Heretics (4 page)
“Am I trespassing? Have I broken any laws?”
“Not at all. I just think they’ll be interested to know, that’s all.” She gave a dramatic wink. “Just being an upright citizen of Virtue. You know how it is…oh, wait…actually, no you don’t.”
“Don’t pretend to know who we are,” Harry said, matching her quiet tone. “You don’t know anything about me or Rip, you—”
“Rip’s dead. He doesn’t exist anymore. Now, there’s only Ethan.”
“Things never change, do they?” He shook his head; fought off the violence he felt bubbling just beneath the surface. “You still hate me, still ridicule me and give me a hard time, and you don’t even know why.”
“Mmm, poor baby.” She turned to Muriel, who now stood a few feet away with a perplexed look on her face. “Muriel, if you would?”
She nodded uncomfortably. “This way, Mr. Paletto.”
The smell of burned flesh distracted him, drew his gaze to the windows along the front of the building. Madeline floated just beyond the pane, her hands stained with dirt and blood, cupped together in front of her and presented like an offering, holding a swelling mass of maggots so large her delicate hands could barely contain them. Sad eyes pleading helplessly, she looked more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her, some unseen barrier preventing her from following him inside. As always, she was apart—even more than he, even more than Rip—always one step further away, closer to isolation, closer to darkness. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but made no sound.
Lisa followed his gaze, looked questioningly at the windows. “Something wrong?”
As in the past, no one saw Madeline quite the same way he did. He looked again at Lisa, saw a single white maggot slink across her cheek, wiggle slowly before slipping into the corner of her mouth. “So good to see you again, Lisa,” he answered flatly.
“And you, Harry.”
As he followed Muriel up the staircase, he could still hear Madeline laughing.
6
By the time they had crossed the beach and climbed the dunes to the road above, the snow had weakened and was gradually converting to slushy drizzle. Madeline was unaffected by the weather, in tune with it, as if in some odd way it were a physical part of her being. To her, the icy rain seemed reason to celebrate, and she took Harry’s hand as they crossed the street and danced with him, wrapping her arms around his neck, hanging on and leaning back as his hands found her hips. He stumbled along with her, feeling ridiculously inept and a bit guilty as heat spread across his groin. They twirled across the street together, Madeline with her head back and her mouth open, catching the rain with her tongue and laughing with the abandon of a child. Harry was sure she had felt him harden against her, but she’d either ignored it or felt it not important enough to react to or mention. He’d either been insulted, angry or grateful; he couldn’t be sure which. Somehow it didn’t matter.
“I wish I could do that,” he said, once they’d reached the other side of the street.
Hand in hand, they continued walking along the shoulder. “Do what?”
“I wish I could just shut the world off like you can sometimes and go wherever it is you go. Sometimes you can be so happy so quickly, like you’re somewhere else and none of the bullshit here matters.”
She smiled, combed a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s magic.”
They laughed and continued on, followed the bend in the road. Further ahead sat a long driveway of crushed white stone that led to an ample parcel of private property and an enormous house with sentry-like pillars in front. Harry thought it looked like something out of a movie, like one of those old plantation houses he’d seen in
Gone With the Wind
. As if a living thing, the house sat watching their approach with an intimidating presence all its own.
“It’s all right,” Madeline said. She glanced down at their hands; let his go. “I felt you tense up the minute the house came into view.”
Harry shrugged, already drenched. He felt like a stray dog that had no business anywhere near such a place. “Are you sure it’s okay for me to—”
“Come on!” Madeline snatched his hand back and took off running across the yard, dragging him along, her uninhibited laughter carried on the rain.
Once they had reached the front steps and were safely shielded by the overhang, Harry leaned against one of the pillars, dripping wet and out of breath. He’d never felt so alive. Madeline half fell against the door, still laughing, then turned the knob and stumbled inside. After a second, she poked her head back out and smiled. “Are you going to stand out there or are you coming in?”
Harry followed her inside, and as she shut the door behind them, he stood staring, wide-eyed and in awe. “Wow,” he mumbled. “This is…
wow
.” The floor was marble with a faint swirl pattern, and straight ahead was an enormous carpeted staircase that led to an open balcony that faced them, where one could stand on the second floor and look down upon the front of the house. Suspended from the high ceiling was a huge chandelier of lighted glass that looked like something one might find hanging in the lobby of an exclusive hotel. Several framed paintings graced the walls, and sprinkled throughout this colossal anteroom were stone pedestals holding various sculptures and pieces of artwork. Most had a somewhat dark and ancient look that Harry found curiously more disturbing than intimidating. They looked like gods of some sort, with a decidedly South American flavor, many of them with unsightly features and ornate headpieces.
