Chasing AllieCat (20 page)

Twenty-eight

Allie, Father Malcolm, and
Cecil Baker

Still the Fourth of July

What seemed a long time later, the hospital door opened.

Siren leapt up and charged so fast, he jerked Joe right over. Allie stepped toward us, and Siren whirled and leapt at the end of the leash. She knelt beside him and wrapped her arms around him. He licked her face and wagged a million miles an hour. His tongue lolled out so far he could have stepped on it. She’d been gone maybe all of half an hour, and this was his greeting. She buried her face in his neck.

When she looked up at us, her face was the same color it had been when we found Father Malcolm in the ravine. “He’s dead. Father Malcolm.”

She sat down on the grass. Siren put his front paws and nose in her lap. “They’re moving him, and Dr. Rathburn said we can come up then and say a final good-bye.”

“Holy crap. That filthy, rotten bastard,” Joe muttered.

“Dr. Rathburn?” I said.

“No. Allie’s dad. Father Malcolm is dead. If Allie’s dad did this, he
killed
the priest.”

“It’s my fault,” Allie said, half-muffled against Siren’s head. “He’s dead because of me.”

“Allie,” I said, “that’s bullshit.”

Allie didn’t look up.

“He’s dead,” Joe said, “and it’s nobody’s fault but the guy who did this to him.”

Allie looked at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. “My dad,” she said, “is a murderer. A murderer. My
dad
is a murderer. You can tell that to your fancy archeologist parents and see if they let you hang out with me. Another reason for me to disappear. Nobody should hang out with me. Look what happens.”

“Sadie’s right,” Joe said. “That’s bullshit.”

Allie bit her lip.

“Stuff happens,” Joe went on. “My brother died, and I blamed myself, and maybe I could have stopped him, but I couldn’t know—didn’t know—and none of that makes it my fault. This isn’t your fault at all, Allie.”

We were quiet again.

“Allie.” I sat cross-legged beside her and rubbed Siren’s ribs. He looked at me and then put his nose back on Allie’s thigh. “I get why you took off when you knew your dad was back—when you knew your dad did this. I get why you needed to hide from him. But I still don’t understand why you hid from us.”

Allie stroked Siren’s ear and said nothing.

“Allie. We need to know. Talk. Please.”

Allie bit her lip, hard, then said, “I told you that Father Malcolm turned my dad in.”

“Yeah, so? That doesn’t make you responsible. Or explain why you hid.”

“I told Father Malcolm what my dad was doing. In fact, Father Malcolm is the
only
one I ever told. And look what it got him. It’s what happens to somebody who knows what my dad really is.”

Joe leaned in toward Allie. “Look, Allie. Father Malcolm isn’t dead because you talked to him. Father Malcolm is dead because somebody who’s a low-down dirty horrible bastard, who is a despicable human being, beat him to death. If that’s your dad, I’m sorry. But it doesn’t have anything to do with you telling someone the truth.”

Allie looked up and shrugged. “It does. This happened to Father Malcolm because he knew too much. That’s why I hid from you guys. So you wouldn’t know too much … ”

Joe and I looked at each other. Maybe this was being in love. When you could say volumes with just your eyes. We both knew we could run, shut the door on this, be done, gone, and we both knew it was the last thing we would do.

“Allie,” I said, “too late. You’re my friend. Our friend. This is what friends do. They take shit for each other. They stick together. You’re not getting rid of us. We’re here—” I smiled—“to
walk through the chicken
with you.”

She looked up. “I get it. I think. Dad never let me have friends much.”

“Of course not. Friends talk. If you had a friend, you might have told somebody else what was going on. So talk.” I faced Allie.

She looked at us miserably.

Joe got to his feet. “Want me to take Siren for a walk? So you can talk to Sadie without me?”

Allie shook her head and rubbed Siren’s front leg. “No, thanks. I want Siren here. And you might as well hear, too, Joe. Sit down.”

Joe sat back down.

So Allie talked.

“When I was almost twelve, I told him—Father Malcolm—in confession. My dad made me go to CCD and to confession. He believed in it like some sort of holy whitewash. If you go to confession, it will take care of rest of your sins or the shit in your life or something.” She stroked Siren’s ears.

“Yeah? And?”

“So I told Father Malcolm that Dad used to get my mom drugged or passed out drunk to get her out of the way. He dealt drugs, too, so there was always something around. Then he’d come to my room. First he just touched me. Then more and more, and then he forced himself on me … like at least once a week. Started when I was nine. The first time, I thought he’d split me in two.”

We were silent, shocked.

“And Siren tried to tear him apart ’cause he knew Dad was hurting me and I was trying to get away,” Allie continued. “Dad kicked Siren—broke his ribs once, after Siren attacked him. I grabbed Siren and lay on top of him, and wouldn’t let go, and I was crying and screaming that Dad would have to shoot me to get Siren and I didn’t care if he did. Shoot me, I mean. I wanted to just die.”

Siren looked up into Allie’s face, panting a smile, every time she said his name.

“After that, Dad used to tie Siren up outside. Usually he had to drug him—put drugs in some meat—so he wouldn’t go crazy tied up away from me when he knew I was in trouble.” Allie ran her hand down Siren’s ribs. She didn’t look up.

