a halt on the sunny shoulder. “I’ll bet you’re carrying that shit, aren’t you? Give it to me. Where is it?”
Her throat felt so thick she could barely speak. “I-I-I—”
“I-I-I what!” he bellowed.
“I don’t have it!”
“BULLshit!”
“I don’t! I swear! I used it all up last night! I was just telling you how I feel!”
He shot her a look, then, of such disdain, she felt like she might dry up right there in the car seat, like a little puddle.
“Just keep your face shut for the rest of the drive,” he repeated, and pulled back onto the road. “If you don’t, I’ll kick your ass right out of the car and let you hitchhike back to D.C. or Luntville or Coke City or anywhere else you might want to take your busted, fucked up life. But don’t talk! Don’t say a word to me!” He settled back down behind the wheel.
“Because I don’t talk to junkies,” he said.
(III)
It was so hot, so humid! How does she stand doing this every day? Charity asked herself. I’m thirty years younger than her and I can’t stand it.
And hot it was, even in the shaded forest walkways. The heat was teaming. Gnats and mosquitoes buzzed about her face and arms, which she swatted at with a vengeance. Light and billowy as her organdy summer dress may have been, she was drenched in sweat in only moments; all of her skin seemed to trickle. Sweat even dripped from her eyebrows to her cheeks.
But she strode on, her own inquiry seducing her as effectively as the pseudo-lovers she’d dreamed of last night. Thickets snapped beneath her sandals. The dapples of sunlight through the trees, like radiant brushmarks, guided her further.
Something’s wrong with Jerrica, she thought, trying to divert her mind from the stifling heat. But there could be no denying it. At breakfast, Jerrica hadn’t eaten a thing; instead she’d just sat there, almost shaking. She couldn’t have been upset about Goop; Charity knew that she dreaded seeing Goop again, after her quick fling with him. So what was it? The priest? I hope not, Charity thought. True, Jerrica had openly revealed her rampant sexual longings on the drive up, which surprised her, but even an inveterate nymphomaniac should know the futility of desiring a priest.
Then her thoughts flywheeled. The trooper, she recalled. The murders… But that was silly to worry about. Like the officer had said, it was just a precaution. She couldn’t imagine a murderer running rampant in Luntville of all places; it was absurd. I’m just distracted, she thought. I’m hot.
After what seemed miles, the humid forest path opened up. It was stunning, despite the heat: the flowing, sunlit view of the cemetery. Wil
d weeds swayed in the warm breeze. Heads of Queen Ann’s lace bobbed. Charity walked directly to the spot of her mother’s grave. Solemnly she gazed down, her hands clasped. All the simple, faded stone read was: SISSY. My mother. Annie’s sister. She committed suicide with a shotgun when Charity’s father had died in the mine explosion; Annie had told her everything. It was strange, though, standing like this over her own mother’s grave, a woman she never knew.
Rest in peace, Mother, she thought.
Then she moved on. It wasn’t only her mother’s grave she’d come to see. She couldn’t escape the recollection of yesterday. How bizarre it had been. After Aunt Annie had placed the flowers on Sissy’s grave, she’d asked Charity to retreat back to the woods, and wait. And Charity saw where her aunt had gone.
To another grave at the far corner of the cemetery, with a second bundle of flowers.
Who? she thought. Who?
The far corner, yes, nearly beyond the actual limits of the graveyard itself. Charity followed her memory, and at once she was there. She knew this was the right plot because of the flowers her aunt had left only yesterday, a string-tied bunch from her own backyard garden. And there they were.
She stared down at them, shielding her eyes from the sun.
The flowers had baked already, such heat. But the plot looked so stark. Tiny. And—
This is so odd…
A perfectly blank gravestone.
It was old, she noted, stained by years of rain and weather. But its typical rounded face offered no inscription.
Unless—
Charity dropped to her knees. There was something, wasn’t there? Just at the grassline?
She pushed the grass down at the base of the stone. Squinted in effort then pushed harder. Her fingers could feel…something.
But it was too deep!
She stood again, grabbed either side of the stone with both hands, intent now on finding out. No one would see, would they? This was a family cemetery, and who would be out here on a day so scorching? Just me, she thought and almost laughed.
She worked the stone back and forth. At first it didn’t budge at all, but eventually—
Yes!
—it began to give a little. Then a little more, then…a lot more.
Soon the stone was so loose it wobbled.
All right, Charity thought, profuse with sweat now, but just as profuse with determination.
She hoisted the stone upward, and—
Ughhhh!
It pulled up and fell down.
(IV)
I should never have come, she thought, her head cast down so long now, she had a stiff neck. I should’ve stayed at the house with Charity, worked on my article, anything…
Alexander parked the Mercedes behind a small, drab complex of brick buildings, what she guessed was the diocesan center. Jerrica didn’t know much about Richmond, had scarcely ever even seen the city before. They’d driven past ghettos, rows of squalid tenements, abandoned streets still with litter. Was the whole city in such disrepair?
As ordered, she hadn’t said a word since his outburst. How could she? Jerrica had felt a lot of shame in her life, but not like today, not like now. He’s right, she condemned herself. I’m a junkie, I’m a fuck up. He must be…disgusted.
“All right,” he finally said, parked now, the motor off. Then he began with difficulty, “Listen, Jerrica. I’m sorry for yelling at you back there.”
She looked up peevishly; this was the last thing she expected to hear. He’s…sorry?
“I said some pretty shitty things to you, things I didn’t mean, and I’m sorry. You hearing me?”
