Chapter 7 Designed
"I walked into this life a lover. And I was carrying a deep hope for you. I watched you from afar, a blazing, burning star. The tree of life is what you are. Oh, I wish you felt this way. You'd say oh baby it's not a game. So tell me, do you fear this? Cause you're not sure what's required. You're so profound, but you're not found, and if I could I'd just claim you. You were designed. Oh, you'd stay. You'd take the pain away…"I Wish by Eisley
Nora watched the first snowflakes fall, iridescent and thick, out the small wedge of window in the laundry room wall. Their glimmery show was applauded by a strange clap of thunder. The lightning blinked instinctively behind it.
Thunder snow. Unusual for this time of year, she mused, thinking such a phenomenon was usually reserved for cooler spring conditions when the cold clashed with the warmth.
The door at the opposite end of the house slammed shut. Nora jumped, nearly sending the basket of fresh towels propped on her hip in the air above her. It also sent her nerves twitching. That man and all his banging!
She careened around the corner, hoping to meet her husband as he also found his way to the kitchen to unload the week's worth of storm goods.
"Aw, Cillian, ya 'bout sent my clean towels sailin' with that door," she blindly complained, entering the little room. But she was talking to no one. She stopped quickly, noticing that she was alone.
"Cillian?" She hooted. "Ya home?"
She moved to the center of the room beside the kitchen table, listening. She waited for his usual sounds-whistling a mindless tune, hacking up the weather from his lungs, the television automatically springing to life in the front room. But nothing.
She scanned the counter top for bags of groceries to put away or his hat, wet and powdered with frosty flakes, flung upon the table. But nothing. Shrugging, Nora set the laundry on the table instead.
Obviously the old bugger didn't get the door closed all the way behind him on his way out to the market. The wind caught it and did the job for 'im, she rationalized.
She tried not to let her subtle irritation with these little bits of his bad habits stock pile into a huge annoyance. Without another thought to the matter, she tugged a metal stock pot from her collection in the cupboard. Her sturdiest winter soup pot that was made for large batches of chicken stock or Cillian's favorite potato and leek soup left to simmer until the coldest day turned to freezing night.
The temperature outside was dropping quickly. The house shivered from it. She intended on keeping its insides warm with a simmering chicken soup on the stove and belly-filling potato bread in the oven
She worked steadily, systematically chopping crisp celery, onions, and carrots on the worn cutting board. She dropped tablespoons of butter into the waiting pot along with the vegetables, smiling to herself at the hiss and sizzle that told her the vessel had heated just right. She sifted the mirepoix with a wooden spoon until it softened and its simple, familiar fragrance filled the whole kitchen. She moved to the sink, measuring cup in hand.
Thunk. The noise behind her was muffled, but hard. It vibrated the floor beneath her house slippers. It sounded like someone had fallen, but she knew she was alone in the house.
"Ello? Cillian?" She called, pushing her voice further into the other room. Perhaps something was wrong. Maybe he'd tripped coming in with the groceries.
Again, silence answered. Again, her shoulders lifted and fell, unconcerned. She set back to work, filling and pouring the measuring cup with tepid tap water until the pot had reached its expected capacity. Next, the whole skinned chicken, waiting patiently for its boiling bath. Nora turned to retrieve the bird from the fridge.
"La da dee da, da" she lulled before she registered the knife that had easily sunk into her belly like a dull blade slicing soft butter.
Her random tune ended in a gasp. "Wha? Wha..is..?" She mouthed, but her voice was cut short. Only terrified breath was left.
Her trembling hands grasped at the wooden handle of her favorite chopping knife now protruding grotesquely from her belly as if she was the poked poultry designed for the broth.
Her eyes found the culprit. They widened in disbelief; complete sadness. Madness.
"Top o'the morning to ya, milady," the gruff voice spoke.
The old woman cringed, fought, bringing her meager fists to his chest, but she knew in this moment it was no use. He had known where to stab, and he'd cruelly gone about it while she stood there unsuspecting, believing she was secure inside her little temple of safe keeping.
He pushed the knife in a little deeper. "You should've known better. Keeping those girls hidden like that. You damn well should've known."
