Dead Souls (19 page)

A
t the same time Elizabeth Conroy fled in near-nakedness through the cornfields alongside her home, at the same time Faith Conroy stuck her fingers into the toilet to retrieve what appeared to be a human organ floating in the water, at the same time Daniel Conroy lay barely breathing alongside his dying dog, and at the same time baby Bryan Conroy dreamed in his crib, Benjamin Conroy pulled his pickup truck into the small dirt lot outside of his church,
The Organization Of God
.

The lot was empty, of course, as was the church. He kept the doors locked at all times, except on Sundays when performing the two scheduled morning masses, and then afterwards, upon contemplating the confessions of those repenting the sins in their lives; every now and then he'd become witness to a good piece of
Wellfield
gossip, but for the most part, it was the same old trivial concerns over nothing.

There really wasn't much of value inside the small church, outside of a few porcelain statues or some brass plates…but wouldn't some of the damn local politicians love to find a way to close his doors for good so the faithful parishioners could line their pockets instead? God forbid if they ever broke into his office and unlocked his desk drawers, where they would unearth the ammunition needed to bring him down.
God forbid
.

He stopped the truck right up front, setting the tires into a tall patch of
witchgrass
. His back cracked as he got out, the sharp pain traveling up his spine into his head. He gripped his temples, an action quickly growing into habit, then slowly climbed the four wooden steps to the entrance of his church.

Like a poised guillotine, a padlock hung from a clasp on the wooden door, the key in his hand the lever to release the blade. He shuddered as he slid the key into the lock. He turned it, then yanked it down. The clasp tore away from the wood that once held it firmly in place, four wood-logged screws falling to the ground between his feet. He paused, gripping the entire clasp and lock in his hand, realizing with dismay that someone must've unscrewed it in an effort to break in. Could they still be inside? He didn't think so. They wouldn't have been able to replace the clasp into its prior position with the doors closed.

Benjamin's guard rose up, disquiet racing through him like a shot of steam from an engine. His head ached furiously, and he jerked it from side to side, cracking the bones in his neck.

Recognizing that he may very well have another complicated situation on his hands, he threw the lock and clasp to the ground, then pulled on the twin doors. Their rusty hinges screeched like ghosts in a haunted house. Above, a bird fluttered, and when he looked up, he saw a blackbird
(the messenger?)
flying away over the roof of the church.

He entered the church. A wave of heat hit him like a palpable force, and he accepted its stale familiarity with open arms.

The interior of the church offered nothing more than a invisible, welcoming solace, four wood-slatted walls painted white, exposed beams in the ceiling, polished pews, and an intricately-painted crucifix hanging on the wall behind the altar. Over the years, Benjamin had used only a small percentage of the weekly mass collections toward the upkeep of the structure (and it showed), with the remainder going toward the preservation of the Conroy House. An average of two thousand tax-free dollars a week…it had been more than enough to share out amongst the church, plus all five acres of farmland. Just the way he wanted it. Thank the Good Lord.
Thank you Osiris.

He paced down the center aisle, the ranks of pews on either sides of him deadly silent in their positions. Heedfully, he peeked behind each one, making certain that no one was hunkered down, awaiting the perfect moment to jump out at him.

He felt a sudden weight against his chest. His hands and feet tingled.
Osiris? Is it you? Is this your presence I feel?

Upon reaching the front of the church, he stepped up on the altar, and after making a quick survey and concluding that nothing was amiss, he paced to his office door located just below the crucifix.

He ferreted out the key. A sharper pain filled his head, and he intuitively interpreted it as a forewarning to danger. Instead of inserting the key, he simply turned the knob, realizing with sudden panic that his pain-filled instincts had been correct.

The doorknob, usually locked, turned freely.

The clasp clicked, and another jutting pain lanced through his head; this time it felt like a splash of hot, spilled liquid. He grimaced, fighting against it, hesitating with the door open only a few inches.

Placing his shoulder against the door, he pushed it open all the way.