She nodded. Dried tears crusted her cheeks.
“I’m a behavioral psychologist, that’s my training. I came down on you hard because you’re in a lot of trouble. I said those things to you because you’re important to me, and I care about you. You understand?”
She nodded again, confused.
“If I didn’t care about you, then I wouldn’t have said a word. Your life is your business. I just don’t want to see you blow it.”
“I know,” she peeped, her hands in her lap.
“You’re gonna have to get yourself squared away. We’ll talk about it, okay? I’ll help you. Okay? Do you want me to help you?”
“Yes!” she suddenly blurted out, and all at once she was crying again, hugging him, sobbing. “I’m sorry! I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t know why I do the things I do! I feel so ashamed!” Her tears ran freely, dampening his shirt.
He paused, held her, gave her a few moments to calm down. “It’s a tough world, I know, and a lot of times it just doesn’t seem fair. But in the end, and I think you know this, it’s all up to us as individuals to make things right. Now, I’ll be inside for an hour or so, with my boss. In the meantime, I want you to think about things, and we’ll talk when I’m through. Okay?”
She nodded one more time, took her face off his shoulder. “I want to. I want to get fixed up.”
“And you will,” he assured.
The got out of the car. The sun beat down on them. Alexander went on, “You probably noticed that the diocesan center isn’t exactly located in the posh part of town. Don’t go off the property, all right?” He pointed past a brick fence with an iron gate. “There’s a courtyard back there. Wait for me there.”
“Okay,” she said.
He smiled in the sun. “Everything’s gonna be fine.” Then, briefcase in hand, he walked toward the building and entered through a side door.
Jerrica watched after him, wiping her eyes. Nothing could properly describe the way she felt, but it was the way she always felt, wasn’t it?
If it wasn’t one thing, it was something else.
Why now? The old demons were back, but why? She struggled in the glare, to find any scapegoat, but there were none.
Only myself.
The enclosed courtyard appeared fairly well-kept: trimmed hedges, brick paths. Heavy boughs of trees hung overhead, giving shade. Yes, the courtyard looked like a nice place to sit and think, as the priest had advised, but—
Already she knew.
I. Will. Not, she struggled, and the more she struggled, the more diluted she became. Sex, drugs—it didn’t matter. It was always the same. One way or another, she was lost, and she always had been.
And she always would be.
Her eternal excuse: she couldn’t help it. She turned quickly away from the sanctuary of the courtyard and scurried away.
For the bad part of town.
(V)
“Tom! What a surprise!” Monsignor Halford greeted with genuine enthusiasm. He had his feet up on the fine teak desk, reading the Catholic Review.
“Somehow I knew you’d be working hard, Bob,” Alexander remarked, afrown. “No rest for the faithful.”
“So, what brings you back? What’s going on with Wroxeter?”
“Bullshit in a crock pot.” Alexander snapped open his briefcase on the coffee table. “Dick. That’s what’s going on.”
Halford pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes. “Aw, come on, Tom. I’ve asked you to put a lid on the foul language, huh? I ask you a simple question and you’re already spouting profanity.”
“Gorilla turds—that’s what’s going on at Wroxeter, Bob. Shit balls in a buttcrack.”
“Aw, come on, Tom!”
Alexander waved the folder full of the operating logs from the abbey. “Somebody’s pulling bigtime wool over my eyes, and I got a funny feeling it’s you.”
Halford sterned up. “I resent that, Tom. What gives you the right—”
“There is no administrative record of Wroxeter Abbey ever closing,” Alexander enlightened. “These logs show in-patient records, duty rosters, and supply inventories all active until July of ’76. That closure statement file you laid on me states that the place closed in April.”
“A clerical error—”
“My ass,” the priest shot back. “Come on, Bob, the abbess’ office is
untouched. It’s still even full of her personal effects, and so are the nuns’ dorms.” Alexander began to watch the monsignor very closely, paying particular attention to the eyes, the face, hand gestures. “The bedstands in the in-patient dorm are full of personal effects too. And the med station is still loaded up with drugs that are twenty years old. What, the diocese closes up the abbey but they leave controlled pharmaceuticals on the premise? This doesn’t jibe, Bob. It’s almost like everyone disappeared over night, and the Church sent some flunky out there the next day to seal the place up before anybody could get wise. And why would I suspect such a thing? Yesterday I called the goddamn office of land records for Russell County—”
“Goddamn it, Tom!” Halford, quite out of the ordinary, yelled. “You have no right to obstruct Church business!”
“Church business, no. Monkey business, yes.” Alexander smiled, lit up a Lucky. “I knew that would put some fire up your crack. And I don’t have to tell you, the county recorder of deeds claims that the Church never filed the closure statement.”
“We filed it with the state!”
“But that’s illegal, Bob.”
“Not with a waiver, smart boy!”
“Why get a waiver?” Alexander kept on him. He was getting everything he suspected, just by watching the monsignor. “Why not file the closure notice properly? What’s the big deal? The only reason you’d apply for a records waiver is to either beat property taxes for an actively occupied building, or to prevent a county inspection. And I don’t have to remind you that the Catholic Church is exempt from all property taxes.”
Halford was not pleased. He was livid. “I don’t appreciate being called a liar, Tom.”
“Then stop lying. Christ, Bob, I’m a trained psychologist. I’m trained to be able to tell when people are lying. Ever heard of tasal plate fluctuation, negative-impulse kinestetics, opposite-eye opposite-hand deflection? You’re doing it all right in front of me, Bob. I’ll bet my benefice that you’re lying to my face.”