Saint Odd (11 page)

In the still red but fading light, I pulled to the curb in front of the house owned by Rosalia Sanchez. For a few years, when I lived in the small studio apartment above her detached garage, she had been my landlady and my friend.

She would be sixty-five now, with that saintly face worn by so much caring for others, by loss and grief, by waiting patiently for what she would never receive in this life.

Back in 2001, she had awakened one day to the discovery that her much-loved husband, Herman, had died beside her in his sleep and lay there cold and pale, one eye closed and the other open, staring. Later that same year, still in mourning, she had bowed out of a long-planned vacation to New England that she and Herman had intended to take with her three sisters and their families. On the morning of September 11, Rosalia woke to the news that their return flight out of Boston had been hijacked and flown into one of the World Trade Center towers.

Having lost every relative in one year, while she was sleeping, without a child of her own to whom she could turn for solace, Rosalia went a little mad. Intellectually, she knew that they were all dead, but in this case, emotion trumped reason. She would never speak of terrorists or plane crashes, nor would she listen to such talk. She chose to believe instead that as a consequence of some rare natural phenomenon, everyone she loved had turned invisible. She held fast, as well, to the theory that soon this event, like a magnetic field, would be reversed, rendering her loved ones visible again.

Her madness involved no resentment or anger, and she posed no danger either to herself or to others. She continued to keep her house immaculate, to bake her marvelous cakes and cookies as gifts for friends and neighbors, to attend her church, and to be a force for good in her community. And to wait for her family to be returned to visibility.

I never knew whether I was drawn to eccentric people or if they were drawn to me. Either way, my life had been full of
them—and they had enriched it. I suspected eccentricity was often if not always a response to pain, a defense mechanism against anguish and torment and sorrow. With a father who played no positive role in my life and with a mother whose behavior often made her a candidate for an asylum, I am sure that I would have been the eccentric I became even if I’d never been gifted or cursed with my sixth sense.

No bodachs were in view along Marigold Lane.

As the last light bled out of the day, less than fully aware of how I had gotten there, I found myself parked across the street from St. Bartholomew’s Church, where Stormy’s uncle, Sean Llewellyn, still served as the priest and rector.

Some of the happiest times that she and I shared were on the open deck of St. Bart’s bell tower, to which we would sometimes climb with a picnic dinner, to dine there among the immense but silenced bells, surrounded by the best view in Pico Mundo. We felt that we were above all strife in that high redoubt, our future together no less enduring than the town we overlooked.

With the approach of night, the tower was up-lit, and a red aircraft warn-off light served as finial at the peak of the belfry roof. As I watched it winking, I recalled how spectacular the sunset had been the last time that Stormy and I had climbed up there with a picnic hamper, on what we could not know would be the final night of her life.

No bodachs crept the front stairs of the church or climbed the walls, or danced in glee upon the bell-tower roof.

Four minutes till seven o’clock. I pulled back into traffic.

Stormy had lived in one of four apartments in a house three blocks from the Pico Mundo Grille. In my not-so-random drive through town, I next parked across the street from that place.

Orphaned young, supporting herself as a counter girl and then as the manager of an ice-cream shop, she had been poor by almost any definition. She had furnished her humble rooms with items from thrift shops, and yet her apartment had been stylish and comfortable. Old silk-shaded floor lamps with beaded fringes. Upholstered Victorian footstools paired with crude imitations of Stickley-style chairs. Maxfield Parrish prints. Carnival-glass vases. Cheap bronze castings of various breeds of dogs displayed on end tables and windowsills. The eclectic mix shouldn’t have worked, but it did, because she had magic in her and because she could see the magic in everyday things.

I had moved out of my studio apartment above the garage and into Stormy’s place after she died. I lived there for a year, until I left town on my journey of discovery. Her things had been packed away and stored in a room at Ozzie Boone’s house. I could dispose of nothing. Every item she owned, however inexpensive it might be, was to me a treasure, a store of memory and a memento of love unrivaled and undying.

