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At eleven-thirty the foyer light brought the old house back
to life. Darkness fled to the upper portions of the house, leaving only a few
brave shadows to cling below furniture and huddle in far corners to deal with
the intruders. The hardwood floors cried out underfoot as the two soaked bodies
entered the house.
To the left of the foyer entrance was an oak archway that
opened into the living room. John reached around the corner and flipped on those
lights. Then, after taking off his jacket, he took Sandy’s and hung them on
the coat rack at the bottom of the stairway.
After retrieving some towels from the kitchen and starting a
pot of coffee, they dried off as best they could, and John wrapped Sandy in a
throw that was on the back of the couch. Then, after John had thrown more dry
towels over the seat cushions, Sandy got comfortable on the love seat across
from the fireplace as John started a warming fire.
“Seems like such a large house for only your
grandfather,” Sandy said as she looked around.
“He built this house himself and two generations were
raised in it. I guess he just couldn’t part with it after my grandmother
died.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m prying too much, but I take
it then that the house now falls to you?”
John looked around the room. His eyes cast an amalgamation of
sorrow and pride. “Yeah, the old house is mine now. Not sure really what to do
with it,” he sighed. “I love the place and so do the twins. It’s nice to
come down here and just get away for a while.” He laughed to himself and shook
his head slightly. “I guess when I think about it, my heart’s still here--in
this old house . . . in Oil City.”
“Well, if you love this dear old house so much,” she
asked, “then why aren’t you sure what to do with it? It’s obvious to me
that you need to keep it.”
John got up and went into the kitchen which was opposite the
living room and across the front foyer as he continued to speak, though more
loudly, so Sandy could hear him. “I guess the memories here are
bittersweet--what do you like in your coffee?”
“Just cream, thank you.”
He continued. “It was in this house that I learned that my
father wasn’t coming back from Viet Nam. And my mother died a few years later,
leaving my grandparents to raise me.”
He came back with two cups, handed one to her and sat back
down across the couch from her.
The hazelnut aroma from the steaming cup of gourmet coffee
filled the room invitingly. She took a cautious sip and put it down on the
coffee table.
"Don't like the coffee?" he asked.
"Oh yes, it's fine," she replied. "I-it's just
a bit too--hot for me. I'll let it cool a bit."
John continued on. “But it was also here,” he said as he
looked around, “that I had my first birthday, learned to walk and talk and
ride a bike, and got my first broken arm falling out of the tree in the front
yard,” motioning beyond the big picture window in front of them. “And it was
in this very room that my grandfather would sit me on his lap and tell me
stories about his childhood in Scotland before coming to the States. He would
always play bagpipe music low in the background as he recounted his days as a
wee lad, you know, sort of set the tone for me. How he loved to tell stories. I
owe my love of history, and the teaching of it, to him.”
“He sounds like he was a great man.”
“He was to me. The greatest.” His face then reddened with
embarrassment. “Listen to me. I must be boring you to tears.”
“No, not at all,” she assured him.
“I’m not being a very good host.” He took a sip of hot
coffee, set it down on the end table then got up from the couch. “You must
still be soaked to the bone. I’ll just run up stairs and get you something dry
to put on if you don’t mind wearing something of mine.”
“No, no really. I’m fine,” she pleaded.
“Please, I insist. You’ll feel more comfortable in
something dry. I’ll be right back.” With that, he disappeared into the foyer
and up the stairs.
Sandy wrung her hands together nervously, but there was
nothing that she could do to prevent the inevitable. The truth was that she was
indeed miserable in the cold, wet clothes but hated the thought of John seeing
her scarred skin. Anything but a turtleneck would make it stick out and attract
stares as if it were a giant scarlet A tattooed across her bosom.
She was convinced that though outwardly John would pretend
not to care because he was obviously a kind and sympathetic man, this would be
too much for even him. He would make a polite excuse about having an early
morning, how her ex-boyfriend would not dare risk going to her apartment after
what had happened and give her a ride home, never seeing her again, secretly
appalled at her disfigurement. Why not? She was. She ran trembling hands through
her dampened hair, tapped anxiously at the floor with her foot, fidgeted in her
seat.
A few minutes later John returned. He had changed into a
thick, red flannel shirt that hung untucked over loose khakis and had brought
down a Gannon sweatshirt and sweatpants for Sandy.
