Cursed Be the Child (35 page)

Stefan grabbed the boy’s wrists. “Stop it! Stop it now!”

And just like that, the child did stop. Though his face stayed flushed, his black eyes grew cold and tearless. “I do not love you, Papa. Not anymore. No one ever again. Nobody will ever leave me and hurt me like this again.” The boy’s cold smile twisted Stefan’s guts.

On Friday, David silently accepted his father’s kiss, then, with nothing on his face or in his eyes, calmly took Big Hovarth’s hand and drove off in the
kumpania’s
modern day caravan of two Lincolns and a Cadillac.

Stefan Grinzspan, his heart a dried pit in his chest, went back to his apartment. The Sabbath began at sundown, and this time, he did not welcome the day of peace with candles and prayer. He waited until after sunset, when the tentative dark was upon the city, and then he turned on the oven. He could not light it; you were not to strike a fire on the Sabbath.

In his
yarmulke,
his white and blue
tallis,
the prayer shawl of observant Jews, draped over his shoulders, he sat at the table. After awhile, he felt somewhat dizzy, as though his soul were trying to loose itself of his body. He breathed deeply and felt himself become light, relieved of the pressing weight of sin. He arose, weightless and innocent and free. I have given my son to the Gypsies, and I am giving my soul to God.

The vows we make when we are youngest and most foolish are the very vows we most strive to keep as we grow older and more wise. The Hovarths taught David Grinzspan Romany ways and loved him like a true son. David Grinzspan learned Romany ways and did not love the Hovarths. He gave them respect. He treated each and every one of them with proper courtesy. He made it clear to them and to himself that he was with them but not one of them.

The Hovarths felt hurt.

David did not share that hurt.

David did not feel.

As a young man, David discovered photography. He found satisfaction in the way it let him clinically gaze at the world, providing clean, objective distance from what he saw.

He no longer called himself David Grinzspan. That was a Jewish name, and he was no Jew. His father had given him to the Gypsies. He did not call himself by the name Hovarth. That was a Romany name, a name for a man of
tacho rat;
but a Rom is a man of deep feeling, one who lives by his passions—and David had no passions.

David Greenfield was a relatively euphonious name. It signified nothing.

Nothing. No one.

It was a fitting name for the man he saw himself as, the man he had chosen to be.

All this and more, his past and his future, Pola Janichka learned from David Greenfield’s palm.
“San Rom,”
she said again. “You are a Gypsy. Your soul is a Gypsy soul. Your heart is a Gypsy heart, and it beats with the great heart of your people.”

David shrugged. “The curse,” he said.

“I know, I know,” Pola Janichka said. Of course, she had seen Selena in his palm, too.

“I speak for her as she is forbidden to speak to you. The curse,
marhime,
must be lifted. She begs this of you. She begs to learn from you once more, to be given your knowledge of
draba
magic and charms.”

“Mong, fuli tschai, mong!”
Pola Janichka said. “Beg, you foolish girl, beg! I loved her. I gave my love freely. I gave my gifts freely. Then Selena Lazone broke my heart.”

Pola Janichka closed her eyes. Her mouth worked on the stem of her pipe. Finally, she said, “I will see her,” she said. “Bring her to me. Now.”

— | — | —

Thirty-Eight

“Thank God!” Vicki hugged him and burst into tears.

Warren perfunctorily shook his hand and took his coat. He offered a bland, vaguely appropriate greeting; beneath an obviously forced smile lurked a look of mildly amused disdain.

Shoulders quaking, Vicki sobbed, “Oh, thank God, you’re here!”

Here
was the setting of the most momentous undertaking of his ministry, of his life.
Here
would he prove himself. Here would he encounter, combat and defeat the evil, proving himself the Lord’s true champion.

Evan Kyle Dean could feel it, standing in the foyer, a few minutes past nine, with these two people that genealogy, chance and God Almighty had brought together.

Here was the testing place of Evan Kyle Dean. All his senses were receiving intimations of the past, present, future—and of eternity.

There were secrets here. There was secret sin, crimes contemplated and crimes committed, crimes against others, crimes against self, crimes against God. Teasing flashes played on the keen receptors of Evan Kyle Dean’s awareness.

His heart raced. He was dry-mouthed and light-headed, his blood and his power burning throughout his body.

“Vicki, Warren,” he said, “let’s talk.”

The words came spilling out of Vicki as she sat at the table with Evan Kyle Dean. He did not interrupt. Nor did Warren, who had not sat down but was pacing about the kitchen, sometimes slipping within the periphery of Evan’s vision, to favor him with a tight-lipped mocking smile, sometimes moving behind him, momentarily out of sight as he circled the table and the two of them. Warren might have thought himself a phantom observer from an alien planet, curious about their discussion, able to comprehend little of it, even as he ridiculed them for not recognizing his presence.

“That’s it,” Vicki said. “That’s all of it.”

“I see,” Evan said. Suddenly, he cocked his head, caught Warren’s eye and froze him in his tracks. “I’ve not heard from you, Warren. What do you think of all this?”

