of it, but apparently this had been troubling him. I reassured him and dialed the number he gave me.
“What are their names?” I asked as it rang.
“Mike and Margaret Kincaid.”
A man answered the phone. I explained that I was one of Steven’s friends and that I was calling at his request. “Steven has suffered a head injury. He wants me to assure you that he’s okay, but he’s in the hospital recovering. He wants to talk to you to let you know that he’s all right.”
“The hospital?” There was a second of silence, and then he yelled, “Maggie! Pick up the extension! Excuse me, Miss—?”
“Kelly.”
“Miss Kelly.” There was a click of the other phone being picked up. “Miss Kelly, would you please repeat that for Steven’s mother?”
I did. After he calmed his wife a little, Mike Kincaid asked me to put Steven on.
I listened to Steven’s half of the conversation. He reached up and took my hand when I started to move away to allow him some privacy.
“No, Mom, don’t cry. I’m fine.”
He listened.
“It’s okay, Mom… Look, I’m going to let Irene talk to you… No, no, she’s not. She’s a friend.”
He handed the phone over and I reassured them once again that he was recovering and would be fine. “He just tires easily…. Travel out here to see him?”Steven looked a little panicked and shook his head no. “No, I wouldn’t come out just yet.” He relaxed. “Yes, he’ll call again soon.” I said good-bye and hung up.
“Thank you,” he said.
“No problem.”
A nurse came in and saw us holding hands and gave me one of the dirtiest looks I’ve had in some time. Steven looked at me knowingly and smiled a little. I couldn’t resist. I bent over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good- bye, darling. Get some rest. I can’t wait to meet your parents.”
Steven’s smile widened a bit and he squeezed my hand. He closed his eyes, still smiling, and said sleepily, “I’ll dream about you.”
God, how I enjoyed that.
I was striding down the hall, feeling my oats, when I happened to look up in one of those round mirrors that are sometimes placed at the intersection of two hallways. I saw the reflection of one very angry Frank Harriman making his way purposefully in my direction. I was fairly certain he hadn’t seen me yet, and I didn’t feel like facing his wrath. I looked to my left and saw a door marked “Chapel.” I ducked inside.
It was dark and quiet in the small room. There were about six short pews and an altar with a large flower arrangement on it. Beyond the altar, a section of the wall held a large, stained glass crucifix, which was illuminated by a lamp of some kind behind it. To one side was a statue of St. Anne, Mary’s mother, a set of votive candles flickering below it. I lit one for old times’ sake, or perhaps for the comfort of ritual. I strolled over to the altar and read the tag on the flowers: Donated by Bettina Anderson. I’d have to tell Barbara about this.
That’s one thing about being an Irene, I thought. They can sing that old song to you every time they say good night, but Irene is Irene. Sort of elemental. Not like Bettina-Elizabeth or, say, like Steven’s mom, Peggy — no, Maggie-Margaret.
Something nagged at me then, and it wasn’t just guilt over the fact that I was hiding from my fiance. I sat down.
Was it something I had heard earlier in the day? Or in the conversation with Steven’s parents? But when I started thinking of the Kincaids, I grew distracted, wondering if they would fly out to California anyway. A stranger’s reassurance that Steven was all right probably wouldn’t count for much against a mother’s worry.
I sat stewing over that and Thanatos and Frank and — well, yes, religion. I can’t go into a church or chapel without trying to pin myself down on exactly where I stand on the subject. I’m not an atheist. Being an atheist takes more faith than I’ll ever have in any religion. It was also too late to make a good agnostic out of me — too much faith for that. And I wasn’t sure I could really count myself in or out as a Catholic. I wasn’t much at home in Catholicism anymore.
But when you grow up in a religion that allows a day to honor someone named “St. Christina the Astonishing,” it’s just not easy to make yourself feel at home any other place, either. I thought of all the Greek mythology I had been reading. Were there lapsed pagans in those days? Did they falter in their faith? Maybe faith was based on something different in ancient Greece and Rome.
If one could base one’s faith on gratitude for unexpected help, appreciation for all life’s narrow misses and a sense that too much undeserved good had come your way, I supposed that I did have faith.
“Hello, Cassandra,” a voice said behind me.
And it was going to be tested immediately.
26
“HELLO, JIMMY,” I said without turning around. I made myself stare at St. Anne’s beatific plaster smile; focused on that while I talked myself into not showing him how afraid I really felt.
He reached up and touched my hair. I felt a shudder pass through me, but suppressed any other reaction. I thought of Edna Blaylock and Rosie Thayer and Alex Havens. I thought of Steven Kincaid and Johnny Smith and Rita Havens.
He moved closer to me and whispered into my ear, speaking too low for me to recognize his unsynthesized