“I hope you don’t mind extreme casual. These sweat pants
are about the only bottoms I could find that would fit you. The sweatshirt, well
I got plenty of them.”
She reluctantly took what he offered, but her anxiety filled
the room, and her hands still trembled. She tried to keep them busy by tugging
on the sleeves of the sweat shirt as it lay on her lap.
John obviously sensed the uneasiness, as well. He asked,
“Is there something wrong? Are you still bothered by what happened back there?
It’s totally okay to be.”
“No,” she sighed. “It’s not that. Really.”
“Actually, you seemed to be able to let go of it pretty
easily.”
He sat back down with her and smiled. “You’re a pretty
tough woman, Sandy Ayotte.”
She returned an empty smile.
“What is it then? Are you uncomfortable here? My intentions
are noble, I assure you.”
She took his hand in hers and smiled again, more sincere this
time. “John, you’re about the most noble and genuine person I’ve ever
met.” She looked away. “A-and I do want to be here. I know this sounds
rather sophomoric of me, but the more time I spend with you--well, the more I
don’t want to go.”
The rooms soft, golden light caressed her blushing skin,
giving her an angelic cast. It made her outline glow like a full-body halo.
She somehow mustered the courage to slowly look back up at
John.
Her eyes ceded her genuine joy of this new, fetal
companionship. But if her joy was a well head, then pain and sorrow were the
blackness of that deep and hollow well.
She was surprised at the astonishingly quick pace at which
she seemed to be falling for him. But somehow on a deeper, arcane level, she
sensed that it was okay to fall so quickly. It just felt natural. Right.
Her eyes started
to tear. She bit at her lower lip to try and stop them, but the tears came, none
the less.
Overcome by an overwhelming sense of caring and tenderness,
John could only whisper to her, “What’s wrong? What’s hurt you so bad?”
She picked up John’s hand and brought it slowly to her
lips, kissed it tenderly.
Her face seemed to slackened as though all her soul had been
drained to fight back all but a few stray tears that dribbled from her pools of
blue, and John felt its warmness against his fingers. Strangely, without really
knowing why, it saddened him to see her tear like that. Not the kind of pangs of
sympathy one gets from seeing another in distress, but an empty sadness not
unlike the sadness he felt as he watched his beloved grandfather being lowered
into his grave earlier that day. It seemed, too, that with Sandy something that
was a part of her had died. The exclamation point to a terribly aching deed now
ran down her cheek.
She slowly lowered John’s hand to the top of her wet shirt
and with a trembling grip slid it under her collar.
He said nothing, but his eyes betrayed the shock as his
fingers ran along the corrugated, irregular contours of the scarred, grafted
skin.
She led his hand down to her shoulder before she slowly
withdrew it.
John’s brows furrowed in aghastment. “My god, what
happened to you?”
Sandy’s eyes never met John’s as she recounted that
horrible day less than a year ago and the long struggle back to acceptance and
renewal.
“I go to great lengths to cover these scars so no one sees
them,” she said. “I especially hope you can understand why I wouldn’t want
you to see them.”
He wanted to take away her pain like nothing he’d ever
wanted before. But he was frustrated because he was unsure how. All he could
think of was to draw her close to him. He put his arms around her, held her,
caressed her hair.
Flashes of lightning twinkled through the drawn curtains in
front of them, and a low rumble rolled across the night sky outside. The autumn
tempest had lulled somewhat on their drive to the house but now seemed to be
gaining a second wind.
“That doesn’t matter to me,” he assured her. “The
time we’ve shared tonight and what I hope we can share in the future doesn’t
hinge on what you’re hiding under that turtle-neck.”
“You haven’t seen them.”
“I don’t need to. I know first hand what superficial
beauty is all about. What I’ve seen in you goes deeper than that. And the
topper is you are an incredibly attractive woman to boot, regardless of what you
may think of yourself. Do you believe me?”
She looked away.
He drew her gaze back with a gentle pull under her chin. In
almost a whisper, with a determined expression and his green eyes ablaze with a
fire long absent from them, he asked again, “Do you believe me?” He looked
into her eyes, not wanting to give up the precious sight that lay before him.
Then slowly, gently, John slipped his strong, warm hand back under her collar,
never taking his eyes off of her.
