Maggie started down the path toward the street. She reached the hedge and hesitated, deciding in which direction to go. A gleam of white from under the bushes caught her eye. She bent down and retrieved a crumpled mass card, already soggy from the rain. She smoothed it out. The pastel-tinted card bore a prayer and the image of Jesus, mild eyes turned toward heaven. Looking at it, Maggie was reminded of the pictures in her childhood missal. The edges of the pages were gold, and a thin, purple ribbon was
attached to it to mark the pages. It had been her most precious possession.
She would sit with it open on her lap, even though she could not read the strange language on its pages. Her father would sit beside her, turning the pages when he turned his own. She liked to sit at the end of the pew and stick her small, white-shoed foot into the ruby shadow cast by the stained-glass window, turning her foot and leg pink with the glow. A soothing sensation of peace and safety stole over her now as she remembered how it once had been, before it had all changed.
Slowly Maggie walked back up the steps and approached the oak doors. Her hand hovered uncertainly near the handle. Then she pulled the door open, crossed the vestibule, and looked in.
Every sound echoed in the hush of the vaulted room. In the dim light Maggie could see the bent heads and huddled forms of a few parishioners, thinly scattered in the narrow wooden pews. She started as a woman near the back rose, dropped to one knee beside the pew, and then hurried up the aisle toward Maggie, still crossing herself. She brushed by Maggie, her eyes downturned and closed the outer door of the church behind her. Encouraged that she was not conspicuous, Maggie pulled open the door and slipped inside. She moved to the shadows on the side of the church and sat down in a pew not too far from the back. She wondered if the rapid beating of her heart could be heard by the faithful few, crouched there in prayer.
She felt like a spy who had invaded an enemy camp.
For a few moments she kept her head bowed, trying to still the sick turmoil that was inside her. The words and rituals of the church, once so familiar, were a foreign language to her now. She could not remember why she had decided to come in.
A harsh, bubbling cough from a man near the front broke the awesome silence. Maggie raised her head and ventured a look around the cavern of the church. Above the altar a desolate-looking Christ hung from the cross. To the left of the altar was a statue of Mary, cradling a placid infant Jesus. The multicolored glow of the votive candles and a few dun gaslights provided the only illumination in the nave.
Outside, the wind buffeted the island, and occasionally a branch snapped up against the rain-spattered stained glass in the windows. But sitting there in the silent church Maggie felt snug and vaguely comforted. Her mind wandered back to earliest childhood, when at Christmastime there would be boxes of ribbon candy piled high in front of the statues of Mary holding the baby Jesus, one for each child in the parish.
A sense of longing and sorrow overcame her as she remembered the innocent joy she had felt. Maggie’s forehead dropped to her hands, which she had unconsciously folded on the back of the pew in front of her. She stared at her own fingers, locked tightly together, as if they did not belong to her. She was startled to realize that she had assumed an attitude of prayer.
A tremendous gust of wind shook the building, and the gas lamps flickered. Two more people got up, perfunctorily crossing themselves, and made their way
out. Maggie did not look around, but she felt as if she were the last person there.
Maggie licked her lips nervously. Her hands remained clasped as if they were glued together. A draft in the church made her shiver as she slowly fell to her knees on the knee rail. For a few moments her mind was completely blank. Then, haltingly, she began to whisper the words of the Memorare, a prayer for mercy to the Blessed Virgin. Slowly the words came, dredged up through layers of denial and despair. “O Mother of the Word Incarnate,” she prayed, “despise not my petitions, but in your mercy…”
Strong fingers curled over her right shoulder and squeezed. Maggie jumped and cried out, turning around to face the intruder. She looked up into the bearded face of Owen Duggan.
“What are you doing here?” she asked angrily, ashamed at being caught in the midst of her abject plea.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said in a whisper, settling himself in the pew beside her and shaking out his umbrella. “I saw you coming in here. You looked like you needed some company.”
Maggie pushed herself away from the rail and fell heavily onto the wood seat beside him.
“Hey, I hope I didn’t come at a bad time,” he said. “You weren’t having a vision or some sort of ecstatic experience, were you?”
Maggie shook her head and smiled thinly. “No. It’s just been a while since I came to church.”
