September 2006
That Sunday is the first time since the fire he and Deborah make it to the service together. Oh, they went in the same car the past few months, but now they are there together, like they used to. The awkward cake has fixed something and Jacob was profoundly grateful for it. He seated himself in the pew with Rachel in his lap and for the better part of the sermon entertained himself with watching Rachel peruse the churchgoers. She focuses on the task, chewing thoughtfully on her fingers, giving the people her undivided attention one at a time. She lets out a loud gurgle when her eyes turn to Mrs Mone. Jacob follows her gaze and smiles to himself. Her hairdo is even more ridiculous than usual, piled on top of her head in a form that Marie-Antoinette would be proud to don. Next, Rachel looks at her husband, a solemn man who has, to Jacob's knowledge, never looked up from his clasped hands in the history of holy mass. He prays in earnest, though silently, and his wife prays with him. With the exception of the hair she is a thoughtful and serious old lady. She's even babysat Rachel on a couple of occasions.
Rachel laughs and Jacob shushes her. The sermon is over and Jacob goes down on his knees, bowing his head before the transubstantiated body of Christ that the priest is holding in the air. She seems to understand then seriousness of the moment, because when Jacob looks at her again she, too, is serious, staring at the altar in concentration. Father Matthews raises the chalice in shaking hands and again Jacob bows his head in adoration.
He is thankful, again.
Deborah takes Rachel from him when it's time to go to communion, nodding encouragingly. Jacob accepts the body of Christ from the hand of Father Matthews and crosses himself. If he stays kneeling there a little longer than everyone else, no one takes notice. Jacob walks back to their pew, to take Rachel and allow Deborah to go to communion herself. The baby smiles and snuggles into his arms. Jacob smiles back and drops a kiss on her forehead.
They wait until most of the people vacate the church before leaving. For once they are in no hurry to get home, not when just sitting there feels comfortable and the silence is no longer stifling. That thought holds Jacob's attention for a moment, because it is amusing that now that they are talking again, as soon as they can be, they are silent. It doesn't matter though. This silence is good and comforting.
"Jacob, Deborah." Father Matthews materializes by their side before they get up. He's still wearing the celebratory robes, and his breath is rushed, as if he were in a hurry to get to them. "If I may have a word with the two of you?"
"Certainly, Father. Did something happen?" Deborah asks.
"Yes and no. I have another mass to celebrate soon enough and this could take a while. If you could come by my house later in the day, perhaps?" the old man is agitated and sorrowful.
"We can do that, yes," Jacob says, more and more puzzled.
"Six p.m. then, if you will," the priest says and leaves them, staring after him in surprise.
"Let me guess," Deborah says, her smile gone. "You confessed." Jacob understands the unspoken scorn.
"Who else was I supposed to talk to?" he asks, defensively. Deborah opens her mouth, but says nothing. He couldn't have talked to her, obviously. Not about that.
"Here's hoping he won't think it prudent to exorcise you." She snatches the car keys from Jacob's pocket and walks to the door. "Let's eat out," she says.
Six o'clock was scarce two hours away, so going home would be pointless. They drive to the nearest steak house and gorge themselves. Jacob manages even to top the meal off with a beer, to his own surprise. "At least you'll go to the loony bin well-fed," Deborah laughs.
"I'm not going to the loony bin," Jacob protests.
Funny how the words come back to haunt him later, when Father Matthews starts talking. But that comes later. At five past six Deborah parks in the driveway beside the parish house Father Matthews lives in and kills the engine. "I see no ambulances, or other cars. That's got to be good news, right?"
"Oh, sod off," Jacob grumbles unfastening Rachel's seatbelts. She is half asleep already. Deborah changed her during dinner, so there ought to be little trouble even if the visit were to be longer than expected. Jacob hopes they'll be able to lay her to sleep on the couch, while they talk.
"I'm glad to see you," Father Matthews says opening the door. "Please, come in."
Jacob follows the elderly man into the cozy library, which apparently doubles as the living room – there are old couches wedged between the bookshelves, and there's no question which of those don't really belong. "Make yourself comfortable, I'll put on the kettle." Jacob and Deborah share a look as the priest potters about in the kitchen, pouring boiling water into three teacups.
