The Bighead (29 page)

(III)

It was so hot, so
humid!
How does she stand doing this every
day?
Charity asked herself.
I’m thirty years younger than her and
I
can’t stand
it.

And hot it was, even in the
shaded forest walkways. The heat was
teaming.
Gnats and mosquitoes buzzed
about her face and arms, which she swatted at with a vengeance.
Light and billowy as her organdy summer dress may have been, she
was drenched in sweat in only moments; all of her skin seemed
to
trickle.
Sweat
even dripped from her eyebrows to her cheeks.

But she strode on, her own inquiry
seducing her as effectively as the pseudo-lovers she’d dreamed of
last night. Thickets snapped beneath her sandals. The dapples of
sunlight through the trees, like radiant brushmarks, guided her
further.

Something’s wrong with
Jerrica,
she thought, trying to divert her
mind from the stifling heat. But there could be no denying it. At
breakfast, Jerrica hadn’t eaten a thing; instead she’d just sat
there, almost shaking. She couldn’t have been upset about Goop;
Charity knew that she
dreaded
seeing Goop again, after her quick fling with him.
So what was it? The priest?
I hope
not,
Charity thought. True, Jerrica had
openly revealed her rampant sexual longings on the drive up, which
surprised her, but even an inveterate nymphomaniac should know the
futility of desiring a priest.

Then her thoughts
flywheeled.
The trooper,
she recalled.
The
murders…
But that was silly to worry about.
Like the officer had said, it was just a precaution. She couldn’t
imagine a murderer running rampant in
Luntville
of all places; it was
absurd.
I’m just distracted,
she thought.
I’m
hot.

After what seemed miles,
the humid forest path opened up. It was stunning, despite the heat:
the flowing, sunlit view of the cemetery. Wild weeds swayed in the
warm breeze. Heads of Queen Ann’s lace bobbed. Charity walked
directly to the spot of her mother’s grave. Solemnly she gazed
down, her hands clasped. All the simple, faded stone read was:
SISSY.
My mother. Annie’s sister.
She committed suicide with a shotgun when
Charity’s father had died in the mine explosion; Annie had told her
everything. It was strange, though, standing like this over her own
mother’s grave, a woman she never knew.

Rest in peace,
Mother,
she thought.

Then she moved on. It wasn’t only her
mother’s grave she’d come to see. She couldn’t escape the
recollection of yesterday. How bizarre it had been. After Aunt
Annie had placed the flowers on Sissy’s grave, she’d asked Charity
to retreat back to the woods, and wait. And Charity saw where her
aunt had gone.

To another grave at the far
corner of the cemetery, with a
second
bundle of flowers.

Who?
she thought.
Who?

The far corner, yes, nearly beyond the
actual limits of the graveyard itself. Charity followed her memory,
and at once she was there. She knew this was the right plot because
of the flowers her aunt had left only yesterday, a string-tied
bunch from her own backyard garden. And there they were.

She stared down at them, shielding her
eyes from the sun.

The flowers had baked already, such
heat. But the plot looked so stark. Tiny. And—

This is so odd…

A perfectly blank
gravestone.

It was old, she noted, stained by
years of rain and weather. But its typical rounded face offered no
inscription.

Unless—

Charity dropped to her knees. There
was something, wasn’t there? Just at the grassline?

She pushed the grass down
at the base of the stone. Squinted in effort then pushed harder.
Her fingers could feel…
something.

But it was too deep!

She stood again, grabbed
either side of the stone with both hands, intent now on finding
out. No one would see, would they? This was a family cemetery, and
who would be out here on a day so scorching?
Just me,
she thought and almost
laughed.

She worked the stone back and forth.
At first it didn’t budge at all, but eventually—

Yes!

—
it began to give a little.
Then a little more, then…a lot more.

Soon the stone was so loose it
wobbled.

All right,
Charity thought, profuse with sweat now, but just
as profuse with determination.

She hoisted the stone upward,
and—

Ughhhh!

It pulled up and fell down.

(IV)

I should never have
come,
she thought, her head cast down so
long now, she had a stiff neck.
I
should’ve stayed at the house with Charity, worked on my article,
anything…

Alexander parked the Mercedes behind a
small, drab complex of brick buildings, what she guessed was the
diocesan center. Jerrica didn’t know much about Richmond, had
scarcely ever even seen the city before. They’d driven past
ghettos, rows of squalid tenements, abandoned streets still with
litter. Was the whole city in such disrepair?

As ordered, she hadn’t said
a word since his outburst. How could she? Jerrica had felt a lot of
shame in her life, but not like today, not like now.
He’s right,
she condemned
herself.
I’m a junkie, I’m a fuck up. He
must be…disgusted.

“
All right,” he finally
said, parked now, the motor off. Then he began with difficulty,
“Listen, Jerrica. I’m sorry for yelling at you back
there.”

She looked up peevishly;
this was the last thing she expected to hear.
He’s…sorry?

“
I said some pretty shitty
things to you, things I didn’t mean, and I’m sorry. You hearing
me?”

She nodded. Dried tears crusted her
cheeks.

“
I’m a behavioral
psychologist, that’s my training. I came down on you hard because
you’re in a lot of trouble. I said those things to you because
you’re important to me, and I care about you. You
understand?”

She nodded again, confused.

“
If I
didn’t
care about you, then I
wouldn’t have said a word. Your life is your business. I just don’t
want to see you blow it.”

“
I know,” she peeped, her
hands in her lap.

