The Lies of Saints, page 6
Kellie put up her hands to stop Carmen. “Cross-shaped.”
Carmen nodded. “That’s what I said. Cross-shaped. Like from a medieval history book. And that night, when he opened it, I was watching. He got real quiet and left the dining-room table and all the other mail unopened. He walked over, put the paper and the envelope in the fireplace, and burned them. Then he went for a long walk. Let me tell you, that night John was as sweet as he’s ever been. And he’s been pretty good ever since—that’s like five years—until the last couple of months.”
Carmen waved her hand, wafting the scent of perfume across the bed. “He’s hitting me more now. In the bedroom, so the kids don’t know. Couple times I couldn’t go out. But what’s got me scared is both our girls are teenagers, and he’s come real close to hitting them too. If that happens, I’ve got to leave him. But I don’t want to leave if I don’t have to. See, I signed a prenup that doesn’t give me much to live on, and my lawyer says it will cost a lot to take John to court and we got no guarantees. And if he gets joint custody, then how do I look after my girls when I’m not around?” Carmen paused. “So I wonder maybe if I help you, then you can help me. Charge me your regular rates, of course.”
Carmen reached into her purse and pulled out a photocopy. “Here’s the copy I made that one day. Maybe you can have somebody go ask him about it without letting him know you got it from me. If it scares him like it did the first time, maybe it’ll be another five years before he lays a hand on me. By then my girls will be ready to move out, go to university.”
Carmen placed the photocopy in Kellie’s hands. “Will you do it?” Carmen asked.
**
In the office of the antique shop, Glennifer held the phone to her ear and listened briefly.
“This is very kind of you, sir,” Glennifer said. Her accent was the peculiar Southern of Charleston, now held mainly by the generation that had not grown up watching television and was therefore untainted by mainstream America. “I’ve been expecting your call. I’m sorry I was too busy yesterday.”
I raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Persistent telemarketer,” Elaine whispered to me. “Lightbulbs.”
Glennifer held the sheet in front of her, peering down through her reading glasses. “Now, young man, can you please tell me what kind of filaments they have?”
She listened to the answer.
“Is it a CC-9 or just a C-9? . . . Frosted or clear? . . . Thank you, but I really prefer frosted. Do they contain mercury? I’m very concerned about that, you know. Some manufacturers have low-mercury ones. Much better for the planet, wouldn’t you agree?”
From our end, it seemed like a monologue, with appropriate pauses.
“Do they contain solder?” Glennifer asked. “Or are they lead-free? I’m sure I’ve already mentioned my concern for the environment, but we do have only one earth, you know. Is the socket brass or aluminum? . . . Oh, that’s too bad. I really prefer brass. Can you get brass in? . . . Do those bulbs have solder? And what’s their mercury content? Have these been approved by the Illuminating Engineering Society? . . . Oh, young man, I’m very surprised and disappointed you aren’t familiar with IES. I can get you their address if you like. . . . Very well, I won’t force it on you. How many foot-candles do these bulbs generate? . . . You do know what a foot-candle is, don’t you? Or should I refer you to IES? I see.”
Glennifer marked off each question as she went down her list. “How many lumens of output then? . . . Oh, thank you. Can you explain to me what a lumen is? I’ve been arguing about that with my sister, and it would be nice to have an expert settle it for us. . . . I see. No, wait. She’s right here.”
Glennifer handed the phone to Elaine. “Oh, thank you, young man,” Elaine gushed. “I’ve been looking forward all day for the chance to talk to someone besides my sister. It can get lonely, you know, when you become a senior. How old are you? . . . You’re as young as you sound. I’m not afraid of thirty years’ age difference. Are you as handsome as you sound? . . . Don’t be so modest. Do you have a girlfriend? Say, I just thought of something. Does your company send anyone over to install the lightbulbs? Would you install them for us? We can have ourselves a party. . . . Oh. Well, how many people does it take at your company to change a lightbulb? . . . I see. Please, don’t go. We get so lonely. Can you call us tomorrow at the same time? My sister has more questions for you. Hello? Hello?”
