by Greta Boris
“Don’t make jokes about such a serious thing.”
“I’m not joking. I did it for you. Pepe made Papa angry. When Papa got angry, he took it out on you. I thought he’d stop being so mean if I got rid of the dog.”
The enormity of his words rolled over me like a tidal wave. “But he told me he’d done it.” As soon as I said it, I realized it wasn’t true. Doug had never said he’d done it. I’d assumed he had, and he never corrected me.
“Papa knew I did it,” Tomas said. “He heard Scottie yelling at me about it that day at church. The day Scottie and I got in that fight.”
I struggled to comprehend what he was saying. The pieces didn’t fit into the puzzle picture I’d constructed years ago. I had believed the accident turned on a faulty DNA strand somewhere inside Doug. His behavior had become so much like his father’s, it was as if he’d become his father. When Paul Travers accused Doug of poisoning Pepe, I never doubted it.
“Abby saw me feeding Pepe, and she told Scottie.” Tomas’s smile broadened and turned my heart to liquid pain. “Boy, was he mad.”
It never occurred to me Doug was protecting Tomas when he took the blame for the poisoning. I hadn’t thought he was capable of self-sacrifice, or compassion.
“That’s why he beat me with the belt.”
“Why?” My voice was rasp.
“He didn’t want me to turn out like Grandpa Hartman. That’s what he said.”
Maybe Doug’s method was misguided, but he’d been trying to help Tomas, to discipline him. The implications of that sent ice water through my veins.
Doug had been recovering from the brain damage, but I’d been so blind I hadn’t seen it. I’d seen a man afflicted with a demon, one that would never leave him. Every protective, maternal instinct in me sprang into action. I wouldn’t allow that demon to infect my child. I believed it was my responsibility to stop the family curse.
“Don’t feel bad, Mama. I probably deserved the belt. Trying to kill Pepe made everything worse, and I didn’t even get the job done. Either way, I don’t think it did me any harm.” Tomas withdrew his hand from mine, picked up his book, and began to read.
I stood, left his room and walked outside into the garden. Its colors were muted in the twilight. The scent of angel’s trumpet struck me like an accusation. I had convinced myself Doug would’ve agreed with my course of action if he’d been in his right mind. My only regret until this awful moment was the method I’d used. I hadn’t known brugmansia poison would cause such terrifying hallucinations.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
“CAN I HAVE another piece?” Brian held out his plate.
“For you, or for Crackers?” Davy said as he slipped a slice of pizza on his son’s dish.
Brian smiled. “I gave Crackers the last one. This one’s for me.”
Davy frowned. “Remember, that dog is sleeping in your room tonight. Pizza makes him fart.”
Brian wrinkled up his nose.
“More?” Davy asked Olivia. She shook her head. She was full. Full and content. She lay, leaning on her elbows, on the old blanket he’d brought and allowed her gaze to cross the Mission’s central courtyard and rest on the Serra Chapel. Spring had come early. It was late March, and the gardens were already bursting with buds. The air was fragrant with the scent of roses and citrus blossoms. She found it strange Davy had chosen this spot for a picnic. It was a place at once peaceful and anxiety producing.
Before the events of the past six months, she’d loved coming here with Brian and watching him delight in its history. As far as her son was concerned the Mission was almost as good as Disneyland, and it was certainly a lot cheaper.
But, in her mind anyway, this is where it all started. It was here she’d first had the sense someone was watching her. She’d been correct, of course. Abby had tagged along on the class field trip last October and followed Brian into the graveyard to watch over him like a guardian angel.
Maybe Davy wanted to wash away the evil memories. Replace them with pleasant ones. Whatever the reason, Olivia was glad they were here. She was done with hiding and blaming. She was ready to reclaim her life. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sunlight.
“I saw Gwen Bishop when I dropped Brian off at school Tuesday,” Davy said. CPS had given Davy custody of Brian for the week it took to review the police report on the events of late December. Olivia had been absolved of any wrongdoing and released from the Safety Plan in January. But Brian had loved being at his father’s house so much, she’d reluctantly agreed to try joint custody. Brian alternated weeks between their two homes. She missed him when he was gone, but it was working.