"What is it about, Father?" Deborah asks, finally losing her patience when Father Matthews springs up for the third time, having forgotten the cookies.
"Sorry. Forgive an old man." He folds his hands and gives them a long look. "You have to understand I don't want to tell you this. I like to think it's my job to protect you, as my congregation, but obviously there's so little I can do."
"Is this about the fire, Father?" Jacobs asks.
Before he can get a reply, which he can tell will be positive, Deborah speaks up. "With all due respect, Father, no matter how hard you pray, you cannot protect us from accidents."
"You don't believe in the power of prayer, Deborah?"
"Of course I do, Father, but I don't think it is at all supernatural."
"The Lord works in mysterious ways, Deborah."
"Tell me, Father, did you hear the one about the man who couldn't swim, caught on his roof during a flood?"
"Indeed I have."
"God helps those who help themselves," Deborah says. "And we can't prevent an accidental fire, Father."
"But it wasn't so accidental, was it?" Jacob says, intrigued now.
"Jacob!"
"I'm just saying, it was not a usual fire," he says.
"I'm afraid Jacob is right," the priest says.
Deborah whips her head to look at him in turn. "Father, this isn't helping."
"And I fear it won't." The old man stares down at his hands. "There is evil in this world," he says eventually. "Evil things that seek to hurt people, for no reason at all."
"Yes, and usually those things are other people," Deborah says firmly. Jacob can do nothing but listen with his mouth open.
"No. I don't mean people." The old man gets up and fetches a book from his desk. It looks old; the covers are leather and the letters are, from what Jacob can see, written in longhand. The priest hands the book over the teacups and Jacobs starts leafing through it, so that Deborah too can see. The first chapter is entitled "ghosts and restless spirits", followed by "ghouls", "vampires", "werewolves"…
"Father, you cannot be serious," Deborah says, almost at the same time as Jacob raises his head and asks, "You think one of those things killed Tim?"
"Jacob!"
"What?"
"You cannot be serious! There is no such thing as ghosts, never mind werewolves. Certainly you don't believe a werewolf has killed our son."
"No, not a werewolf," Father Matthews interjects. He looks as thought he is about to add something, but doesn't. "There is a number of things that could do it, starting with ghosts."
"I think you both need therapy," Deborah says, sitting back. "I don't really want to offend you, Father, but you have to admit this is ridiculous."
"I can't argue with that, child." The old man's smile is disarming. "I know how it sounds, I was in your position not too long ago. But I must ask you to hear me out."
Jacob nods, and Deborah, though obviously under duress, acquiesces also. "Fine," she says.
"I realize there is no tangible proof that I can offer," he begins, "Not until something actually starts happening. Unfortunately, with those things when something starts happening it is already too late. You may recall the death of Theodore McVille?"
Jacob nods. "I handled his life insurance policy. He committed suicide."
"He didn't."
"The evidence was conclusive, no one had access to him for hours before or after his death. His wrists were slashed, so it was no accident either."
"Not unless the perpetrator was incorporeal."
Deborah laughed. "You're telling us that a ghost walked through the wall and slashed his wrists? That a ghost killed a man and made it look like a suicide?"
"I realize it may not make much sense to you, logically. But," Father Matthews pulled out a manila folder and opened it. Inside it there were a number of what looked like photocopies of newspaper articles. Jacob leafed through them. The oldest copy was a uniform grey in color, which indicated the original must have been yellowed with age. On the bottom someone scribbled a date. 23rd of October 1942. It was underlined, twice. The article was a short piece of news: a woman's body was found in her own attic, her wrists slashed. Police confirmed the case as suicide and her grieving husband inherited a hundred thousand dollars.
"What you're looking at is the case that started it all. The murder of Penelope Worthing."
"It says here it was a suicide."
"It wasn't. She was murdered by her husband for the money."
"Which is fascinating, from a number of angles, I'm sure. Why do we care?" Deborah asked, reading over Jacob's shoulder. Attached to the news clipping was another sheet, detailing Mrs Worthing's age, address and state of possession. Several items, her house included, has been underlined in the same blue ink the date was.
"Because that woman is the reason Theodore McVille is dead," Father Matthews says, folding his hands in his lap.