Elaine smiled and set the phone down, then burst into girlish laughter. Angel offered a high five. Elaine slapped Angel’s palm. Glennifer pretended a scowl, then relented and exchanged high fives with them both.
I took the opportunity to steal Angel’s chair. My leg hurt. “That was as easy as falling into mud, wasn’t it?” I said.
“Nicholas Barrett, that is a very ungentlemanly comment,” Angel said, imitating Elaine’s accent.
“Yeah, Nick,” Elaine said, mimicking Angel’s voice. “And immature.”
I groaned. “I liked it better when you didn’t get along.”
“We’re doing our best to pretend for your sake, Nick,” Glennifer said. “After all, you persist in visiting us with her every afternoon.”
“Today I have a reason,” I said.
Angel didn’t give me a chance to explain. She took advantage of Glennifer’s friendliness to speak quickly. “That drop-leaf dining table beside the Queen Anne square stool . . . it’s a Duncan Phyfe, isn’t it? Solid walnut top, accented by a burl walnut apron and drawer front. Finished with brass toes and joined by a trestle for additional support.”
Elaine and Glennifer froze, all traces of hilarity instantly gone. This was business now. Even if it came from a twelve-year-old.
“I’d like to buy the table too,” Angel said. “Along with the Queen Anne. You know, the stool with waterfall side panels, cabriole legs, and slipper feet.”
“You mispronounced cabriole,” Glennifer snapped. “And why are you trying to impress us with all of that knowledge?”
“You said if I went on the Internet and got you a list of questions about lightbulbs, you would owe me a favor. So I’d like to buy both of those pieces. Maybe with some kind of price break. What do you think, Nick? Isn’t that fair?”
“I’m out of this one,” I said. “This is between you and these equally respectable women.”
Elaine coughed. She pointed to the office door. Glennifer nodded. They stepped outside for a private discussion.
“Angel,” I said, “subject change. I’ve been wanting to ask you something. But I didn’t have a chance in the cab.”
“Sure, Nick. Fire away.”
I tried not to be captivated by the grin on her face as I asked my question. “Tell me, what do you know about a wallet belonging to Miles Ashby?”
**
Danielle Pederson was Kellie’s second visitor that afternoon. She was sixty-eight but looked more than a decade younger, the
result of being able to afford the best money could buy in health spas, fitness trainers, clothing, cosmetics, and plastic surgery.
“It took me an hour or so this morning to return your assistant’s call,” Danielle told Kellie. “After he explained where you were, I booked my flight right after I managed to talk to him. I was so shocked when he explained why you hadn’t returned any of my messages.”
Danielle sat sideways on her chair, legs pressed together, a habit instilled in her during an era when finishing schools were still in fashion among the rich. She wore a long, red silk skirt and a blouse to match. Her fingers were clustered with gold. Despite the power that money had given her, though, there was an aura of kindness about Danielle. She saw the perspiration beading on Kellie’s forehead and leaned forward to wipe it away with a tissue from a nearby box.
“I am so, so sorry this happened to you,” Danielle whispered.
Kellie was able to muster a smile. She’d just received another shot of painkiller. She had already discovered how difficult it was to be expressive in her condition. With the painkiller relaxing her muscles, it was nearly impossible.
“This was a long ways to come,” Kellie mumbled, her concentration loosened by the growing euphoria of the opiate.
“Nonsense. I might have made the visit even if I didn’t have something new for you. After all, you were such a dear over the last few weeks.”
Kellie fought heavy eyelids. “Something new?”
“I did what you suggested. Started looking on my own. And what I found, I believe, is enough for you to start all over again.”
It took effort for Kellie to put her thoughts together. “It’s going to be a while before I get out of here. . . .”
“Your assistant,” Danielle said. “Surely he can begin for you. Remember how urgently I want this taken care of.”
