Chapelwood

by Cherie Priest

  Nothing really vanishes. It’s gone someplace, at the hands of someone.

  Honestly, I’m not that worried. But it’s a loose end, something unfinished that lingers in the back of my mind. This should have been tidier. This should have been entirely cut-and-dried, but . . . and here is the confession that I hate the most to make, and would not whisper aloud if my life depended upon it: I do not know the numbers like Leonard did.

  They don’t speak to me the way they spoke to him, and they never have—it’s always been a terrible difficulty for me, though I hate with all my soul to admit it (even here, where no one sees it). In school, my hands were routinely rapped with rulers, and I was often sent to the corner in a dunce cap for some error or another. At least once per week through my entire education, a teacher was likely to bemoan the fact that for someone with such apparent intelligence, I was nonetheless dreadfully stupid.

  All because I couldn’t divide or multiply, either in my head or on the blackboard. I could add well enough, but scarcely subtract, and even though rationally I knew that the larger number must go on top, in a subtraction formula, somehow I kept reversing it with the smaller one . . . leading to tears and trouble, and constant recriminations.

  Even now, I must use my fingers when I count, though I don’t do it in front of others. It would not do to appear weak before my flock.

  Mind you, I’d argue it’s no weakness at all. My expertise lies elsewhere, that’s all, and a solid understanding of my own limitations is no failing. Instead, I surround myself with men who have the expertise I lack—and the end result is a stronger team all around. Woe to us all, if I were the sort of figurehead who must shoulder the whole weight of an operation.

  Woe enough that I’ve done the bulk of it since Leonard fled us.

  • • •

  So I’ve done my best with the equations the little accountant left behind, but my best has never been very good when it comes to this sort of thing, and that’s only an acknowledgment of fact—not flaw. I did attempt to find another accountant, but had no luck; all potential candidates were either inferior or not entirely trustworthy with information so delicate and powerful in nature.

  For those first few months, I was furious with Leonard. If I could have found him, I would have murdered him on the spot—or hauled him back here, chained him securely, and compelled him to continue his work by force. But then, as my wrath burned low, I began to feel something more akin to sorrow at his leaving us.

  He could have been so great. He could’ve stood at my right hand, but he abandoned us instead. He abandoned me, and I found no substitute for his numerical proficiency.

  I thought he was my friend.

  • • •

  I often wondered if I should ask someone else in the congregation . . . we have no other mathematicians, but there are engineers and architects among us. Surely their training and know-how exceeds my own when it comes to sums and figures . . . ? But to do that, to invite someone into these sacred formulas, these holy rituals of columns and tables and graphs . . . it would have revealed me as lacking some necessary skill, for one thing. And for another, we couldn’t afford to create another infidel, should a new fellow prove turncoat.

  So I did it all myself.

  I watched Leonard perform the calculations a thousand times, and although it’s not my favorite task or my greatest talent, I am muddling through all the same. I have gotten results that have proven correct—not least of all Leonard’s location, that awful flophouse where he lived under a new name, spelled out in a code so simple even I could understand it. It also gave me reassurance that Ruth would return to us, and reminded me of her importance in this process.

  If I am to be generous, I could say it’s one more way that Edwin was useful: He produced this daughter upon whom hangs so much promise and potential. Yet he’s also the impetuous dolt who brought her here against her will, when I specifically told him not to.

  He only wants to further our agenda, he says. He only wanted to help, he swears. He felt in his heart that the time was now, he confesses, and that much may well prove correct. But a man who will go against orders for his own satisfaction will lie just as easily, and I do not trust him. And if I can’t control him, I will not be held responsible for his behavior.

  • • •

  None of this changes anything about the present problem, which is named Ruth, and is sequestered in one of the basement worship rooms—where she sleeps off the chloroform that rendered her easy to transport.

  I hate doing things by force. I’d much rather do them by conversion, but here we are, and if my math can be trusted (can it be trusted?) there’s truly no time like the present. Even if I’ve missed a little something, somewhere, the numbers—which once gave us months, or even a full year’s worth of calendar to work with—now stop at dawn tomorrow. I’ve run them all a dozen times, and occasionally I get a slightly different result with the minor bits of revelation, but that major one remains consistent: We make our move tonight, or we never make it at all.

  Ruth is here, and the numbers know it. God knows it. And as far as I can tell, the woman’s unapproved arrival does nothing except shorten our time on this earth.

  Very well, then. Even if my math cannot be wholly trusted (and it can’t), Our Lord and Savior has seen fit to guide us, regardless. He says that the time is nigh, and I believe Him. He says to prepare ourselves, and so we shall.

  I’ve sent out word to the congregation. We assemble in the true sanctuary in an hour.

  And may God have mercy on our souls.

  (He will, I know. He does.)

  Lizbeth Andrew (Borden)

  OCTOBER 4, 1921

  Simon and I scared up directions to Chapelwood, courtesy of the hotel proprietress and a local map she kept in the office. Mrs. Becker (I believe that’s her name) tapped the little atlas with her index finger.

  “Are you sure you want to visit that place?” she asked, frowning down at the unfolded paper, now marked with arrows and a big red circle.