“If I made noise, he put a pillow over my mouth so no one would hear me scream or cry. I thought I was gonna suffocate, so I quit crying. Instead, I shut down. He didn’t let me have friends, so I closed off the world.”

Allie pulled her free knee—the one not under Siren’s head—up to her chest and held it in her elbow, her face buried in it. I could hardly hear her. I barely breathed. And then, I saw a tear. Allie, tough girl, AllieCat, always-land-rubber-side-down-or-on-her-feet AllieCat was crying. She sniffed and wiped her nose on her knee.

“I only cried one other time after that. Ever.” She glanced up at me, wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Until now.” She grinned through the tears.

I nodded. I reached out and put my hand on her knee.

“Afterwards, he’d sort of wake up, like he couldn’t help himself when he did it, and then he’d come to his senses, and feel bad, and make me food to try to make it up. Usually spaghetti, and he makes the best spaghetti in the world. Then there were leftovers the next day if Mom was too drunk to cook.

“Dad used to tell me that if I told anybody what he did, it would kill my mom, and he would have to go away and I’d be all alone. And nobody would make me food. I believed him. And in a warped way, he was right.

“You know what’s crazy? I thought God knew everything, so he already knew what my dad was doing, so if I told Father Malcolm, it was nothing new under the sun for God. And if God already wasn’t doing anything about it, what the hell could Father Malcolm do? So nothing would happen.

“Boy was I wrong.

“When I came out of the confessional that time, Father Malcolm was crying, too. The cops went straight to our trailer while Mom was waiting outside the church to pick me up, and they arrested Dad right then and there. They had a search warrant, and they found some drugs, too. The social worker came and took me to a foster home.

“Father Malcolm came to see me the next day at the foster home, and I told him God had only screwed things up. He hadn’t fixed anything and Dad was right—now I was all alone. But Father Malcolm took me to A-1 that day and got me a bike. I loved that bike. It was a blue Giant mountain bike. I rode it and rode it and never quit.”

She laughed a half laugh, and she looked at both of us. “Some things pay off, I guess. I got faster and faster. And I knew how to change a tire and fix the chain before I was thirteen. That was the nicest thing anybody ever did for me, I guess. After my dad got sent to prison, I moved back home with Mom. And now I had a bike.” She grinned and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“So,” she continued, “when I saw Father Malcolm beat up, I was sure my dad was out of prison. I knew he would go after him ’cause he would blame him for getting sent away. Who else would beat up a priest—a really good priest—in the middle of the woods?”

“Wow,” I said.

“I knew he’d blame me, too, and he’d never leave me alone unless I disappeared. And you couldn’t know where I was either, in case he found you.”

I reached over to rub Siren’s ears. He licked my hand. Then he turned, ears up, toward the hospital door.

Zia stepped out, looked up and down the sidewalk, and saw us. “There you are. I look and look everywhere for you. Here, finally, you are. Come in now. Say good-bye to the priest.”

Joe jumped up and then reached out two hands to pull us both to our feet. I took his hand, but Allie stood up on her own.

“We won’t be too long,” Allie said. “Siren, will you stay put if we tie you up so Joe can come in?” She tied his leash to the bike rack, triple knotting it, and kissed his nose. “We’ll be right back.”

So we followed her inside. Siren whimpered, but he didn’t howl.

We took the elevator, and during the silent ride, I thought about my mom in Egypt. I thought about how mad I’d been at her getting to go do research for the summer, and how mad I’d been at them for getting divorced. And I felt about as big as a speck of dust.

Dr. Rathburn met us at the door and said, “I don’t know what you believe about dying, but I suppose there’s some comfort in the idea that, if what the Father believed is true, he’s in a better place and out of pain.”

“I wish I believed that,” Allie said. “But I kinda doubt it. God hasn’t been too good at taking care of stuff as far as I can tell.”

The doctor gave Allie a sad smile and led us through a door. “Here he is. I’m very sorry about this. Take as much time as you need.”

The room was tiny and looked sterile. A sheet covered Father Malcolm’s face. The body’s face. Allie lifted it. It reminded me of her lifting the blue tarp off him, only much slower, and much more gently. My eyes met Joe’s. I could tell he thinking about his brother.

Father Malcolm didn’t look that different than he had in the woods. Just without all the blood and without the raspy breathing.

Joe made a choking sound, like retching. “I gotta go,” he said. He squeezed my hand and scooted out the door. I thought I should follow him. I was torn between staying and going. I needed to be both places, with Allie and with Joe. A good girlfriend should go. But I hadn’t been around for Allie lately. I ached to give Joe a hug.

I stayed with Allie.

Allie stood, stoic, beside the dead man. The first time I ever saw this guy was as the injured victim of a beating, never as a whole man, never as a priest. Then he was a mess of wounded flesh, and now he was dead flesh. I wished I’d met him before he got beaten to a pulp. This priest was the only man who was really, really good to Allie in her early life, and he was gone. Her dad had a way of taking everything good away from her.

As I looked at Father Malcolm Dykstra, I wondered if he had relatives somewhere, brothers or sisters or even ancient parents. Or if he was alone in the world except for God and the church. And of course, the nuns.