Kellie nodded. At least, it felt like a nod. She wasn’t tracking her thoughts very clearly. And the last portion of their conversation had become a haze.
“Wonderful,” Danielle said. “I’ll visit him tonight.”
She patted Kellie’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve got his name and number. And I had one of my secretaries get his address. He and I will take care of it from here.”
**
“Wallet,” I repeated.
Angel was rearranging her face to look innocent. “Huh?”
“A thing that holds money,” I said. “Credit cards. When people have them stolen, they sometimes go to the police.”
“Stolen? Are you trying to tell me something, Nick? Just because I wasn’t born in a big fancy mansion, it doesn’t mean that you should just assume—”
“Angel.” I said it sternly. We both knew her history.
“Just messing with you,” she said. “Yeah, I found a wallet yesterday. In Kellie’s hospital room.”
“Found it? Funny how no one else noticed it was on the floor.”
“Did I say,” Angel said, “that I found it on the floor? It was in his jacket.”
“So you happened to be looking in his suit jacket?”
She nodded.
“For what?” I asked.
“His wallet. I was mad at him, Nick. How’d I know he was going to come back in and apologize for what he said? By the way, you still haven’t explained why he did that. I figured for sure he’d whup you in the hallway.”
“Don’t change the subject. You looked in his suit jacket for his wallet. That’s theft, Angel.”
“I said I found it,” she explained patiently. “I didn’t say I stole it.”
“It’s missing,” I said. “He reported that to the police.”
“Not missing. Just wanted to make him sweat a little. I turned it in to the hospital’s lost-and-found department. All his money and credit cards are still there.”
Glennifer and Elaine returned.
“We presume,” Glennifer said, “that you want those pieces for Nick’s house. It’s a kind gesture, of course, but those pieces are dreadfully expensive.”
Angel gave them her disarming smile. “Don’t have to be if you don’t want.” She smiled again, this time at me. “We’re cool on the wallet?”
“We’ll talk,” I answered. But we were cool on it. I knew her background. Six months earlier, she would have stolen the wallet. Now she’d simply moved it to a place Miles could find it—eventually. When Angel and I talked later, I hoped to bring her closer to understanding why even that action was not pristine. But I’d pick a time for the discussion when it wouldn’t put her on the defensive.
Angel led Glennifer away. Leaving me with Elaine.
Finally I had a chance to ask what I needed. “Elaine,” I began, “you of anyone would know some of the connections between the old families around here.”
“Nick, are you involved in something?”
“Remember Victoria Sebastian?”
“Of course. Poor thing.”
“So you’ve heard the rumors about domestic violence.”
“Well founded. Please tell me why you are asking.”
“Here’s a wild question,” I said. “She disappeared in 1978. Twenty years before that—as you may recall from the news stories—Whitman Metiere disappeared. His body was found under the Freemason lodge this year. Any idea what could tie both of those events together?”
Her answer surprised me.
“Please, Nick. Whatever you are doing, leave all of that alone.”
The fear on her face surprised me too.
“Elaine?”
She shook her head. “That’s all I want to say.”
Chapter 8
Walking down the hallway to find Angel, I held two overnight envelopes that the housekeepers had received during the day—one from New Jersey, the other from Wyoming—both addressed for priority delivery to Grace Louise Starr.
While I was curious as to their contents and the reason, of course, for those contents, both were unopened. I felt it was important to respect Angel and her privacy the same way I would want to be treated. I would make the packages my business, I had decided, only if they involved Angel in anything that might hurt her or be part of any criminal activity. What frightened me was that very real possibility. Angel was not malevolent by any means, simply opportunistic, but she had a less-than-discerning sense of what differentiated right from wrong.
She was in the kitchen with Maddie; I heard her voice before I rounded the corner. “I’m going to ask Nick if my packages came in,” she said to Maddie, “because now that I’ve made some money, this is what I want to do.”
