From the Corner of His Eye

  to be drawn to the company of older girls, she had no interest in anyone but Barty.

  “Why patches?”

  “’Cause I don’t have my new eyes yet.”

  “Where do you get new eyes?”

  “The supermarket.”

  “Don’t you tease me,” Angel said. “You’re not one of them.”

  “One of who?”

  “Grownups. It’s okay if they do it. But if you do it, it’ll be just mean.”

  “All right. I get my new eyes from a doctor. They’re not real eyes, just plastic, to fill in where my eyes used to be.”

  “Why?”

  “To support my eyelids. And because without anything in the sockets, I look gross. People barf. Old ladies pass out. Little girls like you pee their pants and run screaming.”

  “Show me,” Angel said.

  “Did you bring clean pants?”

  “You afraid to show me?”

  The patches were held by the same two elastic strips, so Barty flipped up both at the same time.

  Ferocious pirates, ruthless secret agents, brain-eating aliens from distant galaxies, supercriminals hellbent on ruling the world, bloodthirsty vampires, face-gnawing werewolves, savage Gestapo thugs, mad scientists, satanic cultists, insane carnival freaks, hate-crazed Ku Klux Klansmen, knife-worshiping thrill killers, and emotionless robot soldiers from other planets had slashed, stabbed, burned, shot, gouged, torn, clubbed, crushed, stomped, hanged, bitten, eviscerated, beheaded, poisoned, drowned, radiated, blown up, mangled, mutilated, and tortured uncounted victims in the pulp magazines that Paul had been reading since childhood. Yet not one scene in those hundreds upon hundreds of issues of colorful tales withered a corner of his soul as did a glimpse of Barty’s empty sockets. The sight wasn’t in the least gory, nor even gruesome. Paul cringed and looked away only because this evidence of the boy’s loss too pointedly made him think about the terrible vulnerability of the innocent in the freight-train path of nature, and threatened to tear off the fragile scab on the anguish that he still felt over Perri’s death.

  Instead of staring at Barty directly, he watched Angel as she studied the eyeless boy. She had exhibited no horror at the concave slackness of his closed lids, and when one lid fluttered up to reveal the dark hollow socket, she hadn’t shown any revulsion. Now she moved closer to Barty’s chair, and when she touched his cheek, just below his missing left eye, the boy didn’t flinch in surprise.

  “Were you scared?” she asked.

  “Plenty.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Not much.”

  “Are you scared now?”

  “Mostly not.”

  “But sometimes?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Paul realized that the kitchen had fallen silent, that the women had turned to the two children and now stood as motionless as figures in a waxworks tableau.

  “You remember things?” the girl asked, her fingertips still pressed lightly to his cheek.

  “You mean how they look?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure, I remember. It’s only been fifteen days.”

  “Will you forget?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe.”

  Celestina, standing next to Agnes, put an arm around her waist, as perhaps she had once been in the habit of doing with her sister.

  Angel moved her hand to Barty’s right eye, and again he didn’t twitch with surprise when her fingers lightly touched his closed and sagging lid. “I won’t let you forget.”

  “How does that work?”

  “I can see,” she said. “And I can talk like your book talks.”

  “For sure, you can talk,” Barty agreed.

  “So what I am is I’m your talking eyes.” Lowering her hand from his face, Angel said, “Do you know where bacon comes from?”

  “Pigs.”

  “How’s something so delicious come from a fat, smelly, dirty, snorting old pig?”

  Barty shrugged. “A bright yellow lemon sure looks sweet.”

  “So you say pig?” Angel asked.

  “What else?”

  “You still say pig?”

  “Yeah. Bacon comes from pigs.”

  “That’s what I think. Can I have an orange soda?”

  “I’ll get one for you,” he said.

  “I saw where it was.”

  She got a can of soda, returned to the table, and sat down as if finished with her explorations. “You’re okay, Barty.”

  “You too.”

  Edom and Jacob arrived, dinner was served, and while the food was wonderful, the conversation was better—even though the twins occasionally shared their vast knowledge of train wrecks and deadly volcanic eruptions. Paul didn’t contribute much to the talk, because he preferred to bask in it. If he hadn’t known any of these people, if he had walked into the room while they were in the middle of dinner, he would have thought they were family, because the warmth and the intimacy—and in the twins’ case, the eccentricity—of the conversation were not what he expected of such newly made friends. There was no pretense, no falsity, and no avoidance of any awkward subject, which meant there were sometimes tears, because the death of Reverend White was such a fresh wound in the hearts of those who loved him. But in the healing ways of women that remained mysterious to Paul even as he watched them do their work, tears were followed by reminiscences that brought a smile and soothed, and hope was always found to be the flower that bloomed from every seed of hopelessness.

