Harmony House (12 page)

I
n the morning I am sick again. I vomit in the upstairs bathroom and lie curled on the cold tile floor waiting for the nausea and dizziness to pass. There are more purplish-yellow bruises up and down my arms and my muscles ache. Looking up through the bathroom window, I see the sky has turned gray with rain clouds and a strong wind makes the branches of the trees thrash wildly in all directions.

I think back on everything that happened yesterday. I shiver and my head spins and then I am sick again.
I can't understand what the hell is wrong with me. I remember then something Mercedes said last night before all the craziness with Christy. She said maybe I was pregnant.

I know it was a joke—but maybe it's true.

I mean, it's definitely not impossible.

I put my hands on my stomach, trying to feel . . . what? If there's a baby in there? The thought makes me want to get sick all over again. I know I should be worrying about Christy breaking both her goddamn legs. And I
am
worried about her. But if I'm pregnant—Jesus Christ. I need to find out as soon as possible.

There's a pain in my head like the veins swelling so I can feel my pulse beating like a screw being rhythmically turned and tightened.

Staggering back to my room, I take two of the off-white-colored pills from the bag in my jacket lining and then lie back in bed with my eyes closed waiting to be taken away from whatever this is.

I'm not sure how long I lie there like that before the pills start to make the sickness and everything else disappear. I breathe in and out. Then there is a knock on my door and my dad walks in without waiting for me to answer.

“What are you doing still in bed?” he barks at me.

I sit up a little unsteadily—holding on to the edge of the mattress.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I was sick.”

He shakes his head.

“You need to purify yourself. Come with me. We'll pray together.”

“I need to go visit Christy in the hospital,” I say as I walk, teetering, behind him.

“We'll see,” he says. “You have lots of chores to do. Maybe this afternoon.”

He opens the door to his musty-smelling room and we enter together.

Against the wall I notice my dad's shoes. Something in them catches the light from the hall and as my dad goes to light the candles, I look inside. My heart beats painfully loud in my chest. Broken glass and jagged stones are spread from one end to the other—spotted with dried brown blood like rust. The shock of seeing it is almost enough to knock the drugs out of my system—but not quite. My opiated daze keeps me from completely losing it.

“Come on,” my dad says. “We have to subjugate ourselves before Him. We have to ask for His mercy.”

I nod, but don't say anything.

I go and kneel next to my dad in front of the makeshift altar.

He clasps his hands in front of his face.

That gold ring with the coiled snakes is still on his finger.

The sight of it makes my stomach turn.

My father begins droning on and on.

I close my eyes and turn my head away.

But I can't escape.

A searing pain like fire beneath my skin makes me shiver and burn and a vision flashes in my mind.

The house becomes the house as it was before—the room becomes the room of the young boy. He kneels as we kneel now, holding the rosary beads in his clasped hands. He prays silently, but with his lips moving. His pale skin is like wax paper covering the delicate veins twisting beneath the surface.

A scream echoes through the house and the boy startles out of his reverie. The scream is followed by a heavy impact on the floor above him. Then there is the sound of footsteps running down the many flights of stairs. The footsteps are like a herd of cattle fleeing from the slaughter.

The boy rises up and goes quickly and quietly to the door.
He peers out, a hand covering his mouth.

The sisters, dressed in their nuns' habits, are hurrying down the stairs—some crying, some stumbling. Sister Angelica shouts at them from top floor, “Faster. Go. Faster.”

Sister Margaret, her habit torn, tears streaming down her red, swollen face, limps down the stairs a little behind the others. And then Sister Angelica follows.

“It's time to repent,” she says. “We must repent. We must be cleansed. We must ask for God's mercy.”

She takes out a small Bible and begins to read, even as she descends the stairs. She reads from the book of Revelations.

“But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters, and all liars—they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.”

The boy creeps soundlessly down the hall. He keeps close to the railing, trying to make himself invisible. On the bottom floor the sisters all gather—speaking in hysterical whispers. Until Sister Angelica reaches them.

“This way,” she says. “Come on, come on.”

She goes to the basement door, pulling a long silver key out of the pocket of her robe, fitting it into the lock, and turning it so it clicks open.

She tells the sisters, “Down. Go down and be cleansed.”

Then she begins to read again.

“And the great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent called the devil, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him.”

The boy watches from the top of the stairs. He dares not follow.

Down in the basement candles are lit, casting shadows on the floor and ceiling.

Sister Angelica makes the sisters line up, one next to the other, facing the cracked, dirty concrete walls. She tells them to keep quiet—to keep their heads bowed. She tells them to pray for forgiveness. She paces back and forth, reading the Holy Scripture.

“And the devil, who deceived them, was thrown into a lake of burning sulfur, where the beast and false prophet had been thrown. They will be tormented day and night for all eternity.”

Sister Margaret listens to the words, crying silently to herself—praying as best she can. But a sob escapes her lips and then Sister Angelica is there behind her. She turns ever so slightly to look. Sister Angelica takes her hair in her hand and shoves her face hard into the wall.

“I told you not to turn around,” she says. “I told you to be quiet.”

From out of the darkness the monsignor appears. He walks limping and bent a little at the waist. With one hand he grabs a candle from out of the holder, carrying it before him. The light from the flame makes the ruby sparkle on the gold ring with the two serpents on his finger.

As he approaches Sister Margaret, another girl, younger than the rest, her long, red hair pulled back tight beneath her habit, collapses on the cold cellar floor. No one moves to help her.

The monsignor stands behind Sister Margaret.

He speaks in a deep, rasping voice.

“Hold out your hand,” he tells her.

