Heretics (3 page)

5

The Captain St. Pierre House sat back from the road atop a small hill, the grounds beautifully landscaped, the shrubbery sculpted and the grass as green as clover.  Separating it from the sidewalk was a traditional white picket fence, gate and matching post, from which hung a small discreet sign.  Located at the far end of Main Street, this was a neighborhood of two blocks that separated the predominantly commercial section of the street from the beginning of the more residential area.  The house itself was an old colonial—one of the oldest in town, in fact—palatial and well kept.  Unless one knew what it was, it could easily be mistaken for a private residence, or even a structure of historical significance renovated and maintained by the local historical society, which is exactly how the town of Virtue liked it.      

      Harry parked his car across the street, stepped out and found some shade beneath a nearby oak tree he had once climbed as a child.  He lit a cigarette and watched the house a while.  Like everything else in Virtue, it hadn’t changed.  Nothing here ever did.  People milled about in the sunshine, oblivious as ever.

      He flicked the cigarette away and walked across the street.  At the gate he hesitated.  Madeline was sitting in the middle of the slate walkway, testing him again.  He recognized the yoga position she’d sat in so often, legs crossed, heels wedged in the crook of her knees, hands out at her sides, palms up and open, back straight, head bowed in impossible prayer, hair dangling.  Dripping.

      Harry forced a swallow, his mouth suddenly dry as sand.  He reached for the gate, released the mechanism and pushed it open.  In the second his eyes had shifted to find the gate release, Madeline had vanished.  He stepped onto the grounds, closed the gate behind him and moved slowly along the walkway, up the hill toward the large porch.

      He climbed the steps.  The front door was solid but for the eye-level portion, which was etched glass, and the multiple windows on the front of the building were dressed in white lacy curtains; such a happy face on such a sad place.  As he knocked lightly, it occurred to him that in all his years in Virtue he had never set foot inside the Captain St. Pierre House.  It was a place he had always known about, but one townsfolk rarely spoke of and tended to walk by without paying any particular notice.  The only evidence of what occurred there was when the occasional wheelchair-bound patient or similarly afflicted soul was taken beyond the grounds on brief trips about town, generally toward the end of their stay when they were on the verge of rejoining society and fending for themselves.  But for the most part, the abnormal, as they were deemed in typical small-town whispers, were paraded about so as to allow the residents a chance to congratulate themselves on allowing such a facility to exist in their otherwise pristine little town in the first place.  The remainder of the time, those who lived at the St. Pierre House were kept inside or within the grounds, specifically in the back, so they wouldn’t be seen from the street.

      When there was no answer Harry knocked again, a bit louder this time, then looked back over his shoulder, across the street from where he’d come.

      Madeline was lying on her side in the thick arms of the oak tree, head resting on her hands, which were one atop the other and set against the side of her face like a pillow.  Scalded to black, her body was a series of pustules, raw bloody flesh and patches of clothing so badly seared it was impossible to tell where they left off and her skin began.  She stared sorrowfully at the sky, oblivion, her hair hanging lower than the branch, as if reaching for the safety of the sidewalk below, still dripping gasoline and blood as dark as night.

   
Madeline
.

      Her eyes darted to the side and found him.  They too had turned black, leaking tears of ash that fluttered about before spiraling away with nearly beautiful elegance.  

      She faded then, until all that remained was the old oak tree.

      The door behind him opened, and Harry turned back to face it.  A plump woman on the far side of fifty greeted him with a somewhat guarded expression.  He didn’t recognize her.  “May I help you?”

      “Yes, good afternoon, I’m here to see one of your patients.”

    “
Residents
.”

      “Residents, yes.  Sorry.”

      The woman stared at him with a blank expression.  “Would you like to tell me the resident’s name, sir?”

      “Of course, I’m sorry.”  Harry smiled nervously.  “Ethan Ripley.”

      Her expression turned suspicious.  “And you are?”

      “My name’s Paletto, Harry Paletto.  I’m an old friend.”

      “I see.  Is Ethan expecting you?”

