Archangel (5 page)

Mackenzie knew he was being watched. He turned off the light in his office, realizing that his had been the only light in the building. Darkness swept around him. He crept close to the window.

Mackenzie saw the figure was a woman, dressed too warmly for this night. She wore red galoshes instead of the rubber-and-leather Sorrell boots that people wore all year round in Abenaki Junction. She wore a ratty World War II sheepskin flying jacket, torn to fluffy shreds across her back, and on her head a Russian-looking rabbit-fur hat, pulled down until it almost covered her eyes. It was clothing for the February days when people could not raise their heads to stare into the wind without their eyelashes becoming mascaraed with ice. She looked like a ghost from the winter.

She wore one more thing, and it was from this that Mackenzie recognized her: a large Big Ben alarm clock with two bells on the top and a black face with white-painted numbers. A length of rope was looped around each bell so that she could wear the clock around her neck. She’d worn that Big Ben for almost as long as Mackenzie had known her, which was all his life. She was Mary Frobisher. Mary the Clock.

Mackenzie thought back to when they were children and Mary used to go around with a tin of Crayola crayons—seventy-two in each green-and-yellow box—scribbling illegible fragments of poetry on
every smooth-barked tree and sidewalk she could find. He recalled the gradually changing rainbow of quotations across town as Mary went through her crayons.

She was the first girl he loved, or thought he did when he thought he knew what love was. She showed him affection that neither his parents nor the others his own age could seem to find inside themselves. Mackenzie saw himself and Mary as outcasts in the town, cast out for different reasons, she for her eccentricity and he because he was the son of the wealthiest and most-feared man in the region. But what made them separate from others did not matter. What mattered was that this loneliness brought them together. He loved the smooth sweep of her hips under her flower-patterned dresses. He loved her fine-boned ankles and wrists. And he loved the way she spoke to him, in a language that he could never completely understand, in pictures that would come clear only after hours of thinking. The treadmill of her logic was different and it was this that he called beauty, more than the texture of her skin or the hair so dark it seemed like an absence of light.

He recalled the rudeness that was heaped on her by the other children, because she dealt none of it back. She seemed to have misplaced the capacity for lashing out that preserved an ordinary child. Whenever Mackenzie thought about this, Mary’s face appeared to him like a hologram, green and shimmering. As they grew older, she remained happy in a childlike way when others her own age had discovered the trendy gloominess of adolescence. The first rumors of her mental instability began to spread. Mackenzie stood by her, against the wishes of his parents, perhaps simply
because
it was against their wishes.

When he told his father that he thought he might be in love with Mary, his father raised his hand as if to strike him, wide-eyed outrage on his face. “She’s out of her goddamned mind!” his father had yelled. “And there isn’t anyone who can save her from that. Not you or anyone. Now you can pour your feelings and your loyalty into that woman and it will never be enough because she don’t even know what you’re doing. Is that what you want, boy? A fight you can’t win?” His father walked to the stone mantelpiece, on which he kept a crystal decanter of scotch. He poured some into a tumbler and handed it to Mackenzie. “I see things clearly and I know you don’t
right now. Here.” The amber liquid rocked in the heavy glass. “Put a fire in your heart.”

For Mackenzie, this offering was the rarest and most sought-after gesture that could come from his father. It was the offer of comradeship. The bridging of the gulf between them. But it was only there if Mackenzie accepted the glass, and accepted that his father was right. There could be no hesitation, and the offer might never come again. Not in his father’s lifetime. He was that kind of man.

Mackenzie had gone out with Mary later that night, thinking he would make a break with her but not knowing how it could be done. He ended up making love to her on a blanket thrown across the scattered sawdust of the Mackenzie mill’s cutting-room floor, the smell of oil and pine sap in the air. She never spoke the whole time. It seemed to him she never closed her eyes. They blazed at him with the same puzzle of emotion that made up the riddles of her speech.

She was seventeen then, and he was twenty-one. Mackenzie’s father would have killed him if he’d known.

When Mary left town shortly after her eighteenth birthday to attend a special school in Portland, Mackenzie thought he would never see her again. She had little reason to stay. Too many others had driven away to the south, been swallowed up in the trees that crowded down to the road. They simply disappeared. But when Mary returned six months later, carrying her infant son and refusing to name the father, Mackenzie watched Abenaki Junction turn into an echo chamber. Rumors traveled like wind through laundry hung out to dry, through open windows and across the shingled rooftops.

Mackenzie’s fear that the child was theirs began in him like the drawn-out ringing echo of struck crystal and never lessened in intensity. He didn’t dare to ask, telling himself that if the child did belong to both of them, Mary would let him know. But he didn’t believe it. What Mary did and didn’t do followed no corridor of logic that anyone else could hope to understand.

Mary’s insanity began to seem obvious to Mackenzie. Or perhaps, he thought, I am just seeing it the way others always have. It was as if a spell had finally been broken, and what had made them separate from parents and friends now drove them apart from each other. The possibility of staying together was suddenly both unthinkable and absurdly out of reach. But the worry never left him that the child
could be his, too. No amount of distance could change that. He never told a soul about it, not even his wife, Alicia, whom he married three years later. Mackenzie often thought about the strange hand he had been dealt, with no child from his marriage and the possibility of a child that would never know its father’s name.

What might have been a tolerated life for Mary the Clock—the shack she lived in, the food she bought more for the color of its packaging than for what was inside, the out-of-season clothes she wore—was not tolerated in her young son. Abenaki Junction lost patience with her eccentricity. The boy was taken away at the age of nine months and put in foster care, while Mackenzie stood by feeling sick and helpless and a coward.

