Chapter 10
At the Old House, Willie and Patience had left to go back to Collinwood, leaving Elliot, Barnabas, Julia, Carolyn and Chris behind.
"I can't prove to you this morning that I am free of the werewolf curse," said Chris, looking at each of his friends with his dark eyes, "but Carolyn says that she saw it or heard it in a dream, or somehow."
Carolyn shook her head. "It is hard to describe. It is as though I have this knowledge and it dropped into my head sometime and is unquestioned. I know Chris is cured the way that I know that I live in Maine, or that I know my favorite color or know who my cousins are. It's just," she gestured helplessly, "grounded knowledge. A part of myself."
"Chris," said Elliot quietly, "Why don't you tell us what you experienced last night?"
Chris looked up at them all. Julia noticed that Chris, though still gaunt from his long battle with the werewolf curse, looked extremely handsome this morning; his skin clear, his eyes glittering, his lashes dark against his cheek, his hair comfortably tousled. The gray circles beneath his eyes were fading.
"Well," he said in his deep voice, "I was in the crypt an hour or more, I guess, when the sickness came on, and it was the way it always is. I saw a brown-red haze everywhere. The pain was staggering. It feels like everything inside you goes wrong, your chest exploding inwards, no way to get any air. Every tendon burns and screeches and is pulled toward the center of your body; your jaw and your head feel crazy, like someone is pulling at them and pouring ammonia into them at the same time.
"Then I went into the dark, and I don't know how long it lasted.
"Next, I was standing up, and there was a man with me, talking to me. And the air was cool and sweet, and I didn't feel demolished the way I do after these turns. I was a little confused. I thought I was on the boardwalk of Atlantic City when I was twenty. That was about the best week of my life, when I felt whole, and free, and glorious—and knew it. I've thought back a few times to Atlantic City as the last time I really felt good and alive.
"So I felt like that again, but I was standing in the crypt – I could tell – and there was this guy.
"The guy was, well," Chris cleared his throat, "he was handsome. I mean he was beautiful. He was staring at me and then he pushed on my forehead with his fingers, and told me I'd be alright and that I wasn't cursed anymore. I've never seen him before. But," Chris whispered, "he made me feel holy. I think that he was a spirit."
Chris looked up.
"I'm going to have to pray about this and see if I can find some kind of answer, because, well, I know how it might sound," he said, glancing quickly around the circle, "but I think that that guy was from God."
Elliot asked, "Chris, did he give you his name?"
"His name? No, I don't think he did."
Barnabas looked at Elliot. "What do you think? If anyone deserves a heavenly visit, surely it is someone who is lost or despairing, and that sounds like somebody under a curse."
"I don't see why it couldn't be," said Julia. "Why shouldn't it be? We've had enough evil and dastardly things happen around here, God knows. Why shouldn't something beautiful like this happen?"
"I wish I had been there," Carolyn whispered. She was sitting on the floor at Chris' knee, and now she laid her head against his leg.
"I had a heavenly visitor last night myself," said Elliot. Chris and Carolyn studied him.
"You had mentioned that something astonishing had taken place," said Barnabas, "And that you had to think about it. Do you feel like talking about it with us?"
"I am a little disappointed that Chris' visitor did not have a name," said Elliot, "because I wonder whether we saw the same being. Can you describe him, Chris?"
"He was as tall as me. He was plainly dressed. He had a white shirt but the collar was round, almost like the collar I'd imagine an Amish man wearing, or men way back around 1905. It was curious. He had strong cheekbones. Sort of tumbling brown hair." Chris shrugged. "It's hard to describe another man. Oh," he said suddenly, eyes widening, "He did tell me his name. It was a strange one; he said he was Child of John."
Elliot gripped the armrests of his chair and flashed his glance to Barnabas and Julia. "My visitor," he brought out, "was also named Child of John. He had thick brown hair that waved down over his forehead. He looked stern, but compassionate. His cheekbones were prominent. He was physically beautiful. He had a gravity and silence in his bearing."
"Well, that's him, alright," Chris said.
"My God!" said Julia. " A heavenly visitor and you both saw him? Elliot, what was your exchange with this vision?"
Elliot took a deep breath. "I had just been to see Angelique, and I was feeling … a little depressed. Like a failure. Then I lost my way in the woods. It was preposterous; I ought not to have lost my way, but I did, and I blundered about for what felt like hours. I could locate neither the Old House nor the lights of Collinwood, and I couldn't even find my way back to the caretaker's cottage.
"I began to feel paranoid, then, and threatened. It was as though I was certain that something was stalking me in the dark. I thought it was Angelique, out to prove a point.
