A Good and Happy Child (38 page)

“Joan,” he said, his head bobbing slightly as he spoke. “I find it hard to believe we’ve never met. I have heard so much about you. So a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d

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many
lovely
things.” His voice was a halting tenor, with a southern accent that turned
r
s in to rich, resonant
y
s—
heyd so much about you.

“I’m sorry we have to meet like this. I wish you a speedy recovery.”

“Finley,” said my mother, surprised out of her pain momentarily.

“We met at the funeral.”

“Yes, we did. Thank you for remembering,” replied Finley courteously, with a little bow. Tom Harris indicated me. “This is George Davies.”

Finley turned his attention to me, and his deep brown eyes suddenly came into focus. They brought back a memory: a face at my father’s funeral; turtlelike, curious, mouth drawn in a mournful frown, peering at me from a back pew.

“George,” he said. “How wonderful.” He approached me, shook my hand. His palm was warm and dry.

My mother watched us with alarm. “It’s time to get inside, George.”

“Of course! We were just going,” blustered Tom Harris. He frowned at Finley, as if to say,
Forget what we said before—this will not
work.
He turned his crutches toward the red car. A chorus of cheerless farewells ensued.

To my surprise, it was the courtly Finley who cut through the patter.

“We just wanted to have a few words about, about our friend here,” he persisted, not releasing my hand.

I felt a thrill pass through me.

“Tom has made his views well known on that subject,” said my mother icily. “And I’d rather not discuss it anymore.” She gestured for Kurt to help her climb the stairs. “Good night. I’m sorry you came out here for nothing.”

“Ah . . . well,” Finley looked to Tom Harris nervously, and shuffled like someone called upon to make a speech unexpectedly. “Tom Harris contacted me at Calhoun, very concerned about the troubles young George has been having.”

Mother continued her slow ascent to the house. Finley resumed with more determination.

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“I was very close to Paul. I corresponded with him right up to the end,” he said. “Naturally something that affects his family so deeply is of concern to me.”

Only traces of dusky blue remained in the blackening night. The snow glimmered faintly on the ground. My mother halted, halfway up the stairs, gripping the rail with one hand and Kurt’s forearm with the other.

“We have everything under control.” She spoke without turning around. Her voice cracked like a teenager’s, audibly straining between anger and self-control.

“
Ahhhh,
” said Finley suddenly, an unexpectedly passionate noise from the little man—part sigh, part groan. “No, Joan,” he said, “there’s no chance of that.”

My mother stiffened.

“I think this conversation can wait,” Kurt said firmly, smelling danger and not wishing my mother to upset herself. “Goodnight, y’all. You okay getting back down this drive?”

“I—I don’t mean things
won’t
work out,” stammered Finley, as if Kurt had never spoken. “Just not on their own. The timing is
crucial.
Will you accept my help, Joan?” He pushed his glasses back up his nose. Something about Finley’s bewildered apologetic manner allowed him to address a wounded woman so directly, when no one else would have dared. “Tom and I have taken the liberty of speaking to the rector of the Jubal Early Church,” he said, “and we have arranged an interview, for this evening, at eight o’clock. The rector was willing to make special arrangements. Given . . . given the urgency of this case. Though I must say, just seeing George now gives me a great deal of hope.”

“
Hope?
” said my mother. I could hear the polite façade rip. The cold chilled her; her injuries ached; the bruises on her face made speaking painful and difficult. All she wanted was to sit down for a few minutes and eat some nonhospital food before thinking about the long, painful trip with me to Charlottesville, and then Forest Glen, the next day. “Mr. Balcomb, I have spoken to Tom frankly, and I will speak frankly to you. You are not welcome here. I would like you to go.”

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“Joan,” said Finley softly. “You were not in a car accident.”

My mother whirled in anger. “We are . . .”

The pain stopped her. She curled over, grasping at her side. Kurt wrapped himself more protectively around her. Through her bruised lips, the words came out
mmee err.
Still clutching at her side, she spoke again: “We are,” she breathed, “taking George to get treatment tomorrow. We will not need your help. That,” she said, “is final.”

