Spellbinder (6 page)

Every Sunday, his mother watched the Austin Holloway Hour. It was the only thing in her life that she could focus on—that could claim her full attention. Everything else had fallen away from her, lost forever.

The choir was in its last chorus, voices rising, arms linked, swaying in slow, sappy unison. Beside him, Massingale was turning to Gaumer, muttering something about the black girl on the right. Answering, smiling broadly, Gaumer was elaborately licking his blue-black lips. Tall and thin, stoop-shouldered and hollow-chested, narrow across the torso, Gaumer had started out as a finger-snapping, jive-talking New Orleans pimp—and ended controlling heroin in the city’s black ghetto. On the outside, Gaumer was still important. So, inside, he was one of the men to see. Between them, the brains and the muscle, Gaumer and Massingale ran cell block C.

Now Holloway was beginning his sermon. Carson watched for a moment, then dropped his eyes again to the magazine. When the choir came on again, he would look. To himself, he smiled. If he wrote to Holloway, maybe the black girl on the right would send him an autographed picture of herself. He could pass it on to Gaumer, a farewell gift. When he got out, in ten more days, Gaumer might help him.

Ten more days …

On his two hands, he could count them. Five days from now, he’d only need one hand. And five days after that, he’d go into the administration building and pick up his clothing: the checked sports coat and the gray trousers and the white shirt that he’d worn during his trial. He’d put on the clothes, and take the twenty-five dollars in cash, and wait for them to drive him to the bus station, where they’d buy him a ticket. Three hours later, he’d be in Darlington. Home.

Home …

What did it mean, that word? For him, what would it mean? Did it mean his mother’s dark, dank little house with mice in the walls and rats underneath and roaches mashed on the kitchen floor? Did it mean a rooming house on Prince Street, behind the bus station? In Darlington, everyone knew him. They all knew, and they wouldn’t forget. Everywhere, eyes would follow him. Just as eyes followed his mother, wherever she went.

Now, at that moment, muttering and gesturing, she was watching Austin Holloway. For her, Austin Holloway was God come down to earth, talking just to her, privately, every Sunday. When Holloway told her to do it, she dropped to her knees, placed her hand on the TV set and prayed. When she prayed, she cried. And when she cried her face became a wet, paint-streaked mask: a madwoman’s mask, from Halloween. Because every Sunday morning before she turned on the Austin Holloway Hour, she went into the bathroom, and locked the door, and painted her face with lipstick and mascara and bright red rouge. So when she cried for God, on Holloway’s command, all the paint dissolved. After The Hour was finished, she staggered into her bedroom, sobbing, and locked the door. Her sheets and pillow cases were always filthy, stained black and red from the makeup.

His eyes wandered back to Holloway, speaking directly into the camera now. In Darlington, on her knees beside the TV, his mother raised her grotesque face up to heaven.

Maybe.

Or maybe not.

He hadn’t heard from her for more than six months. Why? And why were they paroling him to his Uncle Julian, not to his mother? Uncle Julian had arranged for the job that all parolees must have. Why? During the last six months, only Uncle Julian had written him. Not his mother. Why? For him, beyond the prison’s walls, it was as if only one person existed.

Why?

On the TV, Holloway was finishing his spiel. Massingale was getting to his feet, changing channels. Oral Roberts was next. Turning the magazine’s pages faster now, Carson had come to the back section of
Argosy,
filled with small ads arranged in catalogue style. Some of the ads promised more money, others more muscle. Courses in TV repair and burglar-alarm installation were offered, along with pamphlets on raising earthworms, and mushrooms, and chinchillas for profit.

When he’d been a boy, twelve years old, he’d wanted to send away for a book that promised to make him stronger. The book had cost five dollars. When he asked his mother for the money, she refused. Her check hadn’t come, she’d said. The check was late. But he’d known she was lying. Always, by the fifth of every month, the check came. When he was still very small, five or six years old, he’d learned to recognize the envelope: plain white, with an Arizona postmark and no return address. For him, the envelope was magic. Because when it came, it made his mother a different person. Sometimes, when the check came, his mother would smile—actually smile. Her eyes would clear, and seem to really see him. And that was magic.