The house was deathly silent, the sounds of their breathing and rain-dripping bodies echoing in such a large and open space. It could have been a museum.
“My father’s probably working,” Madeline said quietly; voice hollow.
Harry nodded but said nothing.
“I know,” she said, motioning to the artwork, “some of it seems pretty frightening, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, what—what the hell are they?”
“Peruvian idols, mostly. Some of the natives still pray to them today.” She slowly moved deeper into the room. “When I was four, the company my father was working for at the time opened an office in Peru, so we moved there. We were only there a year, but that’s where he got all this stuff. It’s also where he got Fortunata.”
“What’s Fortunata?”
“Not what.
Who
.” She craned her neck, looked to the right. A door was open enough to reveal an office just off the main room. To the left was a short hallway that emptied into another sprawling area. “I’ve known her nearly my entire life. She was our maid in Peru, a native there my father hired to keep house and watch over me. When we moved back to the states, he brought her with us. She’s been here ever since.”
“She lives here with you?”
Madeline nodded. “She has her own quarters, a small bungalow in back. There’s a room off of the kitchen, you can see it from there. It’s very small but she lives there alone so it suits her needs. She hardly ever leaves the grounds; she’s always around.”
Harry thought it strange she’d never mentioned this woman before, but refrained from comment and followed her hesitantly, cringing with each intrusive squeak of his sneakers on the high-gloss floor.
“I hate her.”
The statement was made with such casualness that it took Harry a moment to fully acknowledge what she’d said. “You
hate
her?”
“Fortunata, yes.”
“Why?”
When they had neared the foot of the staircase, she stopped. “It’s not really her fault, I suppose, but you have to understand that in her country, in that culture, particularly among the very poor native tribes, females aren’t highly valued.”
Harry shivered a bit, glanced nervously at the partially open door to their right and the hint of an office beyond. For a moment he heard a man’s voice speaking softly.
“But, she’s a woman too.”
“In a sense that makes it even worse,” Madeline said with a shrug. “You know, the whole self-loathing thing. Had I been a male child I’d have been treated like a prince by her, like a little God. But for bearing children or acting as playthings for men, girls are considered essentially worthless.”
“But she works for your father,” he reminded her. “If she treats you badly why would he keep her here?”
Madeline turned and looked into his eyes like she had on the beach moments before. Like they were the only two people in the universe, like nothing else mattered, her face a fusion of so many emotions it was hard to zero in on just one. Had she burst into tears or laughter or a screaming fit of rage, none of those responses would have surprised him. But instead, she reached out and tenderly stroked his cold cheek with her fingers.
“There you are.”
She dropped her hand as Harry looked over his shoulder to see a tall, trim man in dress slacks and a white oxford leaning informally in the office doorway. His light brown hair matched Madeline’s. “I was beginning to worry about you out in this storm. Where have you been, Maddy?”
You must promise never to call me Maddy.
“Just walking in the snow.”
It struck Harry that they spoke to each other like strangers, and maybe they were. In her father’s presence there occurred a transformation in Madeline so immediate and so drastic it was nearly physical in nature. Gone was the sparkle in her eyes and the carefree wraithlike attitude that dictated not only her facial expressions and tone of voice, but her corporal demeanor as well—her posture, her movements.
Without warning, Madeline had become someone else.
“Hasn’t been snow for a while now, just rain,” he said, frowning at her. “Look at you two. You’re drenched.”
“Harry,” she said, “this is my father, Bruce Martin.”
He strode toward them, the heels of his loafers clicking against the floor, and extended his hand while still several feet away. His gait was fluid, like that of a dancer, almost feminine. “Hello there, young man. This is certainly an occasion. I can’t ever remember Maddy bringing a friend home before.”
“That’s because I’ve never had any friends before,” she said flatly.
Her father ignored the comment, and so did Harry as he took his hand and shook it firmly but with enough restraint so it could not be interpreted as a challenge. His palm was warm, slightly damp. “Harry Paletto. Nice to meet you, sir.”
“And a gentleman to boot,” he said, slightly cocking his head. “There certainly aren’t too many of us left, are there?”
