The Sitter Page 9

  No way. Not for me. I want to feel--even if it's pain I'm feeling. Hurting lets me know I'm alive. And, in a way, it keeps Stevie alive as well.

  “Had enough?” Bertie asks after another tragic story.

  I shake my head. “I guess it's sick, but I kind of enjoy seeing other women who can barely drag themselves through another day without their child. I feel less alone.”

  My friend doesn't comment.

  “Bertie, what's Leo's take on Larry Cutler?”

  Her mouth forms a rueful smile. “He feels sorry for him, I guess. Thinks he's a hard luck case. Leo even gave him a little yard work to do for us.” She shakes her head. “I wish he hadn't.”

  “Doesn't that strike you as odd?” I ask. “I mean this tendency...to feel sorry for someone who's made a terrible mistake. To...to try make it easier for them? I know Steven feels sorry for Larry, even though it's his son who is the victim. Noble as hell I guess, but I don't understand it.”

  “Well,” Bertie says, absently jingling the key ring on her belt, “if it were anyone but Larry Cutler I'd argue and say its usually human nature to try to forgive. But Larry's transgression...well, it's too damned much. But Steven's a good man, and it probably helps him to--”

  “My God, Bertie! Are we talking about Christian Charity here? Because I don't seem to have any. And,” I go on angrily, “I'm not thrilled that Steven has acquired such an abundant supply.”

  Bertie nods calmly as the show continues. The fact that I can spout off to my friend without censure is a blessing that does not escape my notice, or my gratitude. The next woman was a very pretty red head, about thirty-five I guess. She too, is the mother of a murdered child, a son.

  “I forgave him,” she begins. “By forgiving the man who killed my little boy, I have reclaimed my life.” She speaks slowly, each word carefully enunciated. A faint discomfort creeps into my stomach, like the beginning of a cramp. “As a matter of simple fact,” she continues with a beatific smile, “I was in a state of spiritual limbo until I forgave the killer. These women,” she gestures to the other mothers “say they want justice, but what does that word really mean?” There is a moment of weighted silence. Then, “I define justice as restoration and redemption for everyone involved. Not punishment, not vengeance. And certainly,” she pauses, giving the other guests on the stage a penetrating gaze, “not a life for a life.”

  The woman lowers her head and her long red hair falls forward, obscuring the sides of her face. “Hate devours,” she declares. “I believe...we have to let go of our hate before it devours us.” She looks up then, hair flung back, and smiles sadly into the camera, her eyes filling with tears.

  The audience applauds and the discomfort in my stomach grows.

  “What the hell is she talking about?” I ask, kneading my mid-section with a clenched fist. “It's not hate that devours! I'll tell you what devours, Bertie, what eats you alive. It's knowing the sonofabitch who killed your kid is out in the world walking around...like he has a right...to walk around...” I massage my forehead harshly. “I know Larry feels terrible. I know he's broken up. I saw him mutilate himself at the river...

  “Now, I've had enough,” I say, suddenly bone tired and cooling down just as suddenly as I had heated up. I aim the remote and turn the TV off.

  “You think...” Bertie says slowly, weighing her words, “of Stevie as a murder victim?”

  After a moment I say, “Yes, I guess I do.”

  “And Larry is his killer?”

  I nod. “That's exactly what I think. Even after Larry's stunning anguish at the river, I think of him as Stevie's killer. I guess it's a phase. Of what? Emotional illogic?”

  Bertie smiles and puts an arm around me. “It may be illogical; I guess that's probably true. But I think it's also entirely natural. I'm sure that in your shoes, I'd be thinking the same damned thing.” We sit quietly for a moment. “I know it's a little soon to be considering this, but have you and Steven given any thought to having another child?”

  I gasp, then laugh.

  “Oh, no! God no. I...we couldn't! That would be like running out and getting a new dog when the one you've had...”

  “You're kidding, right?” Bertie looks disgusted. “It would be like having another child, that's all. Giving Kevin a sibling, rounding out your family, that kind of good stuff. That's what it would be like.”

  “You're right of course. It's just such a startling idea.”

  I must go to Stevie's grave,” I say, thinking again of Joel Gant and his thoughts on 'closure'.

