Heretics (5 page)

      “What does your father do?”

      “You mean besides make me want to heave?”

      “For a living.”

      “He’s senior lawyer for an architectural firm.  Worldwide corporate accounts, and big money, as you can see.”

    “Yeah, the house and—man—the whole area is beautiful.”

     “Not really.”  Madeline pulled a chair out, sat down and motioned for him to do the same.  “It just looks that way.”

      As he dropped into the chair beside her, the door swung open and a woman entered the room carrying a small tray with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate.  She stopped a few feet from the table; dark eyes locked on Harry and clearly stunned to discover that Madeline’s friend had turned out to be a boy.  

    “Fortunata,” Madeline said softly, “this is my friend Harry.  Harry, Fortunata.  Our
maid
.”  She emphasized the last word, but said it in a tone that sounded more like guarded resentment than arrogance.

      The woman was much younger than Harry had expected, perhaps in her early thirties, and far more attractive, with raven black hair pulled back into a bun at the rear of her head, light brown skin and exotic yet understated Peruvian features that were at first glance, quite striking.  She was dressed in white rubber soled shoes and a traditional uniform that did little to compliment her rather shapely figure.  

      “Hello,” Harry said.

      Her full lips parted slowly, and eventually turned up into a smile to reveal teeth dull and stained from years of nicotine, black coffee abuse and what had probably been a lack of available dental care as a child.  She placed the tray on the table, looked to Madeline.  “This is your boyfriend?” she said with a thick accent.

    Sensing Madeline’s discomfort Harry answered for her.  “No, ma’am, I—actually we’re just friends.”

      She looked at him, the same guarded smile in place.

      “Thank you for the hot chocolate,” Madeline said.  “That will be all for now.”

      Fortunata placed a mug in front of each of them then tucked her tray under her arm and retreated through the swinging white door.

      Harry warmed his hands on the mug, not sure what to say or do.  Madeline had tensed when Fortunata arrived and relaxed once she’d left.  “She didn’t seem so bad.”

      “No?”  Madeline looked more amused than annoyed by his statement.

      “Well, she wasn’t what I expected.”

      “What did you expect, some fat old hag with warts all over her face?”

      “I don’t know.  I just didn’t expect her.”

      “Never trust what’s on the surface, Harry.  You’re smart enough to know that.”

      He nodded, sipped his hot chocolate.  “Can I ask you a question?”

      “She left.”

      “Wha—”

      “My mother,” Madeline said.  “That’s what you were going to ask, where she is.”

      “Yes.”

      “She left when I was three.  I barely remember her.”  Madeline stared into the hot chocolate for a while as if inspecting it for poisons.

      “You never see her?”

    “Haven’t since she left.”  She finally drank from her mug.  “I have to rely on what my father tells me, of course, since I was so young when their marriage fell apart, but according to him she had some…
problems
.  Apparently she drank too much and suffered from severe depression—at least that’s what he says.  One day, she was just…gone.  She picked up and left the both of us and that was that.  My father seems to think she’s probably somewhere in California or out in that part of the country because that’s where she was from originally.  They both went to college out there.  That’s where they met, fell in love, got married.  Anyway, she’s never tried to contact me and I have no way of knowing where she is, so…”

    “I’m sorry, Madeline.”

      She shrugged.  “Three years later we moved to Peru,” she said as if she hadn’t heard him.  “Then Fortunata came into the picture, and a year after that we were back here.  All of us cozy as peas in a pod.”  She laughed louder than he’d thought her capable of, but it was a single short-lived burst, and the silence of the house soon washed over them again.

      Eventually she said, “Do you know what I think, Harry?  I think my mother had the magic too, I think she knew the things I know.  I think some of us do, some don’t.  You have it, Harry.  I can feel the magic in you, too.”

      He smiled.  There seemed nothing else to do.

      “When you first saw the house I felt your hand tense up,” she reminded him.  “You could tell, couldn’t you?  You could sense that nothing good ever happens here.”

    Harry wondered why she had waited so long to tell him things were so awful for her at home.  They had been friends now for almost a year—since springtime, through the summer and into the winter months—and had already been through a lot, shared so much.  He’d known she was less than ecstatic with her home life—what teenager wasn’t—but he’d had no idea it was so bad for her.  Yet she was right about his reaction to the house, and though he knew no specifics, he
had
 sensed nothing good ever happened there.      

    “It’s all right,” she said.  “Don’t be afraid of it, Harry.  There’s power in the magic, power in those things you feel, those things you sense.  It doesn’t come from nowhere; it has a point of origin just like everything else.  Just like every
one
 else.  They’re watching us right now, Harry.  They’re talking to us.  You just have to listen.”

