Harmony House (7 page)

I inhale and exhale.

Candace shakes her head. “He's an asshole.”

“Seriously.”

Candace drives me up the twisting driveway to Harmony House. She stops the car, stares up at the house a moment, her eyes wary.

“Don't worry,” she tells me, her gaze fixed on the dark face of Harmony House. “Everything's gonna be okay.”

I thank her for the ride.

And I hope to God she's right.

W
hen I tell my dad about the girls at the diner and our plans for a sleepover, he agrees to let them come over so long as I do all my work and pray and am a good girl. Of course, I agree. I'll tell him anything he wants to hear so long as I don't have to be trapped here with him by myself all the time.

After he eats dinner, he makes me pray again with him up in his room. He kneels with me on the floor and grasps his long, bony hands together.

I submit to this for as long as I have to.

And then I go back downstairs to watch the super-weird Donald Sutherland, Nicolas Roeg dwarf lady serial killer movie.

When it's over I go upstairs and brush my teeth and then go back to my ugly-ass pink room.

On the floor, where I left it, that book of Bible verses is open to that same page with the Prayer of Saint Francis of Assisi on it. Only now, I mean, unless I really am going fucking crazy, it looks like there are even more words crossed out. I can't understand it. I pick the book up off the floor and read the prayer again.

               
Lord, make me an instrument of Your
peace

               
Where there is hatred, let me sow
love

               
Where there is injury, pardon

               
Where there is discord, harmony

               
Where there is error, truth

               
Where there is doubt,
faith

               
Where there is despair,
hope

               
Where there is darkness, light

               
And where there is sadness, joy.

               
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek

               
To be
consoled
as to
console

               
To be understood as to understand

               
To be loved as to
love
.

               
For it is in giving that we receive

               
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned

               
And it is in dying that we are born to eternal
life
.

Jesus Christ, I think, I'm really fucking losing it.

I go to the closet and get out another one of the pills from the baggie in my jacket lining. This one, I think, is a Xanax. I dry-swallow it and then take some deep breaths and try to relax.

Somehow the window has been left open. The night air is cold and smells strongly of pine needles and the distant ocean. Leaning my body halfway out, I can see the stars clearly now—bright and complicated, glittering in the dark, like a child's drawing of what the night sky looks like. The wind has died, so there is only the cold and the sounds of crickets and rustling of raccoons or maybe deer in the forest below. I hear what I think might be a horse whinnying not far away. I wonder, then, if that gray cat has found a home for the night, though I'm sure it must belong to one of
the neighboring houses.

I decide to bring it in the house and give it some milk if I see it again tomorrow.

Then I turn off the light and go climb into the unfamiliar bed, under unfamiliar sheets and blankets, with unfamiliar smells all around me.

My eyes start to close and I hear someone whisper . . .
“Good night.”

It's my mother's voice, but I'm too tired to care.

It's all in my mind, I tell myself, anyway.

And I start to drift off.

And in the coming of sleep, I have a strange dream—or a strange vision.

It enters my brain like a long nail being driven in deeper and deeper and then deeper still.

The pain is searing.

But I don't resist it.

I see:

At a dining room table—set with fine china and crystal glasses, a silver candelabra hung with glittering jewels, and a centerpiece of red and yellow dahlias—a family sits rigidly in their straight-backed chairs. They do not speak.

The little girl, no more than seven or eight years of
age, wears a white dress trimmed with lace and black ankle boots. Her inky black hair is combed back behind her ears, which stick out a little on either side. A silver-and-pearl brooch is pinned to her chest. As she picks up her glass to drink, her vivid blue eyes catch the light. Her pupils reflect the candle's flame.

Next to the girl, at the head of the table, her father sits eating with perfect poise and delicacy. He cuts his lamb into tiny pieces and chews the meat slowly and deliberately. He has a broad face with burning blue eyes like his daughter's. His nose is sharp and angular.

Across from the little girl, her mother sits drinking wine from a crystal glass, the fine lines around her small mouth like a wood etching.

Rain falls against the windows.

The sound like static.

At the table, the father puts down his fork and knife, then takes a drink from his burgundy-colored wine. “Why, do you know that today I received a letter from General Grant himself?”

He turns to look at his daughter. She freezes. A wan smile spreads across the father's face, his teeth white, but crooked. Beneath the table, he puts his hand on his daughter's knee.

“You all right, dear?”

His hand tightens on her.

Her breath catches.

Sweat breaks out on her forehead.

She shivers.

Her mother averts her eyes.

The girl holds her breath.

And then her father removes his hand.

He returns to his plate.

And the girl's legs begin to shake.

A thud hits the floor at the foot of my bed, tearing me out of the strange dream. I gasp and sit up, alert suddenly, scrambling to turn on the bedside lamp.