"Killed him from beyond the grave, you mean. Sixty years after her death."
"Correct."
"Wonderful. Is there anything else we should know? Tooth fairies out for blood? Murderous Santa?"
"Perhaps later. Ghosts are most usual. They are angry spirits who didn't move on, because they feel wronged, in some way."
"But why did she kill Theodore?" Jacob turned a page. "And Andrew Smith? And Francine Burns?" There were more. All cases ruled as suicide.
"Ghosts usually select a very particular prey," Father Matthews explained. "In Penelope's case the people who were killed were people who gained money through illicit means. She learned of them, so to speak, when they came in contact with her old house."
"Cheerful. Is there more?" Deborah asked, drinking her tea.
"I understand that nothing I say will ever be convincing enough. I took the liberty of calling a hunter who helped me with putting Penelope to rest."
"Wait." Deborah raised her hand. "Penelope Worthing? As in the woman whose grave was desecrated four years ago?"
Father Matthews smiled, but it was a sour, forced smile. "I see you have an excellent memory, child."
"I've been treating the kids who were scared to death by the grave robbers."
"They weren't grave robbers, precisely."
There is a moment of silence and the Deborah's eyes narrow. "Oh, no. That's it." She gets up and picks up the sleeping Rachel. "It is one thing to tell me ghost stories, but grave desecration?"
"Deborah…"
"No. I'm leaving. And unless you want to walk home, you're coming too," she said turning to Jacob.
Reluctantly he got up and followed her to the door. Of course, he didn't believe it. It was crazy. And disturbing graves was plain wrong.
But…
"Wait," Father Matthews said catching up to them on the driveway. "You can go, I'm not stopping you." He handed Jacob a piece of paper. "This is a number of a man who deals with the supernatural, a hunter. He may be able to tell you more."
"I'm pretty sure I don't want to know more," Deborah says and slams the car door shut. Rachel wakes and protests loudly, but her mother is already starting the engine. Jacob does not hesitate long before getting in. Deborah would drive off, just to prove a point. She is silent on the way home. Jacob is left to console Rachel on his own.
"You want to call him, don't you," Deborah says after he returns downstairs, Rachel settled into bed. Jacob looks at her, apologetic.
"It cannot hurt."
"There are a number of ways in which it can hurt. Look, I know you hurt and we haven't dealt with Tim's death properly. Hell, we spent the past months ignoring one another. But going after some charlatan, who'll tell us some bullshit story, which would be most likely what we want him to tell us, forgive me for saying but that's idiotic."
"It's not like they're asking for our money," Jacob says, petulant.
"It's not like we have all that much to give," Deborah shoots back. "There are people who get their kicks out of convincing people of such things, money or not." Jacob doesn't bother pointing out that Deborah clearly doesn't want to hear the things he does, and therefore they have a balanced point of view between them. "I'm not convincing you, am I?"
"No, I hear you," Jacob says. "It's just, Deb, I wasn't that drunk. I know what I saw. I don't hallucinate all that often."
"You've never lost a child before, honey. Grief can do things to your mind, without you even realizing it."
"He was alive when I saw him," Jacob says quietly, and Deborah shakes.
"Fine," she says after a moment of silence. "Fine. We'll go to that man. We'll go and we talk, but I swear to God, if you so much as think of talking to him without me being there, you will regret it. Is that clear?" Her expression is scary as she says it and Jacob nods automatically. He thinks of capoiera and knives and chopping. "I still think it's a bad idea," she adds.
"I know."
"Where does he live?"
"Uh, Texas," Jacob says, looking at the address. "We could go there next weekend."
"Fantastic. My favorite way to spend a weekend." Deborah sighs and looks at the ceiling. "Okay. Let's go. I'll call my parents and ask if Rachel can stay with them for the weekend, we can have a road trip."
"Road trip?"
"We have to drive two thousand miles there and back and we're not going to waste a perfectly good weekend. We might as well enjoy it," Deborah says and her smile turns impish. Jacob grins.