“Well, you don’t want to overdo it. You’ve got to take that Divine light in small doses at first.”
“You think it’s stupid,” she said.
“I think it’s fine,” he demurred. “If it makes you feel better, it’s fine.”
Maggie nodded, and they sat in silence for a moment. “It helps a little. But it doesn’t…”
“Hmmmm…?”
“Make it hurt less. Nothing could, at this point. Except if Jess…”
Owen shrugged. “Come on,” he said. “I know something that will help. I’ll take you out to dinner. I’ll bet you haven’t eaten.”
She looked at him curiously. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you being so nice to me? For all you know I could be responsible for Jess’s disappearance. That’s what everybody around here thinks.”
“Oh? Did you liquidate him with a wave of your magic wand? No. I don’t believe in fairy tales, poisoned apple pies, or witches. Or any of it for that matter,” said Owen, glancing around the church.
“You know what I mean,” said Maggie quietly.
“Oh, I tend to doubt it,” Owen replied, examining his well-manicured fingernails. “You seemed kind of fond of him.”
Maggie could feel her face start to crumple. She drew in a breath and spoke brusquely. “I am hungry.”
“Let’s go then.”
Owen got up and stood back to let her pass. Maggie walked out of the church. She did not look back toward the altar. Owen followed her out and closed the door behind them.
A slim figure, dressed in black, straightened up from where she had been kneeling in the shadows at the back of the church. Alone now in the empty nave, Evy walked toward the altar, her face a dead-white oval surrounded by the folds of a black veil. She plucked one of the votive candles from the box where they rested in front of the altar and approached the rows of flickering flames already lit by the faithful. She tipped the candle into one of the flames and lit the wick. Then, clutching the slippery wax shaft in her hand, she walked over to the statue of the Madonna and child and stood before it. She stared into the chipped, rounded face of the Madonna, the chubby, open hands of the infant she cradled. Her own pale blue eyes were impassive. Beads of wax slid down the thin candle and hardened on the skin of her fingers. She stood stiffly, oblivious to the warm wax as it spattered her hands, and the flame, which burned ever closer to her skin. She remained, staring at the statue for a very long time. The candle burned lower and lower, until it licked her skin. She did not seem to notice.
A howling gust of wind punched Owen’s umbrella inside out.
“We’d better make a run for it,” he shouted at Maggie, gesturing toward the winking lights of the Four Winds.
Maggie looked toward where he was pointing. “Do we have to go there?” she yelled, looking longingly toward the tiny coffee shop across the street, empty except for a teen-aged boy behind the counter. Her voice was lost in the wind. Owen was already striding toward
the restaurant on the dock. Wiping the rain from her face, Maggie followed after him.
Owen bounded up the steps and held the door open for her. She passed by him into the warmly lit foyer.
“Why don’t you take off that wet raincoat,” Owen suggested, “and I’ll hang it up.”
Maggie shrugged her arms out of the damp sleeves. Owen took her coat and his over to the coatrack. As an afterthought, Maggie ran her fingers ineffectually through the wet strands of hair in a vain effort to pat them into place. From inside the dining room, the hostess, a girl with a long face and dirty-blond hair braided into a crown, glanced up at Maggie and then turned her back to her. Owen returned from the coatrack and took her elbow.
“Let’s eat,” he said cheerfully.
“The hostess seems to be busy.”
“Oh, we’ll manage.” Owen spotted a table he liked by the window and started toward it, threading his way through the tables, greeting the few diners who were still in the restaurant. Maggie felt as if she were running a gauntlet of unfriendly eyes, but she stared straight ahead at Owen’s back, then slid into the chair he held out for her.
“This is a helluva night,” Owen said pleasantly, studying his menu. “I’m surprised there’s anybody here.”
Maggie watched him thoughtfully. “It was nice of you to ask me,” she said. “I’m just afraid I won’t make very good company.”
“Better than no company at all,” Owen replied, returning to the menu. “Where is that waitress?” Owen
looked impatiently around the dining room for the hostess with the braided crown.
“She didn’t seem too friendly when we came in,” Maggie observed.
“She never is,” Owen muttered. “Oh well, we’re in no hurry, right?”
