Whisper Hollow (36 page)

“Okay, but if you closed up the stoppings, then it wasn’t your fault.”

“Point is, it could’ve been. I might’ve forgotten a stopping or two. Or maybe the airflow had been compromised long enough to leave a buildup higher than usual. If Magee did do something, it could’ve been the combination. I don’t know for certain, but there’s a strong chance that what I did at least contributed to it, if not caused it altogether.”

Danny pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t think of anything that would make him want to abandon Lidia and
Gabriel like that, even for a minute. But that’s not something he could say to Stanley.

“So what do you think happened to Magee?”

Stanley shrugged and took a drink. “He must’ve thought he caused it, if that was his plan. He wouldn’t want to stick around for what would happen if they caught him. Maybe he drank himself to death. Who knows? Point is, he was smart to stay away from Verra once people assumed it was him who did it. What the law would’ve done is nothing compared to what folks around here would do. Nobody messes with other peoples’ livelihoods, their lives, takes away fathers and husbands and sons. People never will forgive Magee, and they’d be even less forgiving of me. Don’t forget, Walter Pulaski and John Esposito were the senior electricians, and after them, Magee. So when they died and he took off, I was the next one in line. I got moved up because of it. I got a promotion and a pay raise when I should’ve been strung up by my toenails. Don’t think folks wouldn’t be happy to do it now. The taste for justice only gets stronger the more time goes by.” Stanley took a long drag off his cigarette.

“So you can understand now, it’s not just that I want to protect Lidia and Gabe and you. If Gabe knows about me, about what I did, and tells somebody … I can’t take that risk, hear? You gotta take Gabe away from Verra. Maybe he’ll forget about it, or if he says anything about it to folks in another town, they might just pass it off as something he made up, a dream or something. But if he said it to anyone who’s ever lived on Trist Mountain, they’d come after me for sure.”

Danny leaned forward and rested his head against his fists. “You’re asking me to uproot my family because of something you did nearly twenty years ago that nobody blames you for and you ain’t even sure you did. All because you think there’s a chance my kid can tell people’s secrets.”

“There’s a chance, according to the stories being told.”

“I can’t do it, Mr. Kielar. I can’t take off like that. Just like you couldn’t light that match. I’m telling you, there’s nothing to all this nonsense about Gabe. He doesn’t know any more about what happened underground in Number Seventeen than I did a half hour ago. Less, even. Your secret’s safe with me. I ain’t going to tell anybody what you told me.”

“Least tell me you’ll think about it.”

Danny sighed and leaned back. “All right. I’ll think about it. I can’t make you any promises, though. Except that I won’t tell what you said.” He thought of Lidia picking at the weeds in their vegetable garden, the cucumbers that threatened to choke the peppers and tomatoes, and the trellis he needed to build. The fence that needed repair. Just a few hours ago he thought he had all the time in the world to get it done. Now he wasn’t quite as sure.

Just before she entered St. Michael’s that sun-soaked Tuesday afternoon, Lidia closed her eyes tightly for a few seconds, even as she pulled open the door and stepped inside. With her eyes shut, she could adjust more easily to the darkness.

Inside, the dank, incensed air was still. Not a whisper of prayer or confession, no elegiac organ music to disturb the silence. Nothing moved at all, except the faint flicker of a few vigil candles near the statue of Mary. That made it an ideal time to speak to Father Timothy.

Except that when she arrived at his office, he was asleep, his body slumped against the back slats of his chair, his cassock bunched and wrinkled, his mouth open. On his desk sat a record album cover — the Beatles’
Revolver
— and a half-empty bottle of Irish whiskey. His turntable crackled and hissed as the vinyl record spun round and round, finished for God knew how long. Lidia stood at the threshold, unmoved by his secrets, but wondering all the same if she should wake him up to bother him with hers.

Father Timothy began to snore, softly, then appeared to stop breathing altogether, until a long snort startled them both and he lifted his head enough to notice her standing there.

