Forever Odd (25 page)

CHAPTER 63

S
TORMY’S UNCLE, SEAN LLEWELLYN, IS A priest and the rector of St. Bartholomew’s, in Pico Mundo.

Following the deaths of her mother and father, when Stormy was seven and a half, she had been adopted by a couple in Beverly Hills. Her adoptive father had molested her.

Lonely, confused, ashamed, she had eventually found the courage to inform a social worker.

Thereafter, choosing dignity over victimhood, courage over despair, she had lived in St. Bart’s Orphanage until she graduated from high school.

Father Llewellyn is a gentle man with a gruff exterior, strong in his convictions. He looks like Thomas Edison as played by Spencer Tracy, but with brush-cut hair. Without his Roman collar, he might be mistaken for a career Marine.

Two months after the events at the Panamint, Chief Porter came with me to a consultation with Father Llewellyn. We met in the study in St. Bart’s rectory.

In a spirit of confession, requiring the priest’s confidence, we told him about my gift. The chief confirmed that with my help he had solved certain crimes, and he vouched for my sanity, my truthfulness.

My primary question for Father Llewellyn was whether he knew of a monastic order that would provide room and board for a young man who would work hard in return for these provisions, but who did not think that he himself would ever wish to become a monk.

“You want to be a lay resident in a religious community,” said Father Llewellyn, and by the way he put it, I knew this might be an unusual but not an unheard-of arrangement.

“Yes, sir. That’s the thing.”

With the rough bearish charm of a concerned Marine sergeant counseling a troubled soldier, the priest said, “Odd, you’ve taken some bad blows this past year. Your loss…my loss, too…has been an extraordinarily difficult thing to cope with because she was…such a good soul.”

“Yes, sir. She was. She is.”

“Grief is a healthy emotion, and it’s healthy to embrace it. By accepting loss, we clarify our values and the meaning of our lives.”

“I wouldn’t be running away from grief, sir,” I assured him.

“Or giving yourself too much to it?”

“Not that, either.”

“That’s what I worry about,” Chief Porter told Father Llewellyn. “That’s why I don’t approve.”

“This isn’t the rest of my life,” I said. “A year maybe, and then we’ll see. I just need things simpler for a while.”

“Have you gone back to the Grille?” the priest asked.

“No. The Grille is a busy place, Father, and Tire World’s not much better. I need useful work to keep my mind occupied, but I’d like to find work where it’s…quieter.”

“Even as a lay resident, taking no instruction, you’d still have to be in harmony with the spiritual life of whatever order might have a place for you.”

“I would be, sir. I would be in harmony.”

“What sort of work would you expect to do?”

“Gardening. Painting. Minor repairs. Scrubbing floors, washing windows, general cleaning. I could cook for them, if they wanted.”

“How long have you been thinking about this, Odd?”

“Two months.”

To Chief Porter, Father Llewellyn said, “Has he talked with you about it for that long?”

“Just about,” the chief acknowledged.

“Then it’s not an impetuous decision.”

The chief shook his head. “Odd isn’t impetuous.”

“I don’t believe he’s running from his grief, either,” said Father Llewellyn. “Or to it.”

I said, “I just need to simplify. To simplify and find the quiet to think.”

To the chief, Father Llewellyn said, “As his friend who knows him better than I do, and as a man he obviously looks up to, do you have any other reason you don’t think Odd should try this?”

Chief Porter was quiet a moment. Then he said, “I don’t know what we’ll do without him.”

“No matter how much help Odd gives you, Chief, there will always be more crime.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Wyatt Porter. “I mean…I just don’t know what we’ll do without you, son.”

SINCE STORMY’S DEATH, I had lived in her apartment. Those rooms meant less to me than her furnishings, small decorative objects, and personal items. I did not want to get rid of her things.

With Terri’s and Karla’s help, I packed Stormy’s belongings, and Ozzie offered to keep everything in a spare room at his house.

On my next-to-last night in that apartment, I sat with Elvis in the lovely light of an old lamp with a beaded shade, listening to his music from the first years of his storied career.

He loved his mother more than anything in life. In death, he wants more than anything to see her.

Months before she died—you can read this in many biographies of him—she worried that fame was going to his head, that he was losing his way.

