Chapter 33
YRA SULLIVAN LAY AWAKE THROUGH MOST OF THE night, waiting for Marty to come upstairs and praying that he wouldn’t. When they’d come in at a little after nine, he was sprawled in his chair with the lights off, the droning television providing a dim glow, enough for her to see that the collection of empty beer bottles around his chair had almost doubled while she and Angel were at the country club, and a pint bottle of bourbon had been added to it. She wasn’t sure whether she was angry or relieved that he’d spent the hours she was gone drinking himself into a stupor. Part of her didn’t want to cope with him, or even talk about what had happened that afternoon when she’d seen something she couldn’t possibly have seen. But another part of her hoped he’d be sober enough when they got home that she could at least tell him he’d been right about the party at the country club — she and Angel shouldn’t have gone at all. She’d known it the minute she saw all those kids dressed in their preppy clothes, in contrast to Angel who looked foolish in her vampire costume.
Why had those girls Angel overheard in the dressing room done it? She knew that Angel had never done a thing to them.
Had it been up to Myra, they would have left right then, but before she could even say anything, Angel had dashed away, and when she found her daughter hiding in the ladies’ room, Angel had insisted she was all right. So Myra had gone back to the party, found Joni, and tried to make the best of it.
But the “best of it” turned out to be the forced smiles a few of Joni’s friends managed to come up with, while the rest of it was pretending she didn’t notice the disapproving stares most of the club members were giving her and the backs that were turned wherever she went. What kept her from finding Angel and leaving within the first hour was the knowledge that the only place they could have come was home, and she suspected that being home that evening would be even worse, not only for her, but for Angel too. So she’d stuck it out, and so had Angel, who at least had Jane Baker’s boy — Seth, that was his name — to keep her company. Not that she was certain that was a good thing — knowing what boys wanted from all girls.
Though the subject of sex had always made her uncomfortable, she’d tried to talk to Angel about it on the way home.
“Seth’s not like that,” Angel had insisted, shaking her head. “He’s not a boyfriend — he’s just a friend!”
“All boys want the same thing,” her mother had said darkly, and Angel had rolled her eyes. “Maybe you should talk to Father Mike,” Myra had suggested.
“Why?” Angel shot back. “It’s not like I have anything to confess!”
“Don’t take that tone, young lady,” Myra snapped, and that had been the end of the conversation.
They’d driven the rest of the way home in silence, and remained silent as Angel disappeared into her room without so much as a “Good night.”
Myra went to bed, but hadn’t slept for more than a few minutes, and every time she did, the strange spectral figure she’d seen in the living room that afternoon appeared in her dreams, the knife dripping blood held aloft, the empty eyes of the fleshless skull staring at her.
But of course it hadn’t happened — it had just been a cat, and the rest of it was simply her imagination.
Except that Myra had never had much of an imagination. Even as a child, she was never frightened by the fairy tales her father read her, because she always knew they were only stories and nothing in them was real.
And she’d never dreamed either — at least nothing she could ever remember.
Still, by the time dawn broke, she convinced herself that she couldn’t have seen the black-clad figure, and by the time she got downstairs to fix breakfast, she’d managed to dismiss the dreams as well.
Then she saw Marty.
He was sitting at the kitchen table, still wearing the same clothes he’d had on yesterday. His eyes were bloodshot, his complexion was pasty, and his jowls were covered with stubble.
And the wound — the terrible slash that had run from just beneath his right eye all the way down to his jaw — was gone. But that was impossible! It had to be there — she’d seen it! She’d helped him clean it up, washed the blood away, put iodine on it—
As if sensing her presence, Marty raised his head. “What are you staring at?” he growled.
“The — The cut,” Myra stammered. “Where the cat—”
Marty’s eyes darkened with anger. “Goddamned animal…” he began, raising his right hand to touch his cheek. As his fingers touched his flesh, his lips and his eyes widened. Frowning, he rose to his feet, swayed unsteadily as his hangover threatened to overwhelm him, then lurched toward the mirror that hung in the hall. A few seconds later he was back, leaning heavily against the door frame, his complexion ashen. “I saw it,” he whispered. “You saw it… ” His voice grew louder. “It happened, goddammit! We both saw it!”
All Myra could do was nod mutely.
Nod, cross herself, and whisper a nearly inaudible prayer.
Two hours later, as Father Mulroney began chanting the benediction, Myra uttered another silent prayer, this time begging forgiveness for having been unable to concentrate on the mass. Angel was fidgeting next to her, and as Father Mulroney’s voice died away and the rest of the congregation stood and began to exit, Myra laid a hand on her daughter’s arm to keep her in her place. Then, while the little church quickly emptied, Myra continued to pray.
Only when the last sounds of shuffling feet and murmuring voices were gone did she stand, move into the aisle, genuflect before the cross one last time, and lead Angel out into the morning sunlight. Just as she’d hoped, Father Mulroney was still on the steps of the church, bidding farewell to the last parishioner. He turned to Myra with his hand extended and a warm smile lighting his face, but seeing the expression in her eyes, his smile faded.
“Myra?” he said uncertainly. “Is anything wrong?”
Myra shook her head so slightly the gesture was almost invisible. But she’d already made up her mind that she had to tell the priest what had happened yesterday, and she wasn’t about to turn back now. “Can I talk to you for a few moments?” she said softly. Her eyes flicked toward Angel so briefly that the priest almost missed it, but then he too nodded.
“Of course. Why don’t we go into the vestry?” Without waiting for a reply, he led Myra back into the church, down the aisle, then around the altar to the cramped room that served as office, vestry, sacristy, and storeroom. “What is it?” he asked, doing his best to ignore the look of disapproval from Myra as he shed his clerical robes in favor of the comfort of his favorite corduroy jacket.
Slowly, knowing how strange and impossible the story sounded, Myra did her best to tell him exactly what had happened yesterday afternoon, sparing none of the details, not even how much Marty had been drinking. The priest listened in silence until she was finished, then frowned thoughtfully.
“You’re absolutely sure there was a cut on your husband’s cheek?”
“Blood was running down his face,” Myra replied. “If you don’t believe me, ask Angel — she saw it too. I’m not lying, Father!”
“I’m not doubting that you think you saw exactly what you’ve told me,” Father Mulroney assured her. “But if the cut healed overnight—”
“Not just healed,” Myra interrupted. “It’s as if it had never happened at all. It’s like—” She fell silent as she realized the word she’d been about to utter, but the priest picked up where she left off.
“Like a miracle?”
Myra shook her head. “It was more like a—” She’d been about to say “vision,” but stopped herself. She still hadn’t told Father Mulroney about the glimpses of the Holy Mother she’d had, and she didn’t want the priest to just pass her off as someone who sometimes “saw things.” She finally said, “I don’t know what it was like. I just don’t know.”
“Then perhaps you should just try to forget it,” the priest told her. “Some things we can understand, and some things we can’t. You were upset yesterday, and so was your daughter. Our emotions can play tricks on us, and make us think all kinds of terrible things.” He began leading Myra out of the vestry and back up the aisle toward the door. When they were outside the church once again, in the bright morning sunlight, he placed a gentle