It turns out Deborah's parents are more than happy to have their granddaughter with them for the weekend. Their own daughter isn't enough, Deborah remarks under her breath, making sure Anne hears. Anne doesn't seem to mind the jibes – she picks up her niece and coddles her, wishing them a pleasant trip. They pack an overnight bag that Friday evening, Jacob makes reservations in a hotel closest to the house Father Matthews directed them to and they are off, on a dark and early Saturday morning.
"Isn't this going to be fun," Deborah says when they reach the interstate, yawning with every other word.
"It might."
"I have no idea what made you such an optimist."
Jacob shrugs. "Ah, this and that." He thinks mostly about the scare his father had with the cancer surgery. To this day the doctors monitor him carefully, because a spontaneous remission is nothing something to be taken lightly.
"I just wish you'd be a little more skeptical," she says, rolling the window down. "It will most likely be a massive hoax."
Jacob doesn't reply. This may well be a massive hoax. He isn't that naïve, whatever Deborah sometimes says. He has to hope, however, has to hope that someone, somewhere, will be able to make sense of Tim's death. He is, at the same time, certain that no one ever could. It's a philosophical conundrum he's in, and he doesn't have all that much to hold on to.
They make good time and several hours later they pull in front of the house. It looks lonely, most of all. It looks as though the occupant hasn't had any visitors in a long, long while, most likely because he didn't want any. The "get the fuck away" vibe is very strong and Jacob shudders when they approach the front door. Deborah touches his arm and points to one of the security cameras monitoring the door.
"Looks like someone didn't want any unexpected guests," she says. "Paranoia is not pretty."
"It's not paranoia if they are really out to get him," Jacob counters and Deborah rolls her eyes. "Well, you don't know if they aren't." He knocks on the door and when it opens he wonders how come this man was never arrested. He makes no attempt at hiding the gun he's pointing at them, nor is there any sign that he is willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. "Uh. Would you mind pointing the gun somewhere else?" Jacob says, in a strangled voice. The door is barely open and the man's face is frightening, peeking at them from the shadows.
"Who are you?" the man snarls, the gun unwavering.
"I'm Jacob Lake, and this is my wife, Deborah. We're from Father Matthews' parish." The gun lowers, but Jacob can tell, from the way Deborah's fingers are digging into his shoulder, that it might still go off. "Father Matthews gave us your address, we were hoping you could tell us something."
"Come in," the man says brusquely, undoing the chain and taking a few steps back.
They walk through the door slowly, keeping their hands in plain sight. Jacob isn't rightly sure what has given him the courage to walk into the house of a man who greets his visitors with a gun, but he assumes Deborah would stop him if the alleged hunter seemed like he might fire. The man keeps staring at them, distrustful, even though it's plain to see they have no weapons. His paranoia must be acute, Jacob thinks.
"What will you drink?" the man asks.
"We're fine, thank you," Deborah says, but it doesn't seem to go over well. The gun makes a minute twitch and she hastily amends. "Tea would be perfect."
"Good." He allows them into the living room and closes the door. A few minutes later he returns, carrying two cups of tea. "Drink," he says, and stares at them until they raise the cups to their lips. So far as Jacob can tell the tea is perfectly fine. Obviously the ritual means something, though, because the man relaxes ever so slightly and finally puts the gun away. Jacob breathes out in relief. "Apologies. These days a man cannot be too careful," the strange man says. "My name is Steve Wandell. But I assume you knew that."
"We got your name and address from Father Matthews," Deborah says, looking around.
"Well, what is it?"
"What is what?" Jacob asks.
"People don't seek out hunters, not unless they suspect there might be a job for them. Father Matthews knows that."
"Hunters?"
Mr Wandell's eyes narrow. "You must know something, if Father Matthews sent you here." His eyes flicker between their faces and the tea and it's becoming so obvious Jacob has to ask.
"Excuse me, what did you put in the tea?"
"Holy water," the man replies and Jacob drops the cup on the table.
"You put holy water in tea?" he asks, aghast.
Mr Wandell rolls his eyes. "Don't give me that look, boy. There's no better way to confirm you are not possessed."
"Possessed?"
"There's all manners of things wandering God's green earth, and demons are by far the worst. They'd rip you open and laugh while you grope for your guts."
"Okay, tone the imagery down," Deborah says, rubbing circles into Jacob's suddenly stiff back.