Money? The overnight packages held checks or cash? I stopped. Despite my noble intentions of giving Angel her privacy, I could not resist this opportunity to eavesdrop.
“I was thinking of getting you a puppy,” Angel continued to Maddie. “I always wanted one for me, but now that I’m too grown-up for one, if Nick said it was all right, you would probably love one. A beagle. Definitely a beagle. I always wanted a beagle, so that’s maybe the dog for you.”
By necessity, this was a monologue. I could picture Maddie holding on to Angel’s leg, gazing in different directions with her customary intensity as she listened to her older sister.
“Then I started thinking, Maddie, how lucky we are. Nick’s a good guy, you know, and not many kids get to live in a house like this. You should see some of my friends, how bad it is in their homes and how mean their parents are. So I thought that you’d forgive me for spending money on this instead of a puppy. I bought some magnets, and we’ll put their photos on the fridge here. We’ll send them letters. You’ll have to wait until you can write, but if you draw something with crayons, they can have that. See, for what it costs every month to feed a dog, we can help them. . . .”
Silence.
I retraced my steps as quietly as I could, then turned back again, clunking my feet to give as much warning as possible.
I entered the kitchen as Angel stepped away from the fridge. “Hey, Nick.”
“Angel—” I waved the overnight envelopes—“these came for you today.”
“That’s nice.” Her tone was one of total disinterest, an interesting contrast to the enthusiasm she’d used in referring to them earlier. “Just some computer stuff. Not a big deal.”
“Figured,” I said. Although the senders had been individuals, not companies. Although it did not feel like there were any software disks in the packages. Although she’d just referred to money inside them.
I glanced at the fridge, trying to show the same disinterest she so successfully affected about the overnight envelopes.
Then I saw them. Two photos. Set at eye-level height for Maddie.
I squatted.
“It’s a pain to have them so low,” Angel admitted, “but I want Maddie to be their friend.”
“Who are they?”
Angel stood beside me. Since I was squatting, she was able to rest a hand on my shoulder. It was a gesture of trust, and it warmed me. As did the photos. Each of a child younger than Angel.
“Emmanuel Casios and Margarita Estelle,” Angel explained. “They live in a poor village in Peru. I got the info off the Internet and signed me and Maddie up to be sponsors.”
I turned my head and looked directly into Angel’s green eyes.
She peered back anxiously. “It’s all right with you, isn’t it, Nick?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s all right with me.”
**
I thought later that it’s our children who can pierce us with truth when we least expect it. Their teeth have not yet been worn down by the bit of the bridle, and life has yet to burden them beyond what they believe they can carry. While they believe they know so much, they are still willing to learn so much more. They are not afraid of questions.
Anson Hanoway Saffron had his own questions. Questions he only asked his journal. Questions he eventually answered for himself.
This was his journal entry for January 2. In September, less than nine months later, he would enter the Citadel.
Had a strange thought today during math class. I wondered what it was like for Jesus at home when he was my age. Was he expected just to be a carpenter and follow the family tradition? Was he supposed to be the son of the father and nothing else?
Maybe early on he knew he was strange and didn't fit in. Like me. Maybe sometimes he wished he could just be the son of his earthly father.
Did he already know his destiny at a young age? Or did he figure it out as he went? I'll bet people in his town and Charleston is no different, even if it might have more people and thought he was going nowhere. Saw him as just a carpenter who worked with hammers and a chisel and a saw. He had no wife and kids. No house of his own.
Maybe Jesus and me would have hung out. A couple of losers. But then something happened to him or inside of him, and he decided to break away from what his family wanted. Especially from what his mother wanted.
I wonder what she said when he told her that he was leaving their home, leaving his job, leaving that small town.
Why? she would have asked. (My mother would!)
Sitting in math class, it nearly made me laugh out loud, thinking of what Jesus might have said to her. Perhaps he said he needed to bring the people of Israel closer to God. And by the way, also save mankind.
