Dead Souls (13 page)

"Yeah…I didn't see any of those things either."

He found himself thinking of his father, surrounded by the smoke, staring at his reflection in the 'magic mirror' saying,
It is you
. It'd really seemed so odd at the moment—all Daniel had been able to see was his father's image staring out from the mirror.

Elizabeth added, "I think I saw dad put the feather on my windowsill last night."

"You did?"

She nodded. "It was late, probably around midnight. I'd heard something. I awoke, and it was dark, but I saw a figure outside my window." She paused, peered over Daniel's shoulder. "Look over there." She pointed and Daniel followed her finger to the corner of the house where an extension ladder leaned up against the singles. "I think he set them up ahead of time, just like he did with the bells, and all the props."

"So, then it's not real. None of it."

She paused, then asked, "You believe in God, right?"

"Of course."

"But…have you ever wondered if God really does exist? I mean, is he this omnipotent being with a beard and long flowing robe who looks over His creation and checks His naughty and nice list to see who deserves a pass into heaven? Or…is God just a concept? An image of goodness to fall back upon when we are feeling down—when we need a shoulder to lament on?"

Daniel shrugged. Inside the house, baby Bryan began to wail. Pilate picked up his head, then quickly settled back down again.

"Well," she continued, "It seems to me that God doesn't plan on coming down from Heaven anytime soon to shake hands with the people of
Wellfield
."

Daniel shrugged again. Pilate shifted his body closer to him, displaying his rump. Daniel obliged with smooth, even pats across his furry doggie back.

"Daniel, we as God-fearing Christians must assume that He is watching over us, and that we must follow our hearts toward a path of acceptance. And that, my little brother, is exactly what dad is doing. He feels no choice but to pursue his beliefs, to make certain that he protects himself—and us too—from his fears."

"And what exactly does dad fear?"

"Who knows," she answered quickly, shrugging, brows drawn tightly together. "I do think that dad is a bit off his rocker, but I also respect his beliefs, regardless of the fact that I don't have much faith in them."

"Gosh Lizzie, why didn't you just say that at the beginning?"

"Because I want you to realize that it is important to give dad the benefit of the doubt."

Daniel nodded in silent understanding, watching her as the smile slowly faded from her face. This was her way of protecting him, by offering some big-sisterly advice. Like Daniel, Elizabeth had also disobeyed their father's demands in the past, and in turn had suffered the consequences. What these consequences were, Daniel could not assume—Benjamin had always meted out his punishments behind closed doors. Like last Tuesday when Daniel had arrived to the dinner table seven minutes late (he'd had a bad case of the squats from eating too many green apples from the tree out back), and was immediately forced into the walk-in pantry. Benjamin pulled a piece of flat cardboard down from between the shelves, put it on the floor, and spread an even layer of raw white rice on it. Grabbing the boy by the neck, he shoved Daniel down to his knees, and Daniel remembered looking up at his father at this moment, how crazed he looked with his skin flushed and his eyes dilated. The elder Conroy demanded of Daniel, "Hands down," and Daniel obliged, pressing his palms into grains of rice. Benjamin then stood on his hands, forcing his body weight down and shouting, "May the Lord cleanse your soul, sinner!" Daniel had screamed and cried, and although the entire punishment had lasted only a minute, the deep, purple impressions the rice made in his palms had lasted nearly three days.
 

Elizabeth…she'd never had any battle wounds to show for her transgressions, except for the dark circles sometimes under her eyes, and this led Daniel to believe that her wounds bled below the skin, where they hurt the most.

The baby's wails increased in volume; Faith had carried him into the kitchen, and the window was open directly above their heads. A tear sprung from Daniel's right eye.

"I feel so bad for Bryan," he said.

Elizabeth leaned forward and whispered, "You really shouldn't have interrupted dad this morning."

Daniel nodded and wiped a tear from his face. "Lizzie…I-I don't remember doing it. It was like…like I blacked out or something. Like I didn't have any control of my body. Next thing I knew, Dad was yelling and then I saw him burn the baby. Somehow, I guess I knew what I did, but I don't remember doing it. All I know was that I didn't want him to hurt the baby."

"Dad would have never let that happen. He's a meticulous planner."

Daniel nodded soberly, realizing that Elizabeth, as the older and wiser sibling, knew much more about life, about their father, than he. Perhaps he had been wrong. After all, Baby Bryan still ended up getting his wound, and now Daniel was going to get handed down the mother of all punishments from Benjamin.

The baby's wails reached a horrific crescendo, and Faith suddenly appeared at the door. She looked awful, her face a pale green shade with dark puffy half-moons beneath her bloodshot eyes. The baby writhed in her arms, and she seemed to be having trouble simply holding onto him. "Elizabeth, I need your help with the baby."

"Thanks Lizzie," Daniel said, not really feeling any better about the situation. He stood up and gave her an enthusiastic hug.

She released Daniel, then smiled, placing a surreptitious finger across her lips. She then turned and followed her mother into the kitchen.

Seconds later, after Daniel decided that a shower was first in order, Faith appeared at the door without the baby. She came outside, stood on the top step of the porch, and took a deep nervous breath. She peered over her shoulder into the house, then looked at Daniel and said, "I need you to go into town, to the drug store, to pick up another tube of
Bacitracin
, for your brother. His injury is bad, so we're going to need it."

"Mom…you told me we had enough…"

"Quickly," she said, pinning his gaze seriously, "Before your father comes downstairs."