"What do you want?" Mr Wandell asks again.
"We don't want anything."
"Then you are clinically insane."
"I have been telling him that, for a while now," Deborah says, humor lost in her voice as she indicates Jacob with her chin. "But he won't listen."
"I listen," Jacob protests.
"What did you see?" Mr Wandell asks studying the both of them. Jacob can feel Deborah stiffen beside him and the comforting hand ceases its movement. She is silent though, and Jacob just knows she won't try and talk him out of saying it, however bad an idea she may think it is.
"Our son died, in June." Jacob pauses, half expecting the condolences to start pouring out, but the man says nothing. "There was a fire. It started in the nursery, with the ceiling wires." He ponders the next words carefully, turning them over in his head. "I was in the bathroom and the lights started flickering, on and off. Rachel was awake, I remember that, so I went into the nursery to see if she were okay." Jacob stares unseeing at the coffee table, recalling the details. "There was a spot of blood on her pillow. Like it fell there. And Tim was on the ceiling. He was just- He was on the ceiling. Staring at me. Then the fire started, and it started from Tim, not the wires."
Thrice now he told the story and it was just as bad this time around. The only gratification was that Mr Wandell was looking at him with curiosity and some kind of understanding, belief even.
"There is a number of things that could have caused that," he says, then he gets off the chair and retrieves a bottle of whisky from a cabinet. He pours Jacob a shot.
"Thanks, but I don't drink."
"No? You look like you need it." The man doesn't drink himself.
Deborah shrugs and takes the glass instead. "Maybe it'd start making sense now," she says putting the shot glass down next to her teacup.
"Do you have any enemies?" Mr Wandell asks. He picks up a few loose sheets of paper and starts jotting down notes.
"People who'd want to burn our house down?" Deborah's eyebrows rise. "I don't think so."
"What do you do for a living?"
"That is none of your business."
"You've given me your names, I will find out. It could be important," Mr Wandell says glaring at Deborah. "It'll go faster if you cooperate."
Deborah rolls her eyes. "I'm a psychologist. Jacob is an insurance agent."
"Ah. Well. Is it remotely possible someone died because of anything either of you might have done?"
"What?" Jacob stares at the man, feeling rather dumb. Then the implication registers and he is indignant, then angry. "What? How can you say that?"
"Is it?"
"No," Deborah says, and Jacob is amazed to hear the complete and utter serenity in her voice. "My patients are usually nowhere near that level of disturbed and Jacob mostly deals with property damage."
"People aren't usually too positive about insurance agents."
"Yes, well, Jacob has had no trouble. Unless you count his bosses, who all seem to think he's altogether too lenient."
"Any old girlfriends? Boyfriends? Extra marital affairs?" This time both Deborah and Jacob give him the evil eye.
"No," they say simultaneously.
"Are you sure?"
"We're Catholic," Jacob says icily, which is a tone of voice he doesn't have a chance to employ often.
"I find that denomination doesn't carry all that much weight, where human nature is concerned."
"We're faithful," Jacob says.
"So no ex-girlfriends out for your blood?"
"I haven't been with anyone else since I was eighteen," Jacob says. Deborah nods.
"What about the house?" Mr Wandell is scribbling something, and Jacob can recognize every third word of the crummy shorthand, if he squints – , flames, positive, bossy.
"What about the house?" Deborah asks.
"How long have you been living in there?"
"Since we got married, seven years ago."
"Did anyone die there?"
"Not to my knowledge." There is a certain amount of satisfaction in Deborah's voice, as though proving the man wrong is a goal she's set herself.
"Well, there are a number of things that could have done something like that. Spirits, most notably." Mr Wandell scans the page he's just written and frowns. "Spirits, ghosts, poltergeists, most likely. Very few corporeal creatures are capable of such feats. Of course, spirits most often have a cause to hunt who they do."
"We haven't hurt anyone," Jacob insists.
"Perhaps not. I have just put to rest a spirit of a girl whose heart was transplanted after a hit and run. She's killed five people the recipient knew who violated traffic regulations."
"Seriously?" Jacob doesn't know if he should be fascinated or horrified. He settles for a mixture of both that leaves him with a sour aftertaste in his mouth.