How long I sat there, across the street from the house in which she had lived, I couldn’t be sure. I drove away only when my tremors stopped, only when the world gradually regained its detail and ceased to be just a blur.

Now that night had fully claimed Pico Mundo, I allowed intuition to guide me and cruised to the town square, at the center of which lay Memorial Park with its handsome bronze statue of three soldiers from World War II. Unlike the other streets of the historic district, those four blocks surrounding the park were lined not with flowering jacarandas but with magnificent old phoenix palms with enormous crowns of fronds.

Couples occupied the park benches, cuddling in the light of the
three-globe cast-iron lampposts. The many restaurants were open, of course, but also all of the specialty shops, which catered as much to tourists as to locals. People were window-shopping, some of them carrying cones of ice cream as they ambled from shop to shop, some sipping from Starbucks cups, some walking their dogs, some talking and laughing. Although my perception might have been distorted by melancholy, it seemed to me that most of those people were in pairs, the larger percentage of them holding hands, as if they were extras in a movie of high romance, accessorizing a scene for which the director’s purpose might have been to say that life was a parade lived two-by-two, as it had been since before Noah’s fabled ark and as it would be always.

No bodachs capered among the crowd. None slithered under the benches on which couples shared moments of affection.

Neither circling the town square nor cruising any of the other streets before this had I received the slightest psychic impression that one day the town would be submerged, a community of drowned and drifting cadavers. Indeed, if Pico Mundo were inundated because of the collapse of Malo Suerte Dam, the town would not stand underwater in precisely the same condition as now, which is how it had appeared in the dream; the rushing waters would do great damage, tumbling cars along the streets, uprooting trees, ripping down awnings, smashing windows.… No rational scenario allowed for the lights to remain aglow in the aftermath of such a disaster, as they had been when I had floated through my nightmare.

Brooding about that, I circled Memorial Park a second time and saw an enormous banner that I had somehow overlooked before. It was strung across an intersection: big red and black letters on a white background, announcing the annual spring fair
at the Maravilla County Fairgrounds, currently under way. Fun for the whole family. The lowest of three lines on the banner declared
FEATURING THE WORLD-FAMOUS SOMBRA BROTHERS MIDWAY SHOWS
.

The carnival was back in town.

Sombra Brothers Midway Shows had occupied the fairground six years earlier, when Stormy and I found the fortune-telling machine in an arcade tent.

You might think it was a coincidence that I should return to Pico Mundo in expectation of the fulfillment of the fortune-teller’s prediction just when the Sombra Brothers returned as well. So very much about our strange and deeply layered world remained mysterious to me, but my experiences had taught me, among other things, that there were no coincidences.

At ticket booth number four, the cashier was a plump woman with long ringlets of auburn hair. The carnival had a jackpot drawing to entice people to stay later and spend more. When she took my money and gave me an admission ticket, she said, “Honey, be sure you stay for the big drawin’ at eleven-forty-five. Three nights, the winners didn’t hang around to collect, so now it’s up to twenty-two thousand dollars. Got to be here to win. Hang on to your ticket. You’re the one tonight, honey.” She had such a beatific smile that her sales pitch seemed like a sincere prediction.

My intuition—which is seldom wrong—insisted the carnival held secrets that, if revealed, would help me to discover the meaning of my nightmare and the nature of the threat hanging over Pico Mundo. Carnies are a tightly knit community and generally more law-abiding than the rest of us. But there was no reason to dismiss the notion that a few cultists might have made their home in the Sombra Brothers operation, perhaps without other carnies being aware of their demonic nature and their keen interest in terrorism.

The first thing I did after paying admission and entering the fairground was to head for the southern perimeter of the midway, where in the past there had been a long row of specialty tents, including games (not of the arcade kind) and novelty services. The offerings along that flank of the concourse were pretty much as they had been in past years, among them: Bingo Palace; Quarter Toss; an air-rifle shooting gallery; Wearable Art, where an artist with an airbrush would paint any image you wanted on a T-shirt; Face It, where you could have your face decorated with water-soluble paints in an almost infinite variety of ways.