Nora coughed. A sound like impending death gurgled up into her throat. She tried to swallow it back down, but the blood rose and dripped from the corner of her mouth. Too much to choke back down. And the pain in her stomach burned hot, uncontrollable. The room was burning bright around her, closing in on her like a white tunnel.
She took a step back. Where was the table? Her fingers asked, groping.
He nudged the blade again, twisting it against her clenched muscle. Outside, the everyday sound of a car door closing and an unsuspicious old man's whistling alerted him.
"Die already, you Mick bitch," he ordered her.
She obeyed. Nora slipped to the floor. He didn't bother catching her. He let her fall, landing squarely against the blade. But it had already been buried its full length into her so the fall had lost its charm for him.
The intruder reached for another knife off the wooden block. Something jagged that would leave a mean mark across the wagging flesh of a sweet, aging man's neck. He carelessly stepped over the dead woman and headed for the front door…
Saint Gabriel's House of Good News hardly looked like a welcoming abode of glad tidings. In fact, it looked homelier than the two women staring up at it in woeful awe.
Elise frowned at the sad, rickety four-story structure that had once been a pay-by-the hour hotel. Sadly, Not much had changed since its seedier days. The building still wore its faded brick façade and permanently smeared front windows. It also still bore the cliché neon vacancy sign that unbeknownst to her the nuns still turned on at night when the shelter was running low on mouths to feed and bodies to keep warm.
A garish blue front door inscribed with a Bible verse Elise suspected as the shelter's tag line was the only indication it was indeed a place of rejuvenation and restoration for the area's most weary. It read "Cast your cares on the Lord and He will sustain you" Psalm 55:22.
But most sad of all, her family was living in it. Being sustained I hope..
Connor and Murphy also seemed a bit taken aback by its uninviting existence here on a street where so many grungy men and women congregated. The homeless chattered amongst themselves waiting for the noon time chow bell to ring.
Connor kept a wary eye on several suspect-looking fellows from the crowd. Not because they were really acting strange, but because the Yakavettas didn't have his trust. They had no code of honor that would keep someone from going rogue and locating them; unloading on them right there on the street in front of God and everyone.
He also watched his brother. Out of smokes, Murphy had bummed a cigarette from a priest that was lighting up outside the church across the street. He'd huffed sardonically at the stark, sickening difference between the beautiful stone architecture of the cathedral and the haggard run-down shelter. Both similar in their faith and funded by the Catholics, but so unequal in their dividends.
"This place is a complete kip," Murph said between long drags.
"I bet it's better than the dump we were holed up in back in South Boston," his brother scoffed. It didn't take much remembering about the place they used to hang their crosses to make him shudder.
He glanced at Elise, standing a few feet away. Her hands were jammed into Murphy's black peacoat; the one his brother had graciously given up to keep her from freezing in the backseat when she refused to make a stop for a blanket. She had wanted to just get here, and now he wondered how she really felt about being there. Her face said nothing. She just stared, almost listless, at the building.
He turned to his twin, speaking in their Mother tongue. "Should I make the call?"
"Nah," Murphy grumbled. "Let's scope the place out first." He circled around his stomach with the lit cigarette. "I've got an uneasy feeling in my gut about it."
"About what?" Connor wondered.
"I don't know," Murph answered. "It's just there, ya know. Like after eatin' Auntie Patty's beef and stout pie. Ya know it's not right in there, but ya can't figure out why cuz it seemed fine goin' down."
"Aye," his brother nodded in total understanding.
The gruffer of the two addressed Elise. "And what do you make of the Bates Motel?"
She couldn't help but smile. "So far I'm not impressed. But I'll get more concerned when a psycho stops by my room tonight with fresh towels and a sandwich." She nudged at him, snorting her amusement with herself. "Get it? Psycho."
"Yeah, I get it." She got a chuckle out of him, but it wasn't hearty or truly amused. He'd been too long without nicotine and alcohol, his two most treasured vices. And it was damn cold in the Heartland.
The heart of the country may be there, but the veins that were supposed to be pumping the life blood were frozen solid, he decided.
Connor shook his head. "I don't know how we did it, but we got you here alive, lass," he said.
Murphy was grinning, the cigarette tucked firmly in the side of his mouth. "Hardest job yet," he mentioned around it.