“She had interesting news.”
Olivia hummed a question mark. The warmth and her full belly made her too lazy to talk.
“Sage’s property in San Juan Capistrano just sold.”
Lethargy suddenly gone, Olivia’s head popped up. “Is she coming home to sign papers?”
“No. They’re handling everything through lawyers. There’s one on the U.S. side and one in Mexico. She has family there. I’m sure neither of them will ever come back.” Davy put a hand on Olivia’s.
She’d been too busy to think much about Tom and Sage between work and the lawsuit. After Brian had almost died for the second time in his short life, Olivia realized she had to press charges against Proctor. How could she judge Sage for her actions, if she wasn’t willing to do whatever it took to stop another predator?
She was making a trip to Vermont in two months to testify. Mark, Teach’s son, would be taking the stand, and the Vermont prosecution team had gotten in touch with two of the other grown children from the farm. Once the trial was made public, Olivia wouldn’t be surprised if victims from other states came forward. Her mother was going with her. Sarah wanted to be there to lend moral support.
Olivia knew she was doing the right thing, but some nights she woke in a cold sweat. If Brian was home, she’d go to his room, sit by his bed and watch him sleep, Crackers curled up beside him. It gave her courage and resolve.
“Brian, how many different saints do you think are in the Serra Chapel?” Olivia pointed to the entrance. He shrugged. “Would you go count them for me? I’ve been thinking about it since we got here.”
He looked at her out of the corners of his eyes with suspicion but said, “Sure.” He jogged toward the building.
Olivia lowered her voice even though Brian was out of earshot. “Aren’t the Feds going to try to extradite Tom?”
“No. Are you kidding? I think the prevailing political mindset is, we have our fair share of Mexican criminals. They can have one of ours. I don’t think there’s enough evidence to get him brought home anyway.” Davy stretched out his legs, and leaned onto his elbows.
Benadryl was an over-the-counter medication. Angel’s trumpet vines grew all over Southern Orange County. It would be hard to convict someone for having its seeds in their kitchen. Brian’s recollections of the day wouldn’t convict Tom either.
He remembered getting more and more nauseated as the afternoon progressed. When he left his classroom, he’d run to the bathroom sure he was going to lose his lunch. But the door was too small, and it wouldn’t open. Olivia was pretty sure what had actually happened was he’d tried to open the locker Crackers had fixed on thinking it was the boy’s room.
After that Brian said everything went crazy. Demons flew out of lockers. A cartoon Tasmanian devil chased him up a mountain. He vaguely remembered a dark-haired, green-eyed giant hiding him in some kind of cave. That was it.
“But what about the other boys? The boys Tom killed.” Olivia sat up, agitated now.
“Those aren’t even cold cases. As far as the police are concerned they were accidental deaths. I don’t think reopening them would give the parents any comfort either. I’d rather believe my child had died in an accident than by violence.”
“It’s hard to accept he’s never going to pay for what he’s done.”
“There’s such
a thing as divine retribution, Liv. People pay, one way or another.”
Divine retribution. One of the lessons she’d learned through this nightmare was that she wasn’t the final arbitrator of justice. The twelve steps Davy was following weren’t only for addicts. Olivia struggled to admit she was powerless and needed the help of a higher power too. Her compulsion wasn’t alcohol, like his, it was bitterness and anger. Wrath had often blinded her to the good in life. She’d worn the emotion like a shield, but it was false security. It hadn’t protected her, hadn’t protected Brian.
“Six and one more if you count Jesus.” Brian’s words cut across the grass. Olivia smiled. He threw himself between his parents, grabbed his abandoned juice box and sucked on the straw. His hair was damp with sweat and stuck to his forehead. Olivia reached out and brushed it back.
“Good job, buddy.” Davy rubbed his knuckles on the top of Brian’s head messing up the hair she’d neatened. She gave Davy a pointed look, but it was playful.
