Heathern (25 page)

"We can say he's not the sort of fellow we'd like to have
our daughters bring home," said Bernard.

"You still don't give him enough credit," said Thatcher.

"He's overspent what he had."

"We'll see," said Thatcher. "Can we get on with this? I
don't want to miss Susie when she calls."

"Very well." The room darkened; a white light shone
through the mirror with the gleam of the sun striking a
glacier. The mirror's glass was two-way; the staging area
was lit so evenly, and painted so white, that Lester could
have been sitting a foot or a mile away, so absent was perspective. He'd drawn his knees tight against his chest,
and clasped his hands around his knees. His labored
breathing came as roar over the intercom. Avi entered that
room, standing in the far left corner, wearing a knee-length
coat. Two mannequins were close by; half-mannequins,
truly, resembling sewing dummies with unsculpted heads.
Their plaster torsos were mounted upon wheeled tripods.

"Having all source material at hand," said Bernard,
sitting next to me, picking up a wireless mike, "court
transcripts, police reports, photographs of the house and of
his family, testimony given and newspaper accounts, we
can begin. Keep in mind that a certain role-playing is
essential on the part of the interrogator, and unavoidable on
the part of the subject."

"Bernard," I said. "This isn't right. You're punishing him.
You're not helping him-"

"Punishment is a biblical precept, I believe," he said.
"Onward and downward. Miracle boy? You with us?"

Distance notwithstanding, I saw how his eyes were so
dilated that all blue was supplanted by black. He looked
across his white world, his head wobbling loosely upon his
neck, as if, having once been removed, it hadn't been
properly reattached.

"How old are you, Lester?"

"Twenty-nine," he said. With one hand he mussed his
hair, as if attempting to comb it. "Think so. Don't know."

"We must be as a child to enter the kingdom of heaven,"
said Bernard. "You're nine years old."

"Nine," Lester repeated. "Nine years old."

"Very good. Do you recognize where you are? Look
around you."

"Where am l?" he asked.

"In the living room of your parents' house. You see it? See
the fireplace over there? A big, stone wall? Three brass
plates hanging over the wooden mantelpiece? The slate
hearth and the butter churn? What else do you see?"

"The andirons," Lester said, reading a swatch of white
wall. "A little bench. The dog's basket."

"Every family should have a dog," said Bernard. "What's
your dog's name, Lester?"

"Snoopy."

"Original," said Bernard. "Considering your father's
profession I'd have thought it might be Saint John the
Divine--

"Mister Leibson," Frank said, lowering his voice, shaking
his head. "Don't confuse him unless it's necessary."

Bernard cupped his hand over the microphone's tip. "My
fault," he whispered. "Lester? Has Snoopy been acting
funny this morning? Almost as if he knew something was
wrong?"

"Uh-huh."

"Someone else in the house hasn't been themselves
lately either, have they? Who's the troublemaker?"

"I'm twenty-nine," Lester said.

"You're nine years old, Lester. You know what today's
date is?"

"No."

"September the nineteenth, 1978. Who's the troublemaker, Lester?"

Lester drew himself into a ball, and pressed his face
against his knees. "Momma."

"Your mother's acting funny? What's she up to?"

"She won't come out of her room," he said. "She won't
let Dad in."

"Poor Dad," said Bernard. "Is your sister at home?"
Lester nodded once, and stopped. "Her name's Betsy? How
old is Betsy? Twelve?" Hearing no answer, Bernard shifted
into a new line of questioning. "What's Dad up to right
now?"

"He's in the den. Writing his sermon. For tomorrow."

"Today's Saturday, then," Bernard said. "He's listening to
music as he writes?"

"Yes."

"Reverends should always be reverential of classical
music," Bernard said. "What's he listening to? I suspect he's
not much for serialism. Nor any heavy romanticism to clog
the arteries of the soul."

"Mister Leibson-"

"Choral music is so inspiring." Music rose in volume over
unseen loudspeakers, filling both rooms. "Gregorian
chants, was it? Bach? Taverner? Our sources aren't so clear
on this. Let's say Thomas Tallis. Isn't that lovely music?
What do you think of when you hear it?"