Finally, Elise found the joy of the situation. It hit her, alarming and attention-grabbing like a thick switch to the back of the legs. She was standing at her desired destination.
I may be badly battered and bruised, but they didn't get me. Their lazy hounds couldn't sniff me out. And now I'm practically home free…
She smiled. But not an average smile. She beamed. The anticipation of being reunited with her sister again after too many years without her was too much to hold back. To Connor, she looked like an excited greyhound waiting to explode from its cage and chase the speeding rabbit around the track.
With the dismal looks of the place temporarily cast aside, Elise squealed her excitement. She flung both arms around each of the boys' necks, yanking them closer together in a semi-awkward half hug. They laughed along with her, but neither could really feel the true elation she felt or see the freedom this drab building represented to her.
Connor pulled her up; held her close. He said celebratory things in her ear while she jumped and jiggled in the crook of his arm. His black-gloved hand moved subtly along the vast curves of her body, but she didn't notice.
His brother noticed. From the other side of her, Murphy glared, colder than the wintry air around him. But the jackass grinned back, tossing him an inciting wink.
The sleeveen's practically feeling her up, he ranted. And she must be enjoyin' it or she would've pulled away. Ya can't tell me she doesn't feel his sly fucking hand workin' its way up her backside. If I had my bowie I'd fillet his balls.
Murphy held her looser, at a distance. He grinned lightly when she put her face close, cupping his jaw; when she whispered, "thank you. From the bottom of my heart," with a genuine touch of softness.
"It's nothing," he muttered, emotionless. "Just a job."
In that moment, he glimpsed the young Elise. The sobbing girl that tripped going up the concrete stairs of St. Timothy's, tearing tender flesh from her bare knee. He'd watched from inside, standing in the dim light of the vestibule as her father had come to her rescue, but he'd wished it had been him. He had thought to swoop outside, lift her from the fall, and allow her his shoulder to lean on while they hobbled together to fetch a tissue for the blood and a bandage for the wound. But his feet had refused to move. Mainly because of the ribbing he'd have taken from his brother later and the beating he'd have gotten from his ma's spoon. Touching that girl…
Now, touching that woman was all he could think about.
"Oh Murphy," she breathed, cramming herself against him. "It feels like much more than that."
He understood. The shit they'd just been through together. The death and destruction they'd experienced in a quick blur of time. Humanity's worst they'd glimpsed in each other's presence.
And the prayer. The family prayer they insisted would be shared with nobody. They'd taught it to her. They'd allowed her to use it before putting a bullet in that redneck's skull.
It made them closer; no doubt. But he wouldn't let her become the rope that he and Connor took turns pulling, competing to see who could land her on his side while the other landed hard on his ass. No way. Not with her.
I don't care what that asshole says. He's playing games, Murphy decided. And chances are he'll win. Unless I just don't play along. Unless he really…nah. Fuck no.
He hadn't stopped to let himself think that his brother could be genuinely interested in pursuing her for more than just a thoughtless fuck. More than just a pawn in their never-ending game of I Win. In that case…
Instead of drawing her close like he felt she wanted, Murphy patted her back and stepped away. She clung tighter, but he remained rigid; solid and strong against her. Against his own fucking urge to bundle her tattered body and hold her.
She drew back. Her eyes held him, questioning him. He appreciated the discouragement she couldn't keep from the look. Whatever he could do to put distance between them physically and emotionally, he'd do it. He responded with another tight grin, replacing his dwindling cigarette between his lips.
He motioned to Patience, lingering quiet in the background. "Don't forget about yer girl," he said, soft and pleasant.
She took the hint. She sighed, tucking a frown into the collar of the borrowed coat. He watched her step away. She gathered the teenage girl by the arm, so filled with compassion; longing to do the right thing.
Elise led her toward them after a quiet exchange of words. The wind rushing between them had kept him from overhearing exactly what she told the girl, but it was nothing to him. He already knew it was something positive; comforting. So Elise…
"Well, I'm ready to go in," she said to them. "I want to see my sister and the kids."