"Well, I finally tripped and fell and thought I'd be sick, and then there was light, and this Child of John was before me. And I got up off the ground like an eight-year-old, and I felt well again and restored. I wasn't sweating and I wasn't going to regurgitate my pheasant. This being told me I was safe and protected. He said something like, "peace is upon your brow." I asked him who he was, and he said I might perhaps see him again, and that he was called Child of John."
There was a marveling silence.
"Extraordinary," said Barnabas.
"Chris," Julia said suddenly, "have you perhaps any drawing or painting ability? Or you, Elliot?"
Elliot was shaking his head, but Chris smiled. "Yeah," he said. "I've always been good at drawing the human figure. Want me to try to put together a portrait of Child of John?"
"If you would, yes. We would be very eager to see it," said Julia happily.
"Maybe I'll try. If this curse is really off me, and I feel in my blood that it is … I might have the rest of my life ahead of me. Which I never expected to have." Chris' voice had gone guttural with emotion.
Carolyn clasped his jeans-clad leg and pressed her cheek against his thigh.
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Mrs. Johnson shook her head. Garvey smiled up at her from his crouch on the floor; then he stood, his knees making popping sounds.
"Here she is!" he announced, scrubbing his beard with one hand. "Your new stove. She's got these six burners here. It's a gas stove. You have this huge oven here and these two smaller ovens there. What do you think?"
Mrs. Johnson's eyes grew a little wet. "It's lovely," she said harshly, holding her handkerchief up to her eyes. "I will love cooking on this. I've had to wait a long time, most of this month, in fact, to get back to my cooking. My cooking is important to me.
"Oh, the Collins family will be so happy!"
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Connie entered her sister's silent clinic and decided to wait for Ronka without announcing herself. She was nearly a half hour early at any rate. There might be a patient or two within the frozen catacombs of the back clinic and exercise room. Connie saw a magazine that she wanted to look into on a small English table that held copies of The Reader's Digest, House Beautiful, Tiger Beat, Architectural Digest, and Time Magazine, fanned out on its surface. She took the magazine (Time) and threw it onto her chosen chair and tightened her white sweater closer about her.
The atmosphere was chill. She was listening with one ear for any noise or hint of movement that might signal Veronika's presence. Veronika was here, of course, but whether the sisters were alone in the small building was another matter. She had a report to make to her sister, anyway, who had put her in charge of finding them all a new home. Their rental of Sand-Skrit Cottage would end at Labor Day, renewable if they chose, but Connie flatly hated the cottage and her sisters knew it. Panna had declined (with laughter) the assignment of house-hunting, so it had fallen to Connie. She and Joe had seen perhaps fourteen homes thus far, two of which Connie was excited about. Veronika was too busy to even feed herself most days, and with Joe along, Connie didn't mind the real estate task.
Connie sat, frowned at the cover of the magazine, then flipped to the glossy front pages so that she could find the page number of the article she wanted to read.
She studied a page and heard a murmur in a distant room. Ronka with a patient, then. Connie settled into her green plastic chair, wriggling to get more comfortable.
She heard a blur of words which quickly altered into decipherable speech.
" regardless, and what would she say?"
"She will be overjoyed. Elizabeth has been alone too long in that house and I never gave her a … a sister whom she could love and depend upon. Always mistakes."
"How do you know that we aren't a mistake?"
"You love me," said the quiet male voice, cultivated and a little, yes, wasn't it just a little like a Masterpiece Theatre voice? "And I can't help but love you. This is not a mistake. Veronika, listen. We'll lay it all out before Elizabeth first if you insist. But this is my life and yours, your choice and mine. I want you, darling – you, forever. My God, you make me happy."
"How is that possible?" In astonishment, Connie heard her sister laughing. Ronka! Laughing, flirting, her voice hoarse with sensuality. Connie's buttocks suddenly felt like rocks. A flush of blood surged into her cheeks.
The voices came slightly nearer the waiting room.
"The Polish Jew? Don't start that again! Woman, I want you whether you're a Polish Jew or the Viet Cong, or – straight off the Mayflower! I married both my other wives in undue haste; I won't do that again. We'll wait as long as you insist that we wait. But Liz will roll out the red carpet when she hears that I love you. And I do love you, Veronika. I can't do without you. You make me feel like a man and a teenager all at once. You don't need me to take care of you, but I want to surround you and take care of you and your sisters. I love Panna, and I can't wait to meet Connie."