And it was here that he felt truly scared for the first time. Scared for his uncontrolled actions this morning. Scared of his father's impending reaction. Benjamin had remained out of sight following the ritual, and what Daniel hadn't seen or heard didn't trouble him any. But now…he knew his mother had spoken to his father, and was more than concerned with what she'd heard and saw. Thus, she felt it would be best to let the dust settle as much as possible, and send Daniel into town for a trip that really didn't have to be made. Let time soothe the wound, so to speak.

"Okay." He peered up at his mother as she peeked back into the house. She looked exhausted, weary and forlorn.

She handed him a five dollar bill. "
Bacitracin
. Got it?"

He nodded, then added, "You okay, mom?"

She shook her head, clearly unsettled. "The smoke…it made me sick." Just saying these words caused her to cough and gag suddenly. "You better go now, and come right back home."

"Okay," he answered, folding the five-dollar bill and placing it in his pocket. He was about to say 'thank you', but his mother wasn't there to hear him.

She was inside, throwing up in the sink.

September 7th

7:15 AM

A
gain he dreamed of the golden pain, the searing heat strong against his chest, and the masked man who delivered it; he, pulling his hood down to reveal a featureless face, no eyes, no nose or mouth, just a knotted pink visage of flesh that beat at the same slow rhythm of his heart, thump…thump…thump. Johnny tried to move, but found no way of avoiding the inevitable: the never-ending pain against his chest that worked its way deep into his heart. The shrouded figure at his side, this time, did not attempt to interrupt the ritual. Instead he slowly stood back into the golden light, and from within the light emerged the young man with the blond hair and sharp features. Moving faster than everyone else in the room, he picked up Johnny and whisked him away, running from one dark place to another—from a very hot room, to a much colder one. He was gasping with terror, looking down at Johnny, eyes thick with tears. He placed a finger across Johnny's lips and said, "I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"

Thump...thump...thump...

J
ohnny awoke, sheathed in hot sweat. His heart beat at triple the cadence of his dream beat. His scar itched, nearly burned, and when he pulled the collar of his tee-shirt down, he could see that it blazed beet-red, as though he'd been clawing at it all night.

Laying across his scar was the black feather he took to bed with him last night—the feather he found on the fire escape.

Thump…thump…thump
… Slow. Deliberate.

What is that noise?
And where is it coming from? He grabbed the feather, then shifted up on his elbows and looked around, first at the window in his room,
might be a black-feathered bird poking at the windowsill
, then into the living room.

You never second-guessed any odd noises when living in an apartment building in Manhattan; they either came from one of the adjoining residences (like
Jimi
Hendrix did yesterday), or from the streets where any type of clamor was possible.

Thump…thump…thump
…

He turned and kneeled up in bed, then cocked his head, listening even more closely,
thump…thump…thump
…

He placed an ear against the wall.

Thump…thump…thump
…

The sound…it was coming from his father's room.

It sounded much like the gentle rap of a fist, as if his father might have chosen, however odd, to carry out his frustration or boredom against the wall. It was much too soft a noise to be the batter of a hammer, and besides, Ed Petrie was never one to fix anything around the house, especially this early in the morning.

Johnny decided to ignore it, figuring it to be his father's arm or leg or knee hitting the wall: a reflexive movement due to some alcohol-induced dream (after all, just last night Johnny had taken his clothes off in a somnambulistic adventure, so anything was possible).

But its persistence soon had Johnny sitting on the edge of the bed, armoring his ears with his palms. Thump…thump…thump…, it went on and on, three or four second intervals of dead pause between each occurrence.

A strong wind swept across the window in Johnny's room, vibrating the panes. The
thumpings
in Ed's room grew suddenly louder.

Twirling the feather in his hand, Johnny looked at the clock. 7:27 AM. Ed didn't go to work until noon, so there was no need for him to be awake right now, particularly after being up so late last night. Again he placed his ear against the wall. The noise was still there, syncopated like the deliberate drip of a leaky faucet.

He thought:
It's too…even
.

He placed the feather on his nightstand (next to the pre-funereal framed photo of Ed and Mary), then crawled out of bed and staggered from the bedroom, the wood floor warm against his clammy soles. He went into the kitchen, fought back a bad case of cotton-mouth with a tall glass of water, then turned and saw that the door to his parents' bedroom was shut.

My mother…she's in the hospital. Goodness, how could I forget?

He padded across the living room and stood before the door, gazing groggily at the worn wooden grain. His mind swam in peculiar loops, reflecting back over the events of the last twelve hours. He tried to comprehend what'd had him so oddly concerned in this rather unimpressive situation—easily, an individual under a common frame of mind could explain the thumping rationally: a water pipe in need of repair, or a laboring air-conditioner in another apartment.

My life up until twelve hours ago had been completely normal, despite its restrictions. Now it seems as though my mind is giving promise to…

Jesus…what am I thinking?

Am I losing my mind?
 

He knocked on the bedroom door. First lightly, then a bit heavier. He realized that he'd never had to knock on his parents' door before, primarily because it had never been closed like this, and Ed and Mary were never ones to seek any privacy from Johnny (he really couldn't imagine them needing it, good God!)

A rapid uneasiness rose in him, and he had to take in a few deep breaths in order to soothe his nerves. Illogically, disparate thoughts flourished in his mind, of the January winds that whipped around the corners of the city's streets and nearly brought him to his knees—how the unexpected coldness they carried would needle its way deep into his blood and stay there until he found a warm fireplace, or a hot cup of coffee. He felt a similar chill now, only this one, invading his very soul, could not be warmed by anything as simple as a hot drink.

"Dad?"

No answer. He tried the knob. Locked.