I wonder who their mysterious “sources” are. I wish there were more details. I wish it’d named the Methodist and Presbyterian ministers in question, because I’d bet my life that the Methodist they report is the man who murdered the priest.
I want to sit and think about this, because it’s important, somehow.
The article is right: There’s only so much difference between believing God is up in heaven, and believing there are gods somewhere out in space. It’s a very fine line indeed, and a seductive message at its core: God loves some of us, and is coming for us—and he’ll destroy everything and everyone we don’t like.
It’s a great galactic game of “Just wait until your Father gets home!”
Upon rereading my earlier notes on the subject, maybe that does sound like the kind of god a hateful man would pray to. A petty man, anyway. Someone who feels small, and wishes to feel big—someone who is full of fear and uncertainty, and would prefer to be full of power. Oh, there’s a dangerous lure there, yes.
Is that what’s luring me, too?
No. Something else, though; yes, the idea of a community does appeal to me. I haven’t had one in so long, I’ve forgotten what it feels like. I scarcely remember what it felt like to teach Sunday school to the children in Mrs. Frank’s classroom before the sermons. I can’t recall the weight of the board-back books in my hands, the smell of the chalk and old paper, the feel of little hands on my arms—petitioning for my attention. I don’t recall how warm and ordinary it felt to sit in church and listen to the pastor, or not listen to him, and let my mind wander—but to feel myself surrounded by like minds, in a comfortable place, and hear things I generally agreed with (but didn’t think too much about). I must concentrate hard to recall the stiff pews, the thick old Bibles with the worn corners and dog-eared pages, and the jasmine perfume of the ladies who sat behind me in the widow’s row.
All of that is gone, and has been gone for decades.
• • •
After the Bordens died, I had a smaller version of that community . . . for a precious little while. I had you, Emma, and I had Nance. We had Doctor Seabury, for a time. Maybe that was it, that was all of us, and the things we had in common were terrible, damning things.
But God, at least I wasn’t alone.
Ruth Stephenson Gussman
BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA SEPTEMBER 25, 1921
Pedro’s place is not very different from my daddy’s, except that it’s an apartment instead of a house—and it’s a whole lot quieter, even though there’s people living all around us, and we hear them all the time. I hear people cooking, babies crying, children playing, and it’s all music to me—because nobody makes me go to church.
It’s a little smaller here, and it’s in a different neighborhood where a lot of people speak Spanish . . . but that’s not such a big thing. It’s been helpful to us so far, actually. Daddy’s sent men around looking for us, but our neighbors pretend they don’t understand any English and they don’t know where we live. Our building locks downstairs, and you’ve got to have a front-door key to come inside. I like that. It makes me feel safe.
Safer, anyway.
I used to feel safe with you, Father Coyle, at Saint Paul’s—and now I don’t, and I never will again because you’re gone, and I feel like your church is at the center of a storm. But when I do decide to go to church, that’s where I go . . . coming in through the back door, and looking over my shoulder the whole time. I go there to remember you, and all you tried to do for me. I go there because it calms me to sit in that chapel, on those pews, and I listen to the new fellow talk real low and quiet in Latin . . . and I don’t know Latin any better than I know Spanish (just a few words here and there), but it’s a comfort to me, anyhow.
When I sit in that chapel, in the warm and half-dark place lit up by rows of candles and the light that spills inside from the colored glass . . . I can hardly remember the stars, streaking past me like the drag marks of nails on somebody’s skin.
When I sit in that chapel, I don’t pray because I don’t know if anyone’s listening or not, and it feels a little like lying. But I don’t feel alone there, and that’s something.
• • •
Daddy’s trial starts the day after next. I found out tonight—the inspector from Boston, he told me they’ve lined up a lawyer for him, a fellow named Hugo Black. I guess the inspector looked it up somehow, or asked around at all the right places to find out. He’s got a badge, and that’s basically as good as a key, when it comes to opening up doors.
I only just met him this morning, but I think I like him.
He says he was a friend of yours, and that’s why he’s come here. I don’t know if that’s true, exactly, but if he wants to help, I’m happy to have him. This inspector, he’s a round fellow, a little older than my daddy, I’d wager; and if you were to tell a Christmas story about him, you might say he was jolly. He dresses nice and he talks fast, and he seems very smart. He wears round black spectacles and shiny shoes. He carries a handkerchief that he uses to pat his face and neck all the time, bless his heart. It’s not very hot at all right now, but he’s a big man and I guess it’s too much for him—after spending so much time in New England.
He says it snows all the time in Boston. I bet it’s pretty. I’ve never seen any snow myself. Just in pictures.
Anyway, I met him down at Saint Paul’s when I went looking for Chief Eagan, who isn’t the police chief anymore. I invited him to supper because it sounded like the polite thing to do, and because I wanted to talk to him. It’s not every day someone shows up and offers any help, and we could use some friends right about now. Inspector Wolf isn’t from around here, and if he was friends with you, then he doesn’t mind Catholics. I thought maybe he wouldn’t mind a Puerto Rican, either, and I was right about that. I guess it’s different in the big cities.