At once, a woman's voice bore into his ear, like an unanticipated jab from a ice pick.

"Benjamin…"

He opened his eyes wide, feeling the pain, the
pain
, and he stopped at the foot of his office, not in disbelief, but in utter fury at the sight before him. His keys fell from his hand to the ground.

Damn you…

She was sitting behind his desk, palms resting face-down on the ink-stained blotter. Her hair was a store-bought blonde that flowed over her floral Sunday dress in curly tresses, down to her protruding breasts. Her eyes, buried in thick eye-liner—harlot's makeup, Benjamin would say—pinned him with utter contempt, releasing a backlog of tears that painted thick gray lines down her cheeks.

Ignoring her, and the beating ache in his head, he ran his gaze over to the glassed-in shelf on the right side of the room, right below the two-foot crucifix on the wall. He walked to
it
silently, opened the doors, and removed a bottle of Wild Turkey. He unscrewed the top and sucked down a mouthful in one quick movement. He then stepped back to the center of the room, stood before the woman seated at his desk, and stared at her with unfaltering scorn.

"What are you doing here?" he asked after a moment of tense silence. His breath ran away from him as he spoke, and he used the mouth of the bottle to tackle a sudden itch on his scar.

"We need to talk," the woman replied, her eyes flitting down to the bloodstains on his shirt.

Damn you
, he thought again, feeling the rage swarming inside. He had to take a few long deep breaths to keep it at bay.

Her name was Helen Mackey, and she was a parishioner of
The Organization Of God
. He'd met her after a service about a year ago, but had noticed her much earlier than that. She'd always sat in the front row, alongside her husband and thirteen year-old son. Benjamin would stare into her unwavering eyes (which later became harlot's eyes) and pick up silent messages from her in his head. A gentle wink, a slight smile, and he'd stammer his way through the hour-long service, considering the connotations behind her gestures, and wondering how far he could take them. When the final prayers were said and done, he would quickly bow to the congregation and escape into his office, thinking only of her eyes, her smile, and the young supple skin that peeked out from the diving cut of her Sunday dress.

Then, one day, she showed up for confession.

I've got a sin, Benjamin Conroy. And it needs confessing…

On Sundays, following the late-morning mass, Benjamin would sit and listen to what
Wellfield's
apprehensive folk had to say, all of whom carried grave concerns of damnation due to unholy thoughts, accidental misgivings, or some other God-fearing deliberation. The usual suspects would wait in line outside his office, spilling their unholy guts in turn, leaving with tasks of prayer and feelings of deliverance, courtesy of their faithful minister.

Less than a year ago, after a rather light showing (the Brantley sisters, one right after the other, moaning about their argument the night before over the correct way to mix tapioca, and Calvin Mooney, who had thoughts of coveting his neighbor's wife), Benjamin stood to leave, only to find the door to his office blocked by Ms Bleach-Blonde-Dark-Eyes, one hand supporting her nimble form as she leaned seductively against the frame, her Sunday dress unraveling at the sash and her beautiful fall of golden hair slightly mussed..

And she'd said,
"I've got a sin, Benjamin Conroy, and it needs confessing…"

A sin…

She slammed her hand on his desk, wrenching him from his memories. He looked at her, hot, boiling fury enveloping his mind, his body, his guts.

"How did you get in here?" he asked, clenching his jaw.

She leaned forward, picked up a key from his desk, and shook it derisively back and forth, like a signal.

With this, you dumb idiot…

"Get out of here," he said, thinking,
How in the hell did she get that?

Because you got careless, Benjamin. She lifted it from your desk after you finished sexing her one afternoon. That's how. And God knows what else she got her hands on.

Oh, God. No…

Then she held up his diary. She waved it at him like she did the key, now seemingly saying,
You've got a secret no more, my dear.