"Did you desecrate her grave, too?" Deborah asks, and Jacob feels horrification dominate the mixture.
"No." The man glances at them warily, but the corner of his mouth is twitching. "The point of grave desecration, as you put it, is to purify the remains with salt and fire, so that the spirit has nothing to cling to. It wouldn't do much good in this case, as you may imagine."
"So what did you do?" Jacob asks, interested despite himself.
"There are more ways to be rid of a ghost. Salting and burning the remains is the easiest and most foolproof. And what you say about desecration, remember that spirits are no longer human. They would hurt the living, if they perceive them to deserve it, and let me tell you – their standards are clear cut, black or white, no in-betweens."
"I don't understand," Jacob says, even though Mr Wandell is clearly looking at Deborah now, talking to her, almost exclusively.
"You are a psychologist, you say. Then you must know how obsession works and trust me, it is worse when the mind doesn't have hunger or pain to distract them."
Deborah doesn't answer. She gives Jacob a look that tells him, right, here is a woman who's talking to a man she would normally call the cops on, talking about things she gets paid to help people get over, just because he thinks it will make him better. Jacob doesn't think he's ever loved her more.
"Can you find out what caused the fire?" Jacob asks.
"Yes," the man replies simply.
"Why?" The look on Deborah's face is guarded; she is looking for the fine print, no doubt.
"Because it's my calling in life, Mrs Lake," Steve Wandell answers in all seriousness. "Since you are here, asking, I have to warn you – I will be investigating your background. And I won't care if there are laws saying there are things I shouldn't know."
"Oh, so not only are you sacrilegious, you are also a stalker, is that it? Is that why Father Matthews called you a hunter?"
"Mrs Lake, I save lives. You may not appreciate it, ever, on account of your son being already dead, but my sacrilege has saved many innocent lives."
Deborah's eyes narrow and she doesn't say anything more, leaving Jacob to say their farewells. "I'll call you if I find anything," Mr Wandell says instead of the more traditional "goodbye" and Jacob nods. Deborah is silent until they get into the car. Once the house is safely in the rear view mirror she explodes.
"I don't like this man, Jacob," she says. "He is dangerous. He is obsessed. I don't want him anywhere near Rachel or you."
"He might find out-"
"If you say 'what killed Tim', so help me I will hurt you," Deborah's voice rises and Jacob clenches his jaw. "That man is a lunatic who believes he's on a holy mission, and there is nothing he'd let stand in his way. He is dangerous and he is capable of doing much damage."
"He seemed sincere."
"Jacob, he believes in what he does. Of course he sounds sincere. I hate to tell you, but many serial killers believe that what they do is right, too."
"He doesn't strike me as a serial killer."
"Am I talking to an empty car here? He is a man who wouldn't hesitate if he thinks he's right, and he is armed. Am I the only one who's wary of him having our home address?"
"No, of course not." Jacob thinks back to the sentence he's just heard. "We didn't give him our home address."
"And how long will it take him to find out, do you think? He knows our names and he knows Father Matthews."
"Yes, he knows Father Matthews," Jacob perks up suddenly. "Don't you think if he was dangerous, like you say, Father Matthews wouldn't send us here?"
"I have my doubts about Father Matthews," Deborah mutters, and crosses her arms across her chest. "Look, I'm not comfortable with this. I think we should install an alarm in the house."
"If it makes you happy, okay."
"Were you that much of a moron when we met? I just wonder because, you know, I might have reconsidered."
Jacob's mouth opened wide. "What?"
"Did you pause to listen to yourself? You've just given a guy who pulls a gun on people who knock on his door the a-okay to investigate your life. Possibly your home. We have a baby in the house."
"I didn't give him any permission!"
"Sometimes you are reaching whole new levels of idiocy."
"He won't hurt us," Jacob says. "How can you believe I would let anyone hurt you or Rachel?"
Deborah gives him a look that chills him to the bone. "Right now I'm not so sure."
Jacob slams the brakes and at the last moment pulls over. "What?" he asks turning to face his wife.
"I agreed to coming here because I thought it might help you deal. Right now it seems it might do more damage than good."