  *****

  Catherine was behind the wheel of Emma's Mercedes, in the throes of second thoughts. She had to remember that Emma was a very old lady and was probably losing a bit of reason. She said there's some kind of church out here, east of Pine Flats. Maybe, maybe not. What was more likely was that Emma had lost her sense of direction and was leading them both on the grandmother of wild goose chases.

  She glanced at Emma who was smiling and humming to herself, having a fine old time. Feeling a moment's guilt at the disrespectful nature of her thoughts, Catherine reached over and gave a friendly squeeze to the old lady's silk covered knee. Dressed to the teeth she was, in a pretty green dress that was complimented by a large floral tote she carried over her shoulder. With a dainty gold necklace and matching earrings, Catherine had to admit Emma was quite well turned out.

  She knew it was useless to ask about their destination again because Emma explained when she got into the car that she wasn't talking. “I'll simply point the way, Cathy-Girl. I want you to be surprised!”

  It was 7:12, Catherine saw by the clock in the dash, over forty minutes since they had left the Flats driving due east on a dirt road she hadn't even known existed. Leaving the river behind long ago, they were now traveling through a dried out ruin of a desert. It was unappealing, to say the least. The summer sun had burned the area a brownish ochre color, freckled with clumps of dark, greenish-brown vegetation. That scrub looked like tufts of hair sprouting from a giant balding head, Catherine mused, letting her mind drift.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, realizing where they might be headed. “Mesa Springs! That's where we're going--am I right?”

  “Right as rain, Dearie!” Emma giggled like a school girl.

  “Well...” Catherine was not thrilled with her friend's revelation. What she had heard about Mesa Springs was not intriguing or even particularly interesting.

  It had been a Mecca for the infirm in the old days, said to rejuvenate through its warm, revitalizing waters. A small village on the cusp of the desert proper, its only claim to fame, Catherine remembered, was a spa of sorts--very rustic--built around those waters.

  “But, that's a ghost town now, isn't it?”

  “True enough for the past forty-odd years, ever since the warm springs faded away. First the waters cooled, then quit altogether.” The old lady shook her head sadly. “But there was a chapel, and it's still there. That very country chapel,” Emma said in a voice soft with reverence, “has been cleaned up a bit, and is now the home of the Church of Perfect Peace.”

  What have I gotten myself into?

  Catherine fervently wished she'd had more to drink before embarking on this adventure--a lot more.

  She knew, however, if it weren't for the fact that she was worried about Larry, she wouldn't be feeling so out of sorts and impatient. Though she was usually pleased as punch with her boy, lately she was downright troubled by his behavior. Something about him...A darkness seemed to come over him at times that obscured what she knew to be his innate goodness. Like...well, like him lying to her about his face. Catherine didn't believe that bramble story, not for a minute! Those marks were made by a person. And, one with sharp nails, a woman's nails, no doubt.

  Had her Larry gone and gotten himself involved with some sort of violent young woman? Lor-dee, but she hoped all this suspicion was just her imagination hard at work.

  There it was at last, she was relieved to see. Mesa Springs, a desol
ate cluster of ramshackle structures in the near distance, one looking kind of churchy with some cars parked outside its entrance. As they neared Catherine saw a rickety-looking tower with a dilapidated belfry that surely hadn't seen a bell in years.

  “What's the denomination, Emma?”

  The old lady didn't answer, just gave her a tight-lipped smile that always looked to Catherine as if she were holding loose dentures in place with those lips.

  She pulled the Mercedes up next to a shiny Cadillac Seville. The rest of the thirty or so vehicles parked nearby were first class also, Catherine saw, noting several Mercedes, more Caddies and a Porsche.

  The church itself was made of adobe brick with a roof of chipped and broken red Spanish tile. Centered on the slightly domed roof was the lopsided, bell-free belfry topped with a steeple and a spire that seemed to soar off at an angle of its own choosing. The structure looked like it would topple over at any moment. The landscaping consisted of a single scraggly palm tree leaning up against the building near the rough-hewn wooden doors of the entry.

  To Catherine, the place had an unsettling, creepy look, which added to her regret at having set out on what was sure to be a misadventure.

  “Whoever designed this must have had a terrible drinking problem,” she muttered to Emma.