“Why,” he said in a raggedy voice. “I didn’t see you come in.” He stood and grasped the edge of the desk to steady himself, and she stepped forward to help in case his whiskeyed legs couldn’t hold him. She’d seen it happen to her father once or twice when she was younger, before her mother’s death and the additional responsibility it levied forced him to stop drinking altogether.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Fine, fine. Must have just fallen asleep there for a moment.” He glanced sideways at the record, the whiskey, his graying old face flushed pink as a girl’s. “I was just having a little nip.” He picked up the bottle and trembled a smile. “Helps with the … arthritis.” He opened a drawer to put it away, then apparently changed his mind and held it out to her instead. “How thoughtless of me. Would you like some?”

“No. Thank you,” she said, holding her hand up. “But you go on ahead. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just came by thinking maybe I could talk to you about some … things.”

He motioned for her to sit and he did, too, lowering himself slowly back down. “Bless you, child,” he said as he unscrewed the cap and poured three fingers’ worth into his fingerprint-covered glass. The drink steadied his hands and sobered his expression almost immediately. “What is it you wanted to talk about?”

“It’s about my son, Gabriel,” Lidia said. She glanced at the crucifix hanging above Father Timothy’s head. “Well, not so much about Gabriel, but about what other people are saying about him.”

Father Timothy waited, accustomed to the time it took to develop enough courage to speak the unspeakable.

“Have you … have you heard anything?” she asked.

“I’m not God, child. I don’t hear everything.” He sighed and ran his fingers along the edge of his desk, touched the whiskey
glass briefly, then clasped his hands in his lap. “But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t heard a little something here and there. And I’ll be honest, I’ve had a few parishioners come to me asking about Gabriel.”

“What did they say?” she asked. “What did you tell them?”

Father Timothy couldn’t resist the glass again. He picked it up and took a drink with his eyes closed as though it had been transubstantiated, then set it back down as gently as he would the Communion chalice onto the corporal.

“I said to them what I’ll say to you now: that God gives special gifts to each of us. It’s not always for us to know what those gifts are to be used for. Your son has done nothing that appears to be destructive, or blasphemous, or immoral, and even those who have concerns about him had to agree on that. We just need to be patient, and pray for God’s guidance to understand and appreciate Gabriel for who he is.”

Lidia’s lower lip trembled with the crush of relief. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me. He’s a good boy. People will see that and they’ll come around. As Solomon said, ‘This too shall pass.’ ”

Lidia ran her index finger quickly under either eye. “There’s one more thing. One more person who … who’s been telling me a few times when I’ve seen her that Gabriel ought to be considered for something called an exorcism.”

Father Timothy sighed. “Oh dear Lord, hear us on behalf of Your servant who is thus troubled. We humbly beg the help of Your mercy so she may be restored to health and render her thanks to You.”

“She? How did you know it was a she?”

“There’s only one person who’d think to propose such a ritual. And I know who it is because I’ve known her all her life, and most of that life she’s worked right here alongside me.”

Lidia nodded. “She came by one afternoon last week. Two or three people had already come by asking to spend a minute or two of Gabriel’s time, wanting certain questions answered. Some of them I’d never even seen on the street,” she said. “Anyway, Miss Bergmann came by, said she wanted to know if I’d been to confession lately. She hadn’t seen me, she said. Of course, you know I’ve been coming regularly, but I didn’t think it her business to know my whereabouts with God. So I just told her Gabriel and Danny and I got along just fine, thanks for asking. But she was insistent. Said there was evidence that Gabriel was possessed by a demon. Some book called the Roman Ritual listed things that indicated demonic possession.” She reached into her small satchel and pulled out a folded piece of lined paper, the kind children practiced their penmanship on at school. “I wrote it down:
Supernatural abilities or strength. Knowledge of hidden or remote things that the possessed have no way of knowing.
She made it sound like something I should be worried about.”

“Lidia, child, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I told Miss Bergmann when she brought it up to me that the
Rituale Romanum
also indicated that blasphemy and sacrilege would have to be present as well to even begin to convince me, much less the bishop, that Gabriel suffered from demonic possession.”

“She actually talked to you about it!”

“You might be surprised to know what gets spoken about within these walls.”

“Well, did it satisfy her? Because she seemed hell-bent on getting me to agree to an exorcism.”