“Who's there?” I say.

I grab the covers up all around me and blink my eyes.

Someone is moving through the room.

From off the floor the figure rises up—big, swaying arms stretched out toward me.

His blond-brown hair is sticking up, matted on one side—his eyes unfocused. He rocks back and forth.

“This place looks different from last time,” he says, strangely calm.

It's Alex.

He stares at me with those glazed eyes, jaw slack, for what feels like a very long time.

Then he bends down in my face. I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Now, you listen to me. You listen like a good little girl.”

He grabs my arm tight as I try to move away.

“I tried to be good to you. And now you're going to be nice to me. You're going to be nice—”

My heart beats loud in my ears. Fast—before I can move—he climbs onto the bed, his legs pinning me down.

“Stop! Stop it,” I say, my voice finally working.

He grabs at my hair. Holds it tight in his fist, then shifts his weight to press his stinking lips on mine, but there is enough room for me to knee him between his legs.

“Fuck you!” I say now, the words clear and forceful. I feel a strength rising up from the very center of me like a fire catching and consuming my body, and I knee him hard between the legs.

He groans and clutches himself and rolls off the bed.

I bolt from the room and run out into the hall.

“DAD!” I scream. “DAD! DAD! HELP!”

But then Alex is there, limping up behind me, clutching his stomach—coming on fast.

I scream louder, “DAD!”

I sprint to the stairs, hearing Alex's strained breathing, his heavy footsteps.

“DAD!”

I run down the stairs, tripping and almost falling, but catching myself on the banister.

“DAD!”

I stumble and run from room to room, opening and closing doors—lost—hearing Alex's heavy footsteps and breathing right behind me. As I run along the hallway again I hear a voice whispering just behind me,
“Jump.”
But I keep running and running and I don't fucking stop.

That portrait, the one my dad said looks like me, catches the moonlight in a way that makes the girl's eyes appear all black and like her mouth is turned upward in a mocking smile. The sight of it makes me stop for a second—like I've become somehow frozen in her vacant stare. Alex, too, seems to stop—just as transfixed by the strange painting as I am.

But then another voice whispers in my ear—the
voice like my mother's.
“Run,”
it says.
“Run.”

And so I do run—taking the stairs two and three at a time—until we reach the bottom floor and my foot catches on the rug. I call out as I fall and turn to see Alex bearing down on me.

I try to get to my feet and sprint away from him again, but instead slam into the big wooden dresser. From up top something teeters and comes crashing down. Alex shrieks like an animal caught in a trap. He drops on his knees and howls and clutches at his face.

A light switches on overhead. I blink my eyes, trying to focus on the crumpled mass at my feet.

My father's voice comes echoing down the corridor. “Jen? Jen? What's happening? What's wrong?”

“I . . . I'm over here,” I call out.

On the floor, next to Alex, I see a crumpled picture of my mother sticking out of a broken frame. In the photo my mother is smiling, holding an infant me in her arms.

“Jen?” my dad yells.

I look from the picture to Alex there, writhing on the floor. He moves his hands away from his face—a spurt of blood sprays out from the corner of his eye. Big shards of glass from the broken frame are sticking out
of his huge, white face. The blood runs down wet and glossy.

“Jen,” my dad says, coming up behind me.

I don't turn around.

I stay looking down at Alex, as he looks up at me.

He opens his mouth—a greasy-looking, bright red-colored bubble of blood forms on his lips.

His mouth opens wider.

The bubble pops.

A
lex remains unconscious on the floor and my father paces over him.

I sit facing away from my dad and Alex lying unconscious on the floor, pulling an afghan tighter around my shoulders.

I stare into the gaping fireplace, remembering my mother. I can see the two of us at the public pool.

It's hot.

The kind of heat that makes your skin itch.

But the water is cold and feels good as I plunge
beneath it, holding my breath. I've been playing in the shallow end of the pool for hours.

My mom lies on the hard plastic lounge chair. She reads her book, wearing big sunglasses and a straw hat.

She calls me out to apply more sunscreen.

I do as she says, climbing out of the water and standing drying in the sun. I sigh and fidget while she rubs the lotion all over me. It's light pink and thick and has a faint powdery scent that tickles my nose.

“My poor pale princess,” she says. “But you're so fair, you'll burn right up.”

She laughs.

“Hurry up, Mom,” I say.

“Almost finished and . . . there!”

I sprint for the water's edge, about to dive.

“Jennifer! Jennifer, wait!” my mother yells.

But I don't stop.

I jump high.

But in midair, I feel a powerful shove to the side.

I miss the pool entirely, landing splayed on the hard concrete.