Warren glared and, for an instant, Evan Kyle Dean expected his brother-in-law to leap for his throat. Then the moment of tension passed with Warren’s laughter. He leaned back against the counter, arms folded.

“I think it’s nonsense,” Warren said. “Bullshit.”

“Warren!”

Warren straightened up, wagging a finger at her. “Nope, Vicki, I have been patient. I’ll go along with it because it will keep you happy and it can’t do the kid any harm.”

He sighed, as though he were the most put-upon man who ever lived. “The kid needs some shrinking, so we go see the lady shrink. Turns out Ms. Freud is missing a few cards in her deck but has replaced them with moths and butterflies, and she tells us our kid has a wicked spirit, a
diakka
or some damn thing in her soul. So of course, we just have to get in touch with a professional exorcist. Makes all the sense in the world! And hey, no need to check the classified advertising in the National Enquirer. After all, my very own yokel brother-in-law does demons, yessir!”

“Warren!” Vicki got to her feet.

Warren ignored her. Frowning menacingly, Warren strode towards Evan Kyle Dean. “Hey, brother-in-law, will we get a family discount rate? Double demons for your dollars? And can we pay by credit card?”

Vicki brought her fist down on the table. “Warren, Evan came to help us!”

“Right, right,” Warren said. “And just because I’m such a fine guy, I’m going to tolerate his help tonight, and that is it. The End. Then the most holy reverend can take his Save Your Soul show back on the road and out of my face!”

Warren grinned theatrically at Evan Kyle Dean. “Get the message, Preach?”

“You don’t have sole say in this, Warren! Missy is our child. This is our house.”

Evan Kyle Dean’s solemn voice stilled hers. “You’re afraid, Warren,” he said. “What are you afraid of?”

Warren Barringer’s face flashed white, and for an instant his eyes rolled back as though he were going to faint.

Then he rasped, “Goddamn you…”

Evan stood up. “Are you afraid of God, Warren? Are you afraid of yourself?”

Warren lurched at him.

Knuckles hard against her teeth, Vicki pressed down a cry. Then she sprang at Warren and grabbed his upper right arm, sinking her fingers into the muscle.

Ignoring her, Warren brandished his left fist in Evan’s face. “Afraid? I’m afraid I might knock your pious ass into the middle of next week.” Warren twisted and pulled back, freeing himself of Vicki’s grasp.

“You have your faith healing party tonight,” Warren said, “and then you take your holy nose out of our business or I’ll…” He backed out of the kitchen, eyes shifting paranoiacally from one to the other.

The threat hung in the air, the more menacing for being uncompleted.

“I’m sorry,” Vicki said, eyes down. “He’s upset.”

Yes, Evan Kyle Dean grimly decided, but his brother-in-law’s fear and fury were somehow linked to the living wickedness in this house. Like heavy invisible fog, evil filled the rooms of the Barringers’ home. He felt it clinging to him, could smell its sour corruption with each breath, hear it whispering lewd promises and hideous threats just beyond the range of normal hearing.

That evil had in some way touched Warren Barringer.

But not Vicki Barringer. He saw that. His sister-in-law’s innocence might have been an aura, a pure light emanating from a soul that had no secrets.

He would discover the secrets. He would command all that lay hidden to become known!

He would cast the devils of this house back into the pit of darkness.

“Warren doesn’t mean anything,” Vicki was saying. “Sometimes he can…”

“Don’t apologize, Vicki. I do understand. It’s all right.” Evan gently took her hand. “Now, I’d like to meet my niece, Melissa.”

That is what he said.

What he meant was that he was ready to vanquish evil.

As he went down the hall, his heart pounded so much that he feared it would pop the buttons off his shirt. A savage, rough-edged pressure roared in his ears. He wanted to kill, to take his bullshit brother-in-law by the throat and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze until those fucking sincere eyes popped out of that cornpone face!

Brother-in-law Evan Kyle looked at him and somehow saw right through him. It was as if Warren Barringer could not conceal anything from the fucking minister!

The moment he closed the door of his study behind him, he felt better. Sanctuary! He switched on the light. He could breathe now. He felt okay—no anger, no fear. Another deep and calming breath. He had to admit he had come near to freaking, but it was his house, and he was in charge.

A place for everything. Everything in its place. All right. Work on the book a little? His secret and wonderful, audacious and true book!

He was tackling this one in an unusual way, just letting it flow without elaborate plot outlines or character sketches. Nothing but what popped into his head was transferred directly to the page. Later, he would compile it and put it all together so that it made sense for a reader.

Right now, the book had to make sense only for him.

He pulled back the desk chair and sat down. Again, he assured himself that he had nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to fear. He was Warren Barringer, respectable college professor and respected writer. He was goddamned Mr. Clean. Didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, no vices to speak of…

Warren Barringer, family man, was a decent provider, a thoughtful and considerate husband, an attentive father.

He rolled a sheet of paper into the Underwood.