It had amazed her how easy co-parenting had been so far. She’d expected disagreements and inconveniences, but Davy had done his best to keep things amicable. So amicable, in fact, they’d gone out for dinner once or twice without Brian. She wouldn’t call them dates exactly, but they had started talking about the future as if it was “theirs” and not “his” or “hers”.
“Do you know what today is? Why I asked you here for this elegant and expensive repast?” Davy broke into her thoughts.
“Elegant and expensive? I saw a coupon for Enzo’s pizza in the mail this week,” Olivia said.
“It cost Enzo something, didn’t it?”
“Why did you want to have a picnic, Dad?” Brian said.
“Six months ago today, your mother and I made a deal,” Davy said. “We agreed that if I behaved myself, she’d consider a proposition I was going to make.”
“Have you behaved yourself?” Brian grinned.
“Of course.”
“I remember saying we’d revisit some issues in six months, but I wasn’t aware you had a particular proposition in mind,” Olivia said.
“Oh, yes. I did. It just wasn’t the right time to spring it on you. You were a tad cranky if I recollect correctly.”
“What’s the proposition, Dad?” Brian said.
“I’m going to ask your mother for an annulment.”
Olivia crossed her arms over her chest. “An annulment? We’re already divorced.”
“Exactly. I want a divorce annulment. It was a bad idea. The whole divorce thing. I’d like to pretend it never happened.”
“Does that mean you’ll move home?” Brian jumped and landed with one knee under him.
“I thought maybe you two would move in with me. Crackers likes my house better than yours.”
A flash of irritation sprang up like a weed in the midst of the happiness growing inside Olivia. It was just like Davy to propose in front of Brian. If she said no, she’d be the bad guy. Again.
But she had no intention of saying no, and she was fairly certain Davy knew that. “How does someone go about getting a divorce annulment? I’ve never heard of it.”
“I believe all you have to do is take a trip to Vegas, visit one of those little chapels, sign some papers, listen to an Elvis impersonator sing “Love Me Tender”, and you’re good to go.”
“Can Grandpa Mike and Grandma Sarah come?” Brian had both knees under him now. He was so excited he couldn’t sit still.
“We do need witnesses,” Davy said.
“Johnny Wilson went on a zip line when he went to Las Vegas. It was in his hotel. Can we go on a zip line after we see Elvis?”
“Absolutely.”
Brian leaped to his feet and raised both fists over his head. “I’m in.”
Davy looked at Olivia. Her gaze traveled across the grass to the Great Stone Church. The gray ruin, once a barren monument to death, was now surrounded by a profusion of lavender, roses, and hollyhocks. Their scents perfumed the Mission grounds. Life went on. “Me too,” she said.
<<<>>>
SNEAK PEEK
COMING AUGUST 2018
The Medieval anchoress would often be laid on a funeral bier and given last rites before being carried to her anchorhold, the small cell in which she’d be entombed for the remainder of her earthly life. The ceremony represented her commitment to die to the world and live for Christ. Some anchorholds contained the anchoress’s open grave as a memento mori, or reminder of death. No longer a participant in the affairs of men, she became an observer, viewing the world through a small window in her cell wall. The symbolic death of self—one’s desires, biases, and agendas—is the only path to true objectivity.
From She Watches - An Anchoress History
by Abby Travers
TUESDAY: 11:45 PM
THE SNAP OF branches, a wet thud, and a strangled wheeze woke Abby. The sounds weren’t loud, but she’d only been half asleep. She slipped out of her bedroll, crossed the dirt floor to the squint her father had made for her and peered out.
Her view was limited. To the right, she could see as far as the public restrooms, to the left, the path that led to the cemetery and Serra Chapel disappeared around a bend. There was a grassy area directly in front of her on the other side of that same path, beyond that was a barrier of shrubbery, and finally, the concrete wall that separated the San Juan Capistrano Mission grounds from the city outside. This had been her only vista for the past twenty-one days.
As she stared into the night, she saw a pair of booted feet move through the bushes, followed by a pair of sneakers.