"You'll love her as I love her. Roger, look, this isn't just for today, this is your entire life we're talking about. I spent part of my childhood in a concentration camp. Panna, poor baby – mama gave her away because she couldn't bear that Panna live in a prison camp with us! And then it took us years to find her again. Panna never got over that. Oh, she's always laughing and merry, but she has deep wounds. And Connie! I think Connie feels guilty because she was born after the war was over. Will Elizabeth be able to understand a scattered history such as ours? … Well, that's a stupid question. I like your sister and I am sure that she would accept me whether I were Polish, Irish, African or Eskimo, but – will a place like Collinsport be able to accept Roger Collins marrying a Jewish woman? It's you I fear for, my love; I don't want you hurt; I want you to be sure of what you are doing."
"Veronika," Roger Collins said unsteadily, and Connie heard muffled noises, as though the couple had blundered against furniture. She also heard distant sighs and chuckles. And kisses. She heard kisses.
Connie stood up from the green plastic chair, leaving her Time magazine upon it so that perhaps her sister would divine that she had been here – provided that her sister was able to divine anything. Her emotions violently upset, Connie nonetheless found herself smiling as she noiselessly let herself out of the clinic.
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"Elizabeth. Are you ready to flip your wig?"
"What? Why, Roger, you sound like David. What on earth has happened to your face?"
"A smile has happened to my face, my crazy, cultured, cockamamie sister!"
"Put me down this instant! You're not supposed to lift anything, Roger! What is going on?"
"Oh Liz," Roger cried, "spare me a moment, pull up a seat and listen. I'm in love and it is like nothing I've known before. She makes me feel fifteen feet tall. She's fair and virtuous and giving and brave and beautiful and oh Liz, I want your blessing. We want your blessing."
"Who is she?" Liz asked timidly.
"I won't make you guess. She is my very own physiotherapist, the doctor with the golden hands. Miss Doctor Veronika Liska."
"Doctor Liska! Roger, are you serious?! Oh my God, bless you! I like Dr. Liska! Oh, Roger, but when? When did this happen?"
"Crept up like a caterpillar on a twig in the spring. There it was! Before I knew it, I was in love."
"Roger! Oh, does she love you, darling? Does she feel – does she – yearn – "
"Oh yes, Liz," Roger said, snatching his sister into his arms and once more swinging her in circles, his cheeks aglow, his eyes exultant, "yes, Liz, yes, for the first time – this one – she does!"
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As the head of her crew, Mamie Quillen had come to the second floor of Collinwood, as was routine with her, to check for crockery and glassware left behind from previous meals served upstairs. She had cleared the hall and was moving away with her tray when a door opened somewhere and she sensed a person framed in it. She turned around.
"Oy!" said Harry Johnson, reaching overhead and clapping both his hands on the top of the doorframe, stretching mightily. His eyes went over her appreciatively. "Hubba hubba," he said.
Mamie's brow blackened. She knew from the dinner order ticket that this guy was not a Collins, but nevertheless, he was a guest; very well. She'd put him in his place quick enough no matter who he was.
"Charming," she said, glaring at Harry. "I am Miss Quillen, not 'oy'. And do up your shirt and pants for God's sake if you are going to just stand there and gape at me."
Harry brought his hands down from the top of the doorframe and put them into his pockets, and sidled out into the hall.
"What's your first name, Miss Quillen? Mamie, isn't it?"
"It is. Do up your business like a gentleman or I'm leaving. This is bad behavior, Mr. Johnson."
Harry instantly began to button up his shirt. "My pants are done up," Harry said, "aren't they?"
Mamie secretly smiled at the childlike way in which this was said.
"I mean, I'm not that far gone."
"You'll be further gone if you don't smarten up," Mamie said crossly, blushing furiously. She knew how to take care of herself, but was deeply shy when it came to dealing with men.
"You're not a Collins," she said airily, "what are you doing here, anyway?"
"Oh, I'm here to recover from surgery. Got shot in 'Nam."
Mamie paused.
"You did not," she said.
"Did so."
"You're telling me a tale."
"I'm telling no tales." Harry swung forward, clasping once more the top of the doorframe overhead. "I've got a purple heart from Nixon and them to prove it."
Mamie laid one hand on her hip and frowned into Harry's eyes, balancing her tray. She could sense a line of bull when it was being fed to her.
"I'd love to see it," she said levelly. "Your mama has it, no doubt. Let me run and get together with Mrs. Johnson right this minute so she can show me. How is it, I wonder, that I'm the only one in the whole house she hasn't told about it?"
Harry's eyes widened, and his gymnasium stance in the doorway ended quickly with his bringing his arms down. Mamie smiled.
"Well, crap," Harry said, "You can't blame a guy for trying."
Then he gave her such a sunny smile that she found herself grinning back at him.