The Atheist's Daughter (7 page)

“See? That’s the way people talk. They say, ‘piss’, they say, ‘crap’ –”

He raised a hand to interrupt her. “I know the words.” A little defensively, he added, “I’m trying not to say them.”

“Since when?”

“Since yesterday.” Serious Face returned. “I applied to Oklahoma Trinity.”

Kristin’s heart sank.

“Dad’s a big supporter of the school. For years, even before I was born. They’re going to take me. I mean, I don’t
know
it but I know it. It’s practically a given.”

“Oklahoma Trinity.”

“The seminary.”

“I know it’s a seminary. You father dropped its color brochure in my lap, remember? He made sure I went to the website, too. Sprawling campus, student dorms, administrative offices, all conveniently grouped in one enormous location.”

“It covers, like, six city blocks.”

“Big isn’t everything.”

Hawkins said, “It’s in Oklahoma City.”

“Of course it is.” Kristin heard the flat, bitter tone in her voice. “No better place for a would-be preacher than Jesus Central.” She squeezed her hands into fists, trying to hold off her rising anger.

“It’s not Jesus Central. It’s an okay place. It’s pretty decent, actually. I’ve been there.”

“It’s miles and miles from here. Forever from here.”

“Tell me you’re okay with this. Okay with my decision.”

But she wasn’t okay with it.

How could he go and leave her here? He couldn’t wait a few more months, give her an opportunity to raise some money, and move to Ashfork, instead?

Guess not,
she thought.

To hell with Oklahoma City. To hell with you, Gideon Hawkins.

“Kristin?”

You don’t get it, do you?
she asked him silently.
Naturally not. You’re a guy.

You think I should give you a hug. Force a smile. If I pretend I’m happy, we can have the summer together. Nothing more than that but, for now, at least, the summer.

All I have to do is fake it. Like I’ve done a thousand times before.

Knowing how to respond, she didn’t act. She was still too mad.

“I’ve got to do something,” he said. “Go somewhere. Oklahoma Trinity might not be the perfect choice but what if it is? You ever think of that?”

She had thought about it. How could she not? The Reverend hadn’t exactly been subtle in the hints he’d dropped. But Hawkins had always dismissed his father’s suggestions with a laugh. He hadn’t seemed remotely serious about the Christian college.

Until now.

His face clouded. “Every time I try to talk to you about something important, you shut down. The silent treatment really gets old sometimes.”

Bending down, he quickly tightened the laces on his shoes. “Screw it.”

Stiff-legged, he walked off.

Go then
, Kristin thought.
You think I care? Why the hell should I care about you when you don’t....

WHY DOES THIS HURT SO MUCH?

Kristin hurried to join him. Hawkins’ neck was rigid and his jaw was set. 

She guessed it was his turn to try the silent treatment. “I don’t think you’re allowed to say those kinds of things.”

His head faced determinedly forward.

“At seminary, I mean.”

Nothing from him.

In the past, he’d frequently complained about her periods of silence. At least she knew her reasons for keeping quiet.

Hawkins, on the other hand, was just being stubborn.

“Would Moses have used that kind of language?” she asked. “Do you think he ever went, ‘I’ve got sand in my tightie-whities, screw it, I’m going home’? Would Daniel have said, ‘What do you mean, lions? Screw it, I’m hitting the spa’?”

The muscles in Hawkins’ mouth worked to keep him from smiling. “The spa?”

“Nebuchadnezzar’s Tanning Salon and Spa. Big, big chain. Huge in Oklahoma.”

He stopped, facing her. “Are we okay?”

“Always.”

“You have to tell me I can go to Oklahoma City. I want to hear you’re good with it.”

She forced a smile. It felt as plastic as a Halloween mask. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Not exactly the same thing.”

“As good as you’re going to get for now.” She blinked back tears. “I’d take what I was offered if I were you.”

“Deal.”

They stood together awkwardly. Finally, Kristin shrugged. In response, Hawkins raised an eyebrow.

They started walking again.