When he’d asked her for the five dollars, it had been the middle of the month—the twelfth, or the fifteenth. He’d known she’d gotten the check, and had already taken it to the bank, and cashed it. She’d had the check, but hadn’t admitted it. She’d lied to him. So, a dollar at a time, patiently, he’d taken the money from her purse. That was magic, too. Because, after that, he always had money.

When he slipped that first dollar from his mother’s purse, he’d been aware of a small, intense tremor of fear, followed by a rush of exhilaration when the purse was closed and he was safe. Over the years, as the jobs got riskier and the money got better, it was always the same for him. The fear never lessened, but neither did the high that followed. The two went together—first the fear, then the exhilaration. Without the first, the second wasn’t possible.

He closed the copy of
Argosy,
rose from the couch, returned the magazine to the rack and stood for a moment watching the TV. The scene was the campus of Oral Roberts University. A group of carefree girls crossed the campus, laughing and talking. An appreciative murmur went through the day room.

At that moment, his mother lay across her bed, sobbing. Her goblin’s face, streaked black and red, was buried in the filthy sheets.

Why did she do it, every Sunday?

And why was he there, watching as she watched—remembering?

During the last four years, he’d hardly thought of her, except to wonder fleetingly when she would die, and release him.

Yet now, watching the TV and wondering, suddenly, whether his mother might be dead, he realized that a tremor was beginning, deep inside him. It was the same tremor he’d experienced when he’d stolen that first dollar from his mother’s purse, so long ago.

W
ITH BOTH FEET ON
the blue circle that spotted her for the cameras, Katherine Holloway stood with hands clasped, chin lifted, eyes wide—smiling at a point just beneath camera two. To her right, alone on center stage, her husband had turned directly to the front, squarely facing camera one, suspended above the pulpit. Alone among them all, Austin was the only one allowed to look directly into the cameras. It was Austin’s first principle.

In the wings, the director was holding up one finger. The show had one minute to run.

In one minute, for this week, it would be all over, and she would soon be home. Soon her car would be turning into the circular driveway. She would wait for the car door to be opened before she alighted. It was another of Austin’s principles. Nodding and smiling to Susan, who would open the front door for her, she would enter the house. Without haste, climbing slowly in her organdy dress, holding her long skirt gathered before her like a duchess rising step by regal step above her subjects, she would gracefully ascend the staircase to her bedroom. Moments later, with the door closed safely behind her, she would be alone.

One more week—seven more days—would have passed. Gone forever—days and hours passed dust unto dust, slipped somewhere far behind her, lost forever.

Someday, alone in her bedroom, she would cry for all the lost hours and all the forgotten days.

Because even a duchess cried. Secretly. Alone.

But now she must smile at her husband as he raised his right hand high in final benediction, left hand lifting Daddy’s old leather prayer book for a better camera angle. She could feel her smile widening—wonderfully, radiantly widening. Her smile was her best, most photogenic feature. Everyone said so. Even Austin. On TV next Sunday, wearing the new organdy dress, she would see herself as others saw her. On tape, rebroadcast, millions would see her. Paying millions.

Millions upon millions, blessed dollars. Riches upon riches, dust unto dust. All to Austin’s glory. His voice was rising now, saving the sinners who paid for the pleasure. She glanced quickly at the small red light glowing beneath the lens of the nearest camera. Soon—in seconds—the light would wink out, releasing her.

Until next week.

Seven days.

Alone.

She heard her husband’s voice rise, saw his arm raise one last time, watched him hold the pose.

Until, at last, the red light winked out.

Austin was free, too.

Slowly, slowly, she let the smile fade graciously away. Now a half turn to her right, take three steps, hesitate as Austin turns toward her, offering his left arm, as gracefully as a princeling, escorting his lady. He was smiling into her eyes. Head lifted, she was answering his smile as she took his arm, doing a dainty dancing-school pirouette.

For more than thirty years, once a week, they’d smiled at each other like this.

Had they smiled when they’d lain together in the bedroom darkness, coupled, conceiving their children? She couldn’t remember.

Did she care?

She couldn’t remember.

Ahead, at the parting of the golden curtains, Elton was waiting for them. Elton, too, had learned to smile. He’d become rich, these last few years, smiling and singing.