(Pedro says it isn’t any different, not really. He says there’s good and bad in every place, no matter how big or small. I told him we were running low on good folks, as they kept getting murdered by the bad ones; he told me that we still had some left, and look—Boston had one to spare.)
• • •
The inspector came over right when I told him to, at the crack of six o’clock. He brought a bouquet of flowers and joked that he’d tried to find a bottle of wine, but Prohibition had thwarted him. I laughed, and told him we’d had prohibition here longer than most anybody; they chased all that stuff out of town back in 1909.
Or they tried to. If anybody really wanted a drink, most everybody knew where to find one.
“That’s always the case,” he agreed. “In Boston, I can find any spirit in under an hour. We have some of the finest speakeasies in the nation, or so they tell me. Mind you, a friend of mine in San Francisco would argue. He insists they have the market cornered out in California, but I haven’t been there lately, so I can’t swear to it one way or another.”
He hung up his jacket with apologies, and I said he ought to make himself comfortable. I opened a window or two, to let the cooking warmth outside. He took a seat as near to the fresh air as possible, thanked me, and shook Pedro’s hand when he appeared.
“Inspector Simon Wolf,” he introduced himself like a gentleman.
“Pedro Gussman. Ruthie told me about you. Welcome to our home.”
• • •
I made fried chicken and rice with gravy, corn bread and okra, and there was banana pudding for dessert. The inspector was very cheerful about the meal, and I could see how he came to such a comfortable size. I took it as a compliment that he finished everything, and cleared out the seconds when he was invited to help himself.
“It’s not that we don’t have good home cooking back east,” he said, ladling the last of the okra onto his plate. “We do, of course. But the flavors are different, the spices and the seasoning. Okra, for heaven’s sake—you can’t get okra in Boston. And i
t breaks my heart, because I fear I’ve already developed a deep-seated fondness for it. It simply isn’t fair, when earth’s bounty of deliciousness can’t grow all in one place.”
But over the pudding, the talk got more serious.
We needed time to build up to it, I guess. Murder is a hard subject for a getting-to-know-you chat. He started gently, pushing his plate away and placing his napkin on the table.
“You know, it’s been ten years since James Coyle and I first met. He was in New York for a conference, and I was there for . . . something else entirely. We were both snowed in, at the same hotel,” he said, so softly he might’ve been talking to himself. Then, a little louder, “We weren’t always very good about staying in touch—but we visited whenever the opportunity presented itself.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” my husband asked.
He thought about it a moment, and said, “Last October. He was passing through Boston for a few days, and I played tour guide. We ate at some wonderful places, took in some wonderful sights, and had some wonderful conversations. It doesn’t feel so long ago as that, but I suppose it must have been.” He sighed and removed his glasses, wiping them clean on his shirtsleeve. “For the last few weeks, I’ve been away from my office on a case . . . and I did not receive his letters until it was too late.”
My ears perked up. “Letters?”
“He’d been asking me to visit this fine city, but not on any pleasure tour, I’m afraid. His letters were primarily about the axe murders you’ve been experiencing . . . but his last one, that was different. He wrote about the Klan, of course, and its affiliate groups—and he mentioned a church as well. You know of it, I believe. You mentioned it this morning.”
“Chapelwood.” The word squeaked out of my mouth. “He told you about it?”
“Only a little. Now that he’s gone, you’ll have to tell me the rest.”
I cleared my throat and took a sip of water, not knowing how much to say, or how to say it. He might think I was crazy, and then he might not help me. So I had to be careful. I started off slow.
“There used to be a big farm on the outside of town. Most of the land’s been sold off now, so these days, the man who owns the old farmhouse and the like . . . his name’s Davis. He’s a reverend, of some kind. He took the farmhouse and built it up a bunch, and turned it into his own church. And that’s what Chapelwood is.”
“What denomination does Chapelwood represent?”
I took some more water, and shrugged. “They call themselves the Disciples of Heaven, for whatever that means. There’s a bunch of different folks who go out there to worship: Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians.”
“No Catholics, I’d wager.” He said that part with a strange gleam in his eyes. Not like he was happy and trying not to laugh, but like he was real interested in the answer.
Pedro said, “No, no Catholics. They’re scared to death of Catholics.”
“They really are,” I added. “They have all these pamphlets they pass around, talking about how the pope is the Antichrist, and he’s going to end up running America if we let the church get a foothold in the states. A lot of crazy stuff, and none of it true, so far as I know.”
“It doesn’t have to be true. It only has to fall in line with what people want to believe,” the inspector said. “People want to be told that they’re afraid of all the right things. It’s easier that way. They don’t have to go to the trouble of learning anything new.”
“You don’t think much of people in general,” Pedro said. It wasn’t really a question.
The inspector shook his head, then did a little shrug. “In general, perhaps. But I’ve known enough good ones to prevent me from outright misanthropy. Like the good father, for example. May he rest in peace.”
My husband crossed himself without even thinking. I copied him, a little slower. I’m still picking up the habits, and I sometimes do the sign in the wrong order. While I was working on getting the motions right, Pedro pressed on. “But you’re a policeman, yes? You must see the devil’s work every day.”