“
You’re gonna have to get
yourself squared away. We’ll talk about it, okay? I’ll help you.
Okay? Do you want me to help you?”

“
Yes!” she suddenly blurted
out, and all at once she was crying again, hugging him, sobbing.
“I’m sorry! I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t know why I
do the things I do! I feel so ashamed!” Her tears ran freely,
dampening his shirt.

He paused, held her, gave her a few
moments to calm down. “It’s a tough world, I know, and a lot of
times it just doesn’t seem fair. But in the end, and I think you
know this, it’s all up to us as individuals to make things right.
Now, I’ll be inside for an hour or so, with my boss. In the
meantime, I want you to think about things, and we’ll talk when I’m
through. Okay?”

She nodded one more time, took her
face off his shoulder. “I want to. I want to get fixed
up.”

“
And you will,” he
assured.

The got out of the car. The sun beat
down on them. Alexander went on, “You probably noticed that the
diocesan center isn’t exactly located in the posh part of town.
Don’t go off the property, all right?” He pointed past a brick
fence with an iron gate. “There’s a courtyard back there. Wait for
me there.”

“
Okay,” she
said.

He smiled in the sun. “Everything’s
gonna be fine.” Then, briefcase in hand, he walked toward the
building and entered through a side door.

Jerrica watched after him,
wiping her eyes. Nothing could properly describe the way she felt,
but it was the way she
always
felt, wasn’t it?

If it wasn’t one thing, it was
something else.

Why now? The old demons were back, but
why? She struggled in the glare, to find any scapegoat, but there
were none.

Only myself.

The enclosed courtyard appeared fairly
well-kept: trimmed hedges, brick paths. Heavy boughs of trees hung
overhead, giving shade. Yes, the courtyard looked like a nice place
to sit and think, as the priest had advised, but—

Already she knew.

I. Will. Not,
she struggled, and the more she struggled, the
more diluted she became. Sex, drugs—it didn’t matter. It was always
the same. One way or another, she was lost, and she always had
been.

And she always would be.

Her eternal excuse: she couldn’t help
it. She turned quickly away from the sanctuary of the courtyard and
scurried away.

For the bad part of town.

(V)

“
Tom! What a surprise!”
Monsignor Halford greeted with genuine enthusiasm. He had his feet
up on the fine teak desk, reading the
Catholic Review.

“
Somehow I knew you’d be
working hard, Bob,” Alexander remarked, afrown. “No rest for the
faithful.”

“
So, what brings you back?
What’s going on with Wroxeter?”

“
Bullshit in a crock pot.”
Alexander snapped open his briefcase on the coffee table.
“Dick.
That’s
what’s going on.”

Halford pinched the bridge of his
nose, closed his eyes. “Aw, come on, Tom. I’ve asked you to put a
lid on the foul language, huh? I ask you a simple question and
you’re already spouting profanity.”

“
Gorilla turds—that’s
what’s going on at Wroxeter, Bob. Shit balls in a
buttcrack.”

“
Aw, come on,
Tom!”

Alexander waved the folder full of the
operating logs from the abbey. “Somebody’s pulling bigtime wool
over my eyes, and I got a funny feeling it’s you.”

Halford sterned up. “I resent that,
Tom. What gives you the right—”

“
There is
no administrative record
of Wroxeter Abbey ever closing,” Alexander enlightened. “These
logs show in-patient records, duty rosters, and supply inventories
all active until July of ’76. That closure statement file you laid
on me states that the place closed in April.”

“
A clerical
error—”

“
My ass,” the priest shot
back. “Come on, Bob, the abbess’ office is
untouched.
It’s still even full of
her personal effects, and so are the nuns’ dorms.” Alexander began
to watch the monsignor very closely, paying particular attention to
the eyes, the face, hand gestures. “The bedstands in the in-patient
dorm are full of personal effects too. And the med station is still
loaded up with drugs that are
twenty years
old.
What, the diocese closes up the abbey
but they leave controlled pharmaceuticals on the premise? This
doesn’t jibe, Bob. It’s almost like everyone disappeared over
night, and the Church sent some flunky out there the next day to
seal the place up before anybody could get wise. And why would I
suspect such a thing? Yesterday I called the goddamn office of land
records for Russell County—”

“
Goddamn it, Tom!” Halford,
quite out of the ordinary, yelled. “You have no right to obstruct
Church business!”

“
Church business, no.
Monkey business, yes.” Alexander smiled, lit up a Lucky. “I knew
that would put some fire up your crack. And I don’t have to tell
you, the county recorder of deeds claims that the Church never
filed the closure statement.”

“
We filed it with the
state!”

“
But that’s illegal,
Bob.”

“
Not with a waiver, smart
boy!”

“
Why get a waiver?”
Alexander kept on him. He was getting everything he suspected, just
by watching the monsignor. “Why not file the closure notice
properly? What’s the big deal? The only reason you’d apply for a
records waiver is to either beat property taxes for an actively
occupied building, or to prevent a county inspection. And I don’t
have to remind you that the Catholic Church is exempt from all
property taxes.”

Halford was not pleased. He was livid.
“I don’t appreciate being called a liar, Tom.”

“
Then stop lying. Christ,
Bob, I’m a trained psychologist. I’m
trained
to be able to tell when
people are lying. Ever heard of tasal plate fluctuation,
negative-impulse kinestetics, opposite-eye opposite-hand
deflection? You’re doing it all right in front of me, Bob. I’ll bet
my benefice that you’re lying to my face.”