In San Francisco next week, Denise might smile. To Denise, watching the family on TV, it would all be a joke.

Dust unto dust.

Now she was smiling at Elton, her firstborn. For eighteen hours, she’d labored to birth him. It had been a breech birth—the first of countless agonies he’d caused her.

Taller than his father, Elton was smiling down at her. His arm, too, was crooked. Six steps separated them. Five. Four. Now, in unison, arms linked, they pivoted in platoon front, smiling a last time out toward the footlights. In front of them, on cue, Elton’s three children—“the grandkids”—bowed and curtsied, herded fondly by their mother, also smiling.

And then, left turn, they were filing through the curtains. Finished for the week. Free.

And instantly, the backstage furies surrounded them. Mitchell, unsmiling, was ready with the white towel and white terrycloth robe, for Austin. Flournoy, always watchful, revealed nothing behind his courtier’s oily smile. Cowperthwaite, as always, congratulated them. Later, he would complain about cues and timing and lighting. Elton’s own lackey, newly hired, waited for his master, grinning, proffering towel and robe. Like his father, the son had his own shower. Austin preached, Elton sang. So they both perspired.

But for those who only smiled for the camera—for the wives—there would be no showers. Instead, Elton’s wife would herd the three “grandkids” into the waiting Lincoln. One of the children, Amy, had a fever. Already Amy was wailing, complaining of her cold. But on camera, Amy had been a hit. Because Amy, with her dimples, was the fairest of them all.

Walking behind her daughter-in-law and her three grandchildren, Katherine reached out to touch Amy’s shoulder. Without looking around, Amy pulled sharply away from her. Carrie, Elton’s wife, didn’t turn. As Katherine fell back, Carrie and the three children were suddenly surrounded by a polite phalanx of cheerful, efficient assistants, each one plucking at the children, chattering their congratulations and ritual compliments.

As if on cue, Katherine felt a touch on her arm, just above the left elbow. It was a jailer’s touch, cold and firm.

“You were wonderful, Mrs. Holloway. Perfectly radiant. And the new dress, it’s perfect.”

It was another Sunday morning ritual.

“Thank you, Miss Fletcher.” As she said it, she felt the pressure of Miss Fletcher’s grip subtly tighten as they turned toward the door opening onto the enclosed driveway that led from the Temple’s underground garage. Now they were walking toward the door together. A dozen faces beamed at her, nodding and smiling. They were strangers’ faces, without names. Every Sunday she saw them, smiling. But they would always be strangers.

One of them opened the door. Beyond the door, her Mercedes waited. Jack Calder stood beside the car. Jack was smiling, too. But Jack’s smile was real. Among them all, Jack was her only real friend. He was her jailer. But he was also her friend.

“How’d it go, Mrs. Holloway? Good turnout?” As he asked the question, still cheerfully smiling, Jack opened the car’s rear door for her.

“Yes, Jack. It was a good turnout. Thank you.”

Inside the car, sunk deep in its glove-leather seat, she sighed softly, letting her eyes close. In less than thirty minutes she would be in her own room, safe. In the armoire beside her vanity, it would be waiting.

Breathing deeply, she stood for a moment with her back against the bedroom door. Today, the climb up the long spiral staircase had tired her. She could feel her heart beating hard: a small, throbbing animal, struggling inside her breast, trapped and frightened. Always, now, her heart beat hard when she climbed the stairs. Her breath came short. Sometimes multicolored spots danced before her eyes. Was this how Austin felt? If he did, then finally they’d found something to share: the ominous sound of time’s winged chariot, inexorably hurrying near.

Did Austin fear his appointment in Samaria?

Did she?

No, she didn’t. Lately, the void waiting beyond seemed to invite her. Sometimes she could almost hear voices from the past, calling to her.

Yet she was only fifty-six. Austin was only sixty-three. For both of them, death should still be years ahead.

Without realizing it, she’d allowed her eyes to close. When she’d been a very young child, she’d always closed her eyes when she wished for a present, or when a rush of happiness suddenly overwhelmed her, sometimes leaving her weak and trembling. Somehow, when she closed her eyes, she could commune more closely with the pleasure she felt.