Mary began to wander the streets again, just as she had done with her crayons a decade before. The crayons never reappeared. Instead, she took to wearing her Big Ben clock. People said it seemed to be there to replace the tiny heartbeat of her son. It served as proof of insanity to those who had judged her an unfit mother.

Twenty years later, Mary’s son had come back. Now his name was Wilbur Hazard. He arrived almost penniless, wearing a glossy black leather jacket and thin-soled, shiny-buckled shoes, walking with a shuffle that made him seem always on the verge of stumbling. People said he wouldn’t last a week. A year and then two years later, they were still saying it. In time, he put away the leather jacket. The shoes wore out on the grit-strewn sidewalks and he replaced them with the heavy boots that the local men wore. And like the local men, he wedged a baseball cap onto his head and kept it there. He was blending in. Soon the only mysterious thing about him became the reason for his being there. Having learned about his past, by all the reasoning of every gossiped word in town, he should have moved on. But he stayed. Wilbur Hazard made few acquaintances and no friends at all. It was as if he and his mother had barricaded themselves into a private other world. He fixed up Mary’s house, and with money from his job as a cook at the Four Seasons diner, he bought her new clothes. He earned the two of them an almost respectable but stony silent place among the comfortably sane of Abenaki Junction.

Mackenzie had not spoken more than a few words to Mary in years, and had never spoken to Hazard at all. Mackenzie tried not to stare at the young man when the two of them passed on the street. He
waited for some jolt of recognition, a ghost of his own younger self in the man’s face, or the stare that confirmed what he feared. Mackenzie knew exactly what would happen to him in this town if it turned out to be true about Hazard and if the truth ever became public knowledge. He knew how people thought. They would fasten the story to him like a limpet and it would undo every fragment of respect they had for him. This was Mackenzie’s oldest nightmare, rising from the deep water of his memory but never quite reaching the surface.

Mary stood at the wire-mesh gates, penned in by the floodlights’ glare. She shook the heavy lock and chain that secured the gate. Her mouth formed words, but Mackenzie, cloaked in the dark of his office, could not hear what she was saying. He waited until the small and tottering figure vanished into the night. Then he took up the nail, fetched a hammer, got in his car and drove out to the woods.

With the first hammer blow against the bridge nail, Mackenzie recoiled at the noise. He stood very still in the darkness, trying to hear above the sound of his own heavy breathing. He switched on a flashlight and hammered at the nail until its head was flat with the bark. Then he pinched a fingerful of dirt, spat in it and rubbed the mud over the steel to camouflage it. As he rubbed, he saw the nailhead turning red-brown. He had picked up the soil stained with Pfeiffer’s blood. Mackenzie took out a handkerchief, wiped his hands clean, and slipped a long rat-tail file into the cut made by Pfeiffer’s chain saw. He slid the file in until it reached the nail. Then he filed a short jagged rip into the shaft.

Finally he stood back, sweat sticking his shirt to his chest. He shined the flashlight on the place where the nailhead lay embedded in the tree trunk. He could barely see it. He turned to leave, and shuddered. It was too quiet here. Quiet the way it would be now at the house of James Pfeiffer, with the silence that filled all houses of the dead.

Marcus Dodge stood in a meat freezer at the Fresh Time Supermarket, looking at the corpse of James Pfeiffer. The freezer was the only place where Pfeiffer’s body could be stored for now. The nearest mortuary was a hundred miles to the south in Skowhegan, and it was too late to drive that far. The Pfeiffer family had been notified, but an
autopsy would have to be performed before the remains could be released for burial. Dodge felt the unraveling of his heart in search of sympathy, but this dead thing already looked so different from the way Pfeiffer had been in his life that Dodge couldn’t tell whether he ought to feel ashamed to cry or ashamed not to.

A sliver of condensation rose from Pfeiffer’s barely parted lips. It occurred to Dodge that there might still be some life in the body, but he quickly put that aside. Dodge had hardly known Pfeiffer. He had only one clear recollection of the boy, from sometime earlier in the year, when the snow was still on the ground. Dodge had been sitting with Coltrane in the Four Seasons diner. The sound of laughter across the room distracted Dodge. He focused past Coltrane’s shoulder to the source. It was Pfeiffer, laughing either at his own joke or at someone else’s. He sat at a table full of other loggers, broad shoulders in faded shirts. Pfeiffer rocked back and opened his mouth as he laughed, showing his strong white teeth. Dodge’s mind had made an unexpected Polaroid of that moment, and stored it away in his brain.

Twitch Duvall stood next to Dodge in the freezer. He wore a thing like a shower cap, required for all employees who went into the frozen-meat section. Twitch tried to make Dodge wear a shower cap, but Dodge took the puffy pale-green thing and popped it onto the head of a cardboard cutout of a woman advertising oven cleaner.

Twitch’s breath was visible in the stale damp air. “Now, you just make damn sure nobody hears that you’re keeping this guy in my supermarket.” Twitch edged over to the body. He pattered his fingers on the bib of his starched and bloodstained apron. The raggedness of Pfeiffer’s wounds had no visible effect on Duvall, as if the sight of supermarket butchery had long ago numbed him to this.

Dodge made no comment about Pfeiffer. He kept his feelings to himself. He knelt down next to the corpse, which lay stretched across two pallets, six inches off the wet concrete floor. For a while, the still-warm body had steamed in the steel-walled room, but Pfeiffer was cold now, and felt clammy to the touch in the way only refrigerated meat can feel. Dodge noticed the whiteness of the dead man’s finger-nails, and how black the dirt seemed under their tips. It made him clench his own hands into fists and jam them deep into his pockets, as if the paleness of death might be contagious. He walked over to a side of beef and sat down on it. The dull white armorplating of fat across
the carcass was tattooed with blue USDA stamps. Dodge smoothed his hands across his face, feeling the skull beneath the skin.