  “Not tonight, of course,” I lied through my teeth. “Tomorrow morning, I think.”

  The inspector added, “We’d like a chat with Reverend Davis, and it wouldn’t be polite to pay him a call so late.”

  Mrs. Becker shuddered. “That one gives me the willies, though I shouldn’t say such things about a man of the cloth.”

  I might have muttered, “On the contrary, I couldn’t agree with you more.” And Simon might have gently elbowed my arm.

  Then, as if to cover for my breach in decorum, he said, “A friend of ours has gone missing, and we believe he might know what’s become of her.”

  “Ruth?”

  We both blinked at her in surprise.

  “Oh, don’t look so shocked,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “Word gets around.”

  “At speeds that would shame the telephone company, it would seem.” Simon took the map, folded it into its original pamphlet form, and placed it in his vest pocket. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit now. It was a little formal for a nighttime raid, but it was the darkest thing he’d thought to pack. “Dare I ask what you made of the trial? Since you’ve been kind enough to help us, despite our allegiances.”

  “I don’t know that I’m helping you, and I fear for your soul if Chapelwood’s where you mean to go. But . . .” She shook her head. “But I’ll tell you this, because I want you to know it: There’s more to Birmingham than men in sheets and murdering hillfolk.”

  Then she did the most astonishing thing—she reached to her throat, and tugged a little necklace out of her cleavage. For one brief moment, it glimmered in the shimmering lights of the lobby, and then she stuffed it right back between her breasts for safekeeping.

  She wore a tiny gold Star of David.

  “You see?” she said with a shaky smile. “My parents came to this land fifty years ago, and changed their
name to keep the secret. Some are more open about it, but . . . not them. They suffered too much in Europe, I think. It seemed safer to start again, in a new place, with new names for their children. Of course, in days like these—the men who’d run us out of town are too busy trying to run the colored folks and the Catholics out on a rail. It’s an awful shield in front of us.”

  “That’s tragic, but true,” I agreed. I put my hand on top of hers, and she squeezed it, then let it go.

  “You know the maids here? The Malone girls?”

  Simon nodded. “I’ve seen them.”

  “And the man who does maintenance when it’s needed, Mr. Cooney? And MacGrath, who keeps the bushes trimmed? Catholics. You’re not supposed to hire them,” she whispered. “Not anymore, not since Nathaniel Barrett passed that legislation as soon as he got in the door. But a man’s got to work if he wants to eat, and my own family saw enough of that injustice back in the old country. So we give them work, if we’re able. And we wait for the True Americans to come, and we worry. But . . . we do what we can.”

  I didn’t want to ask, but couldn’t stop myself. “What if they do come?”

  She shrugged. Not like she hadn’t thought about it, but like she knew there was not much to be done, regardless. “Then they come. We’ll see what happens, but I think . . .” She fiddled with the chain, but didn’t reveal the pendant again. “I think they’ll find our numbers are greater than they know. These days, there are as many outcasts as in-casts. We own businesses, banks, and homes. We pay taxes like everyone else, and when we have to, we’ll stand together. The rest of us, I expect. Well,” she said, releasing the chain and flipping her hands up, “you know what I mean.”

  • • •

  We left with the map and with Mrs. Becker’s blessings, and Simon took the wheel of a car he’d arranged, sans driver this time. We didn’t talk much, as we were both paying attention to the road signs—and the lack thereof—but he did say, with less optimism than I wanted to hear, “They didn’t stand together. They didn’t stand with Ruth when they came for her. No one did but us.”

  “No one came for Ruth. She went to that trial of her own accord.”

  He didn’t reply, but I knew he was thinking about it, and deciding how true that was. As for myself, I didn’t know. I’ve been an outcast longer than I ever was part of society, and I will say this much: When you’re left out of things, you don’t know who else is left out, too. Most people assume they’re alone, because it’s safer that way. To confide is to risk exposure, after all. I think most of us would rather be pleasantly surprised to find like-minded or equally reviled others to ally ourselves with.

  So I know he’s right about Ruth, because I sat there, too, and watched her all alone except for the small handful of us—and Simon and I weren’t local to the place, so we had precious little to lose. But I also know how punishing fear can be, and how hard it is to break the patterns that have frightened you into silence.

  I don’t know, Emma. It’s all both better and worse than it appears on the surface.

  • • •

  Night fell as we drove; the faster we pushed the touring car on the inconstant, half-kept roads, the faster the darkness descended. I half imagined that the moon raced us, creeping across the sky as we struggled toward the compound at Chapelwood, but then we lost even that celestial sign—when a low blanket of clouds cut off the day entirely. As the way grew thinner and rougher on the outskirts of the city, we truly felt as if we were disappearing into the woods like Hansel and Gretel.

  There were no civic lanterns to encourage us along, only the automobile’s headlamps—which shook and rattled in their sockets. The light they cast did the same, spilling jerky yellow beams across the path in front of us. It dizzied me, and my head hurt from squinting, trying to hold my focus steady against the workings of the road, the automobile, and the dismal, dark scenery we penetrated more deeply with every passing mile.