“This is stupid,” a hushed voice, young and male, said. His head and torso were invisible to Abby, hidden behind foliage.
“Shut up. Do as you’re told.” The older man had an accent she couldn’t place.
There was more rustling of brush and the two men, the crescent of a body dangling between them, emerged from the bushes. Their faces were masked by shadows, but their builds were so similar she guessed they were father and son——the heavier man a preview of what the younger would become in time.
They side-stepped to the open area. A whine of air, like the exhalation of a balloon, came from the form as they laid it on the grass. Without another word, the men turned to the wall they’d just climbed. Before they disappeared into the shrubbery again, the younger of the two looked over his shoulder. For a brief moment, his face was illuminated by the moonlight. His dark eyes and high cheekbones wore an expression Abby couldn’t read. It might as easily have been annoyance as regret. Then the men were gone.
The person, if it was a person—it could have been a large dog, she hadn’t gotten a good look—lay unmoving where they’d left it. Her heart thudded in her chest. What should she do?
Abby couldn’t leave her cell. Not without help. Her father had wanted to give her an escape hatch, but she’d said no. The experience had to be as realistic as possible. If she could come and go whenever she wanted, it would defeat the whole purpose. But she’d never imagined something like this would happen.
Anxiety itched like a hair shirt. What on earth had possessed her to take six weeks off work to lock herself in these four walls? She pushed herself off the stones, walked five steps to the other end of her enclosure, pivoted, and took five steps back. Repeat. Repeat.
It had to be a dog.
People wouldn’t toss another human being over a wall like a pile of trash. A dog was bad. No, it was terrible. But, a person…
She peered out of her tiny window at the black bundle on the grass. The moon was almost full, but the shape was blanketed in shadow, impossible to decipher. She didn’t think it was breathing, couldn’t detect any rise or fall. She’d heard that whine when the men laid it down, but didn’t bodies emit gasses and noises after death? She was sure she’d read that somewhere.
The longer she stared the more it looked like a dog. Maybe it was a trick of her eyes, but she thought she saw its tail trailing out into the moonlight.
On the outside c
hance it was alive and might be comforted by her voice, she began to sing. She’d learned the old hymn, “Nearer My God to Thee”, from her Lutheran grandmother. ”Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down. Darkness be over me, my rest a stone. Yet in my—”
A wail, hollow and otherworldly, shattered the night.
Horror tripped up Abby’s spine like an electric shock. She flew to the squint. The black form, now on its side, bore an unmistakably female shape. “God. God. God.” The prayer escaped her lips. The woman outside, her voice pained and pleading, uttered words in a strange language. “I don’t understand you. I’m so sorry, I don’t understand.” Despair flooded Abby’s veins.
She ran to the one loose stone near the floor of her small cell and slid it from the wall. A soft breeze brushed her face. The opening was too small for her to squeeze through, but maybe she could enlarge it. She gripped the stone above the space, and pulled with all her strength. It didn’t budge.
She planted her feet on either side of it, held on with both hands and put her legs and back into the effort. On the day she entered the anchorhold, her father had cemented this stone in place behind her. She knew she could fit through the opening if she could remove it.
She struggled and strained for long minutes. Nothing shifted.
She wiped at the sweat rolling down her forehead and looked frantically around her enclosure for a tool, something she could use as a crowbar. Her bed was only a roll of foam laid on the floor with a few blankets on top. No help. A stump of a candle, a book, and a pack of matches lay on the floor next to it. Her camp toilet was made of plastic, no use as a battering ram.
Her gaze flitted to the folding chair on the other wall. Its legs were aluminum—the only metal she’d brought with her. She tore off the canvas seat, placed one of the leg joints across her knee and leaned her body weight into it. She heard a satisfying pop, but all she’d managed to do was bend the leg at an odd angle.
Still, it might work. She dragged the chair to the wall and struck the cement with the misshapen leg. It bounced away with a hollow ping. She struck it again and again, but only managed to chip away a tiny piece of concrete. This would take all night and half the next day. The woman would be found long before Abby managed to escape.