“Yes, sir.” Harry gave an obligatory laugh. “I mean—no, sir.”
Bruce Martin smiled brightly. “You two look soaked to the bone. I’ll have Fortunata get you some towels and something warm to drink. I’m sure she can rustle up some hot chocolate or something. I take it you like hot chocolate, Harry?”
“Yes, sir, that’d be great. Thank you.”
He raised a single lean finger to his lips and rested the tip against his chin as if to indicate deep thought. “Are you from town, son?”
“Yes.”
“Paletto you said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do I know your parents, Harry?”
“I—no, I doubt—probably not, sir, no.”
He nodded and dropped his hand. “The only reason I ask is the name sounds familiar for some reason.”
“Maybe you’ve seen my dad’s van around town,” Harry explained. “He’s an electrician.”
“An honorable profession. None of us would have any lights without him, right?”
Harry smiled because he felt it was expected. “Right.”
“What does your mother do?”
“What is this,” Madeline said suddenly, “an interrogation?”
Her father never looked at her, keeping his eyes on Harry instead. “It’s called a conversation, Maddy. People have them all the time.”
“She works part-time at Keller’s Fish Market.”
“So you live down in that area then?”
“Yes, sir, over on Barden Avenue. On the far side of downtown.”
Bruce Martin seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. “You go to school with Maddy, I take it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Same grade?”
“Yes.”
“And what are your plans, son? College in the works?”
“I hope so.” Harry shrugged helplessly. “I’m an honor roll student but my parents can’t really—well, I’ve applied for some scholarships. Haven’t heard anything yet.”
“Good for you. Hard work and perseverance, that’s the key, right, Harry?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You hear that, Maddy?” he said, glancing at his daughter quickly before offering Harry a conspiratorial wink that was no more sincere than anything else he’d said or done since he’d appeared in the office doorway. “Sounds like you’ve got a good head on your shoulders there, young man.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He offered his hand and Harry shook it again. “Pleasure to meet you, Harry. Hope to see you again.” He turned and strolled back toward his office. “I’ll ring Fortunata and have her set you guys up with some cocoa. I’d join you but unfortunately I still have some work to do.” He stopped in the doorway as if something had just then occurred to him. “Oh, and Maddy, Fortunata informed me earlier that dinner will be a bit early tonight, right around five, all right? So please plan accordingly. And Harry, you take care.”
“Thank you, sir. You too.”
He pointed at him playfully before disappearing into his office. “I like this guy.”
“Which of course means he doesn’t,” Madeline said the moment he was out of sight.
Harry drew a deep breath. His heart was still racing. “He doesn’t like me?”
“Does it matter?” As quickly as she’d gone, the old Madeline had returned.
“No, I guess not.”
“Come on.” She sighed and moved away from the staircase, where she had originally headed, and veered off toward another doorway beyond it. “I was going to show you my room but that better wait until next time.”
Harry followed, both happy and anxious that she apparently planned on a next time taking place. Although he never voiced it, he was relieved that Rip hadn’t accompanied them after all. He’d have never withstood the barrage from Madeline’s father, and would have probably told the guy to go fuck himself, as Rip had been known to do to numerous authority figures on numerous occasions. As he tailed Madeline through a short jog of a hallway, he couldn’t help but wonder if that’s what she’d been hoping for—if not outright intended—all along.
They walked into a small sunroom made entirely of glass. A long oak table with matching chairs filled the narrow room, and although there was a place setting at each end and a basket of fresh flowers bookended by matching candles that served as a centerpiece, it looked more artificial than genuine, as did most of the house. Had no one ever sat at the table, much less had a meal there, Harry would not have been surprised.
Madeline stood near the rear wall that overlooked the backyard and the grounds beyond. To their left was a swinging white door that led to the kitchen.
“That’s it,” she said, pointing to a small bungalow to the rear of the house. “That’s where Fortunata lives.”
In the center of the backyard was a stone fountain, and beyond it lay a paved path that led over the sloped edge of the property and disappeared from sight. “Wow, nice fountain,” Harry said, and then, pointing to the path asked, “Where’s that go?”
“If you follow it down the incline along the backside of the cliffs,” Madeline explained, “it eventually leads to the boat house and a small dock where my father moors his power boat. It’s just a little one but I still rarely go out in it. He’s got another one, this giant awful thing he keeps at the yacht club. You wouldn’t think anything could be quite so pretentious, and then there it is, staring you in the face.”