"Angels," said Lester. "Millions of angels flying around."

"Worse than gnats, I'd think," said Bernard. "You don't
have any trouble seeing the room now, do you?" Lester
shook his head; he didn't. "Dog's in his basket. Sis is in her
room. Mom's in bed, Dad's communing with spirits. All's
right with the world. What are you doing? Were you
reading?"

Avi knelt, and slid a book across the floor; it skidded to a
stop near Lester's feet. Seeing it, he reached across and
picked it up. His hair was wet with perspiration.

"Quite a reader for your age, I hear. What are you reading
now?"

"Stories," he said, examining the jacket. "Edgar Allan
Poe."

"Good bedtime reading. Isn't that awfully hard reading
for a boy your age?"

"I like it," Lester said. "They say it's too hard for me at
school. It's not. Dad thinks it's good that I read."

"I suppose your mother has her own opinions."

"She used to think it was good," said Lester. "She says
Dad pushes me. Pushes everybody."

"Push comes to shove after so long, doesn't it?"

"They've been fighting a lot lately."

"About what?"

"Everything."

"About religion? About God?" Lester nodded. "Didn't
they once believe in the same God?"

"Yes."

"Your father's an Episcopal priest?" Lester nodded, again.
"Once they believed in a God of love? Now your mother
believes in a God of wrath? Well, each to their own.
Complicates matters unnecessarily I'd say. What did your
father once call your mother, Lester? You know big words,
you can say it. What did he call her?"

"Charismatic."

"Sounds like a disease, doesn't it?" said Bernard. "Rather
like rabies. God bites the believer and leaves them foaming
at the mouth. Dad doesn't think much of this, does he?"

"I hate to hear them fight."

"Do you pray at night for God to make them stop?"
Lester nodded his head, and then rested it against his knees
again, as if its weight was too great for him to carry
unaided. "And God answers some prayers. What's the
weather like, by the way?"

"It's been pouring out."

"I gather you mean rain. What they call a frogstrangler in
those parts? What time is it now? You see the grandfather
clock? By the door to your sister's room. What time is it?"

"Two-thirty."

"Here comes your sister now," Bernard said. "See her?"

"No," said Lester, hiding his face. "Stop it."

Bernard sighed and took a photograph from one of his
files; held it before him as he continued. "You see her."

Avi gently pushed one of the mannequins toward Lester;
it rolled across the floor on well-oiled wheels, and stopped
short of where Lester sat.

"Stop," Lester repeated, still shielding his eyes.

"Don't you love your sister?" Bernard asked. "You
haven't seen her in so long. You haven't forgotten what she
looks like. Skinny little thing. Taller than you. Straight
brown hair and braces. Green eyes. You see her."

Lester cried. "Stop--

"You're a big boy, Lester. It's all right-"

"Stop it, Bernard," I said. "Look at what you're doing.
stop--

Thatcher grasped my arm; pulled me nearer. Lester raised
his head and looked at the mannequin, smiling through
tears. "Bets," he said, and then his smile faded. "Betsy. Talk
to me."

"Cat must have her tongue," said Bernard. "She wants to
know if you're hungry, Lester. She'll fix you whatever you
want to eat. You hungry?" Lester shook his head. "What's
she wearing?"

"A white sweater," Lester said. "Blue jeans. Sneakers
with pink laces."

Bernard smiled. "Such an eye for detail you've developed. What does she usually fix you to eat on weekends?"

"Grilled cheese sandwiches." The odor of toasting bread
permeated the rooms.

"Almost smells good enough to eat, doesn't it? Now
you're both in the kitchen, talking about your parents. Isn't
the kitchen a homey place? Shame your mother insisted
upon painting the walls that dreadful red. Almost like
blood, isn't it? You're sitting at that big round table in the
center of the room. What communion does your family take
there?"

"We have family meetings," Lester said. "Every Wednesday night at seven. After Dad watches the news."

"You discuss family problems at family meetings?
Haven't had one for a few weeks, have you?"

"Momma doesn't like to be around us anymore."

"Why's that?"

"She says our sin rubs off on her like dirt."

