for church.”
“Today?” Marty groaned. “You gotta be kiddin’ me! We got all this stuff to unpack, and there’s a game on, and I haven’t even got the TV hooked up yet. How about you go, and me and Angel’ll stay here and take care of some of this mess?”
Feeling the same strange knot in her stomach that she’d felt a moment ago, Angel shook her head. “I–I want to go to church,” she said. “And I better go up and get dressed.” She started toward the door and the stairwell beyond, but her father blocked her way.
“Hey,” he said. “Doesn’t daddy still get a kiss from his little Angel?”
Angel froze, but rather than run the risk of getting into a fight with him, she gave her father a quick peck on the cheek.
“I’ve just got to take a shower and get dressed, Mom,” she said as she slipped through the door and started up the stairs. “I’ll be as fast as I can.”
“All right,” her mother called back. “But be quick — if you take too long, I’ll have to leave you here.”
Hurrying upstairs, Angel turned on the hot water in the combination shower and bathtub, took off her bathrobe and hung it on the hook on the door, and started to step into the tub.
But before she did, she locked the bathroom door.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Myra asked as she and Angel left the house twenty minutes later.
“I–I guess,” Angel stammered.
The note of uncertainty in her daughter’s voice made Myra turn to look at her. “Angel, it was only a nightmare. Nothing to worry about.”
“Is there something else?” Myra asked. “Did something happen that you haven’t told me about?”
A black cat.
A black cat with a single blaze of white in the exact center of its chest.
“Houdini?” Angel blurted as the cat ran across the patch of lawn surrounding the house. It came right to Angel and began rubbing up against her legs.
Myra looked disapprovingly down at the cat. “Houdini?” she repeated. “How on earth would you know its name?”
“I don’t,” Angel said, leaning down to scratch the cat’s ears, then picking it up. “It’s just what I call him.” She nuzzled the cat’s neck. “Where’d you go?” she whispered into its ear. “How’d you just disappear like that?”
“What do you mean, it’s what you call him? Where did you even see him before?”
“He was in my closet,” Angel replied. “Remember when I went up to change my clothes yesterday? He was up there, meowing to get out of the closet.”
“And how did he get
Angel shrugged. “I don’t know — that’s why I call him Houdini. He came out of the closet, and then, when it started thundering again, he disappeared.”
“Cats don’t just disappear,” Myra told her.
“Houdini did. Just like that magician I read about — the one who got out of jail cells and locked trunks and everything.” She scratched the cat again. “Can I keep him?” she asked. “I mean, he doesn’t have a collar or anything, and he likes me.”
“No, you can’t keep him,” Myra said. “Your father’s allergic to cats.”
Angel remembered, then, how Houdini had hissed yesterday, just before her father walked in on her. Again, Angel wondered if she should tell her mother, but the words died in her throat long before they reached her lips. What was she supposed to say? That her father had walked in on her while she was changing her clothes? That he’d looked at her funny?
And even if she told her mother, what would happen? If her mom told her dad, then he’d get mad at her, and she’d seen him mad enough times that she didn’t want that to happen.
“Houdini could live in my room,” she finally said. “Then Dad would never even have to see him.”
“Cats don’t stay in one room,” Myra told her. “Now put it down and forget about it. The longer you hold it and pet it, the more you’ll want to keep it.”
Reluctantly, Angel put the cat back on the ground. As if understanding exactly what had happened, the cat sat down, curled its tail around its feet, and glared up Myra.
“I don’t like you much either,” Myra said, reading the cat’s expression as clearly as if it had spoken out loud. “Shoo!”
The cat ignored her, and began licking its forepaw.
They walked on into the village in silence, but Angel glanced back several times when she thought her mother wasn’t looking.
The cat was behind them, keeping pace.
They were near the church when Myra felt a sudden chill in the air. As she buttoned the collar of her thin wool coat, she looked up at the sky, where fast-scudding clouds were quickly graying the crisp blue the sky had been only a moment earlier. Beside her, Angel seemed oblivious to the sudden cold, and when Myra told her to button up her jacket, her daughter ignored her. They turned the corner, and Myra found herself facing the small white clapboard structure that was the only Catholic church in Roundtree and stopped short, feeling a twinge of something almost like anger.
The tiny Church of the Holy Mother stood kitty-corner from the far larger Congregational church that dominated the east side of the Roundtree common. It didn’t seem right to Myra that a church named for the Blessed Virgin who had actually given birth to the Lord Jesus — who was the true Mother of God, for heaven’s sake — should be completely overshadowed by a temple built by heathen apostates whom Myra knew deep in her heart were condemned to spend eternity in the fires of Hell for having turned their back on the one true Church.
Her anger gave way to sadness as she gazed at the little church, its white paint peeling from the graying clapboard, the shutters at its windows no longer quite straight, the small stained-glass windows themselves coated with grime. The church seemed to huddle beneath the heavy gray sky as if it weren’t certain how much longer it could continue even to stand. And then, as the clouds suddenly parted to let the sun shine through, Myra gasped as the stark silhouette of a cross slashed across the church’s front doors like some mighty sword cleaving the very foundation of her faith. She crossed herself and began a prayer for salvation, and when a voice murmured at her side, she didn’t hear it for a moment. Then, peripherally, she saw the black material of a priest’s cassock, and looked up to see a gentle face with twinkling eyes that transported her back to the day when she was only eight years old…
She’d gone to visit her grandfather, who lay dying in the hospital. She’d been terrified, but her grandfather, even in the last hours of his life, saw her fear and did his best to reassure her. “It’s all right, lassie,” he’d told her, smiling at her as if they were about to be off on some great adventure together. “Soon I’ll be returnin’ to the blessed Isle.”
“Can’t I go with you?” Myra had asked.
Her grandfather shook his head. “This is a trip I have to take by meself,” he’d said. “But not to worry,” he added, his eyes twinkling brightly. “I’ll still be lookin’ after you.”
A few seconds later, his eyes had closed, and until this moment Myra had never seen such a twinkle again.
“I think they did it on purpose,” she heard the priest saying now, a smile playing around the corners of his lips.
“Did what?” Myra asked, coming out of her reverie.
“That,” the priest said, his smile broadening, his right hand sweeping upward. “Now you can’t tell me that’s a coincidence.” He was pointing up to the steeple that towered above the Congregational church across the street. Unlike the humble wood-frame building that was the Church of the Holy Mother, Roundtree First Congregational was built of huge blocks of granite hewn from a quarry a mile from the center of town. Its style was Gothic, with a steep slate roof from which the steeple soared another fifty feet toward the sky.