He said, “School starts in September.”

“That bites.”

“I’ll text, I’ll call. I’ll e-mail.”

“You don’t even have a cell phone.”

“I’ll get one, I promise. Something shatterproof, this time. You won’t even know I’m gone.”

She felt like he was gone already. “Seminary or not, those text messages better not get all religous-y on me. I don’t want to read any ‘Honor thy’ or ‘Thou Shalt Not’ stuff.”

“Then you don’t send me any political bull or celebrity gossip.”

“You like gossip.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.” Stopping abruptly, he stared across the road. “You see that?”

A moving van was parked in front of Piotrowski’s Café. The rear roll-up door was up, exposing a cargo hold full of cartons and a metal rack extending over the sidewalk.

Martin Piotrowski walked down the ramp, a box in his arms. At the end of the ramp, a woman waited for him. She wore a dress in a gold leaf print with a sequined belt cinched at her waist. Her frame was small and her arms were bare.

It can’t be.
Kristin clutched at Hawkins’ arm.
I can see through this woman.

Literally, right
through
her.

She couldn’t see past the dress or through the bracelet, but wherever there was skin, the woman was translucent. Without flesh, organs or bone, she presented the outline of a person, a glass woman. If it hadn’t been for the fabric she wore, she’d have been nearly invisible.  

A tall man stepped out onto the ramp, carrying a large cardboard container. His long sleeve blue shirt was rolled up to the elbows and open at the collar. Like the woman in yellow, his form lacked substance.

Gazing into his face was like gazing through a crystal globe, the images behind him visible through his skin and only slightly distorted by being seen in such a manner.

Like the woman, he was a ghost.

“What’s wrong with those people?” Hawkins said.

Chapter Eleven

Kristin squeezed Hawkins’ arm tightly. “You see it, too?”

“Of course, I do.” He reached for her fingers, softening the grip on his arm. “That’s not right. Old man Piotrowski, working in this heat? He’ll have a stroke.”

Hearing Hawkins’ words, the woman turned from Martin Piotrowski and looked directly at them. She narrowed her eyes and, for a moment, it seemed to Kristin as if she was surprised.

Surprised and frightened.

Martin carried his box into the restaurant. The tall man followed after him but was stopped at the doorway by the woman in the gold leaf dress.

“Mr. Locke,” she said, the words floating to Kristin as if carried on a current of air. The woman dropped her voice.

Mr. Locke nodded. Lowering his container to the ground, crystal muscles bunching under the thin fabric of the blue shirt, he slapped his hands together, as if to brush the dirt from them.

He gazed across the black asphalt, the irises of his eyes hanging like dark half-marbles in the empty sphere of his face. It was beyond creepy. Although it was hard for Kristin to see the finer details in his expression, she could have sworn he was smirking.

Not bothering to check for traffic, he lurched toward them, his stride smoothing as he crossed the street. “Hey! What do you think you’re looking at?”

“Oh, boy,” Hawkins said softly.

A slender man with delicate features, Mr. Locke’s arms were lean but muscular and his shoulders were wide. Still appearing as if he’d been carved from glass, he didn’t seem nearly so ephemeral when he was standing in front of them.

He said, “Alice Poe doesn’t like how you’re staring at us.”

The thin woman, Alice Poe, remained at the side of the moving van. Glowering, Hawkins opened his mouth to speak. Kristin put a warning finger against his lips and the motion surprised him. His mouth snapped shut.

“The two of you seem a little slow so maybe you didn’t understand me the first time,” the glass man said, a threat rumbling beneath his words. “I’ll ask one more time. What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Kristin said honestly.

The answer amused him. “I could say the same, young meat.” He tipped his head toward Hawkins. “What’s this? Bring me a present?”

Crossing his arms, Hawkins stepped in front of her.

Protecting me,
Kristin thought.
But from what?

“The boy doesn’t know, does he?” the glass man said. “You didn’t tell him. I’ll bet you wouldn’t even know
what
to tell him.”