Although I had not intended to go anywhere incognito, I had changed my mind about that when it came to the carnival. If possible, I preferred to prowl the midway without being recognized. I had not lived in Pico Mundo for the past eleven months, but I had known a lot of people there. Furthermore, after the events at Green Moon Mall almost two years earlier, photos of me had been in the newspapers; therefore, I might be recognized by many people whom I
didn’t
know.

Some of them would tell me that I was a hero, which would be embarrassing. I’d never felt like any kind of hero, considering that, even with my intervention, nineteen people had died that day. Almost as disturbing, some of those who recognized me might be the cultists who currently wanted to kill me.

The front of the Face It tent was entirely open. On the interior hung blown-up photos of previous customers whose faces had served as canvases for the artists who owned this little concession.

I wondered what their true faces had looked like before they had been painted. Of course, a fresh-scrubbed face may be a lie, and the truth may be a darkness behind it.

An attractive dark-haired woman in her early forties sat on a chair beside a table on which were arranged different brushes, as well as bottles of paint and Ziploc bags of glitter in a wide variety of colors. She applied a brush and a small sponge to the face of a teenage girl who sat before her on another chair, working upward from the chin, already at the forehead, creating a floral scene, so that the girl appeared to be peering out at the world through a bouquet of wildflowers; or perhaps she was meant to be a meadow nymph with a face composed of flowers. A second teen, friend of the seated girl, stood watch, already given a leopard’s visage, her face a rich golden orange with black spots and realistically rendered cat whiskers.

A second artist also worked in the tent. Currently not engaged, she smiled and raised her eyebrows quizzically and with a gesture invited me to the chair in front of her. Judging by appearance, this painter could be the daughter of the other. Attractive, with black hair and celadon eyes, she was unmistakably the dead woman from my dream, the first corpse that had drifted past me through the drowned streets of Pico Mundo.

When I sat in the chair, she said, “How do you want to look?”

“Different,” I said. “Very different.”

She considered me in silence for a moment and then said, “I can do all the faces you see on the walls here and almost anything else. Any character or animal. Or something abstract.”

“Surprise me,” I said.

She smiled again. “No one’s ever asked to be surprised before. Nobody wants to risk looking foolish.”

“Why would you make me look foolish?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t. Why would I? But most people want to look cool, and there’s a thin line between cool and foolish.”

I liked her voice. It had a smoky quality. She had not spoken in the dream. The corpse of the little girl, borne along after her, was the one that said
contumax
.

“What’s your name?” I asked, as she studied her bottles of paint and evidently considered what design she intended to create.

“Connie. What’s yours?”

“Norman,” I replied, and wondered if we both had lied. “How long have you worked in the carnival?”

“I grew up in it. What do you do, Norman?”

“I’m a librarian.”

She met my eyes. “You don’t look like a librarian.”

“What do I look like?”

“You look like an Ethan, not a Norman, and you look like maybe a Navy SEAL or an Army Ranger, not a librarian.”

“Not really. I’m no tough guy.”

“Truly tough guys never say they’re tough.”

“Some of them do. And then they beat on you to prove it.”

Opening a bottle of paint, she said, “You don’t look beaten up.”

“I avoid confrontation.”

“By taking the other guy down before he lands a blow?”

“I prefer to run like hell away from him.”

Picking up a brush, she said, “Please close your eyes and keep them closed. I don’t want to get paint in them.”

I closed my eyes and asked, “Why Ethan?”

“I have an older brother named Ethan. The name is from the Hebrew, meaning
permanent, assured
.”

“Does he paint faces, too?”

“He was supposed to run the Bingo Palace that my dad owns.
But he wanted to do something else. If the brush tickles, tell me, and I’ll use a sponge instead, as much as I can.”

“It doesn’t tickle. What does your brother do?”

“He’s a Navy SEAL.”