She turned, slowly, and resumed her climb toward the kitchen door. I stood, mesmerized by Finley’s voice, his certainty, his odd appearance; I was strangely thrilled to be center of so much attention; and above all, I clung to anything that might prevent me from entering Forest Glen.

“Finley’s had experience with such things,” boomed Tom Harris to my mother’s back. “We can take action. I
wish
you would come with us to the rector’s tonight, to talk things over.”

At those words my mother abruptly burst out crying. It began with a gasp of frustration and continued in a sob. She leaned against Kurt.

“I think you’d better go now,” Kurt growled.

Tom Harris and Finley wavered for a moment. Their faces bore the conflicted agony of well-bred men who have just made a woman cry—should they stay and rectify the situation, or cut their losses and go? Frowning, Finley turned and shuffled silently toward their car. Tom Harris stood his ground for another moment, forbidding despite his plaster cast and his greasy, tousled hair. He and Kurt stared at each other. In his great black overcoat, Tom Harris stood like a tower against the white, snow-dusted drive. I watched them wide-eyed, like a spectator at a boxing ring.

“George,” Tom Harris said at length, not taking his eyes from Kurt’s. “Remember what I gave you?”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Your father’s icon. Keep it with you,” he said. “Do not let it go, not even for a moment, over the next few days. Do you promise?”

“I promise,” I said.

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“Let me see it,” he said, “so I know you have it.”

I fumbled in my pocket, and retrieved the Saint Michael icon. It was small and felt warm from being near my skin, despite the cold.

“What is that?”

A voice rang out, clear and angry. My mother’s voice.

“Bring it here.”

She laboriously made her way down the stairs again. I crossed to her and held out the icon, helpless before her commanding tone. With a surprisingly quick motion, she snatched it from my hand. And before I could say a word, she tossed the icon into the woods. It disappeared in the darkness. We could hear a tiny
pip
as it fell—somewhere. My mother groaned in pain. Kurt ran to her and wrapped her once again in his thick arms.

She hung her head, breathing heavily, regaining a grip on herself. Then turned to Tom Harris. “Now, go.”

“No!” I cried. “Ma, no!”

Tom Harris trudged toward the car. But not before a glance over his shoulder at me. His expression held pure sorrow. It was like he was pitying me for something in advance. I shuddered, full of foreboding. I ran to the perimeter of the woods, looking for the icon.

“George, come back here,” said Kurt.

“Where is it?” I cried. “Where is it?”

“George!” Kurt said in a warning voice. I was on my hands and knees, scrabbling at the snow. “George! George!” But I ignored him, searching frantically.
Holy Michael the archangel, defend us in the day of
battle.
I could hear the prayer in my head. I kept burrowing in the snow. I would be locked away with the demon, all alone, no Tom Harris, no Finley Balcomb.
Be our safeguard against the wickedness and
snares of the devil; may God rebuke him, we humbly pray.
I was on my knees now, and my hands were freezing, numbed by wet snow. But I had to find it. The demon had killed my father, it was coming for me.
By the power of God, thrust down to hell Satan and all wicked spirits, who
wander through the world seeking the ruin of souls.
The ruin of souls! Oh God, oh God, I thought, I knew it was coming, I had to find it, the last a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d

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and only item of protection I could take with me. But finally Kurt, exasperated, appeared beside me and grabbed me around the waist. He lifted me into the air and began carrying me bodily to the house. I cried, desolately.

This was the tableau Finley and Tom Harris’s retreating headlights revealed as they backed down the drive. Their own faces were pale and gloomy with defeat in the country dark.

N o t e b o o k 2 1

Running in Darkness

Kurt bathed my mother. Splashes followed by murmured instructions, and the tinkling of water dripping from a raised arm or sponge. Warm white light spilled from the cracked door. Heat and steam and all the fragrant odors of intimacy, gentleness, and care. My bag was packed. Kurt had supervised me. He worked from a list dictated by the administrator at Forest Glen: socks and underwear mostly; books, but no belts. In the morning we would make the journey. The bag sat by my bedroom door. I stared at it. Then I stood and strode past it.