Hawkins turned toward her. When he did, Mr. Locke frowned. Pinching the younger man’s chin between his fingers and a thumb, he forced him to face forward.

An expression of pain and fear filled Hawkins’ eyes. As empty as he appeared, Mr. Locke was apparently quite powerful. A pleased smile lifted his lips as he scanned up and down the younger man’s body. “Nice.”

Hawkins shrank back. Snorting derisively, the glass man returned to the middle of the street. He stopped, holding an empty hand out to an approaching car.

“Glad you know to keep your secrets, little girl,” he called to Kristin. “Now go bother someone else. I have work to do.”

“What if I don’t?” Kristin called after him. Striding toward the moving van, he didn’t answer.

“What was that about?” Hawkins asked her. “What secrets?”

She didn’t know what to say.

“What’s going on?”

“Piotrowski’s Café is in business again,” she said. It offered enough truth to let her keep her mouth. “Martin leased out the place. New management. New employees.”

“You’re not thinking of applying for a job, are you?”

“No.”

“Good. Because that guy creeps me the hell out.” Hawkins rubbed at his chin as if to wipe off the memory of the stranger’s touch. “Did you see how he looked at me?”

Mr. Locke stepped around the metal ramp. Carrying the cardboard container, he brought it into the restaurant. Alice Poe followed behind him.

Before the café’s door could close, Hawkins threw a hand up into the air. “Eff you!”

Kristin grabbed at his arm. “Let’s go home.”

Chapter Twelve

Mrs. Norton led Martin Piotrowski to the café’s front door. “Thank you for all of your help,” she said. “You’re a darling.”

“There’s still a lot to do. Most of the boxes haven’t even been opened.”

“We’ll manage.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am.” She patted the side of his face. “Your eyes aren’t very good at night, you’ve said so yourself. It’s getting late and I wouldn’t want you to have an accident on the way home. I might have a need for you later.”

Reaching for the coat rack, Martin plucked a gray felt hat from its upper rack. Nestling the hat upon his balding head, he dipped its front brim toward Mrs. Norton and left.

She closed door behind him, locking it. Mr. Locke entered the dining area with Alice Poe at his back, following nervously.

Mr. Locke said, “Why do you waste your time with that fossil?”

Opening a thin, rectangular box, Mrs. Norton tore off its end tab and reached inside. Stepping into the café’s picture window, she positioned a UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT sign in its lower left corner.

“He wants you,” Mr. Locke said. “You can smell the lust on him.”

“Watch your tongue,” Alice Poe told Mr. Locke. He scowled at her and she shifted uneasily.

“He’s old meat,” Mr. Locke said. “Since when is old meat worth the bother?”

Mrs. Norton tugged for the string controlling the window’s vertical blinds. The white slats slid, sheet-like, to the base of the window. With a twist of a plastic rod, she closed them.

Only then did she focus on Mr. Locke. “You’re still new to our family. Are you already unhappy with how I do things?”

“I didn’t say that.”

No, he hadn’t, but from the way he acted, she knew differently.

It’s going to be a struggle with this one
, she thought.
Still learning to crawl, he wonders why he isn’t allowed to run. Worse, he thinks he has power.

Power? Him?

His strength is only great in comparison to those we feed upon.

She decided to allow his subtle display of rebellion. This time. After all, he was hungry. It was a new sensation for him, this hunger, and not everyone handled it well. Once he was filled, his color and features returning to him, she would reassess his potential.

Alice Poe saw the shell and could barely wait for its embodiment. Enfleshed, Mr. Locke would be full-lipped with prominent cheekbones; tightly-muscled but still masculine. He’d be pretty for a male and Alice Poe liked them pretty.  

A vapid, shallow little thing, Alice Poe had bitter lessons ahead of her but she knew enough to do as she was told.

“It’s loneliness you smell,” Mrs. Norton said. “Martin’s wife left him and his best friend died a few months ago. He feels he no longer has anyone who cares about his well-being. He barely cares about it himself.”