Trembling, she does as she's told. She holds her small, elegant hand out to him. He takes it roughly in his own. As the sleeve of his hassock is pushed back, Sister Margaret notices a length of barbwire wrapped tightly around his arm, the barbed spikes cutting in so they draw blood.

The monsignor brings the candle up.

“Pray for forgiveness,” he tells her.

Then he holds the flame to her open palm.

And no matter how she screams and cries and fights to get away, he keeps her held fast.

Until she releases a stream of burning urine down her leg.

And she falls to the ground, soaking and unconscious.

Coming out of the vision, I blink my eyes, trying to remember where I am. Turning to look, I see my dad still kneeling beside me. He reaches over, taking both my hands up and clasping them tightly.

“We are your servants, Lord,” he says. “We shall do as you command. Thy will, not ours, be done.”

He drops my hands and makes the sign of the cross over himself.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. . . . Amen.

“Amen,” he repeats.

I feel dizzy and disoriented, but when he smiles at me, I try to smile back.

“Now,” he says. “I'm not opposed to you visiting your friend in the hospital—and I want to get supplies for that storm coming in—but I need you to finish your chores first. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” I tell him, my voice weak and quieter than I mean it to be.

I stand up then off the frayed rug—but looking down at my father, I see the imprint of something beneath his dress shirt. Is it my imagination, or are there small tears all over it? Is he wearing the string of
barbwire, too? Feeling the sickness back in my stomach, I turn and run out of the room.

Downstairs I eat toast with strawberry jam and butter and drink strong coffee with milk and sugar.

I decide to call Stephanie back in Johnstown—to try to at least get some kind of outside perspective on all this craziness—even though I'm not too sure how to explain any of it.

Twisting the long phone cord over and over around my finger, I dial the number and wait to hear the familiar ringing. But no ringing comes. Instead, there is only a strange clicking and the sound of metallic breathing that makes the hackles all stand out on the back of my neck.

I slam the phone down.

I don't pick it up again.

Whatever that noise was—I don't want to hear it again.

So I forget trying to call her.

I guess she wouldn't understand any of this anyway.

It's pointless.

I leave the kitchen and the phone and set about doing my chores around the house. Then I put on boots and a heavy raincoat to go sweep the falling leaves
outside. Already the gray clouds have turned black overhead. When I get right up on the perimeter of the forest, I duck quickly behind the trees, then run stumbling through the wet leaves and twisted roots.

I have to take the back roads into town, but eventually I make it to the little drugstore, where I buy five different pregnancy tests—just in case the first four don't give me the answer I'm looking for.

By the time I get back home, I realize it's almost time to meet Colin—if he shows up today. So I decide to wait on taking the pregnancy tests 'til after. I mean, obviously, if I find out I'm fucking pregnant
before
meeting him, that's all I'll be able to think about. If I wait, at least, I can stay in denial for a little while longer. When in doubt, stuff it way down deep inside and don't look at it again until it comes up and bites you in the ass. That's how you know I'm my father's daughter.

So I hide the pregnancy tests in that stone garage behind the house.

Then I walk back through the tall grass.

Entering the shadows of the forest, I hear a voice again whispering to me—familiar-sounding—like the older sister from my vision, Sister Angelica.

“Liar,”
it says.
“Sinner.”

I pass the giant oak with the initials carved into its trunk.

AMJG.

The voice like Sister Angelica's grows ever louder in my ears.

“The wicked shall be punished,”
it says.
“The wicked will burn.”

I shake my head, trying to clear it—trying to drown out the voices.

I walk deeper into the forest, crossing a small creek and sinking down into the mud. I take another step and then another. But then, in the impression of my boot print, something tied with a faded, now-colorless ribbon catches my eye. I bend to pick it up, only to recoil back in revulsion. It is a braid of thick, black hair, buried in the mud. Sickness almost overtakes me again, as I scramble out of the muddy creek bed into a covering of dead, rotting leaves.

I struggle to catch my breath.

And then I'm aware of a movement through the leaves—a rustling—something weaving there. I look down and have to cover my mouth to keep from screaming. A snake, fat and striped horizontally, with a big flat head and a rattle on its tail about an inch and a half
long, comes gliding on the top of the leaves in a wide, sweeping S.

I step slowly backward out onto the grass.

A sour animal sweat breaks out all over my body. I feel it cold down my legs. My heart beats so hard and fast I can hardly catch my breath. I'm dizzy and dry-mouthed and I keep stepping backward and the snake keeps winding toward me. But then the snake stops its forward movement and it begins to coil in on itself. Its tail vibrates so fast it almost seems to be standing still. But I can hear the rattle. It sets my teeth on edge. The head of the snake weaves back and forth like a boxer. It gets ready to strike.

I close my eyes.

But I don't feel the bite.

On the grass in front of me I see the snake now, its head bashed open, with blood and brains and skin and I don't even know what splattered out across the dirt. I take a few more steps back and drop on my knees in the wet grass. Looking up, then, Colin is there holding a broken branch in one hand, breathing hard.

“Jesus Christ,” he says. “That was close.”

I run to him, before I can stop myself, wrapping my arms around him and bursting into tears.

“Hey, hey, it's all right. You're all right.”

“I was so scared,” I say, sobbing.

“Shh,” he tells me. “You're okay.”

He kisses the top of my head.

I don't pull away from him.

I look up at him smiling broadly down at me.

“You're all right,” he says again.

I nod.

“Yeah, thank you.”

And then I laugh, saying, “Jesus Christ. That was crazy.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I thought all the snakes were asleep this time of year.”

“Me, too,” I say.

I breathe out.