      Fear welled in the base of his throat, and he pushed his mug aside.  “Shit, Madeline, that’s kind of creepy.”

      “Just wait.”  Her eyes sparkled.  

      Neither spoke another word until they had finished their hot chocolate.

      When Madeline walked him back through the house to the front door, Harry felt guilty, as if he were leaving her somewhere she needed to be rescued from.  “Look,” he said, “are you going to be okay?  I mean, what exactly is—”

      “Shhh.”  She placed a finger to her lips.

      “I want to know what’s—”

      “Be careful.  I’ll tell you what you want to know, Harry, so I’d suggest you make sure you’re ready to hear it.”

      He stared at her, hands held at his side for fear she might see them shaking.

      “Want to know a secret?” she asked through a sudden smile, a smile that signaled she had begun to glimpse those places she so often escaped to.  “None of it matters.”

      “Everything matters, Madeline.”

      “This is all going to come to an end.  One day soon, Harry.  One day soon.”

      Despite the sense of foreboding, her eyes had again become animated.  But there was still no joy, no warmth in this house, no residue or even a hint of human presence.  A detached and lifeless feeling hung in the air, as if no one really lived there…or as if those who did were already dead.

7

The carpeted hallway on the second floor of the Captain St. Pierre House was long and narrow with a low ceiling.  It radiated a claustrophobic feel that grew worse the deeper into the building they went.  Most of the room doors were closed, and but for soft classical music piped throughout the facility, the house was unnaturally quiet.  Unlike downstairs, where it was warm but reasonably comfortable, here the heat had increased significantly.

    Muriel stopped a few steps from the first open door they’d come across and looked back at Harry, face flushed.  “I’d better have someone check the air conditioner,” she said breathlessly.  “Even on warm days it’s usually not
this
 hot up here.”

      “Yeah, it’s pretty stifling.”  Harry removed a handkerchief from his pants and mopped the beads of perspiration that had collected across his forehead with it.

      She nodded and motioned to the open doorway.  “Ethan’s room.”

      The unmistakable stench of smoldering flesh wafted through the hallway.  

      Harry ignored it.

      “Just remember, he has therapy in—”

      “I understand.”  Harry moved by her.  “I won’t be long.”

      The room was small, with dull white walls and an old hardwood floor, and consisted of a modest bed and nightstand, a frail looking rocking chair and a bureau with a freestanding oblong mirror next to it.  For someone without sight it seemed a cruel addition to the room, and one that could have easily been removed.  An archaic rotary style black phone was on the nightstand along with a Bible and bottle of water, and a small wooden crucifix was tacked to the wall above the bed, an inexpensive set of plastic rosary beads wrapped about it.  It reminded Harry of one that had hung above his bed when he’d been a child.  

    Despite the large wraparound black sunglasses, there was no mistaking Rip.  He sat on the edge of the bed as if he were waiting for a bus, staring straight ahead at the wall, hands folded in his lap and a thin white cane leaned next to him.  His once long and wild hair had been buzzed down close to his scalp, and the sides were flecked with gray.  They had him dressed in clothes from the local Goodwill box, including an
I Love Cape Cod!
 T-shirt and a pair of dated sneakers, but he was neat and appeared to be in relatively good physical health.  His build was still lean and taut, his arms still sinewy and muscular, and somewhere along the line he had gotten a tattoo, a bleeding dagger, on his right forearm.  It looked amateurish, and Harry knew immediately where he’d gotten it.  

      “Ripper Man,” he heard himself say.

      Rip cocked his head, a smile quivering along his thin lips.  “Harry?”  His voice cracked, sounded weaker and less confident than it had years before.  “Christ—Harry is it—is that really you, man?”

      He nodded, then caught himself reflected in the dead black plastic covering what had once been his best friend’s eyes.  “It’s really me.”

      Rip pushed himself to his feet, aimed himself in Harry’s general direction.  Harry stepped deeper into the room, into Rip’s open arms and wrapped his own around him.  His body was still in fighting shape, and despite everything he’d been through, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him.  He fought tears as they hugged, Rip’s breath hot on his already perspiring neck.

    “I didn’t—I
couldn’t
believe it was really you.”

      “It’s all right, man,” Harry whispered.  “It’s all right.”

    Rip’s hands moved slowly, roughly across Harry’s face, fingers prodding as if he were sculpting his features from clay.  His smile widened, and he even laughed lightly.  “Well I’ll be damned, it
is
 you.  Only one motherfucker this goddamn ugly.”