   
Ethan
.  No one had ever called him by his first name.  “No, ma’am, he’s not.  But I’m sure he’ll want to see me.  It’s been a very long time.”

      Without attempting subtlety the woman sized him up then gave an almost weary nod, stepped back and opened the door enough for him to enter.  “Come in.”

      A narrow corridor emptied into a reception area behind which stood a large staircase.  Rooms to the right and left led to other areas of the facility, but from the head of the reception desk it was impossible to see much beyond the open doorways.  The carpeting on the floor was plush, and expensive original artwork hung on the walls in ornate wooden frames.  Somewhere nearby soup was being prepared, chicken from the aroma.  The reception area was bright and cheerful looking, the sunlight washing over it through the numerous windows on the face of the house.  Music Harry recognized as a whimsical and light Vivaldi piece played softly from unseen speakers hidden somewhere in the high ceiling.  He stood awkwardly in front of the desk and waited as the woman made her way around it and dropped into a high-back leather chair.  She found a pair of eyeglasses atop a pile of folders, slipped them on then turned her attention to a screensaver of spiraling colors and shapes floating across a computer monitor on the corner of the desk.

      Despite the serene exterior, an undeniable tautness and an underlying odor of sterility existed just beneath the surface, the kind always evident on one level or another in health care facilities.  

      “All right, Mr. Pamento—”

      “Paletto.”

      The woman pushed a register across the front of her desk and smiled with indifference.  “Yes.  I’ll need you to sign in.  Please make certain your full name is legible.”

      While Harry did as instructed the woman spun around and tapped her keyboard.  The screensaver vanished and a list of names appeared.  “All right,” she said, quickly consulting her watch, “Ethan does have a therapy session scheduled for a bit later, but he’s available for visitation at this time, provided he’s willing to see you….” She pushed away from the keyboard, took the register, glanced at it quickly then put it aside.  “Mr. Padetto.”

      He sighed.  “You know what?  Harry’s good.”

      The woman pointed over his right shoulder.  “Please have a seat a moment.”

      Harry turned and wandered over to a row of three chairs along the wall just inside the reception area.  He sat in the one closest to the door and did his best to appear relaxed.  

   
He’d already done it by the time they ran across him
.

   
Already done what?

   
Put his eyes out.

     From the doorway to his right came an older man with a walker.  In pajamas and slippers, he dragged one lame foot and stepped gingerly with the other like he expected the floor to give way at any moment.  A young woman at his side dressed in white slacks and a flowery blouse—apparently a nurse—had a hold of his arm just above the elbow and was encouraging his efforts with a vocabulary and in a tone one might use with an intellectually-challenged child.  Harry recognized her—was reasonably sure he had gone to school with her at one point—but couldn’t recall her name.  She glanced at him, offered a swift toothy smile then returned her focus to her patient.  But before they had reached the far doorway, the nurse stopped and looked back at him.  Harry looked away quickly, feigning nonchalance.  From the corner of his eye he saw her whisper something to the man then motion to the receptionist, who had a phone to her ear and responded by holding up a finger.  

   
She recognizes me
, Harry thought.  

      The receptionist hung up the phone, stood, and rounded the side of the desk, her finger again held up in the direction of the nurse.  “Mr. Palitto, Ethan will see you now.”

      Harry stood up and met her near her desk just as the nurse left the old man holding his walker and scampered over to them.  “Excuse me,” she said in her cartoon-like voice, “are you here to see Ethan?”

    “Yes, he is,” the receptionist answered for him in a dismissive tone.  “If you’ll follow me, Mr.—”

      The nurse stepped closer.  “Just a moment, Muriel.”

      “Is there a problem, Ms. Lancaster?”

      “No problem,” the nurse said.  “I’d just like to speak to Mr. Paletto a moment, please.”

      “Of course, but he’s here to see—”

      “Right,” the nurse said, assuming her own dismissive tone, “if you would page one of the aides to help Mr. Cardoza back to his room, please, Muriel, that would be an enormous help.  I need to speak with Mr. Paletto before he visits Ethan, all right then?  Thanks.  This way, Mr. Paletto.”

