House Infernal by Edward Lee (3 page)

"Thanks, Dad," " she said with a smirk. But she knew he
was right. "I tossed and turned all night. I had this weird
dream, and then I couldn't get back to sleep."

"I'll stop at a convenience store so you can get some coffee. It'll perk you up. You don't want to fall asleep in the
middle of your interview with Father Driscoll."

Her mother: "It's not an interview, Richard. She's already been accepted for the assignment. They can't very
well turn down a twenty-one-year-old senior with a fourpoint-oh average."

Venetia groggily leaned up. "I know, but that's still a
good idea, Dad. I could use some coffee now that you
mention it."

"Good. And I could use a chili dog." Richard looked to
his wife. "No offense, sweetheart, but your hash and eggs
didn't quite cut it this morning."

Maxine Barlow smiled. "You get that chili dog, Richard.
Get several. Because they'll be following that ludicrous
pipe right up your ... you-know-what."

Venetia winced. "You two really are a scream today."

"Don't listen to your moronic, stick-in-the-mud father,
dear," her mother urged.

"Hey. I admit I'm a stick in the mud, but I'm not moronic."

"I'm sorry, dear. I meant imbecilic." Maxine turned back
to her daughter, concern in her eyes. "But what were you
saying before your thoroughly uncouth father interrupted?
Oh, yes-it was a nightmare that kept you awake."

"Not a nightmare, really..."

"Thank God," her father interrupted yet again. "Your
mother's breakfast was nightmare enough."

Maxine's smile just kept growing. "I'Il put the leftovers
in the fireplace bellows ... and can you guess where I'll
stick that?" The robust woman fingered the small gold
cross around her neck and again addressed her daughter.
"So it wasn't a nightmare, then?"

"No, Mom. It was just a weird dream. Nothing scary
about it-it just bothered me for some reason."

"What happened in the dream?"

Venetia let her thoughts slide back. She dreamt of
standing in a red-tinged darkness. All she could see before her were six boxes. Were they small coffins or vaults
of some sort?

Then they vanished, and a voice from nowhere jolted her.

It was a man's voice, and he'd spoken loudly and with obvious alarm: "This isn't a dream! You must understand!
You have to understand!"

The exclamation arrived as a half shriek, with an undertone of dread. It was sourceless.

The voice faded with these words: "Everything's opposite
here. You must understand ..."

And that was it.

But now that she'd replayed it in her mind, it seemed
weak, petty. A voice in a dream ... telling me it wasn't a
dream? Stupid ...

"Can't really say why the dream kept me awake. Now
that I think of it, it was kind of stupid."

"Oh, you mean like those soap operas your mother
watches all day," Richard Barlow remarked.

"No, Richard, she means stupid like that ridiculous
wrestling you watch all day," Maxine cut in through gritted teeth. "Venetia? So we can actually have a practical
mother-to-daughter conversation, ignore everything that
comes out of your father's mouth. It's easy. I've been doing it for twenty years-"

"To make up for what you haven't been doing for
twenty years." Richard chuckled and boorishly elbowed
his wife.

What did I do to deserve this? Venetia wondered through
her fatigue.

"The Prior House is simply a piece of Vatican-owned
property," Maxine began to explain. "It never functioned
as a monastic domicile-Father Driscoll said that in the
past the Church used it for important priests to take
respites, a vacation between pastoral assignments."

Venetia tried to focus on the topic. When she'd done a
quick Internet search on St. John's Prior House, she'd
come up blank. "That's interesting. There are a lot of old
priories in the DC area, but they changed most of them
into hospices. I read somewhere once that dedicated
monasteries are declining. Men don't want to become
monks anymore."

"What about nuns?" her father piped up.

"In America? Interest in convent life is declining too. The overseas assignments are pretty rough-Third World
countries, high death and disease rates, stuff like that."

"But that doesn't bother you?" her mother asked.

Venetia gave her textbook answer. "I just want to do
what God wants me to do. The problem is, He's not exactly shining His guiding light in front of me these days."
She rubbed her eyes again. I need that coffee. Now. "I'm not
going to worry about it until I get my master's." She managed a grin. "Who knows? Maybe I'll just get a job in a fry
house."

"What? What?" her father snapped.

"And it was great to see Father Driscoll after all these
years," her mother went on. "If anything, he's more handsome now than he was fifteen years ago."

"He always struck me as a young punk," Richard felt
the need to remark. "Now I guess he's-what-a middleaged punk?"

"And you're an over-the-hill punk, darling," Maxine said.

Venetia shook her head. "I don't remember him."

"He was the seminarian at our church for a year or two,
the nicest man, very earnest, and serious about his devotion to God. You were only five or six when he became a
priest. When he stopped at the service two weeks ago, he
looked almost exactly the same. Handsome, even kind of
dashing."

"Sounds like trouble," Richard murmured. "I can't wait
to tell my bowling team my wife's got the hots for a
priest."

Maxine sighed. "I wish I knew how to say 'shut up' in
Latin."

"Silere, I think," Venetia said.

"Richard? Would you please silere? Thank you."

Her father looked over his shoulder again. "Hey, Venetia? How do you say 'pain in the ass' in Latin?"

"You two are impossible," Venetia groaned.

"But Father Driscoll certainly remembered you, and he
was very impressed when I told him you were at Catholic
University and wanted to become a nun."

"Might become a nun," Venetia corrected.

"Or a fry cook," her father said.

"He said that the only true theology student is the student who devotes their life to God. 'The Evangelists of the
modern age,' he said."

"You'll be fine," her mother assured. "All through high
school and now college, I don't think you ever got a mark
lower than an A."

"A master's curriculum in theology and Christian thesis at a religious college is another story altogether." Venetia paused and wondered again why she was worrying
about it. I feel confident, I feel ready.... So why am I fretting?