The long, elegant Sister Hannah Spiegel was definitely the woman in charge. However, Elise had found out quickly there wasn't much to be in charge of. The inside of the hotel was more depressing than the outside with only a handful of nuns keeping the place in some kind of workable order.
She had dashed from nun to nun, calling to Emilia. Her voice may have echoed, but the gory dining room walls dripping with the blood red velvet bunting of the shelter's hotel lounge past had buffered it. It'd taken all her restraint to keep from twisting each black-sheathed woman around to find the familiar face of her older sister until Sister Hannah arrived and took charge of her.
Sitting up against a cold plaster wall where a bed's headboard should be, Elise thought on her first meeting with her former Mother Superior, Sister Miriam's, good friend, Sister Hannah, and the conditions of the shelter.
"She's not here at the moment," Sister Hannah's crisp, but kindly voice had rung out, demanding to be noticed.
She was expecting us. Good. Elise had rushed forward, meeting her in the doorway. "Whaddaya mean? Where is she? When will she be back?"
Sister Hannah's crescent-moon face had smiled her comfort. "It's a school day. She's up at the school having lunch with the children."
Elise's beaten brow had furrowed. The kids in school? When they are supposed to be in hiding? How?
The nun read her puzzled expression. She'd smiled again, and it lessened her age. "The Catholic school, of course. She volunteers there every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. She'll be returning with them when the school day is done."
Sister Hannah had clasped the trembling woman's hands together, holding them to her. "Elise," she'd stated. "She will be so grateful to see you. It's like she has been counting the minutes til your arrival."
Elise knew. Like I've been counting mine.
The sister's gentle expression of relief had quickly taken on a concerned edge. Her watery blue eyes washed over the little sister of a woman she'd grown to love like a daughter in the last eight years. She'd seen photographs, but the girl in the pictures was a lovely, vivacious, and well put-together lady. The sight before her was a raggedy, worn, and untamed version in desperate need of a shower and a good night's rest.
Behind her, the three others had loitered. The two men she knew to be escorting Emilia's sister and another willow-wisp of a girl. The entire group of them was a motley crew that would also benefit from a decent meal and a clean change of clothes. Honestly, the nun had decided they didn't look much different from the down-on-their-luck regulars that cycled in and out of the shelter.
Sister Hannah had browsed them over with a wary smirk. "You must be these saints Sister Miriam speaks so highly of." The way she'd spat saints as if it had turned into a dirty four letter word.
Mother Superior had spoken highly of them? Wonders never cease…
Connor and Murphy had said nothing. They'd just grinned stupidly at her as if their mother had never taught them a lesson in social graces.
Then, the nun had turned her attention to the petite black girl purposefully hiding behind the men. "And you?"
"And me what?" she'd croaked.
Elise had spoken for her; careful, calm. "Sister, this is Patience. We found her across the river with nowhere to go." She wanted to rush; reveal the true story, but decided treading lightly was the best way to move forward with the lost girl's predicament.
Sister Hannah's smile had sparkled like a new mother's. "Ah, well, it only makes sense then that you'd bring her to us."
She'd lead them on a grand, but short tour of the place. They had weaved through the dingy, understaffed kitchen and into a cramped general commons area that served as a playroom for any children occupying the shelter. It was sparsely stocked with mismatched toys and an antiquated video game system for older kids to entertain themselves with.
The backyard of the property was even more depressing. The square patch of bald cement tattooed with a few chalk drawings was surrounded by a sea of decaying grass and half-chopped weeds. The dismal yard matched the day's dreariness perfectly.
Part of the conditions of her reunion with her sister included taking on a job at the shelter. She expected to be put to swabbing toilets or peeling potatoes, but Sister Hannah had basically handed her the keys. Even in Boston, at the Convent of Living Faith, she'd been granted duties above her title because she was motivated; ambitious. She had a desire to help and be productive. She was designed for management and leadership, and could simply be in charge of anything placed in front of her.
Whether it's a loaded gun or a run-down homeless shelter, I've got this, she determined.
She glanced over at Patience, sleeping sound and soundless in the bunk next to hers. She'd appreciated the nun's acceptance of the short story when it came to the girl. Sister Hannah had promised to help get the girl back on her feet. Feed her, house her, and maybe get her in to the Catholic school under a new identity. She had seemed to be okay with that kind of shadiness; the kind not involving murder or death.