I yelp, and when I look down I see my leg and part of my hand are scraped and bloody. I let out a cry of pain and my mother rushes up to me.

“Jen, oh my gosh, are you okay?”

The lifeguard is with us now. She leans over, asking if anything is broken, if we need any help.

“Someone pushed me,” I cry, embarrassed.

My mother wraps her arms around me. She talks over me. “Hush, baby. Hush, now. You're okay.” She glances at the lifeguard. “She'll be fine. I can take it from here.”

My mother leads me back to her chair.

“Don't ever run away from me like that again,” she says.

“But, Mom, I—”

“You left your water wings,” she says, turning to look at the inflated orange plastic water wings decorated with Rainbow Brite and her white unicorn.

“I'm sorry,” she says.

She hugs me to her.

“You don't know how to swim yet. Don't ever,
ever
go in the water without your water wings again. Do you understand me?”

I stare into her bright blue eyes.

And here, sitting by the empty fire, I think about that push in the air.

And the picture in the frame falling.

And then I don't want to think about it anymore.

A
n ambulance from Stafford Township takes Alex
away.

The county sheriff, Cody Jarrett—a silver-haired man with leathery skin, straight, block teeth, and a long, pointed chin—drinks our coffee and eats our donuts and smokes Pall Mall cigarettes while he takes down my statement in the living room. His eyes are a clouded, milky blue and he writes in a small legal pad, nodding his head absently as I tell and retell the story of what happened.

Sheriff Jarrett doesn't seem particularly surprised about any of it.

“Alex Winter's been a problem 'round this town pretty near since he could walk. I'm just sorry you had to run into him.”

His voice is calm and deep, with an accent from maybe Georgia or the Carolinas.

He sits on one of the straight-backed chairs, crossing his legs and then uncrossing them again. I sit on the fold-out stepladder and cry a little and the sheriff tells me it's going to be all right. My dad stands behind me, looking down coolly at me. He keeps chewing on his bottom lip and there's this thick blue vein standing out in his forehead.

I find myself not wanting Sheriff Jarrett—and his deputy, a tall Native American guy named Coburn—to leave at the end of the interview.

But soon the sheriff is putting a hand on my shoulder, telling me not to worry, that he's going to make sure Alex Winter never bothers me again. I'll have to testify at the trial, he says—there's no way around that. But he'll do everything he can to keep me safe.

“You've been through enough already,” he says. “I hope you can put this behind you.” He promises to check up on me again in a few days.

To my dad he says, “You've got a very brave girl here, Mr. Noonan.”

“Yes, well . . .”

They shake hands.

My dad walks the two officers out the front door and I go back up the stairs, closing my bedroom door and making sure the window is shut tight and locked. The light on the bedside table, with colonial figures embroidered into the dark-stained canvas lamp shade, reflects patterns on the pink pastel walls.

I swallow two more of the pills. Then I reach over and turn off the light just as my dad's heavy footsteps sound from the staircase. I pull the covers up. The door to my room opens and my dad stands there, beneath the dull orange glow from the hallway.

“Come on,” he says through his clenched teeth. “We're going to pray.”

I sit up in bed.

“What? Dad, please. I'm really tired. I just want to go to sleep.”

He rubs his chin with his long fingers.

“No,” he finally says. “No, you must pray. . . . We must ask God for forgiveness.”

“What do you mean? What do
I
have to ask forgiveness for?” I ask, feeling the knot in my stomach turn to a kind of smoldering ash—like an ember catching and starting to burn, slowly.

“You know what I mean,” he says. “You know exactly.”

There's something in his eyes, the way the light hits them, that I don't think I've ever seen before. His gaunt features are pulled taut—straining in every direction—mouth turned down, eyes bulging, jaw clicking back and forth. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat and there's a smell like sickness coming off him.

“Dad,” I say, the heat growing like a weed inside me. “What's wrong with you?”

He shakes his head.

“I want you to come pray with me,” he says. “I want you to pray for forgiveness. I'll not let Him take you the way he took your mother. I failed with her. But I won't fail with you. I've received a vision, Jen. . . .”

I gather the blankets up around me as if, again, they might offer me some protection. “A vision?” I say. “What are you talking about?”

He steps forward into my room, his tall frame enveloped in the shadowy darkness.

“The devil was in your mother. And the devil is in you.”

“Dad . . .”

“You're being tested. You are a prophet, Jen. And
all the prophets are tested.”

“I'm a prophet?” I actually almost laugh at that. “Look, I think we both got pretty freaked out by what happened, but . . .”

“No,” he says, cutting me off. “No, I see clearly. Coming here, to this house—I've seen God's will for me . . . and for you. He wants me to save you, the way I couldn't save your mother. He wants me to save you. And then you will go forth and tell the people. You will warn them of the terrible speed of God's mercy.”