Could the sudden nervousness have something to do
with this field assignment at the prior house?

What's wrong with me today?

"Here's a Qwik-Mart," Richard announced. "Let's get
some coffee"-he winked at his wife-"and some chili
dogs."

Maxine nodded as if an exciting idea had struck her. "I
read once on AOL News about a man who unknowingly
poisoned himself to death in his sleep because he broke
so much wind...." She glanced swiftly to her husband.
"Richard, get yourself a dozen of those chili dogs. I'll
sleep in the spare room tonight."

"Oh, that's great. I'll finally get a break from your snoring." Richard cocked another snide grin to Venetia. "Your
mother snores so loud it sounds like a chain saw crew in
the room-"

"You two are killing me!" Venetia yelled, hands to her
ears.

Her parents continued to bicker as Venetia followed
them into the store. A man in his early twenties, with a
black mop haircut and HIGHWAY To HELL T-shirt, was tending the register. His eyes widened when they all entered.
He took obvious glances at Maxine's bosom, and then at
Venetia's. Eyeball us to death, why don't you? Venetia
thought; but she scarcely cared. Even at a fairly rigid
Catholic college, Venetia had learned to deflect the everrising tide of male sexism, but, conversely, she knew that a tiny bit of herself was mildly flattered by the boy's appraising glance. Venetia hadn't inherited all of her
mother's mammarian allotment, but with a 36C, she supposed she was two-thirds there, and two-thirds was
enough.

"Hey, son?" her father asked. He looked over the rims
of his black-framed glasses. "You heard a Red Sox
score?"

"Yankees are leading six to zip in the fourth," the kid
answered.

"Goddamn-"

"Richard!" Maxine objected.

"God-dang! I was going to say god-dang!" Then he
stalked off to the chili dog rack. "Those goddamn,
money-belching Yankees can kiss my ass."

"Excuse me," Venetia asked. "Where's the restroom?"

The kid pointed to a comer. "Right back there."

"I'll get your coffee, dear," her mother said.

Was it jealousy she felt next? The lanky clerk's eyes shot
to her mother's bosom, not Venetia's, as Maxine bounced
toward the coffee station. Venetia's eyes thinned when she
turned toward the comer. I don't believe it! Maxine didn't
appear to be wearing a bra.

I guess that happens when you get older, she reasoned. You
do things to feel vital again, to reclaim some youth even though
you know it's behind you.

But if that were so ... then how did Venetia feel, barely
twenty-one?

Did she feel vital? Or desexualized since she'd been
considering a nun's vocation?

All I feel right now is tired, she thought.

When she flicked on the bathroom light, the room filled
with white light. It was a unisex bathroom. She locked the
door, then washed her hands, fearful of all the germs on
the doorknob, and when she recalled the shiftless clerk,
she put toilet paper down along the seat's rim. That pervert
probably pees on the seat deliberately, because he knows women
will sit on it. A strange thought but, then, she knew she was in the real world now, for however briefly. On the
wall someone had penned, NOT TO BE BORN IS BEST. That's
Sophocles, she knew at once. I'll bet the guy at the register
didn't write that one. While she relieved herself, something on the floor caught her eye, like yellow cellophane
but with a ring. Oh, gross, she thought when she realized
it must be a used condom.

A moment later, she caught herself jolting awake.

This is ridiculous! I almost fell asleep on a convenience store
toilet!

She flushed with her shoe, then vigorously shook her
head. Her fatigue seemed to be compounding. Get it together. You're about to meet a priest who's had assignments at
the Vatican. Wake your butt up!

Tired eyes looked back at her in the mirror. She took a
moment to appraise herself.

No wonder that creep outside was staring ... It occurred
to her that the simple white blouse, which she'd only
bought a year ago, was now tight. I guess they're still growing. She stepped back for a longer view and felt comfortable with the conservative attire: a pleated, black
knee-skirt to complement the white blouse, and a cross
about her neck. A white-blond ponytail, shining and
straight, hung to the bottom of her shoulder blades. Her
bosom straining the blouse was the only thing that
might nix the austere Catholic schoolgirl-look she'd
hoped for.

Just as she'd been rousing herself, more graffiti snagged
her eye. What in the name of...

She knew it was vulgar before she even looked at it all:
a drawing in black ballpoint, craggy like a grade-schooler.

But no grade-schooler had drawn this.

It was a crude sketch of a nude woman, thighs spread,
squiggles for pubic hair. A dot for a navel, and a pair of
circles with dots for nipples. The mouth gaped, with ink
droplets at each comer-presumably a depiction of semen. The woman's eyes were a pair of Xs.

A just-as-crudely-drawn knife was cutting the woman's
throat. The artist, though completely without talent, had been conscientious enough to bring a supplemental red
pen to denote blood pouring from the woman's throat.

However vulgar, Venetia wasn't shocked by the sketch.
She read the online news everyday as well as the local
Washington papers. Murder, rape, and molestation dominated the headlines most days. Her exhausted eyes
shifted over the sketch. It's a sick world, she thought, full of
sick people. As a nun, she would likely have to tend to such
people often with compassion.

Immediately below the sketch was a senseless diagram:

A rock group emblem? she guessed.

She turned on the faucet at the sink, cupped her hands
beneath it. Gotta wake myself up ...

And she almost screamed when the distorted voice from
her dream shouted, "Don't put water in your face! Keep yourself fatigued! It's the only way I can maintain communication!"

'The voice sounded flayed but high-pitched, like a
blown speaker.

"Everything's opposite here! You must understand! Your
moon is white-ours is black...."

Venetia collapsed to the corner, hands to her ears.

But she could still hear the voice.

"Enchantments are dis-enchantments! Compassion is atrocity! You must understand! You have to understand!"