As if knowing she was on Elise's mind, Patience rolled over onto her back. The flimsy mattress sagged even beneath the weight of her twiggy body.
I'll be lucky if I don't tear through mine and land on my bum in the middle of the night, Elise mused.
She thought of the guys probably napping in the handyman's quarters beneath her. They'd driven all day and all night after the deadly altercation with the redneck. They didn't even stop for a rest once they outran the small town police back in Iowa. She knew they had to be exhausted.
In spite of her own weariness, she laughed, awakened by the recollection of Sister Hannah's inquiry into their work history. Apparently, while the boys were forced to stay as chaperones until the coast was deemed clear by Little Johnny, she expected them to pull their weight around the place as much as possible. If not moreso than anyone else being the young, healthy, and tough men they liked to think they were.
"What other kind of work experience do you have besides what you are doing right now?" She'd asked, trying to be discreet about their current line of work.
"We worked a few years in a meat packing plant," Connor had told her.
"And back in our homeland of Ireland, we tended the sheep," Murphy had chimed. He'd gnawed at his lip. "Whatever good that'll do ya to know."
"But we consider ourselves jacks of all trades really," his brother had added. Murphy had nodded along.
Sister Hannah had nodded too, her eyes narrowing, contemplating their usefulness. "Any experience with electrical wiring or plumbing?"
Their heads had hung and shook until Murphy had piped up, grinning, "Nah, not unless you count dropping a dismantled toilet on a bad guy's skull from a five-story building plumbing experience."
Connor had made the comment more damning by failing to suppress his snickering. Now, partly alone in her room, Elise couldn't help but giggle herself. It made her miss them.
They're probably sleeping. I should be sleeping. But she couldn't. And now, she wanted to see them. Murphy. He's disgruntled with me now. It might be about the situation with Patience, but I have to know why.
She got up from the cot, gathering her few toiletries, and headed for the community bathroom.
Underneath, in the bowels of the building, the McManus brothers surveyed their lot.
"Well, what do you think of this?" Connor sputtered. "The broads get posh upstairs suites while we get thrown into the fucking dungeon. Bullshit."
Murphy coughed, clearing his throat. It made him think of cigarettes and whiskey. "Eh, what did ya think of Sister Hard Ass? I bet she could be petrifying if she wanted."
Connor ran a rough palm across his face, grunting his agreeable answer. He dug around his pockets until he came up with the scribbled number he'd set out to memorize but hadn't gotten around to it just yet.
"I'm gonna make the call," he told his brother. "I want to find out how long those fucking degos expect us to hang around here babysitting their brats."
He stood from the bottom bunk of the wobbly stacked bed. "Then, I'm gonna flop out for a while. Until the other dame gets back, and the happy reunion can get started."
Murphy flipped onto his side in the top bunk. He was messing with a deck of vintage pinup girl playing cards he'd found stashed in an abandoned tool box beneath the beds. Gnawing again at his already sore lip, he muttered, "I'm gonna check out the rooms upstairs. Wander around a bit,"
"Stop codding me. You're gonna go find Elise, and ya know it," Connor barked, waving behind his back at him. "Ya go on about your business with 'er, but just remember we're getting out of this shithole as soon as Johnny Yakavetta pays up. And she ain't comin' with us. Her little gun slinging adventure ends here."
"Fuck you, Dirty Harry. You'd drag her along just so you could keep trying to win her over and get the best of me!" Murphy raged. "Unless you want her just because you really do want her!"
"What?!" Connor practically spit the word from his twisted mouth. "What the fuck are you saying to me? Do ya hear yourself, dear brother, because you aren't making a damn's worth of sense to me. I told you before I don't want that dame. So,"
Murphy tossed the cards at his brother's wagging head. "Eh, get outta here. Go make nicey on the phone with a bunch of Wacky Yakies, you dense eejit."
If he hadn't been graciously let in as a guest, Connor would've destroyed the room with his brother's flaying body. But instead, he chose to be the bigger man and walk away, leaving his twin to spout and sputter all the insults and obscenities he wanted to himself.