“Dad,” I say, my voice cracking. “Dad, come on. You're not making any sense.”

“I'm making sense,” he says. “The only sense there is.”

“But this wasn't my fault,” I say.

He drops down on the bed next to me, the mattress and wooden frame sagging beneath his weight—though he remains rigidly straight, speaking as if to the room and its darkness.

“You're right,” he says, sounding calmer now. “It was my fault. I should have prepared you better. But I will now. I will not stop until you have been saved—until you fulfill your destiny.”

“Dad, please,” I say. “I think we both need to get some sleep.”

I see the silhouette of his head nodding up and down.

“Yes,” he says. “But first we will pray. We will pray for your salvation. We will pray for your soul.”

He takes hold of my arm with his damp, cloying hand and pulls me to the floor. The carpet feels rough through the light fabric of my pajamas. I want to cry suddenly or . . . I don't know what. I'm all flushed with shame and helplessness.

“Have mercy on us, O Lord,” my dad says, his voice soft, but growing ever louder. “We are sinners and we know not what we do. Grant us the ability to see your fire and glory. Wash away our sins with your blood, O Lord. Cleanse us with your divine mercy. Take pity on us. The devil has my daughter held tightly in his hands, the way he had my wife. He wants her soul. He has lain with her. He has tempted her. And she cannot resist, Lord, without your strength and protection. Keep her from His terrible embrace, Lord. Help her to be ready, Lord, so that on the last day, she'll rise in your glory. Do not let her follow the path that her mother took. Help her to resist. Lead her not into eternal damnation. . . .”

Listening to his droning, beseeching, babbling voice, I notice the heat is mixed with a sickness rising from
inside—crawling into every corner of my body, burning in my eyes. I want to scream and tear myself apart.

Tears run down my cheeks.

“Cleanse her soul, Lord,” my dad says. “Let her choose righteousness over worldly pleasures. . . .”

I clench my fists tighter and tighter—my nails digging into the palms of my hands.

“Show her the light and love of our savior, Jesus Christ. . . .”

Finally, I can't take it anymore. The humiliation of kneeling here, listening to this . . . fucking crazy bullshit . . . overwhelms me and I want to scream, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!”

But instead, there is a loud pop of surging electricity. The bulb from the hallway flashes bright white and then extinguishes in an instant.

The entire house appears drowning in darkness.

“I think the power went out,” I say, choking back all the rage and hatred I have for him at this moment.

“Probably a circuit breaker,” he says calmly. “I saw a flashlight under the sink. I'll go take a look.”

His voice has lost its thick-tongued, frenzied slurring. He sounds again like he normally does—which is crazy, but not that fucking bat-shit crazy.

“You go to sleep now,” he says. “Try and get some rest.”

He gets up off the floor and, just as suddenly as he walked in here, he walks out. I hear his footsteps shuffling carefully down the hall and then, slowly, down the stairs. There is no light coming from anywhere.

Exhausted and weak-feeling, I curl on the floor, crying silently.

All the heat inside me has drained out to nothing and I shiver there. I almost don't have the strength to pull myself back up into bed.

But I do.

I climb into bed and shiver beneath the covers.

I think, then, that if only he could've been the one to die—my dad, and not her—if he'd been the one to choke to death on his own vomit—with a blood alcohol level of 3.6—then everything would be better.

I think that and then I wish him dead.

I pray for it.

That's one thing I actually do pray for.

I pray for him to die and I pray wishing my mother was back with me.

I pray like that until I fall asleep.

And in sleep, maybe as an answer to my prayer, I dream of my mother.

She's standing in our old kitchen, her black hair cut short—bangs over her eyes—drinking black liquid out of a whiskey glass. The kitchen table looms above me, casting long shadows, like I'm sitting on the floor looking up.

My mom drinks the drink and it spills down her chin and onto the men's dress shirt she's wearing. The black is thick like motor oil. It covers her body—it spreads across the floor.

“Mom!” I call. “Mom!”

But no sound comes out.

“Mom!”

She can't hear me.

“Mom!”

I'm choking on my own voice.

When I turn I see my dad standing in the doorway, facing away from me.

I call out to him then, too, but he will not turn around.

“Dad!”

The table rocks back and forth above me. It rocks from one side to the other, threatening to come crashing down at any second.

“It's going to fall!” I yell.

But, of course, no one hears me.

The table hits the floor and the tile cracks in two and the whole house begins to break apart around me.

I scream so loud I scream myself clear out of the dream and into the gray, pale early-morning light.

The sun is just the faintest flicker on the horizon. I pull the covers up and tuck my legs in, curling as tight as possible.

And then I fall back asleep.

And again, I dream.