Help for the Haunted (19 page)

The light through the stained glass had shifted again. Father Coffey and I would be nothing more than shadows soon, but neither of us made a move to get up just yet. Seated so close to him, I could smell the sugary sweetness of those doughnuts on his warm breath. In a quiet voice, I said, “People misunderstood my mother and father. They took the things they did and twisted it around. All my parents wanted was to help people.”

“Maybe so. But I'm not sure that's what ended up happening. I read the book by that reporter. It painted a very different picture of their motives. Your father's anyway. Have you read it, Sylvie?”

“Yes,” I told him, though that wasn't entirely true. I still hadn't been able to brave the final section—“Should You
Really
Believe the Masons?” “You were saying that people were afraid of my parents, but they didn't care what people thought. So that couldn't have been their reason to stop coming to church.”

“Imagine, Sylvie, how awkward it was for your father to serve Communion when no one would go to his line except your family. And when I asked him to offer the wine instead, the handful of people who took that did not anymore. Finally, I had no choice but to tell your father his assistance was no longer needed.”

I remembered those Sundays at church, how awkward they had become, and how grateful I felt when we suddenly quit going. “So that's why they stopped?”

“Yes, and at first, he grew angry and said he was going to complain about me to the bishop. He never did, though.”

“Why not?”

Father Coffey glanced behind us at the silhouettes of those wooden statues, as though he worried someone might be listening. In a whisper, he said, “I think we should finish here, Sylvie. I need to get to the school. The nuns arranged to have the floors of the gym waxed, and the smell is so noxious they don't think people will make it through the service on Sunday without passing out. Someday, God willing, we'll raise enough money to build a church where students don't dribble balls all week long. Now do you need a ride somewhere? Or is that car outside for you?”

“I thought that car was yours?”

“The Buick belongs to me. But there's another one out there—a Jeep with the engine running and someone behind the wheel. Do you know who it is?”

“I might,” I said, because I had a hunch.

Coffey stood and exited the pew, this time making a hasty sign of the cross. As we walked out of the church, I looked back at the altar, thinking of my parents entering that building, not knowing they would never leave, thinking of Rummel who asked if anyone in their circle had reason to do them harm. When Coffey pushed open the door, I saw the Jeep and gave a small wave. “Do you still keep a spare under the flower boxes?” I asked, as he jangled his keys, locking up. It was a detail I recalled from my father's deacon days.

“Not in a long while. I'm the only one who can open this place now.”

I saw a quick flash of silver as he slipped his keys into the pocket of his jeans and headed for the Buick. I knew he didn't want me to follow, but I did anyway. On the backseat of his car, I could see stacks of boxes. Whatever was inside must have been heavy, since the car looked sunken in the rear.

“Just getting rid of some things from the rectory,” he said when he saw me looking. He opened the door, got inside. I worried he'd drive off without answering my earlier question. But then he said, “The reason your father never went to the bishop had to do with that girl.”

“Abigail?”

“Yes. She came to the rectory one night.”

“When?”

“At the end of her time with your family. I opened the door and there she was, looking bedraggled and troubled. In some ways, she appeared just as she had when you first brought her to church. Only now there were two wounds on her palms, like stigmata.”

I knew about those wounds. I remembered the shock and confusion I'd felt seeing blood pool on her skin without warning. “What did she want?”

“A place to spend the night. I welcomed her inside. Isn't that a priest's job, after all, to take in the needy? The girl spent much of the time begging me not to contact your parents or her father. Maura made her something to eat then made up the old couch in the basement. After we attended to her wounds, she went down to bed. While she slept, I lay awake, praying about the best thing to do. Times like that I missed Father Vitale. He always seemed to hear God's voice when I didn't, which is more often than I care to admit.”

“What did you decide to do?”

“I made up my mind to track down her father. It only seemed right.”

“And so Albert Lynch came and got her?”

“No. I never had the chance to contact him. In the morning, Maura took tea downstairs and found the couch empty. The girl had slipped out during the night.”

“I don't understand. What does that have to do with my parents not coming to church anymore?”