  “Speaking of that, Cathy-Girl,” Emma said with her girlish giggle, “let's have a belt before we go in!”

  Amazed, Catherine watched her friend withdraw a huge silver flask from her voluminous brocade tote. Grinning, she offered it to Catherine. “Gentleman Jack,” she announced with pride. “I thought bourbon would be nice for a change.”

  Nice it was indeed, thought Catherine as the bourbon slid easily down her throat. “Delightful, dear friend,” she said and passed the flask back to Emma.

  “It's been filtered twice,” Emma explained as she took a hefty swallow.

  Catherine felt the healing warmth in her stomach and in her mind. It dulled the sharp, unkind thoughts she had been entertaining about Larry.

  “C'mon, Dearie,” Emma said, happily fussing with her seat belt and cane. “We're late.” Out of the car, Catherine took Emma's arm and they made their way to the entrance.

  Catherine struggled with one of the heavy doors and at last managed to pull it open. What met her ears was not the expected quiet fellowship of a church social, but the raucous hubbub of a very successful cocktail party.

  “Wow,” Catherine murmured.

  Emma laughed, clutching her friend's arm and standing proudly beside her as if she were responsible for this gathering. The room was filled with people. Not just people. Surely these were the 'Beautiful People' Catherine had heard tell of. The women were fashionably dressed in colorful fabrics--silks mostly, she guessed--that shimmered in the abundant candlelight. All the men seemed handsome, clothed in expensive light-colored suits. It was as if Catherine had died and gone to heaven, and it turned out that heaven was a lavish Hollywood party.

  Looking around at the glittering group--some forty-five or fifty people--Catherine felt woefully inadequate. In her sensible black rayon slacks and long-sleeved white over-blouse, she was painfully underdressed, and her cheeks burned with embarrassment.

  “Emma, how could you let me come here dressed like this?” But Emma wasn't listening. She was waving at a burly fellow across the room.

  “Wait here, Cathy-Girl,” she commanded. “I'll be right back. Emma caned her way toward the distinguished looking gentleman while Catherine stood waiting.

  The extraordinary surroundings, however, didn't allow her mind to dwell on that for long. The chapel itself was lovely, an astonishing contrast to its drab exterior. The adobe walls were hung with multi-colored tapestries that flowed down from the domed ceiling to the flagstone floor. They gave the room a rich, ornate look. There were candles everywhere in holders large and small, and in sconces that jutted out from any spare wall space.

  Catherine gasped in pleasure as she noticed a remarkable tapestry that dropped down from the ceiling where an altar would normally be. Woven into it was an idyllic, heavenly scene of several cherubs--little angels, she guessed--frolicking naked amongst the clouds. Their rosy, chubby little bodies glowed in the soft candlelight.

  There were no pews. The people were gathered in clusters around three large glass tables that held various plates and bowls of party fare. Several delicate wooden benches were placed about, allowing comfortable access to the food, which seemed to consist of pasta and salad. Huge red candles in glass holders glittered from the centers of the tables. Catherine marveled that this crude chapel had somehow defied its barren surroundings and become a glowing desert jewel.

  The wall hangings failed to soften the party sounds coming from the happy guests. Catherine had never known religious fervor to cause this degree of noisy abandon. She noticed then the probable cause of this excessive good humor. On each table were two large glass pitchers of something red, perhaps--dare she hope--a Sangria punch?

  With relief, Catherine saw Emma and the gentleman on their way to her, armed with goblets of that very same punch.

  She noticed something else in the center of the room. It appeared to be some sort of cage set up on a wooden table. From where she stood it was impossible to see what, if anything, was in it.

  The man with Emma had a lot of white hair. It struck Catherine then that everyone in the room appeared elderly. She might very well be the youngest person there.

  “Cathy-Girl,” said Emma, looming up in front of her. “This,” she paused dramatically, “is Father Warren.”

  He was presented as if he were a rare find indeed, and as Catherine looked him over, she decided he might be just that. A big fellow, he had a substantial presence, an aura of divine leadership. Catherine fancied she could actually feel the spiritual heat emanating from his body. There were countless lines on his face that gave him a kind of chiseled, sculpted look. He was very tan.