  Simon had given me the map, so that I might play navigator. I held it up to the windshield, trying to siphon off an ounce or two of that front-gazing light, and seeing very little to encourage me. Not all the streets were marked, this far out into nowhere; not all the roads had even a smattering of gravel to set them apart from the wagon ruts or footpaths that one might otherwise call them.

  I nearly despaired.

  There were no helpful gas stops to pull over and ask, no friendly hitchhikers whose local expertise we might exploit, though when I bemoaned this fact, Simon laughed nervously.

  “You wouldn’t want to offer anyone a lift, not out here. We’re as likely to grab a Chapelwood man as a farmer or student hoping for a ride to the city.”

  “If someone is trying to escape Chapelwood, I say that’s all the more reason we ought to lend a hand,” I said stubbornly.

  “You’ve got me there, but unless that person is Ruth . . . or perhaps George, if that’s where he’s gone off to . . . we ought to restrain ourselves. Discretion being the better part of valor, and so forth.”

  I wanted to give up on the map, but it promised a turnoff within the next two miles, so I clung to it like a saint’s medallion—though I’d never owned one, and had only the vaguest idea of how to pray with one. “What should we do when we get there? Do we make some covert effort to get inside?”

  “That was the original idea, wasn’t it? You were the one who proposed the darker wardrobe.”

  “But is it the right thing to do?” I pressed, increasingly uncertain.

  “Rescuing Ruth is the right thing to do. We can be entirely certain she’s being held against her will, and that’s reason enough to try our hand at subterfuge. We must reconnoiter first, I suppose. Since we don’t know where she’s kept.”

  I sighed, and set the map down onto my lap. “God, we know almost nothing about this place.”

  “Which sets us apart from only a chosen few. They’ve kept it a secret on purpose. There’s no one we could have approached for information . . . except for the dearly departed Leonard Kincaid, in the event you’d like to host a spontaneous séance out in the trees.”

  “It’s not the worst idea I’ve heard this week.”

  “And what would the worst of those be?”

  I almost said, “Mounting a rescue mission blind, at night, and alone except for a cavalry we only hope and pray will follow in our wake.” I thought again of how fear can paralyze and stun, and how even the bravest of men and women might freeze in the face of it. And I did not say the first thing that sprang to mind. Instead, I changed the subject. He was probably thinking the same thing, anyway, and now was not the time to air our discouraging thoughts. “Never mind. Let’s look forward, and do our best to plan with what information we have. Now . . . we’re looking for New Hollow Road, and I’m crossing my fingers that we haven’t passed it.”

  “I fear the description of ‘road’ might lead to some disappointment, when we do eventually stumble across it. This is scarcely a road upon which we presently ride, so a side street into the wilderness isn’t likely to be an improvement.”

  “Ever the optimist, you are. Wait—there it is.”

  He leaned his foot on the brake hard, for we’d almost zipped past before I’d had a chance to speak. He reversed, backed the car up a few feet, and turned off onto a dirt road that ran between the trees at just barely enough width to accommodate us. And once we were firmly off the main path, positioned in this narrow channel between woods and more woods, we stared ahead at the lean black shadows cut sharply on the glare of the car’s unblinking lamps.

  Simon let the engine idle and the lights point the way forward, but he did not give it any gas and I did not press him to do so. I think we were both almost too frightened, too full of awful thoughts and uncertainties.

  “How far is it from the turnoff?” he asked me.

  I retrieved the map and again held it up to the windscreen, which gave me just
enough light to read it by. “If this can be believed, we’re within a mile. Under different circumstances, I might suggest that we turn down the lights and approach the place quietly.”

  “Under different circumstances I’d agree, but we’d run headlong into a tree trunk in no time, and leave ourselves unconscious, at the mercy of . . . of wolves, or mountain lions, or whatever predator is most common out here. I’m a more ample treat than you, my dear, so forgive me if I’m none too eager to proceed the rest of the way in the dark. I haven’t bullets enough for all the forest’s carnivores and Chapelwood, too. For that matter, we still aren’t sure where we’re going, or what to expect when we get there. With luck, they’ll be too occupied doing whatever it is ridiculous cultists do on a Friday night—and they won’t notice our arrival. Maybe they’ll even mistake us for one of their own, at first.”

  He adjusted his posture to suggest that he was about to urge the car forward, but I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “Wait. I . . . well, it’s a silly idea, maybe. But I have one all the same. You’re the one who gave it to me, so if it’s awful, it’s entirely your fault.”

  “All right. Go on . . .”

  I swallowed hard, but my mouth still felt very dry. “Let’s do it: Let’s have a little séance. Right here, in the woods, before anyone at Chapelwood is likely to spot us. It isn’t a fine parlor full of professionals at Lily Dale, and we might not reach anyone of use . . . but we could do it in front of the car, by light of the lamps—just leave the engine running—and we might have a word with Leonard Kincaid. He might be willing to help, if you don’t think that’s completely mad of me to suggest.”

  Simon stared straight through the windscreen, either at his own reflection or the ribbon of dirt in front of us.