She wasn't hard to find. He'd learned one thing about her quickly. She was either coming from or going toward a bathroom. At that moment, she was leaving the only bathroom he could find on the third floor.
"Hey, you," he hissed at her unsuspecting back.
She jumped a little, her breath catching in her throat. He watched the empty hand at her side clench and release before she faced him.
When she turned around, it was his turn to flinch. She'd cleaned up. And although she was attractive in her signature dolled up-vintage-glamour girl persona the fresh-faced and wild-haired casually dressed Elise of his past was even more beautiful.
The girl he remembered.
She was wearing a simple, breathable green tie waist dress. Its hue competed with her eyes, but no color could be as authentic or deep with tiny flecks of warm gold embedded in them. She had very little makeup to work with and a big job of covering up the abrasions still livid red on her face, but it didn't matter to him. She was radiant. When her coral lips lifted into a relieved smile at the sight of him, she drew him in.
"Hello," he managed.
"Hi," she said.
"How are ya?" He asked, quiet. Almost under his breath.
Elise cocked her head as if contemplating telling him the truth or just answering with a perfunctory response. "I'm doing better. Thanks. You?"
His eyes finally left her to bounce randomly along the walls of the empty hallway. "Oh, yeah, I'm good. Just checking things out. Getting a feel for the place," he told her, still so soft.
He couldn't help it. He had to keep looking at her. Get his eyeful before he'd never see her again. "You nervous? I mean about seeing your sister after so long."
She beamed. Her milky cheeks glistened, happy, despite the harsh gashes wanting to keep her depressed. "Absolutely. I've got butterflies," she giggled. "It's like waiting for my prom date all over again."
Then, the smile lilted. She touched at her hair; the crazed, wavy tendrils finally free from ribbons and sizzling iron heat. "Except I look so awful," she muttered. "I'll probably just end up scaring her with all this," her fingers grazed the worst bruise on her face.
"Nah. You look fine," he whispered. His voice had drifted so soft to her she'd barely heard him.
Her eyes perked, hopeful. "Oh?"
"Yeah. Better than fine actually." He bit at his thumbnail. "You look fucking gorgeous," he chanced. "Even without all the...stuff." His fingers wriggled at the sides of his face, indicating all the cosmetics she was missing.
She didn't blush. She just watched him twitch and go back to gnawing at his hand. "Thanks."
The sound of Patience shifting on the cot in the room behind her snagged her attention. She glanced over her shoulder, but she couldn't see the girl moving.
She pointed into the open doorway. "I better check on her. Make sure she gets something to eat soon,"
Murphy interrupted her. He was once again roaming the halls with eyes Elise found hard to focus on. They were the prettiest eyes, but they seemed to see right around her. "Hey, you know what you did about that girl was noble. It was right. Despite what we said."
He stopped, gauging her. She didn't speak. She just waited. He continued. "Connor can be a real asshole sometimes."
Her lips bunched, twisting into a pensive smirk. "Well, you were kind of being a butthole yourself."
She got his eyes. He almost glared at her at the word butthole. Then, he simmered down. "Okay. So, I'm sorry. We were wrong." He held his palms against the usual dark tshirt plastered over his chest. "I was wrong. There, I took responsibility."
She approached him. Slowly, lazy; she drug it out, but she got closer. He straightened taller in front of her, but she could still reach his neck. Her fingers danced over the crude tattoo of the Virgin Mary. It was the second time he flinched.
He watched her, speechless. Baffled. Breathing was strangely difficult.
She lifted herself onto her toes, carefully planting her lips upon the mark. Right there he smelled of sweat and blood. It didn't offend her. It made her want to breathe more of him in.
"Much appreciated," she exhaled into his ear.
He blinked, sucking in air again. He had half a mind to grab at her. Pull her face to his and push his mouth onto hers better than he'd done to that stupid blonde in the bar. But all he could do was watch her walk away.
She flicked him a shy glance and a limp wave. He waved back.
"See you soon, Murphy," she said, officially dismissing him.
"Yeah," he croaked. "See you soon, too."
As soon as she disappeared through the door, he felt at his neck. The exact spot her lips had grazed. And he smiled that ornery McManus smile.
Fuck you, Connor. I win.
(End of chapter)