      Harry wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite manage it.  He held Rip’s shoulders, gave them a squeeze.  “Still a dick, huh?”

      “A big juicy one.”  Rip stepped away and sat back down on the bed.  “Have a seat, man.”

      The large sunglasses dominated his face, and Harry kept peering into them, wondering what lay behind them.  

      “How’d you find me?”

      Harry grabbed his handkerchief and mopped his brow again.  “I called my brother, he knew you were here.”

      “Speaking of big juicy dicks, how is Brent?”

      “Brent’s Brent.  Some things never change, right?”

      Rip’s hands found the cane next to him, held it like the friend it had surely become.  “I was sorry to hear about your parents.”

      “Thanks.  We were never really that close once I left.”  Harry awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other and tried to think of something to do with his hands.  “Not that we were real close before.  Still, I miss them, but Brent was the all-star—you know that—they never had much time for me.  Especially after all that happened.  You know how it goes, can’t do much worse than disgrace your family.”

      “Always wished I could’ve traded parents with you.  Would’ve been so cool to just be ignored for a change.”  He said it with an air of humor but Harry knew he’d meant it.  Rip’s father had been a raging alcoholic who had beaten him from the time he’d been a toddler, and Rip’s mother was a mousy, submissive, painfully thin woman who was herself a victim of her husband’s wrath.  “The old man finally bit it.  Got loaded one too many times, decided to go out for a pack of butts, hit a telephone pole.  My mother’s still alive, but she moved back to Denver a few years ago, that’s where her people were from originally.  Haven’t spoken to her in a long time.”

      “Well, I hope she’s doing well.”

      “You know I looked for you.  I mean after it all went down I—”

      “I know,” Harry said quickly.  “I’m sure you did, but we don’t have to get into all that.”

      Rip faced him.  “I want you to know, that’s all.  I always felt bad that we split like that and never really heard from each other again.”

      “That’s just how it worked out.”  Memories of that time, of those days and weeks after Madeline and Rip had left him alone, bloomed in his mind.  “Nobody planned it.”

      He nodded, though hesitantly.  “Where’d you go?”

      Harry moved closer to the door, glanced into the hallway to make certain it was empty.  “I didn’t end up going to graduation,” he said.  “I wouldn’t have gone anyway, but the school decided it’d be too much of a distraction with all that had happened if I attended the ceremonies, so they sent me the diploma instead.”

      “Least you got it.”

      “Soon as the cops were off my ass I left town.  Spent a year tramping up and down the east coast, working when I had to, living wherever I could.  Ended up in New York not long after that, been there ever since.”

      Rip smiled.  “The Big Apple, huh?  You got there after all.”

      “Been there…” Harry counted it off in his head, “shit, eighteen years now.”

      “Don’t seem possible we ain’t seen each other for that long, does it.”

      “Not most days, no.”

      “So what do you do with yourself?”

      “I’m a writer.”

      He sat forward like an excited child, hands fondling the cane.  “For real?”

      “I mostly do freelance stuff, some ghost writing.  It’s not a big deal.”

      “Yeah it is, dude.  You made it, you did what you always said you would.”

      “Not exactly, but close.”

      “Close enough.  You married or got any kids or anything?”

      “Nope.”

      “Me either,” Rip said, and then, after a quiet moment, “Guess we were always better at being alone anyway.”  

      “Seems so.”

      “I lived with this one chick for a while but we never tied the knot.  Don’t have any kids I know of, but I suppose it’s possible.”

      “Where’d you go, Rip?  What’d you do?”

      His expression shifted, darkened.  “I left town about a month before you did.  Packed my duffel bag and hopped on my bike and—remember that piece of shit Honda I had?—rode that bastard all the way to California.  Wandered around for a while just like you did, slept on the beaches, hung out with the wrong crowd—as usual—smoked a lot of dope, tried to forget.  Ended up doing time.”  He forced a chuckle.  “Just like everybody thought I would.  And let me tell you, Harry, prison ain’t nothing like reform school.  Makes that shit look like goddamn summer camp.”

      “What the hell happened?”

      “The drugs got outta hand.  I got mixed up with heroin and everything went to shit.  Wasn’t nothing strong enough to make the past stay away, you know?  Hard as I tried, man, it just wouldn’t stay dead.”

      Harry nodded; again catching himself with the realization that Rip couldn’t see him.  “I drink,” he said softly.  “I understand.”

      “We chase away the demons however we can, right?  I ain’t about to judge you, Harry.”  Rip shrugged, as if remembering something more.  “Anyway, me and a bunch of other losers got the bright idea to rob a bank.  I was the driver.  The rest of them got twenty-plus ‘cause it was armed.  I got an even twenty, did fifteen of them.”