His body rushed with rage. He wanted to dive at her right there and then and make her pay hard for her sin. But his body felt otherwise, instantly petrified, frozen with disbelief at her utter audacity, her
nerve
for breaking in here, into his desk. She stood and his heart lurched, his mind trying hard to come up with a quick solution to this problem.
Osiris, help me!
But there seemed to be no immediate resolution.

Their affair had been intense, fiery, undeniably passionate, lasting much longer than Benjamin had ever intended. All his other exploits had ranged from a single afternoon, to three months—mere flings to fulfill his transitory wants and desires. But Helen Mackey, she lasted a year. And, like all the other women, he fed his swollen ego further by chronicling each and every sordid detail in his diary, keeping Polaroid photographs of her (and all the other women) in provocative poses as frontispieces to each written account. This had been his big secret, this diary—the only secret he'd kept from every other living soul. Even God.
 

But now…here it was, out in the open for the world to see, for God to see, in the hands of the woman he'd been trying to end a year-long affair with.

She circled around the side of the desk, stumbling a bit. She planted one butt-cheek down on the edge, knocking over a cup of pens and pencils. "This one is really interesting," she said, holding up a photograph of a naked girl. Her words were slurred, and Benjamin could tell that she'd been drinking. "I believe this is Brittany Wellman. Grace Wellman's daughter. Gee, Benjamin, last I heard she just turned sixteen. And if I'm correct, this picture here looks to be about two years old. Hmm…and let's not ignore what you wrote about her. Shall I refresh your memory?"

Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide and sparkling. Benjamin could tell that she was enjoying this little performance. Quickly and impulsively, he lunged for the diary, a half-hearted effort. She flinched away and dropped it to the floor. The photos fell out like confetti.

When he bent down to pick them up, she uttered, "Don't move."

He didn't like the sudden tone of her voice. Slowly, he twisted his head and looked up at her.

Oh my God, is that a…a gun?

He didn't know where she'd had it hidden—in her purse perhaps, which was draped loosely over her shoulder—but here it was, aimed at his chest. A second round of tears darkened the eyeliner tracks on her face. A gust of late afternoon wind rattled the beams in the church, adding to the
surreality
of the situation. He held up his hands, feigning innocence, eyes darting between the gun, her face, and the Polaroid photographs spread out on the floor like dominoes.

"Helen…please, don't..."

"Listen to me Benjamin…we have a problem, and I need you to fix it." Her face was wounded, brimming with uncertainty and pain.

"What is it? Helen?" His eyes moved toward the gun, now lowering a bit, slightly loose in her grip.

"I—I'm pregnant." She made an attempt to say something else, but only sobs came out.

And the gun dropped an inch further.

Keeping the revelation at bay, Benjamin observed that he was dealing with a woman who'd never used a gun before. In all her dazed uncertainty, she must've lifted it from her husband's nightstand drawer and tucked it into her purse with no real intention of pulling the trigger. She'd wanted to frighten the man she'd been having an affair with…the man that had presumably gotten her pregnant. And that was it.

With this conviction in mind, Benjamin said, "Let's talk about this, Helen. Are you certain you're pregnant?"

"
Of course I am!"
she screamed, securing her aim on him. He inched closer to her, despite the threat, catching a thick reek of alcohol on her breath. Very nice, mother-to-be.

"How do you know it's mine?" he asked, inching closer still, eyes going back and forth between the gun and her messy, muddy eyes.
Harlot's eyes.

"Damn you, Benjamin," she slurred, gaze drifting in their attempt to focus. "You know me, better than anyone, even my husband, even my son. And you know I haven't been with anyone else but you." The gun lowered further. Her voice hitched as she said, "Benjamin…I…I can't handle not being with you." The tears started flowing again, and she blurted angrily, "You told me I was your soul-mate! And…and I gave myself to you, over and over again, right here on this damn desk! And then…you, you refused me! Oh God, you refused me! And…and then you just think you can just throw me away like a piece of trash! Well…I can't let you do that." She looked at him scornfully, and added in a frighteningly calm voice, "If I can't have you, then...no one can."