McCarthy was silent for a moment. He looked to the sky—whether admiring the beautiful day or asking for guidance, Denny didn’t know. “Dennis, do you know the definition of faith?”
Denny wiped the tears from his face, not sure if he was about to receive a religious lecture. “Believing in God?”
McCarthy nodded slowly. “The dictionary defines it as ‘belief in something that is not based on proof or reason.’ When you were younger, you believed in Santa Claus?”
Denny smiled. “Sure, of course.”
“Some people think that God is the Santa Claus for adults. The concept of an all-powerful being sitting on a throne in Heaven, orchestrating everything that happens to everyone isn’t much more far-fetched than a guy riding around in a sleigh pulled by flying reindeer delivering presents to every child in the world in a single night. Well, the ones on the good list anyway. And as a child, you did have proof of sorts; the presents showed up.”
Denny nodded, still unsure what this had to do with his mother.
“Dennis, your mother lost her faith. The accident that took your father and brother… to her it was like waking up and seeing her parents putting the presents under the tree and eating the cookies she left for Santa. She took it as proof that God doesn’t exist. Can’t exist, because what God would let her loved-ones be taken away so brutally. By a man of the cloth no less.”
“But I still don’t know how to help her. How to fix her. I came here because of what happened at my house. I thought… after seeing her reaction…”
“Dennis, I’d be happy to talk to her. And I believe you are on the right track with your thinking. She is broken. Who wouldn’t be? Kids are far more resilient than adults. You find out Santa Claus isn’t real and you move on; that particular faith is one you grow out of. This is very different of course. Grown-ups are sometimes harder to fix. What your mother took as proof that God doesn’t exist was merely one of the countless events that sparked the phrase ‘God works in mysterious ways.’ Faith can be very hard to restore once it is lost. But I promise you this, I will help you in any way I can. You don’t have to be in this alone.”
Something that Denny had been holding together inside broke. He began to cry uncontrollably. But these were cleansing tears. Some of the pain he’d been harboring was expelled in those tears, replaced by a growing sense of hope. When he was finally able to speak, he looked into Father McCarthy’s eyes and said “Thank you.” It wasn’t much but it was all he could manage.
Denny stayed for another hour, planning the next steps with Father McCarthy. They agreed that Denny would begin to go to Mass himself for a couple of weeks before telling his mom. McCarthy would drive him home after Mass in a couple of weeks to try to talk to Janice. When Denny finally began the ride home, the sun was back in control of the weather and the humidity was sneaking back as well. Denny didn’t care, because for the first time since the accident he felt like things might be alright, like he and his mom could be a family again. As he passed the school, he realized summer vacation was just a few weeks away. This is going to be the best summer ever, he thought.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
(22)
Paul finished unpacking his few belongings and closed the bureau drawers. He was finally beginning to feel like he was out of prison… beginning to feel free. The old house was really shaping up and this was to be his first night staying there. Joe had stopped by a few times to give him a hand and their friendship had picked up right where it left off. For the two weeks it rained, they had gotten the inside work done. The past week had been sunny and clear and even the outside and grounds were coming along nicely.
Paul went downstairs and wandered through the silent rooms. He still noticed that closed-up smell, but it was fading. Much stronger were the smells of cleaning fluids and fresh paint. He looked around making mental notes of what still needed to be done. His gaze fell on the stack of books he had borrowed from Father McCarthy’s collection. He picked one out and took it out to the back porch to read.
The night was unseasonably warm and the air in the house still felt stale even after the house had been open all day. At least on the porch, new screens replacing the old, torn ones, the air was fresh and there might be a stray breeze to enjoy. He sat down on an old rocker that he had pulled out of the cellar and refinished. His mother used to sit in it on nights like this when Paul was young, sometimes falling off to sleep in it. The next morning she would always complain of a stiff neck or a sore back and Paul and his father would exchange knowing glances of the cause. She would always deny falling asleep out there and it became a running joke in the house. Paul smiled to himself at the memory. It’s funny he hadn’t thought any such thoughts the entire time he spent in prison. While some of the other inmates dwelled on their lives “outside,” Paul rarely thought about it and never spoke of it. It was as if he was trying to keep the Paul Greymore in prison a separate entity from the one who existed before. Now that he was out the memories seemed to be all coming back to him slowly.
He began reading the novel he had brought out to the porch with him but immediately began to feel drowsy, lulled by the whispering voices of the night. To Paul, the faint rustling of leaves or splashes in the lake was music. The sounds he had become accustomed to falling asleep to were the slamming of steel doors or the screams of other inmates who were falling victim to the unspeakable acts that go on in the dark cells. He awoke suddenly, not knowing if he had been asleep five minutes or five hours. It must have been a while because the moon was now high in the sky, its glow shimmering on the waters of the lake. The night was still comfortably warm yet a chill passed through Paul. Another memory was trying to surface but it wouldn’t quite come. Paul had a strange urge to go down to the shore of the lake but at the same time this thought terrified him. He shook his head, trying to clear the fragments of sleep from it. He longed for a cigarette but refused to break his vow. He finally gave in to the lure of the lake. It was as if the lake was pulling him toward it. Somehow he knew the memory that was teasing him was related. He left the screened porch, the door slamming behind him, echoing loudly in the night. The night was beautiful, the sky crystal clear, a welcome sight after the weeks of rain. Paul’s sense that something was not right grew as he approached the lake but he could not stop himself from continuing toward it. The night was eerily quiet, none of the usual sounds of crickets or bullfrogs he was accustomed to. Paul struggled to bring the memory forward. Another night, long ago, just like this one. The strange urge to go to the lake, the ominous quiet… suddenly the memory hit him, not in bits and pieces but in one thunderous blow. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed. He crouched down, now at the edge of the water, and let the memory wash over him.
Paul awoke from a terrible dream, immediately unable to recall what it was about. Knowing he would not be able to fall back to sleep right away, he threw on his jeans and a T-shirt and went downstairs. He poured a glass of ice-water and carried it out to the screened porch. He was instantly aware of the unusual silence. On many nights he would be unable to sleep and would come out and sit on the porch for a while and the night would be alive with sounds. Crickets would be chirping, bullfrogs croaking, moths bouncing off the screens. Tonight there was none of that. The ice chinked against the side of the glass as it melted, shattering the unearthly quiet. Suddenly there was another sound. It came from the lake. It sounded to Paul like someone jumping into the lake but yet not quite like that. He slipped into his sneakers and stepped out into the night. The yard was dark, the half-moon hidden behind a restless curtain of clouds. Another noise made Paul jump. This one was off to his right. It wasn’t a splashing sound this time but something crashing through the woods off to his right. Not exactly crashing, Paul thought, more like sneaking.