    Harry felt his knees weaken.  “Jesus.  Fifteen
years
?”

      “Fuckin’ A, bubba.”  He reached for his bottle of water.  “The old man bought it while I was inside so I missed the funeral.  I wish I could’ve been there—not for him—for my Mom, but there wasn’t no chance of that.  The church sent me a prayer card and a copy of the obituary all laminated and shit like a fucking bookmark.  Anyway, once I cleared parole I left California, started making my way back home.  Got here just over a year ago.”

      “Why, Rip?  Why here?”

      He drank some water, returned the bottle to the nightstand.  “Same reason you’re here, man.  What the hell you think?”

      “So you were only out of prison a year when you came home?”

      “Yeah.  I couldn’t take it no more, Harry.  I couldn’t fucking take it.”

    Harry forced a swallow, wiped sweat from his face with the handkerchief.  “Couldn’t take
what
?”

      No one spoke for several seconds.

      “Hey,” Rip eventually said, “I’m moving out of here soon.  They have a section of the housing for the elderly park for people with disabilities.  Don’t have to be a senior, just disabled.  I’ll have my own place, man; government pays the whole nut.  Not much but pretty cool.  I been learning how to get along with, you know, with this, how to be on my own and shit.”

      “That’s what Nurse Ratched was telling me downstairs.”

      “I know Lisa was a bitch in school, but she helped me a lot when they transferred me here from the state hospital,” he said guiltily.  “She taught me how to cope.  She taught me how to learn to live with what I’ve done, you know?  She’s all right, man.”

      Harry felt his hands curl into fists.  Rip was like a wild horse that had been broken, beaten into submission.

      “I even got a dog,” he said.  “A black lab named Sam.  He’s going to live there with me.  Been training with him for a while now.  He’s at the vet today for a checkup.  Great dog, so smart, you wouldn’t believe it.   He’s gonna be my…my eyes now.”

      Harry bit the inside of his cheek, battled rage and sorrow both.  “Christ almighty, Rip, what the fuck did you do to yourself?”

      “Never thought I’d come back here,” he answered absently.  “Never.”

      “Then why did you?”

    “Seeing me isn’t the only reason you’re in Virtue.  Why are
you
 here?”

      “I asked you first.”

      “We really got to play these games, Harry?”

      “Madeline.”

      The tension in the room shifted once her name was finally uttered.

    “Yeah,” Rip said.  “
Madeline
.”

      “The whole thing’s like a dream sometimes, but I guess the worst nightmares are the ones that seem the most real.”

    “Harry, the worst nightmares are the ones that
are
 real.”

      “I loved her.”

      “So did I.”

      Visions of the three of them laughing and playing along the dunes flooded his mind.  “She wasn’t like everyone else.”

      “Neither were we.”

      “Sometimes when I think about the fact that we were friends with her for less than a year, it doesn’t seem possible.  How did things happen so quickly?”

      “Like a free fall, Harry.  It’s a fucking rush but you hit the ground quick.”

      More memories came to him, more visions.  “But you and I had a history together.  We’d been friends since we were, what, five?”

      “But she never came between us.  We were all too hip for that.”  He gave a quick and ironic laugh.  “Wanna know the truth, Harry?  I never really felt alive before I knew her, and I haven’t felt alive since those days.  It was like I was just marking time, waiting for something to happen, waiting to die.”

      “And then you came home,” Harry said.  “You came back.”

      “Like I told you, I couldn’t take it no more.  It got worse and worse.  No matter what I did, Madeline was always there, always watching, always calling me back.  Even in the joint it kept up, the—I thought I was crazy, man, and maybe I was, who knows?”

    “I do.  
I
 know.”

    His head turned in Harry’s direction, as if he could still see.  “It got real bad when I got out of prison.  I started seeing her all the time.  
All
 the fucking time, man.  Always there in the corner of my eye, floating above my goddamn bed in the night smiling and peering down at me through the shadows, through windows and doorways, bleeding and burning and—Christ, she was coming out of the fucking walls.  I—I couldn’t stop it, Harry, night and day I couldn’t stop it, I was going out of my mind, I couldn’t stop it.  I didn’t want to see it no more, I didn’t want to see her, I—I couldn’t handle it.”

      “Take it easy, Rip.”  Harry moved closer, crouched in front of him.  “I see her too.”

      He trembled, grimaced as if in physical pain.  “You think I don’t know that?”

      “Brent told me the cops found you up at her old house.”