With those words, Mr. Locke’s expression changed. It was very near to lust itself.

Pity he’d never shown as much interest in Alice Poe.

“He has no one?”

“Miss Sweet will do his reading soon enough. He’s quite excited at the prospect. He tells me he’s never visited a ‘psychic’ before. We’ll see what’s in store for Martin. Perhaps he’ll surprise us.”

Mr. Locke’s tongue licked greedily at his lips.

Entering from the hallway, Mr. Brass drew a brown rag over his crystalline hands.  “It’s done.”

“I hadn’t expected it to take so long.”

“Me, either.” His broad features grew pinched. “Things take longer when you have to do them by yourself.”

Mr. Locke said, “I had my own work to do.”

“And I’ll bet Alice Poe did most of it.”

Mrs. Norton raised a finger and Mr. Brass fell silent. “Tell me about the fence.”

“It’s solid enough.” He dropped the rag onto one of the circular tables dotting the dining room. “Eight-foot tall, it runs both sides of the building and across the back. Nobody’s going to see into the yard. I ran a heavy chain through the gate, put a padlock on it. The most expensive model in the hardware store.”

“Good.”

“What we need is some cut wire for the top of the fence. It slices skin like a razor blade. Nobody climbs over a fence with cut wire on it.”

“I don’t think so.”

“We used it in Lancaster. In Bedford, too.”

“So we did. It’s appropriate for an auto shop or a junkyard; I suppose it’s almost expected. It’s out of place for a small town café.”

“We were glad to have it in Bedford.”

“This is Winterhaven. Here, the citizens feel they can trust one another. They show their trust in little ways. They help their neighbors. They watch one another’s homes. Sometimes, they even leave their doors unlocked.” She allowed a tiny smile to tease her mouth.

Mr. Brass and Mr. Locke grinned broadly, as if they could barely believe their good fortune. Only Alice Poe remained subdued.

“Did you see her?” she asked, in a voice so small Mrs. Norton barely heard it. “The Other?”

Mr. Locke said, “Don’t worry about her. She almost pissed herself when she saw me.”

“Is she one of yours?” Alice Poe asked Mrs. Norton.

“I imagine so.”

“She won’t come back,” Mr. Locke insisted. “Why would she? She doesn’t know what we are. She doesn’t even know what she is.” Alice Poe reached for the reassurance of his hand but he denied her, curling his fingers into a fist. 

“You’re scared of a girl? One of their kind?” Mr. Brass shook his large, square head disbelievingly. “She’s nothing.”

“You didn’t see her. I did. She’s not a
nothing
.”

“Her name is Kristin Faraday.” Mrs. Norton’s voice was cool but firm. “Martin knows her. He’ll tell me more about her history tomorrow.”

“What do we do if she returns?”

“We invite her in. We offer her a nice carbonated beverage and tell her about the café’s daily special.”

Worry remained on Alice Poe’s face.

“She’s a child,” Mrs. Norton said. “Her presence is unexpected, certainly, but not a major concern. If something changes, I’ll deal with her.”

Chapter Thirteen

The adding machine’s motor whirred and an inch of paper spit from its mouth. Lowering her reading glasses, Becky gave the numbers a glance. Resting the glasses atop her head, she rubbed at her tired eyes.

“How ‘bout this one?” Sitting beside her, Kristin rubbed a yellow marker over the newspaper on the table.

“Tell me.”

She squinted at the tiny print. “‘X-sharp 4-door with m-g-t-f, all p-w-r, 158K, $850 o-b-o.’”

“It has 158,000 miles on it?”

“But it’s extra sharp. If it’s in good condition, those could be very gentle miles.”

“I don’t know. That’s a large number of very gentle miles.”

“Probably a little old lady who only drove it to Sunday school,” Kristin said. “Church miles don’t count. Hawkins is always talking about the Bible to me. I’m sure that’s in there somewhere.”

“Because the Honda Civic was the car of choice in Biblical times.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. What is ‘m-g-t-f’, anyway?”