  When Agnes was surprised to discover that Barty’s name had been inspired by the reverend’s famous sermon, Paul was startled. He had heard “This Momentous Day” on its first broadcast, and learning that it would be rerun three weeks later by popular demand, he’d urged Joey to listen. Joey had heard it on Sunday, the second of January, 1965—just four days before the birth of his son.

  “He must’ve listened on the car radio,” Agnes said, digging down into the layered days in her packed trunk of memories. “He was trying to get ahead of his work, so he’d be able to stay around the house a lot during the week after the baby came. So he arranged to meet with some prospective clients even on Sunday. He was working a lot, and I was trying to deliver my pies and meet my other obligations before the big day. We didn’t have as much time together as usual, and even as impressed as he must’ve been with the sermon, he never had a chance to tell me about it. The next-to-last thing he ever said to me was…‘Bartholomew.’ He wanted me to name the baby Bartholomew.”

  This bond between the Lampion and White families, which Grace had already heard about from Paul, came as news to Celestina as much as to Agnes. It inspired more reminiscences of lost husbands and the wistful wish that Joey and Harrison could have met.

  “I wish my Rico could have met your Harrison, too,”

  Maria told Grace, referring to the husband who had abandoned her. “Maybe the reverend could’ve done with words what I couldn’t do with my foot in Rico’s trasero.”

  Barty said, “That’s Spanish for ‘ass.’”

  Angel found this hysterical, and Agnes said long-sufferingly, “Thank you for the language lesson, Master Lampion.”

  What didn’t come as a surprise to Paul was Agnes’s determination that the Whites, during their period of lying low, should stay with her and Barty.

  “Paul,” she said, “you’ve got a lovely house, but Celestina and Grace are doers. They need to keep occupied. They’ll go stir-crazy if they don’t stay busy. Am I right, ladies?”

  They agreed, but insisted that they didn’t want to impose.

  “Nonsense,” Agnes breezed on, “it’s no imposition. You’ll be a great help with my baking, the pie deliveries, all the work that I put aside during Barty’s surgery and recovery. It’ll either be fun, or I’ll wear you down to the bone, but either way, you won’t be bored. I’ve got two extra rooms. One for Celie and Angel, and one for Grace. When your Wally arrives, we can move Angel in with Grace, or she can bunk with me.”

  The friends
hip, the work, and not least of all the sense of home and belonging that everyone felt within minutes of crossing Agnes’s threshold—these things appealed to Celestina and Grace. But they didn’t want Paul to feel that his hospitality was unappreciated.

  He raised one hand to halt the genteel debate. “The whole reason I stopped here first, before taking you folks on to my place, is so I wouldn’t have to bring your suitcases back after Agnes won you over. This is where you’ll be happiest, though you’re always welcome if she tries to work you to death.”

  Throughout the evening, Barty and Angel—sitting side by side and across the table from Paul—listened to the adults at times and occasionally joined in the larger conversation, but primarily they talked between themselves. When the kids’ heads weren’t together conspiratorially, Paul could hear their chatter, and depending on what else was being discussed around the table, he sometimes tuned in to it. He picked up on the word rhinoceros, tuned in, tuned out, but a couple minutes later, he dialed back in when he realized that Celestina, sitting two places farther along the table from him, had risen from her chair and was staring in amazement at the kids.

  “So where he threw the quarter,” Barty said, as Angel listened intently and nodded her head, “wasn’t really into Gunsmoke, ’cause that’s not a place, it’s just a show. See, maybe he threw it into a place where I’m not blind, or into a place where he doesn’t have that messed-up face, or a place where for some reason you never came here today. There’s more places than anybody could ever count, even me, and I can count pretty good. That’s what you feel, right—all the ways things are?”

  “I see. Sometimes. Just quick. For like a blink. Like when you stand between two mirrors. You know?”

  “Yeah,” Barty said.

  “Between two mirrors, you go on forever, over and over.”

  “You see things like that?”

  “For a blink. Sometimes. Is there a place where Wally didn’t get shot?”

  “Is Wally the guy who’s gonna be your dad?”