“The devil’s work—” He snorted, then stopped himself, almost like he was changing his mind. “There’s evil enough in the average human heart . . . we really have no need for a devil. That said, there are terrible things out there. I’ve seen them myself, and have a hearty respect for them. I shouldn’t jest. I didn’t mean to jest. I apologize.”
We all got real quiet, and for a minute, I wanted to tell him everything. Maybe he wouldn’t think I was crazy after all. Maybe he’d listen, and believe me—if he’d really seen terrible things that weren’t caused by human hands. I opened my mouth, but closed it again. I didn’t know how to tell him about the spells, the stars, or the thing in my parents’ bedroom. I couldn’t find any words that would make it sound like a very bad truth, and not a made-up lie.
The inspector watched me, and I halfway wondered if he was reading my mind. He had that thoughtful look on his face, staring hard without meaning to, I think. Finally he said, “So let’s not talk of Chapelwood, if you find it upsetting.”
He was being smart and kind, and trying to change the subject for me. But I screwed it up, and blurted out: “I’ve been to it.”
“You’ve attended services there?”
Pedro put his hand on mine, offering me some of his strength, if I needed it. I let it sit there, and clenched my fist shut. “A handful of times. My daddy’s a member. He made me go.”
“Do you think the church has anything to do with why your father killed Father Coyle?”
I let go of Pedro’s hand and hugged my own arms, thinking maybe it was just the chill of leaving the windows open—but knowing better, deep down. “Maybe, maybe not. It’s a weird place, though. Weird and dark, and it stayed with me, every time. I’d smell it on my clothes and in my hair for days after we went. It smelled like . . .” I was hunting for words again, trying to pick them carefully. “Like lightning about to strike. Something like that, and something like the ocean, too. A little bit like the fish and crabs down at the grocer’s, when they get a shipment from the Gulf. I’m sorry . . . it’s hard to explain.”
He nodded anyway, as if I’d told him something useful. “Sometimes a strangely shaped problem requires a strange description, and you’re doing a wonderful job of it. I’m having quite a time, though, trying to understand it all. This is quite a scene you’ve got here in Alabama.”
“Axe murders, unnatural churches, and priest-killers,” Pedro agreed. “Our newspapers are thick with it.”
“Yes, journalists always do love a brutal death.” He wore a sad-looking smile. His eyes went far away, and he said, “But not just here. Frankly, I’m surprised the rest of the nation isn’t lapping up the blood, spreading the story from coast to coast. I’ve seen a small mention of it here and there, but hardly the circus that comes to surround . . . other stories of this type.”
I frowned at him, because I couldn’t imagine any other stories like ours having happened before, except maybe that lady who killed her parents with the hatchet . . . and that was a long time ago. “Stories of this type? Axes, and killings? Like Lizzie Borden?”
He looked surprised, then pleased with me. “Her case was a special one, yes. And it happened years before you were born, unless I wildly misjudge your age.”
I’m not sure why, but that made me blush. “I’ve heard the skip-rope song, that’s all. About her, and the axe murders.”
“Truly, that poor woman shall live on forever on playgrounds and schoolyards.”
Pedro’s eyebrow went straight up his forehead. “That poor woman? Why would you say that? She killed people.”
“Not according to the court,” the inspector argued. “There was no real evidence against her, so either she didn’t do it, or she got away with it cleanly. The world may never know. And yes, I said ‘that poor woman’ because I meant it. I met her
. . .” His voice trailed away.
“You did?” I asked. It was rude to be so interested in something so awful—that’s what my momma would’ve said, but she wasn’t there, and I was interested anyway. Besides, it was pretty obvious that the inspector liked to talk. I was just being a good hostess, giving him an excuse.
“Yes, I did. A handful of times, many years ago. Not so long after her trial,” he explained. “She lived alone with her sister in a big house, in that same town. It was a beautiful place.”
“Were you investigating her axe murders?” I pressed.
“Oh, heavens no. And again, Miss Borden remains innocent in the eyes of the law. But no, my trip to Fall River had nothing to do with that case. There were some . . . other crimes. A couple of years after that. Her sister proved a valuable witness.”
He was staring off into nowhere again, thinking hard about something. His voice came and went, like a radio tuning in and out. “A man who had been corresponding with her sister . . . well, he’d gone quite mad, you see. He went on a killing spree, murdered . . . oh, I forget how many people, in some of the most gruesome ways. The worst of it was kept out of the papers, of course. We never released the details. No one would’ve wanted to hear them, believe me. I wish I could forget them myself.”
“Did you catch him?” I asked. I sounded too eager, I bet.
“Catch him? That’s a hard question to answer,” he told me, and now I got the feeling he was the one being careful about how he chose his words. “The murders stopped, and I believe justice was served. But the particulars are classified, you understand.”
I didn’t understand, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. “Sure, sure. But the Bordens . . . Lizzie and her sister . . . they were all right? Nobody murdered them, that’s what you mean?”