“Much grief to follow? Honey, it doesn’t matter. You don’t have eight hundred and fifty dollars. ”

“O-b-o, remember? Five hundred and eighty-nine dollars might well be the best offer. Then I’m the proud owner of a sweet Honda Civic –”

“– driven during the days of David and Goliath, with an odometer to match,” Becky interrupted.

“I’d have my own wheels, that’s the thing.”

“That’s another issue. At that price, the car will almost certainly need new tires. And then there’s maintenance costs, registration fees, insurance....”

“What’s your point?”

“It’s going to cost more than you expect. You don’t think so but it will. Everything in the universe always cost more than you expect and you try, and you try –” Becky thumped her mechanical pencil against the head of the adding machine “– and it’s never enough.”

“Ohhh-kay.”

“Sorry, honey.” She let a whistle of air escape from her nose. “Just another one of your mother’s monthly meltdowns.”

“Try and say that five times fast.” Kristin folded the newspaper in half. “Bills, huh?”

“Things have been a little slow at the gallery. Never mind. We’ll get by. We always do.”

Kristin tucked the paper under one arm. “Mom?”

“Hmmm?” Becky returned the reading glasses to the bridge of her nose. Shaking a bank statement from its envelope, she bent toward the adding machine.

“I saw something today. Something – weird.”

“Were you at the mall?”

“What?”

“You said you and Hawkins were going to the mall today.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Is a new store opening?”

“No. I mean, what are you trying to say? Not everything in my life revolves around shopping.”

Becky tapped a finger over the adding machine’s keys. “Shopping or boys, college or a job. And, lately, cars. I’ve pretty much covered the play list, right?”

“Yes. Yes, I guess you did,” Kristin said, sarcasm coloring her words. “That’s everything I’m interested in. Shopping, boys, a job. Cars.”

“Oh, and there’s the cable show you like.”

She threw her hands in the air in disbelief. The newspaper fluttered to the ground as she stomped off.

“Honey? “ Becky called out. “You forgot to tell me about the new store.”

From upstairs, Kristin’s bedroom door slammed shut.

* * *

It was dark outside before Becky folded the bank statement inside its envelope. She’d spent the last three hours chasing a twenty-four dollar and fifteen cent discrepancy in her checking account. Finally, she’d tracked it down. Only then had she remembered the jammed cash register at the supermarket and the debit slip she’d never received.

“No big deal,” she told the clerk at the time. Little did she know.

It wouldn’t have been a big deal
, she reflected, clicking off the office lights and closing its door,
if you somehow managed to save a few dollars now and then.

Between the credit card bill and the bounced check fees, insolvency beckons. If you keep this up, you’ll lose the house.

What will you do then?

She paused in the hallway. From the floor above her, she heard an unfamiliar voice. It was a male voice, speaking in a low tone. It sounded like the words were coming from her daughter’s bedroom.

“Kristin?”

She didn’t answer. The voice continued to talk, muffled behind the closed door.

Buried in paperwork, did I somehow miss Hawkins, come to visit?

Not this late. It’s probably just a television show.

She listened more closely. There weren’t any of the usual television sounds: No gunshots, no squealing tires, no weird sci-fi sound effects. The indistinct voice continued speaking into the emptiness.

It was probably her imagination but the disembodied voice seemed to be speaking more urgently. She gripped the stair’s railing.

Has to be the t.v.
, she thought.
No reason to even check.

She started up the stairs.

All parents worry about their children
.
It doesn’t matter how old they get. Kristin is still my child and I will forever worry about her.

But not like before. Not like when Rick died. When Rick died, things had gotten truly strange.

“You want to talk paranoid,” she muttered
. Lose your husband, lose your mind.
If she hadn’t been clinically paranoid during those first terrible months, she’d been close to it.

In those days, it felt as if only she cared whether Kristin lived or died. Becky’s parents were long dead but Rick’s widowed mother had refused to even touch the baby. Heartbroken over the loss of her only son, she’d died without ever knowing her grandchild.