Owen picked up a packet of crackers from the wicker basket on the table and tore it open, crushing a few of the crackers near the top. He reached for Maggie’s hand and dumped several of the little crackers into it. “Have an oyster cracker,” he said. “Drink your water.”
Startled into obedience, Maggie began to chew on the dry crackers and took a sip from the tumbler.
Owen ripped open another packet of crackers. “So,” he said, “how are things at the paper?”
Maggie looked at him incredulously. “They’ve been better,” she said.
“Well, I meant besides the obvious problems.”
“We’re still publishing,” said Maggie. “At least that’s the plan. Grace has sort of taken over until Mr. Emmett comes back.”
If he comes back.
But she let the thought fly away.
“I’d be surprised if she got much work out of you, the way you look.”
“I’m tired,” Maggie admitted.
“Tired?” Owen snorted. “I’ll say you’re tired. You’re trembling like a leaf. The ice in your glass sounds like wind chimes.”
Maggie replaced the tumbler on the table to still the irritating tinkle of the ice cubes. “It’s been a bad week.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” Owen asked casually.
Maggie avoided his eyes. “What’s there to say? You know it as well as I do. Jess is missing. There seems to be some feeling around here that I’m somehow to blame. I haven’t been sleeping nights. What else is there?”
“I don’t know.” Owen regarded her speculatively. “I’d like to know what you’re so scared of.”
“I’m scared for Jess,” Maggie retorted defensively.
Owen waved away her explanation. “Oh, hell,” he said. “We’re all worried about him. But you’re as jumpy as a cat, and I don’t think it’s just about Jess. I noticed it the day I met you.”
Maggie gripped the edge of the table and shook her head slightly. “I see,” she said. “This is going to be an interrogation. I thought it was a genuine invitation.”
Owen thumped on the table with his large fist and scowled. “Listen, Maggie,” he said in a low but serious voice, “I don’t give a good goddamn what it is you’ve got to hide. All I’m saying is that I’m on your side. I think you’re all right.”
Maggie regarded him quizzically. “Thank you,” she said.
“If you want to talk, talk. If not, you can bury your face in your food and not say a word for all I care. If we ever get served, that is,” Owen announced.
Owen sat hunched forward in his chair, his huge frame jutting up from the table like a rock from the sea. His gruffness did not disguise his sincerity. Maggie felt a sudden, weary urge to lean against him, to rest the burden of her secrets on him and relieve the loneliness.
He could see that she was about to speak. He watched her diffidently, reluctant to show an interest that might spook her. Maggie frowned and started to speak several times, but each time she stopped, as if she did not know where to begin. He waited.
Finally she said, “I feel like it is my fault.”
Owen did not flinch. “What is?” he asked calmly.
“I don’t mean that I know what happened to him, or that I had anything to do with his disappearance,” she explained carefully. “But I feel responsible.”
Owen waited for her to continue, but she lapsed into silence. “How’s that?” he prodded her.
“It’s hard to explain. Something happened in the past. A long time ago. Something similar to this.…” As she spoke the words, she felt like a mute whose power of speech had been unexpectedly restored. There were thousands of things she wanted to say that were teeming in her brain, but choosing the words was excruciatingly difficult. The sound of her voice, verbalizing her secret thoughts, was unfamiliar to her ears. “It was terrible. It was a man I loved. I still don’t know why, but it has something to do with me. I can’t help but feel that…”
The halting explanation was difficult to follow, but Owen did not interrupt her. He felt as if she were on the verge of answering the many questions he had about her. His own memory was stirring at her words.
“I was very young when it happened,” Maggie said. “But even then I blamed myself. Even though I knew I didn’t actually do it I felt responsible. Do you know what I mean?”
Owen took a sip of water and put the glass back down
on the table. “What exactly was it that happened?” he asked.
Maggie looked up at him, her face pale, her brow wrinkled in distress. In Owen’s mind there was a flash of recognition. It was a trial she had been involved in. He knew it. But which? He stifled the impulse to blurt out his question. Maggie licked her lips, as if she were about to speak.
“I worked for this man. I was in love with him. But he was married. This was twelve, almost thirteen years ago, now. I was only a young girl at the time…”