Salem's Lot

46

They pulled up in front of St Andrew’s at quarter of six. Lengthening shadows fell from the church across the street to the rectory, covering it like a prophecy. Ben pulled Jimmy’s bag out of the back seat and dumped it out. He found several small ampoules, and dumped their contents out the window, saving the bottles.

‘What are you doing?’

‘We’re going to put holy water in these,’ Ben said. ‘Come on.’

They went up the walk to the church and climbed the steps. Mark, about to open the middle door, paused and pointed. ‘Look at that.’

The handle was blackened and pulled slightly out of shape, as if a heavy electric charge had been pushed through it.

‘Does that mean anything to you?’ Ben asked.

‘No. No, but… ’ Mark shook his head, pushing an unformed thought away. He opened the door and they went in. The church was cool and gray and filled with the endless pregnant pause that all empty altars of faith, white and black, have in common.

The two ranks of pews were split by a wide central aisle, and flanking this, two plaster angels stood cradling bowls of holy water, their calm and sweetly knowing faces bent, as if to catch their own reflections in the still water.

Ben put the ampoules in his pocket. ‘Bathe your face and hands,’ he said.

Mark looked at him, troubled. ‘That’s sac-sacri-’

‘Sacrilege? Not this time. Go ahead.’

They dunked their hands in the still water and then splashed it over their faces, the way a man who has just wakened will splash cold water into his eyes to shock the world back into them.

Ben took the first ampoule out of his pocket and was filling it when a shrill voice cried, ‘Here! Here now! What are you doing?’

Ben turned around. It was Rhoda Curless, Father Callahan’s housekeeper, who had been sitting in the first pew and twisting a rosary helplessly between her fingers. She was wearing a black dress, and her slip hung below the hem. Her hair was in disarray; she had been pulling her fingers through it.

‘Where’s the Father? What are you doing?’ Her voice was reedy and thin, close to hysteria.

‘Who are you?’ Ben asked.

‘Mrs Curless. I’m Father Callahan’s housekeeper. Where’s the Father? What are you doing?’ Her hands came together and began to war with each other.

‘Father Callahan is gone,’ Ben said, as gently as he could.

‘Oh.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Was he getting after whatever ails this town?’

‘Yes,’ Ben said.

‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘I didn’t have to ask. He’s a strong, good man of the cloth. There were always those who said he’d never be man enough to fill Father Bergeron’s shoes, but he filled ‘em. They were too small for him, as it turned out.’

She opened her eyes wide and looked at them. A tear spilled from her left, and ran down her cheek. ‘He won’t be back, will he?’

‘I don’t know,’ Ben said.

‘They talked about his drinkin’,’ she said, as though she hadn’t heard. ‘Was there ever an Irish priest worth his keep who didn’t tip the bottle? None of that mollycoddlin’ wet-nursin’ church-bingo-prayer-basket for him. He was more’n that!’ Her voice rose toward the vaulted ceiling in a hoarse, almost challenging cry. ‘He was a priest, not some holy alderman!’

Ben and Mark listened without speech or surprise. There was no surprise left on this dream-struck day; there was not even the capacity for it. They no longer saw themselves as doers or avengers or saviors; the day had absorbed them. Helplessly, they were only living.

‘Was he strong when last you saw him?’ she demanded, peering at them. The tears magnified the gimlet lack of compromise in her eyes.

‘Yes,’ Mark said, remembering Callahan in his mother’s kitchen, holding his cross aloft.

‘And are you about his work now?’

‘Yes,’ Mark said again.

‘Then be about it,’ she snapped at them. ‘What are you waiting for?’ And she left them, walking down the center aisle in her black dress, the solitary mourner at a funeral that hadn’t been held here.