“Myrthen has a mind of her own. I don’t fully understand why she’s taken such an interest in Gabriel. I’d think she’d find a little more compassion for someone who wasn’t quite aligned with convention. But I do know this: she’s strong-willed and
doesn’t always follow the rules exactly to the letter.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t a bit surprised when I got that letter from the Prioress at the convent where Myrthen had been doing her training. Even after eleven years cloistered, she just wouldn’t be mollified or trained. They dismissed her before she could take her final vows.”

“She was what?”

Father Timothy hiccupped and pressed his fingers to his lips. “Oh no.” He held his hand in front of his face, eyes closed. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not my story to tell.”

Lidia slid to the edge of her chair again. With a fluid movement that surprised her even as she did it, she picked up the bottle of whiskey and unscrewed the lid. “No,” she said in a gentle, soothing tone. “It’s fine.” She poured another three fingers, paused, then poured one more. She pushed the glass slowly toward Father Timothy. “I don’t mind you telling me.” Myrthen Bergmann had been a baleful, admonishing figure in her life ever since the day Lidia twisted her ankle, more than six months before. Until that moment, she hadn’t thought there might be a flaw in Myrthen’s history that might render her less a menace to Lidia’s peace of mind.

Father Timothy picked up the glass and held it toward her. “Chin-chin.”

She lifted an imaginary tumbler. “
Na zdraví.
”

He took a drink.

“Miss Bergmann is so pious,” Lidia said. “I heard she’d gone away to live in a convent. I don’t know much about that sort of life, if someone can just come and go from it.”

“No, child. Just like the Church forbids divorce, once someone takes solemn vows, there’s no going from it. It’s a permanent commitment, a marriage to Christ. But, of course, there’s time to be sure it’s the right step. Postulancy, novitiate, simple vows for a time, then a renewal of those. That can take a decade
or longer. And Myrthen did it. After her husband died underground in ’fifty, she joined the monastery in Maryland. Went all the way through; then the Mother Superior and a council of Sisters got together to decide if she was good material for solemn profession.” He closed his eyes. “She was not.”

Lidia let this information mingle with the impression she had of Myrthen’s irreproachable fervor, her unflappable zeal. “Do you know why?” she asked.

“I had a telephone conversation with the Mother Superior after I received the letter. I knew if Myrthen came home she’d come back to St. Michael’s, and I felt I needed to hear both sides of the story. Not for any punitive reason, of course …” He sighed. “I wanted to be able to support her if I could. She’s had a lot of … disappointment … in her life. So I thought if I knew what had happened …” He opened his hands in a gesture of resignation. “The Mother Superior said it was mostly that Myrthen didn’t get along well with the other sisters, didn’t seem suited for community life. Apparently she had some trouble with her pride, too. God wants us to take a certain contentment in our abilities, but all our good qualities come from Him and must be attributed to Him. Our faults and sins are our own.” He smiled at that and lifted his glass toward her, then took another drink. “According to the Mother Superior, Myrthen had a tendency to attribute all her good to herself and shift blame for her not-so-good to everyone else. She seemed to have missed the spiritual sense of peace she might have gotten if she’d been able to see herself as small in the eyes of God.”

Lidia nodded, but didn’t really understand. She’d always felt small in the eyes of God and nearly everybody else save her husband and son, but she didn’t have much peace to show for it.

“So they kicked her out?”

“Essentially, yes. It was a shock to me, I’ll tell you. Being a nun was all she ever wanted. She lost her twin when she was a
little girl — about Gabriel’s age, in fact — and she had it in her mind that she wanted to become a sister again, in the monastic sense, and devote herself to God, probably to make up for not having Ruth. Didn’t want to get married, even though that nice fellow seemed to be genuinely devoted to her at the time.” He stared at something on the wall. “I can still see her standing next to him during the ceremony. Eyes glassy and red from crying, blank expression on her face. She went through all the motions, but …” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Well, she was never the same afterward.”

After a moment of reverie so still she wondered if he’d fallen asleep, he sighed and lifted his hands in submission and said, “But everything that’s happened is according to God’s will.” Then he reached across the desk, past the empty glass and half-empty bottle, and put his cool, dry hand on her wrist. She could feel the slight tremor coming off his bones, like the rattle of a train cutting through the mountain. “Faith in God doesn’t give us immunity from suffering. And the things that make us suffer in this fallen world don’t always happen because we’ve done something wrong. You’ve done nothing wrong. Gabriel has done nothing wrong.”