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “Sure. There’s lots of places where he didn’t get shot, but there’s places where he got shot and died, too.”

  “I don’t like those places.”

  Although Paul had seen Tom Vanadium’s clever coin trick, he didn’t understand the rest of their conversation, and he assumed that for everyone else—except Angel’s mother—it was equally impenetrable. But taking their clue from the risen Celestina, all those present had fallen silent.

  Oblivious that she and Barty had become the center of attention, Angel said, “Does he ever get the quarters back?”

  “Probably not.”

  “He must be really rich. Throwing away quarters.”

  “A quarter’s not much money.”

  “It’s a lot,” Angel insisted. “Wally gave me an Oreo, last time I saw him. You like Oreos?”

  “They’re okay.”

  “Could you throw an Oreo someplace you weren’t blind or maybe someplace Wally wasn’t shot?”

  “I guess if you could throw a quarter, you could throw an Oreo.”

  “Could you throw a pig?”

  “Maybe he could if he was able to lift it, but I couldn’t throw a pig or an Oreo or anything else into any other place. It’s just not something I know how to do.”

  “Me neither.”

  “But I can walk in the rain and not get wet,” Barty said.

  At the far end of the table, Agnes shot up from her chair as her son said rain, and as he said wet, she spoke warningly: “Barty!”

  Angel looked up, surprised that everyone was staring at her.

  Turning his patched eyes in the general direction of his mother, Barty said, “Oops.”

  Everyone confronted Agnes with expressions of puzzlement and expectation, and she looked from one to another. Paul. Maria. Francesca. Bonita. Grace. Edom. Jacob. Finally Celestina.

  The two women stared at each other, and at last Celestina said, “Good Lord, what’s happening here?”

  Chapter 79

  ON THE FOLLOWING Tuesday afternoon in Bright Beach, across a sky as black as a witch’s cauldron, seagulls flew out of an evil brew toward their safe roosts, and on the land below, humid shadows of the pending storm gathered as if called forth by a curse cooked up from eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, and tongue of dog.

  By air from San Francisco south to Orange County Airport, then farther south along the coast by rental car, one week in the wake of Paul Damascus and his three charges, following directions provided by Paul, Tom Vanadium brought Wally Lipscomb to the Lampion house.

  Eleven days had passed since Wally stopped three bullets. He still had a little residual weakness in his arms, grew tired more easily than before he’d wound up on the wrong end of a pistol, complained of stiffness in his muscles, and used a cane to keep his full weight off his wounded leg. The rest of the medical care he required, as well as physical rehabilitation, could be had in Bright Beach as well as in San Francisco. By March, he should be back to normal, assuming that the definition of normal included massive scars and an internal hollow space where once his spleen had been.

  Celestina met them at the front door and flung her arms around Wally. He let go of his cane—Tom caught it—and returned her embrace with such ardor, kissed her so hard, that evidently residual weakness was no longer a problem.

  Tom received a fierce hug, too, and a sisterly kiss, and he was grateful for them. He had been a loner for too long, as a hunter of men pretty much had to be when on a long hard road of recuperation and then on a mission of vengeance, even if he called it a mission of justice. During the few days he’d spent guarding Celestina and Grace and Angel in the city, and subsequently during the week with Wally, Tom had felt that he was part of a family, even if it was just a family of friends, and he had been surprised to realize how much he needed that feeling.

  “Everyone’s waiting,” Celestina said.

  Tom was aware that something had happened here during the past week, an important development that Celestina mentioned on the phone but that she declined to discuss. He didn’t harbor any expectations of what he’d find when she escorted him and Wally into the Lampion dining room, but if he’d tried to imagine the scene awaiting him, he wouldn’t have pictured a séance.

  A séance was what it appeared to be at first. Eight people were gathered around the dining-room table, which stood utterly bare. No food, no drinks, no centerpiece. They all exhibited that shiny-faced look of people nervously awaiting the revelations of a spirit medium: part trepidation, part soaring hope.

  Tom knew only three of the eight. Grace White, Angel, and Paul Damascus. The others were introduced quickly by Celestina. Agnes Lampion, their hostess. Edom and Jacob Isaacson, brothers to Agnes. Maria Gonzalez, best friend to Agnes. And Barty.