  Father Warren grinned at her, displaying a good sized gap between his front teeth. He pressed a goblet into one of Catherine's hands and grasped the other in a crushing handshake. His intense, green eyes were unsettling, as if he could see inside her, see everything about her. His hair was surprisingly wavy and thick for an older man, and was a pure, shining white. A shock of it fell over his ruddy forehead. To add to this picture of religious light, his suit was every bit as white as his hair.

  “This, Father, is my dear friend Catherine Cutler,” Emma stated.

  “Welcome,” Father Warren said, his voice deep and easily heard through the happy chatter of the crowd. He did not release her hand. “We're pleased you came, Catherine.” Her name, as he spoke, sounded pleasing to her, almost melodic. “Nothing much tonight, I'm afraid,” he went on. “Just a furry friend or two.” He smiled knowingly, as if Catherine knew exactly what he was talking about. “I'm certain you'll get the idea, however; no question. And,” He paused, his eyes like lasers into hers, “...you will feel the power. I guarantee you that.

  “You brought a problem, I trust? Not feeling too good tonight, are you?” Tipping his head back, he startled Catherine with a hearty, booming laugh.

  Disconcerted, she stood clutching her drink, her other hand still held prisoner in his.

  “Father, I haven't fully explained 'Perfect Peace' to Catherine,” Emma said. She walked over to a nearby table and sat down on a delicately carved wooden bench. Father Warren followed, pulling Catherine along with him. “I thought I'd leave that to you.”

  “Good, good. That's wise, Emma dear. Do you know, Catherine, that you are the only newcomer here tonight? We like it that way.” He put a heavy arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “Because it gives us more time to concentrate on...you.”

  “Ah...” Catherine murmured, taking a healthy swallow of her punch. She wasn't sure she wanted such focus. She looked to Emma for a clue as to what was expected of her at this point, but her friend was oblivious to her discomfort. She was helping herself to peanuts and a re-fill from one of the p
itchers.

  “We're all devout people here, Catherine,” Father Warren said, his lips pursed, brow furrowed in thought. He was guiding her gently to the bench Emma had selected. “From different faiths, but God-fearing every one. I'm sure you've noticed that we're all getting along in years?” Catherine nodded dutifully. “Life insurance,” he stated. She was baffled but nodded. “We all know about that, of course. As we get older however--closer to the end of this glorious adventure we call life--we begin to wish we had some kind of...well...death insurance. Some sort of guarantee that we will indeed go to our justly deserved reward.”

  Catherine took an awkward step, trying to get to the bench where Emma had planted herself. She was hoping that if she could just sit a spell, she might be able to make some sense out of this man's dialogue. Especially the 'reward' part.

  “I stress the words 'justly deserved', Catherine,” Father Warren intoned, holding her arm while they did a little lock step together to the bench where he graciously seated her next to Emma, “because everyone here has earned the right to his or her heavenly reward.” He swept his hand out to include everyone. Catherine realized then that all the people had stopped talking and were now listening to Father Warren. While looking at her.

  *****

  With Kevin in bed and Steven napping on the couch, I decide to do something I've been afraid to do since Stevie's death. I go upstairs and open the door to his room and go inside. I hadn't considered the scent. Not after all this time. I stand just inside the room breathing deeply. The pain is terrible, yet I am ecstatic. Dear God, Is there any way to preserve this?

  It is Stevie's healthy little boy smell, along with that of dirt, of freshly turned loam baking in warm sun. I walk to his bed and turn on the bedside lamp. I kneel, picking up his pillow. I put it to my face.

  Wonderful. I will never wash this pillow case.

  Climbing onto his bed, I sit with my back against the headboard. I hug the huge stuffed panda bear Stevie brought home from the zoo. Nothing in this room has been moved or changed. My eyes scan the room, taking it all in. All the hard evidence of Stevie Connor's brief existence. His soldiers, so carefully arranged in mock battle on the table in the corner. Planes are hanging from the ceiling in attitudes of flight and attack--I helped him hang them with fish line. Pictures on the big cork board of Little League and soccer. No Pop Warner; I was afraid of football, afraid he might get hurt. Family pictures are there, his friends, some of Bertie and Leo. And Larry. There are several of Larry Cutler.