She objected with a slight withdrawal but finally surrendered
to his touch.
Gradually, the space between their watchful eyes diminished
as John pulled her closer. He put his other hand against her tear-streaked cheek
and pushed back stray locks of damp, matted hair. His nerves shook in
anticipation, mere inches from their first kiss. His body ached for a passion
that had long been absent from it. Ever closer. He could now feel her warm panting
on his burning cheeks.
They closed their eyes as the special moment was about to
come upon them--.
And the phone rang.
They both jumped, startled at the intrusion which elicited a
simultaneous laugh from each.
It rang again.
With a frustrated smile, John shook his head. “If that’s
Bill, I’m going to wring his neck.”
Sandy laughed. “Does he always check up on you?”
“Only when women are involved.”
It rang again.
“How about you go upstairs and get into these dry clothes,
and I’ll take care of my ole buddy Bill. Turn right at the top of the stairs,
and the bathroom’s the third door down.”
It rang again.
“I’ll only be a minute,” she said and went up stairs.
John leaned over
to the end table and picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, is this Amos Walker?” a distressed voice asked.
It was heavily accented, hollow, distant with a grumble in the background.
“Who is this?” John asked.
The voice was persistent, “I need t’speak with Amos
Walker, please. It’s urgent.”
“My grandfather died four days ago. He was just buried
today. I’m his grandson John, now who is this?”
The line was silent for a moment, only the baritone grumble
in the background was heard.
“Hello? Hello? Tell me who this is or I’m going to hang
up.”
“No , please don’t hang up. I-I’m sorry t’hear about
your grandfather. I didn’t know.”
“Okay, apology accepted, now who am I talking to?”
“My name is Father Ian McConnell. Will you be home for a
while?”
“Pardon me?”
“Will you be home? I’ve come a long way for somethin’.
Somethin’ your grandfather took from a monastery in Oban, Scotland before he
moved t’the States. It doesn’t belong t’him, and I gravely need it
back.”
“Is this a joke?” John asked, not sure how to take the
statement. “How do you know my grandfather? Are you some kind of relative or
something?”
“No, no relation. I wish that this visit was only a
reunion.”
“How’d you get his number? The last I knew it was
unlisted.”
“I came across it in Thurmond, New York where your
grandfather used t’live.”
John’s eyes widened. “How’d you know--”
“Please, I don’t have time t’go into a lot of detail.
I’m callin’ from a mobile phone in a lorry--”
“A what?”
“A lorry--a truck. I’m callin’ from a big--uh--eighteen
wheeler, I believe you call them. I just went through a wee town called
Tionesta, and I need directions t’your house. I’ll explain everythin’ when
I arrive.”
“And you expect me to give directions to a complete
stranger?”
“I know how odd this must sound, but--”
“Look, is this some kind of joke?” John demanded, pursing
his lips angrily.
“No, no joke.”
“Well, if you don’t start telling me more, then I’m
hanging up.”
“Please,” Ian pleaded. “How do I get there?”
“Look, this is really getting annoying. Goodbye!” With
that, he slammed the phone down in its receiver.
When Sandy came back down the stairs, John was sitting
quietly, staring out at the wet night hidden behind curtains. She was now dry
and clean. She had managed to fluff out her damp hair a little, and it now hung
over her right shoulder. “I must say I feel a whole lot better,” she said.
Although her hair was laying quite naturally, John could tell
she had taken great lengths to have it conceal her scars and conveyed as much
with his eyes as he looked at her neck.
“Sorry.” She batted her eyes at him. “Old habits die
hard.”
He grinned. “Take your time. Whenever you’re comfortable.
I won’t push it.”
“So I take it from your tone of voice, which carried all
the way upstairs, that it wasn’t Bill.”
As he was about to answer her, the phone began to ring again.
She looked at him when he didn’t make an attempt to answer
it.
“Let it ring,” he said.
“What?” she grinned. “Someone ask you if your
refrigerator was running?”
He waited until the tenth and final ring before he answered
her. “Actually, I have a pretty good sense of humor when it comes to phone
pranks,” he said, indignantly, fisting his hands at his side. “But when it
comes to my grandfather . . .” His was not an arbitrary anger but one of
protection, loyalty, love.
“What’d they say? Didn’t they know the dear old man was
just buried today?”