  By telephone, he had been prepared for this boy. Strange as it was to find a Bartholomew in their lives, given Enoch Cain’s peculiar obsession, Tom nonetheless agreed with Celestina that the wife killer could have no way to know about this child—and could certainly have no logical reason to fear him. The only thing they had in common was Harrison White’s sermon, which had inspired this boy’s name and might have planted the seed of guilt in Cain’s mind.

  “Tom, Wally, I’m sorry for the brusque introductions,” Agnes Lampion apologized. “We’ll have plenty of getting-to-know-each-other time over dinner. But the people in this room have been waiting an entire week to hear from you, Tom. We can’t wait a moment longer.”

  “Hear from me?”

  Celestina indicated to Tom that he should sit at the head of the table, facing Agnes at the foot. As Wally lowered himself into the empty chair to Tom’s left, Celestina picked up two items from the sideboard and put them in front of Tom, before sitting to his right.

  Salt and pepper shakers.

  From the far end of the table, Agnes said, “For starters, Tom, we all want to hear about the rhinoceros and the other you.”

  He hes
itated, because until the limited explanations he’d made to Celestina in San Francisco, he had never discussed his special perception with anyone except two priest counselors in the seminary. At first he felt uneasy, talking of these matters to strangers—as if he were making a confession to laity who held no authority to provide absolution—but as he spoke to this hushed and intense gathering, his doubts fell away, and revelation seemed as natural as talk of the weather.

  With the salt and pepper shakers, Tom walked them through the why-I’m-not-sad-about-my-face explanation that he’d given to Angel ten days previously.

  At the end, with the salt Tom and the pepper Tom standing side by side in their different but parallel worlds, Maria said, “Seems like science fiction.”

  “Science. Quantum mechanics. Which is a theory…of physics. But by theory, I don’t mean just wild speculation. Quantum mechanics works. It underlies the invention of television. Before the end of this century, perhaps even by the ’80s, quantum-based technology will give us powerful and cheap computers in our homes, computers as small as briefcases, as small as a wallet, a wristwatch, that can do more and far faster data processing than any of the giant lumbering computers we know today. Computers as tiny as a postage stamp. We’ll have wireless telephones you can carry anywhere. Eventually, it will be possible to construct single-molecule computers of enormous power, and then technology—in fact, all human society—will change almost beyond comprehension, and for the better.”

  He surveyed his audience for disbelief and glazed eyes.

  “Don’t worry,” Celestina told him, “after what we’ve seen this past week, we’re still with you.”

  Even Barty seemed to be attentive, but Angel happily applied crayons to a coloring book and hummed softly to herself.

  Tom believed that the girl had an intuitive understanding of the true complexity of the world, but she was only three, after all, and neither ready nor able to absorb the scientific theory that supported her intuition.

  “All right. Well…Jesuits are encouraged to pursue education in any subject that interests them, not theology alone. I was deeply interested in physics.”

  “Because of a certain awareness you’ve had since childhood,” Celestina said, recalling what he’d told her in San Francisco.

  “Yes. More about that later. Just let me make it clear that an interest in physics doesn’t make me a physicist. Even if I were, I couldn’t explain quantum mechanics in an hour or a year. Some say quantum theory is so weird that no one can fully understand all its implications. Some things proven in quantum experiments seem to defy common sense, and I’ll lay out a few for you, just to give you the flavor. First, on the subatomic level, effect sometimes comes before cause. In other words, an event can happen before the reason for it ever occurs. Equally odd…in an experiment with a human observer, subatomic particles behave differently from the way they behave when the experiment is unobserved while in progress and the results are examined only after the fact—which might suggest that human will, even subconsciously expressed, shapes reality.”

  He was simplifying and combining concepts, but he knew no other way to quickly give them a feel for the wonder, the enigma, the sheer spookiness of the world revealed by quantum mechanics.

  “And how about this,” he continued. “Every point in the universe is directly connected to every other point, regardless of distance, so any point on Mars is, in some mysterious way, as close to me as is any of you. Which means it’s possible for information—and objects, even people—to move instantly between here and London without wires or microwave transmission. In fact, between here and a distant star, instantly. We just haven’t figured out how to make it happen. Indeed, on a deep structural level, every point in the universe is the same point. This interconnectedness is so complete that a great flock of birds taking flight in Tokyo, disturbing the air with their wings, contributes to weather changes in Chicago.”

  Angel looked up from her coloring book. “What about pigs?”

  “What about them?” Tom asked.

  “Can you throw a pig where you made the quarter go?”

  “I’ll get to that,” he promised.

  “Wow!” she said.