Then she died young, before he reached the peak of his success, and after that he changed. Pierced by grief for years, he nonetheless forgot his mother’s advice, and year by year his life went further off the rails, the promise of his talent less than half fulfilled.

By the time he was forty—which biographies also report—Elvis had been tormented by the belief that he had not served his mother’s memory well and that she would have been ashamed of his drug use and his self-indulgence.

After his death at forty-two, he lingers because he fears the very thing that he most desperately desires: to see Gladys Presley. Love of this world, which was so good to him, is not what holds him here, as I once thought. He knows his mother loves him, and will take him in her arms without a word of criticism, but he burns with shame that he became the world’s biggest star—but not the man she might have hoped he would be.

In the world to come, she will be delighted to receive him, but he feels he is not worthy of her company, because he believes that she resides now in the company of saints.

I told him this theory on my next-to-last night in Stormy’s apartment.

When I had finished, his eyes blurred with tears, and he closed them for a long time. When at last he looked at me again, he reached out and took one of my hands in both of his.

Indeed, that is why he lingers. My analysis, however, is not enough to convince him that his fear of a mother-and-child reunion is without merit. Sometimes he can be a stubborn old rockabilly.

My decision to leave Pico Mundo, at least for a while, has led to the solution of another mystery related to Elvis. He haunts this town not because it has any meaning for him, but because I am here. He believes that eventually I
will
be the bridge that takes him home, and to his mother.

Consequently, he wants to come with me on the next phase of my journey. I doubt that I could prevent him from accompanying me, and I’ve no reason to reject him.

I am amused at the thought of the King of Rock ’n’ Roll haunting a monastery. The monks might be good for him, and I’m sure that he’ll be good for me.

This night, as I write, will be my last night in Pico Mundo. I will spend it in a gathering of friends.

This town, in which I have slept every night of my life, will be difficult to leave. I will miss its streets, its sounds and scents, and I will remember always the quality of desert light and shadow that lend it mystery.

Far more difficult will be leaving the company of my friends. I’ve nothing else in life but them. And hope.

I don’t know what lies ahead for me in this world. But I know Stormy waits for me in the next, and that knowledge makes this world less dark than otherwise it would be.

In spite of everything, I’ve chosen life. Now, on with it.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The Panamint Indians of the Shoshoni–Comanche family do not operate a casino in California. If they had owned the Panamint Resort and Spa, no catastrophe would have befallen it, and I would not have had a story.

—DK

This book is for Trixie, though she will never read it. On the most difficult days at the key board, when I despair, she can always make me laugh. The words
good dog
are inadequate in her case. She is a good heart and a kind soul, and an angel on four feet.

ALSO BY DEAN KOONTZ

77 Shadow Street • What the Night Knows • Breathless • Relentless • Your Heart Belongs to Me • The Darkest Evening of the Year • The Good Guy • The Husband • Velocity • Life Expectancy • The Taking • The Face • By the Light of the Moon • One Door Away From Heaven • From the Corner of His Eye • False Memory • Seize the Night • Fear Nothing • Mr. Murder • Dragon Tears • Hideaway • Cold Fire • The Bad Place • Midnight • Lightning • Watchers • Strangers • Twilight Eyes • Darkfall • Phantoms • Whispers • The Mask • The Vision • The Face of Fear • Night Chills • Shattered • The Voice of the Night • The Servants of Twilight • The House of Thunder • The Key to Midnight • The Eyes of Darkness • Shadowfires • Winter Moon • The Door to December • Dark Rivers of the Heart • Icebound • Strange Highways • Intensity • Sole Survivor • Ticktock • The Funhouse • Demon Seed
ODD THOMAS
Odd Thomas • Forever Odd • Brother Odd • Odd Hours
FRANKENSTEIN
Prodigal Son • City of Night • Dead and Alive • Lost Souls • The Dead Town
A Big Little Life: A Memoir of a Joyful Dog Named Trixie

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DEAN KOONTZ, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives with his wife, Gerda, and the enduring spirit of their golden retriever, Trixie, in southern California.

Correspondence for the author should be addressed to:

Dean Koontz

P.O. Box 9529

Newport Beach, California 92658