"Deborah…"
"I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt, but I swear, Jacob, the moment I see him snooping where he shouldn't be, I will shoot him in the head, then I'll call the police."
The expression she is wearing now Jacob has never seen on her face before. For the first time in his life he is scared of Deborah, because although the expression is alien and unfamiliar, the tone holds a note he recognizes. This is the tone that will accept no arguments and allow no mistakes. "Deb," he says, speaking slowly as the words are slow to form in his mind. "If he puts a toe out of line, I'll shoot him myself, I promise."
Deborah rolls her eyes, but her mouth curves in a smile and she is his Deb again, not the scary woman who threatened to kill a man just moments ago. "Glad we understand each other."
Jacob rests against his back seat and breathes in deep. You think you know someone, he thinks looking up. He starts up the car again and drives straight to the hotel. He is discovering he is a little hungry and quite turned on by Deborah's vicious side. The fact that Deborah is still angry and not just a little worried contributes and they end up ordering room service. Allowing the valet in proves to be a problem as they are half naked and very aroused by the time the food is done, but where there's a will there's a way and they are able to enjoy a fantastic post-coital dinner, even if it is cold.
It is not enough to dispel the frown line marring Deborah's forehead, however.
"Promise me something, Jacob," Deborah asks as she rests her cheek against his shoulder.
"Anything."
"Never talk to Father Matthews or this Wandell man alone again."
Jacob stares at the ceiling. "You know Father Matthews is my confessor." Come to think of it, he is Deborah's too.
"Go to someone else then."
Jacob closes his eyes. "Okay." He finds Deborah's hand and squeezes it. "I promise."
That promise is easy enough to keep. Father Matthews seems to understand why Jacob and Deborah are avoiding him, even though he makes a point of stopping them every chance he gets and asking if they are all right. They are, owing mostly to the fact that they haven't seen or heard Steve Wandell ever since they visited him. Deborah seemed to relax; a week after they returned from West she called the clinic she worked in – her job was waiting for her, they said. They were getting anxious, but they would be more than happy to have her back, Jacob hears the enthusiasm from the other side of the room.
"So, they want you back?" he asks putting the newspaper down.
"Apparently, yeah."
"We need to hire a sitter then."
"I've already called Mrs Mone, she said she'd be happy to look after Rachel."
Jacob smiles and then Deborah smiles and they kiss and everything is right in the world, until the following week, when Jacob walks into the kitchen on Thursday afternoon and finds Deborah disassembling a gun. It is one week till Christmas and Deborah is sitting at the kitchen table lubricating a gun, which looks a lot meaner on Jacob's kitchen table than it usually does in TV.
"Jesus Christ!" he gasps. He trips and almost breaks his head open on the edge of the table. At the last moment he manages to catch the cabinet, which wobbles but stabilizes his momentum. "What is that?"
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain," Deborah answers calmly, "And it's a gun, obviously. Semi-automatic Beretta 92, to be more specific."
"I can see it's a gun, why are you playing with it?"
"I'm not playing, I'm cleaning. I got it this morning, I wanted to make sure it's serviceable."
"What do you need a gun for?" Jacob wants to ask, then remembers Steve Wandell. "Please don't shoot me," he says holding his hands up.
Deborah laughs. "I won't." She puts the pistol together again and aims it at the cabinet. "I've never actually used a revolver, but there's first time for everything, right? I'm going to the range tonight. Wanna come with?"
If there is one thing Jacob is sure of, it's that he doesn't want to see his wife shoot a gun right now. Maybe never. Even seeing her hold it, even though its plainly unloaded, since the magazine is still on the table, makes him feel uneasy. "No thank you," he manages and leaves the kitchen.
He is halfway up the stairs when the emotions get the better of him and he punches the wall, hard. "Fuck!" He wishes he'd listened to Father Matthews. He wishes he'd never told him about the crazy hallucination. For all he knows, crazy is contagious and everyone got it from him. There was no other explanation for this- this madness. Deborah got a gun? What the hell for? All because of him and his stupid hallucinations. Jacob swears he will never again touch liquor, if that's the consequence. He reaches the top of the stairs, turns, and walks right back into the kitchen.
"Deb, I don't want you to learn to shoot."