      Harry tried to smile casually as the nurse took him by the elbow and led him across the reception area to the base of the large staircase.  Muriel relented with a roll of her eyes and returned to her desk.

    Unsure of her motives Harry spoke quickly and conversationally.  “You look so familiar to me, but I’m sorry, I can’t place your—”

      “Lisa Lancaster,” she said.  “We went to high school together.  Raycroft was my maiden name, if that helps.”

    The moment she said it his memory of her broadened.  Facts came to him in a rush.  Lisa Raycroft: A year behind him in school, from a middleclass family in town, a cheerleader, average student, a member of the in-crowd but not quite the
really
 in-crowd, always so goddamn cheerful.  She looked essentially the same as she had all those years before, with slightly shorter hair styled a bit more conservatively.  Delicate lines etched at the corners of her mouth and eyes were the only signs that she’d aged at all since their high school days.

      “Right,” he said.  “Sure, I remember now.  How are you?”

      “I’m fine, thank you.”  Lisa glanced about every few seconds, reminding him of the way his brother had behaved at the café.  “Muriel’s only lived here for a few years, she doesn’t understand fully the ramifications of your visit or your relationship with Ethan, I’m afraid.”

      Harry sighed.  “Look, I just want to see my friend for a few minutes, all right?”

      “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Harry.”

      “Well thanks for the opinion, Lisa, but I wasn’t aware that I needed your permission to see him.  Is this a place of rehabilitation or a prison?”

      Lisa smiled, bright white teeth gleaming at him.  “Let’s keep our voices down now, shall we?”  Taking him by the elbow again, she led him to the corner of the room, in front of a large grandfather clock with a pendulum swaying within its glass front.  “You have to understand that Ethan has been through a tremendous ordeal and that he’s spent the last year trying to move beyond the past and—”

      “Look,” Harry said, no longer concerned with playing at polite.  He’d been made, and now his time was limited, “can I see him or not?”

    “Ethan is scheduled for release into his own apartment next week.  It’s a community designed especially for people like Ethan who are trying to make the transition back to a more traditional life and living experience.  Therefore, due to the fact that this is such a big step for him, and clearly one of enormous importance as far as his future and the quality of life it may or may not hold, I don’t think it would be a good idea at this point for Ethan to see you under—well, you know—under the
circumstances
of your past relationship.”

    Harry glared at her openly now.  “And what
circumstances
 would those be?”

      “I really don’t think this is the time or place to get into all that, Harry.”

      He hated the way she used his name in such a familiar manner, as if they were old friends.  Lisa seemed to have forgotten that in the past, before she’d become Florence Nightingale, she’d spent most of her time ridiculing or ignoring Ethan and Harry and Madeline the same way nearly everyone else had.  “I appreciate your concern,” he said evenly.  “But just do me a favor and mind your own fucking business, all right?”

      She blanched, placing a hand flat on her chest between her breasts, an expression cutting her sugary air to indicate she’d never been so insulted in all her life.  “Ethan is one of my residents.  I’ve worked long and hard with him and he’s come a long, long way, for your information.  I am the head nurse here in charge of—”

      “So you run the place, is that it?”

      “No, but I—”

      “Then you have no authority to prevent me from seeing him, do you?”

      Lisa managed to recover her smile.  “No, I don’t.  I just don’t feel it’s a wise choice at this juncture in Ethan’s recovery process for you to—”

      “Duly noted.”  Harry looked over at the reception desk.  Muriel was trying desperately to appear busy.  He turned back to Lisa.  “Look, I don’t want a fight, okay?  I’m just going to talk to him for a few minutes.”

      Her smile had somehow turned more insipid.  “Muriel?” she said, her eyes still locked on Harry.  “Would you be so kind as to show Mr. Paletto to Ethan’s room now?”

      “Thank you.”

      “Don’t thank me, Harry,” she said softly.  “I plan to phone the authorities the moment you head upstairs.  I’m sure the police will be interested to know that you’re back in town and that you’re here at the St. Pierre House insisting on visiting Ethan.”