“Abigail told me things, Sylvie.”

“What things?”

“Things about what went on that summer she lived with you. Things I don't think your father wanted getting out. That's why he went quiet. That's why he walked away.”

“Because you threatened him?”

“He was the one who threatened me, remember? I simply let him know what I'd been told.”

“And what did Abigail tell you?”

Again, he ran his fingers back and forth beneath the rim of his turtleneck. This time, I noticed his nails were chewed, his cuticles raw. “We really do need to stop here. I've taken this conversation too far. You should get your answers from someone else. Now good-bye, Sylvie. Please come see me again, though not about this. I think it's better to let the past stay where it is.”

“Who?” I asked as he pulled the door shut and started the engine. “Who should I get answers from?”

He rolled down his window. “I meant what I said before. You have a great deal of your mother in you. I can sense it. That's probably what got me talking so much.”

“Who should I go to for answers?” I asked again, ignoring the comment.

“Your sister, of course.
Rosie.
I'm certain she can tell you things that I cannot. It's not my place. I'm sorry.”

With that, he said good-bye one last time. I stepped back from the car, watched him drive out of the lot and away down the road, his trunk drooping with the weight of those boxes. When he was gone, I walked to the Jeep. The moment I opened the door, Dereck started talking, “I got here just as that guy was walking into the church.”

“That guy,” I told him, “is the parish priest.”

“Oh. Well, I saw him head inside, then I started in too. But it sounded like you were having a pretty heavy conversation, so I waited out here until you were done.”

So my ear wasn't playing tricks after all,
I thought. I had heard the church door open and close. “But how did you know I was here?”

“I didn't. After I left your sister, I stopped at the farm to grab another pair of boots. I kept thinking about you, Sylvie, wondering what you'd done after we drove off. So I went to that field, only you were gone. When I was driving back and passed the church, I remembered asking if you'd been back here so I wondered if this is where you might have gone.”

By then, it was completely dark. The air carried a chill. I glanced at the clock on Dereck's dashboard. Sixty-one hours and forty minutes remaining. Walking home would be a waste of time, and if the conversation with Coffey had done anything, it heightened my sense that I needed to stop wasting it. I climbed up onto the passenger seat and was about to buckle my seat belt when I felt something beneath me. A pair of gloves, I saw when I pulled them out. The interior lights glowed enough for me to make out flecks of something on the material. Before I could look closer, Dereck reached out his hand with the missing fingers and snatched those gloves from me, shoving them under his seat. I said nothing, leaving my seat belt unbuckled instead. As we pulled out of the lot, streetlamps cast shifting shadows over our faces. For some time, that Jeep rolled along, neither of us speaking. Finally, Dereck said, “It's turkey blood. I left my regular gloves in the pockets of the coat I gave you. So I grabbed a spare pair at the farm.”

I reached in his coat that I was still wearing. Sure enough, his gloves were inside. “I thought you didn't slaughter the turkeys until Thanksgiving?”

“We're only six days away, Sylvie. We do some each day. Makes no sense, I know, to go through the effort to buy a fresh one, only to freeze it first. But people don't care, and we've got a lot of birds to slaughter.”

I looked at Dereck's hands on the steering wheel, at his handsome face in the shifting light.

“You're trying to figure it out, aren't you?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Then go for it. Make a guess.”

I was quiet, thinking of all that I really was trying to figure out. At last, I gave him what he wanted. “A firecracker went off in your hand at a Fourth of July party.”

“Now you're getting somewhere, Sylvie. It happened at a party. That's the closest you've come.”

We reached Butter Lane, and Dereck made the turn. After passing the empty lots, he pulled into my driveway. Same as it had since Halloween night, the basement light glowed. The rest of the house was dark, Rose's truck gone. “Where's my sister?”

“Don't know. Not my problem anymore. We broke it off.”

The news was the smallest of so many disappointments that day. And yet, it poked at something inside. Now I'd only see Dereck at the farm if he happened to be outside when I passed. After Thanksgiving came and went, he'd go back to just working at the garage, and I wouldn't see him at all.