"Saturday's bath day," said Bernard. "You and your sister
hear something. Your father opens the door to his den and
comes out. The music's much louder than it was." There
came a corresponding increase in volume in our rooms as well; voice upon voice swelled the chorus's sound. "What
do you think he's going to do?"

"Try to get Momma to come out."

"What makes you think that?"

"That's what he's always trying to do. She never comes
out till she wants to. He's upset. He's yelling at her through
the door."

"She probably said something to him. Do you know
what? Or why she won't come out?"

Lester got up, and wandered over to the mannequin
representing his sister; stroked its unfeatured face. He
circled round it, looking her up and down with nothing
more than child's intent, seeing so much that he'd lost years
before, seeming deaf to our cries.

"Lester," Bernard said, more sharply, holding the microphone so intently that he might have been masturbating.
"Tell me why your mother won't come out."

"She thinks we're trying to hurt her."

"Would you hurt your mother?"

Lester made no direct response; he touched the mannequin again and then edged away. "She says we're bad for
her soul."

"Does God tell her that?"

"She says Jesus does."

"You Macaffreys are so popular with the Jones Boys,"
said Bernard. "What does Jesus tell your mother?" Lester
shook his head; wouldn't, or couldn't say. "Your parents are
yelling at one another through the door? You and Betsy
creep over to the kitchen door. You can hear what they're
saying but you can't see them."

"Betsy can."

"What is your mother saying to your father?"

"She says Dad blesses too many animals and doesn't
think about us."

"Animals?" Bernard asked. "Foxhounds, you mean?"

"No.

"You mean when he blesses the animals in the nativity
set at Christmas?" Lester held his hands against his ears as
if deafening himself to all he heard. "What animals, Lester?
Do you know?"

"People who live in the city," he said. "She says if they
were supposed to live at all they wouldn't live like
heatherns."

"Did Jesus tell her that? Shame on Jesus. Does your father
agree?"

"He says she needs help," Lester said. "Like the people
do, but in a different way."

"God helps those who help themselves, I'm told."

"She tells Dad God helps when He wants to."

"She's wise in her generation," said Bernard. "What
happens now?"

"She starts screaming. She's not afraid. She's saying
curse words. Cursing us."

The smell in the room changed from that of toasting
bread to that of burning bread. "What is she screaming
about?" Lester sank to his knees upon the white field as if
collapsing in the face of a blizzard, knowing it was time to
freeze. He wrapped an arm around the mannequin's tripod.
I acted without considering; grabbed the microphone from
Bernard and shouted into it.

"Lester, don't listen. Don't. Don't listen to it."

Thatcher clamped his hand across my mouth; no sooner
did he have me silenced than Bernard wrested the microphone from my hand. It struck me that he seemed willing to
break my fingers to retrieve it if he had to. As Thatcher
relaxed, somewhat, Bernard picked up, extemporizing.

"Did you hear your sister just then?" Lester lay on the
floor, weeping, nodding his head. "She has your best
interests at heart. What does your mother say the rest of you
want to do with her spirit?"

"Take it to hell," Lester said. "She says we're already
burning and we're trying to take her down with us."

"Take her back, I'd say," said Bernard. "Smell something
burning, though, don't you? Is it you? No? You two. You
forgot all about those sandwiches."

"Bets runs over and takes them off the stove."

"If you'd been paying attention to what needed attention
none of this would have happened, would it?" Bernard
asked. "But you were too concerned with someone else's
business-" I flung out my leg, trying to strike Bernard, but
was too far from him to do more than brush his trousers
with my shoe.

"Yes-"

"See what happens when you don't give consideration to
other people's wishes?" Bernard waited until Lester had
stopped wailing, that he might hear his words over the
sound of sobs. "You're still having to learn that, aren't you?
Well, well. What does your father say now?"

"Nothing."

"Your mother's door opens. You hear it. What does your
father say?"

"Put it down," Jake said. "He says put it down."

"Put what down?" Bernard leaned forward, his eyes
moist with much that wasn't sad; he breathed through his
mouth, as if his excitement so overwhelmed him that he
couldn't draw in air enough. "What's the next thing you
hear, Lester?"