John replied, “Hopefully the prank will lose its flavor
with us, and they’ll move on to someone else.”
“Ass holes,” she scoffed as she took her seat next to
John on the couch.
“They’re lucky I don’t know who they are.”
“Why don’t you call them back?” she asked wryly.
“Give them a taste of their own medicine. That’d be the last thing they’d
expect.”
“The phone doesn’t have caller ID.”
“Doesn’t have to,” she said. “Just hit
star-sixty-nine, and it will automatically dial back the last number that
called. I use it once in a while at work. All the phones in this area carry that
capability, but not too many people know about it.”
He debated for a moment then, with a determined look, dialed
back as instructed. Within seconds the line was ringing in on the caller.
When the phone on the other end was picked up it was followed
by a loud clatter then a thud as the receiver had obviously been
dropped. Muffled curses were heard as the man fumbled for the phone. Finally, he
answered, “Hello, hello? Who’s this?”
John recognized it as the same voice he’d just spoken to.
“This is John Walker.”
“How’d you get my number?”
“Look, I don’t appreciate the ill-timing of this prank
call, considering my grandfather’s just been buried. I have half a mind to
turn you into the police or--”
“A key,” Ian
interrupted. “You wanted t’know, so I’m tellin’ you. He took a key from
a collapsed tunnel under an old monastery. He was one of several young lads who
helped re-excavate it before World War Two broke out, and he moved t’the
States. The key he took belongs t’the Roman Catholic Church. It’s a sacred
relic, a dangerous relic. Did he ever mention or show you a key?”
To John, the grave, almost frantic voice in which the man
spoke seemed a contraposition to what otherwise sounded like a normally
reassuring man. Its hopeless quality made the hair on his neck stand erect. John
began to wonder if desperation like that could be faked. This was beginning to
not sound like a joke.
Before John could answer the man’s question, Ian continued,
“Look for a skeleton-key, probably in an old, leather pouch, slightly bigger
than an average-sized key. It’ll have engravin's on it. You’ll know it when
you see it. That’s the key I need. But you must find it quickly because--well,
because I’m not the only one lookin’ for it.”
Caught up in the man’s desperation, John asked, “Who else
is?”
More silence.
“Who?” John demanded.
“Let’s just say that you need t’find that key as fast
as possible. And when you do, don’t touch it, leave it in it’s pouch. If you
must handle it than do so with gloves or somethin’. If you come into direct
contact with it, you won’t like what happens next.”
“What will happen?”
“Just don’t physically touch it. That’s all you need
t’concern yourself with.”
John moaned heavily into the phone.
“I know none of this makes sense t’you right now, but
I’m not askin’ much from you, a little time, that’s all. If you’ll just
look for the key, that’ll substantiate what I’m sayin’. Search your house
for that key. Please, take a half -hour and look. You’ll find it. If it turns
out t’be a wild goose chase then you have my number; call me back, call the
constables, do whatever you want, but just please do that much. Now do you have
any crucifixes in the house? Any rosary beads, anythin’ holy?”
“This is getting a little outrageous. Crucifixes? Rosary
beads? What the hell’s--”
Ian continued, “And when you find the key, put it out so I
can see it, the kitchen table, maybe. Yes, yes that’ll do fine. Surround it
with the crucifixes, anythin’ you got that pertains t’God in any way, and
leave, don’t stay there.”
“First you’re telling me you need to talk to me, and now
you’re telling me to leave my own house?”
“You’re in danger if you don’t.”
“What kind--”
“Hurry.”
“But--”
“There’s not much time left. I’ll find your house soon
enough when I get int’town, now find that key and get the hell out of
there.”
The line went dead.
John slowly put the phone back into its cradle.
Boy, that’s telling him,” Sandy jibed.
He said nothing. He only stared ahead intently, thinking. A
look of bewilderment washed over his face, then he looked back down at his hand
and made a fist.
“So what did the joker say?” Sandy asked.
Slowly, his quizzical look and creased temples gave way to a
much more disturbing demeanor.
She glared at him expectantly as she waited for a reply that
was slow in the making. She played with her hair, combing it with her fingers
down across her neck and shoulder.
John’s sigh was tainted with an uneasiness that chilled the
once fire-warmed air as he rose to his feet. He remembered something. “Care to
join me in the attic?” he asked.
“You romantic, you.”
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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