“So,” he said, flashing his wolfish teeth in the dark. “Do you finally want to know how I lost my fingers?”

I told him I did.

“First you have to admit that you couldn't figure it out on your own.”

“I admit it.”

“See, Sylvie. And you're still here just the same. It's not the end of the world if you don't always know all the answers.”

It will be soon,
I thought, glancing at the dashboard clock.

“Well, here goes. The fall after graduation, when everyone was home for Thanksgiving, one of my buddy's parents went out of town. So we got the idea to throw a party. Not just any old lame kegger; what we wanted was a rager people would remember. A reunion blowout. All the guys from every team I ever played on were invited along with their girlfriends. Plus, all my Honors Society buddies were there. For once, everyone got along. Word got out and tons of people crashed. Your sister was there, too, with her friend. Rose was lucky to walk away without getting hurt the way a lot of us did. She never mentioned any of this to you?”

I shook my head.

“Well, none of us saw it coming. The house was mobbed. People were spilling drinks, dropping food, breaking glasses. This guy's parents lived in a raised ranch with a deck off their kitchen on the second floor. The grill and an army of kegs were out on the deck, so that's where the fun was. Fifty-seven of us, by the police officer's count.”

“Why were the police—”

“I'm getting to that. Someone plugged in a boom box. It was cheesy music. Madonna or Paula what's her face. But the girls started dancing, and they got the guys dancing too. Next thing I know, I feel something shift beneath me. At first I thought I was just dizzy from all the beer, but before I knew what was happening, we were tipping. That deck couldn't support the weight.

“Some people got burned by the grill. Others broke arms or legs.” Dereck held up his hand. “My fingers got wedged between two boards and ripped right off.”

I lingered there, putting the pieces of Dereck's story together in my mind. Finally, I said, “I'm surprised I never heard about it. It's a small town. Seems like I would have.”

“It was in the paper. Probably the biggest news story ever to hit Dundalk.”

I was quiet, thinking of my parents, so many headlines about them.

“Sorry,” Dereck said, realizing.

“It's okay.” I tugged off his jacket and boots. “But I better go.”

“Remember, I'm right through those woods if you need me. And even if you don't, you better come visit anyway. We'll think up some new game to play.”

I forced a smile, told him I would. That's when Dereck leaned close, the stubble on his face brushing against me. The warm, earthy smell of him—wood chips and autumn leaves and worn clothes—was all around for an instant as he kissed my cheek. Four years between us—I couldn't help but think of what he'd said earlier about all the differences they created. Even so, some part of me wanted him to kiss me again. Instead, I opened the door and got out, my eyes automatically scanning the lawn for more rag dolls. Dereck flicked on his high beams and waited as I stepped in my bare feet up the walk. On the doorstep a foil-covered bowl shimmered in the headlights. I picked it up.

Inside, I flashed the porch light and Dereck beeped a few times before driving away. Alone in the house, I went to the kitchen, put the bowl on the table beside my mother's book of wallpaper swatches, and opened the freezer for a Popsicle. None left, so I made up my mind to go to bed. But on my way out, something made me stop. I stood at the door to the basement. Pressed my ear—the good one, of course—against the hollow wood.

When I heard nothing, I put my hand on the knob and pulled. The yellow glow lit the staircase from below. I took a step down, then another, then two more, before stopping in the middle and bending to look around the shadowy space. I saw my father's desk, messy with papers, which was not how he had left it, but the way Rummel and his investigators had when they came, again and again, to look through his things. There was my mother's old rocker, the shiny blue knitting needles she had used forever waiting on the cushion for her return. Just beyond, I saw the bookshelf covering the hole in the cinder blocks that led to the crawl space. On top, the cage with Penny inside. Her blank face stared back at me just as it had on the ride home from Ohio so long ago. I read the sign on the bars, remembering the day my father had written those words:
DO NOT OPEN UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES!
At last, I looked away at the partition wall my father had finally finished. I thought of what Coffey had told me about people's gossip, the things they talked about happening here.