Deborah looks at him and raises a brow. "Honey, I know my way around a gun. I hunted with my dad. I just need to familiarize myself with this one." She takes a long look at his hands on the table and then looks into his eyes again. "What happened to your hand?" she asks, taking it in hers. Jacob hisses in pain when she starts kneading the skin.
"I punched the wall," he admits and then hisses again.
"I think you've broken a bone," she says and Jacob has to agree. He can't move his fingers too well and it is starting to swell, judging by the stiffness and the heat. Deborah leaves the gun on the table and Jacob eyes it warily as she fetches a bag of ice.
"Perfect. Just perfect," he sighs and gets up.
"Let me just get Rachel and I'll drive you to the hospital."
"I'll call a cab," he says. He stares at the road ahead as the cab takes him to the hospital. The doctors are kind and pleasant and very supportive. Jacob wants to punch them. The pain is starting to register slowly and he fights the nausea that follows, fortunately one of the orderlies is kind enough to offer some white pills which make him sleepy and more indifferent to the fact that apparently two of the metacarpal bones of his right hand are fractured.
"Fortunately, these are just cracks, and don't require surgery," the doctor says holding up the x-rays. "What happened?"
"I punched the wall," Jacob says, still relaxed and sleepy.
"Ah. May I suggest some anger management?"
"Thank you, but no." Jacob watches with detached curiosity as the doctor splints his hand. He'll be lucky if he returns to his usual typing speed anytime soon.
"How's the hand?" Deborah asks him later that night. The gun is gone, though the implication of its presence is keenly felt. Jacob shudders when Deborah lays a hand on his shoulder and hands him a hot cup of tea.
"It'll heal," he says. "Deb, it's really making me uncomfortable."
"The gun?"
"Yeah."
"I've put it away, but I want it where I can reach it. In case something happens."
"Something?"
"Can we not talk about this?"
"We have a baby in the house."
"Trust me, I know how to hide a gun from a toddler who's just started to stand." Which is a fair point to make. Rachel will not be walking around the house, poking for stuff for a while yet. "It would be a little more difficult hiding it from an adult."
They have trouble talking, the colder the weather gets, though it's less a problem with the weather and more that of Christmas approaching. This Christmas Tim would have been just old enough to wake up at the crack of dawn on his own and run into the living room to pounce on the presents underneath the tree. The silence of the Christmas morning is therefore startling and physically painful, after the anticipation both of them built up this time last year. Somehow it hasn't faded. Jacob pretends he doesn't hear Deborah crying into her pillow as he takes a shower. He doesn't feel strong enough to go out and comfort her, not when he has trouble keeping his breath even as he stands underneath spray of water.
It isn't fair, Jacob thinks scrubbing at his hair with one hand. Timmy loved the Christmas season, from late night mass to the sparkling lights on the Christmas tree.
Christmas dinner is tense. This year was the first that they were going to host the family dinner at their house, except after what happened neither of them felt up to it. Mercifully, Deborah's parents took the job off their hands. Even so the families pick up on the tension between them in no time at all – there's something about a family dinner that makes the slightest dissonance heard. Grandmothers and grandfathers, mothers and fathers, an aunt and one toddler make for one hell of a symphony, one that only works if everyone is happy enough to let everyone else have the proverbial last piece of cake. Jacob, however, is morose even as he tries to put a smile on for the sake of the family, and Deborah is grim and serious. No one comments on it. They are still grieving, each and every one of them, and they acknowledge Jacob and Deborah's pain in the face of the festive cheer.
Rachel seems to be the only one in genuinely high spirits. She munches on the homemade turkey paste her grandmothers have lovingly prepared for her and shares with the world by spreading a thin layer of it around herself. Jacob watches her with a small smile on his face, but it's not really her he's seeing. He remembers last year, when Tim was the one sitting in the high chair and Deborah had to prop the plate on her pregnant belly instead of the table, she was so big. He remembers the year before that, when Debbie sat with Timmy in her lap, because he'd been spooked by the life-sized Santa on the neighbor's lawn.
Three years' worth of Christmas joy rendered into a void of self-loathing and pain. He wouldn't have thought it possible before.
TBC