In the guest bedroom closet hung my winter coat, with its blue waterproof shell and wool lining. In the laundry closet downstairs, I had noticed, Kurt stored a utility flashlight. Quite calmly, I collected these items. I exhibited none of the haste of flight. I would need to move silently and precisely in order to find the icon before it came time to take my pill.

I passed through the kitchen. The dishes had been put away. A television program whispered lonely in the den, its flickering blue light reflected on the snapshots in Kurt’s hall.

I opened the kitchen door and stepped outside. The cold punched
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my lungs. I descended the steps and made my way to the woods where my mother had thrown the icon—a mess of ivy, brambles, and skinny trees that fell away on a sharp slope. I swept the ground with the flashlight but found nothing. Heavy, drifting snowflakes caught the light. It was snowing again. How far had the icon traveled? In which direction, precisely? The search might be wide and impossibly difficult in the dark; and the snow could easily hide the icon even if I were to stand right over it. The icon, and the protection it afforded, would be lost, maybe until the spring, when it would be far too late. The hair on my neck stood on end. I felt a strange rumor in the air—a ripple, a warping of reality, which meant only one thing: the approach of my Friend, of
it.
I would have to hurry. I dropped to my knees, frantically sweeping the snow cover. My bare fingers reddened with the cold.

Down the hill, a car hummed at a cautious pace, its snow chains jingling. Suddenly I stood erect, puffing clouds of frost. An idea struck me. I estimated times and distances, staring at the driveway that curved its way to the road, and recalled what Finley had said.
I have arranged
an interview.
Finley, the practitioner. I knew where he would be, and at what time. Without the icon, they were my only hope. I jumped to my feet, ready to make the journey to town, on foot. Light flicked on in the kitchen. One second later Kurt burst through the back door in a heavy coat, pounding down the stairs and scattering the new-fallen snow as he went. I froze.

“George!” he called. He reached the bottom and turned around in a circle, deciding which way to search. “George!” he called again. Snowflakes gently drifted past his nose.

Snow.
He remembered to look at his feet. The prints I’d left showed a clear track—not down the drive, but up the slope, into the woods. I followed his gaze as they traced these steps, my heart beating. He raised his head. Our eyes met.

“George!” he bellowed.

I turned and ran.

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Tree trunks blocked my way. Bracken caught on my shoes, causing me to stumble. I fell headlong into a wet mix of snow, leaves, and mud. I scrambled down the slope.

Kurt gained on me quickly. “George, stop.” His voice was at my back. I felt him reach out, grab my coat with his fingers. But just ahead the ground fell away to the road. I jumped. His hand grabbed air. I slid—a baseball slide in the freezing mud—and hit asphalt. I gained my footing. I stood there, chest heaving and burning. But Kurt still followed. I turned, and holding the cramp in my side, started off again down the road. I’d put twenty yards between us before he called again.

“That’s enough, George,” Kurt huffed. He, too, had reached the road. “That’s enough. I’m a fat old guy, but even I can catch you on flat ground,” he said, leaning on his knees. “Come on back home.”

I came to a halt and turned. City streetlamps were not installed this far into the county. We stood in near blackness. The only light rose from the inch-deep dusting of snow at our feet, which seemed to cast a faint blue glow of its own.

“Where are you going?” he said, walking toward me.

“What do you care?” I called bitterly.

“It’s cold, it’s late, and your mother’s hurt,” he said. “Don’t you want to see her before you go away?”

“When you drop me off tomorrow, you’ll be jumping for joy,”

I yelled. “Then you’ll pack up in a moving van for Cincinnati and that’s the last I’ll hear of you. So why should I stay?”

“George, are you kidding me?”

“Oh, like you would never do that?” I backed away, but Kurt started closing the distance between us with long strides. “Like that’s
above
you?” I continued, spitefully. “You and mom already killed my dad—why not flush me down the toilet, too?”

“What?” said Kurt, incredulously. “George, I never even met your father. You’re talking nonsense now. Just—come on.” He stood two paces away and held his hand out for me to take. His fingers, like mine, were bare and red. His breath came heavily, making puffs of mist. a g o o d a n d h a p p y c h i l d