Now Playing On The Jukebox In Hell Part 18

"You will if you love me."

"That is so not fair," she grumbled.

"I know. Believe me, I know." I kissed her again. "Ready?"

She shook her head but took my arm, and we headed back. Light snow was starting to fall, dusting the winds.h.i.+elds of the parked cars; it made the brightly lighted church look more inviting. We pa.s.sed the floodlighted Hawthorne United Methodist Church sign, built close to the ground per the zoning ordinances in that part of town, and as we did, Debra and her current family crossed our path like so many black cats.

Bad luck, all right. I'd meant to go back to the restaurant later to pay for lunch and/or damages, but Ca.s.sie had other ideas about how to spend the afternoon. So I'd never...

"Why, Devlin Kerry," Debra said, with simulated pleasure. "I haven't seen you for a couple of years at least. How are you?"

A couple of years? I frowned. "Fine. You? Listen, about your restaurant..."

Her smile grew larger and phonier. "Oh, you've heard about it? Yes, I'm really enjoying it. It's doing really well. Do stop in while you're in town, won't you? I'll make sure you get free dessert."

Ca.s.sie and I glanced at each other warily. We'd had dessert at her restaurant just a few hours ago, and neither of us was likely to forget it as long as we lived.

"Maybe we will," I told Debra.

Her charity work complete, Debra turned sharply to go inside. She hadn't bothered to introduce her family to me or herself to Ca.s.sie, but somehow I felt no loss.

Ca.s.sie stared after her. "That was strange. Is she loony?"

"Probably." Privately, I suspected Vanessa was up to something, but it wasn't the time to discuss her. "C'mon. It's cold out here."

All the good pews in the back were full, so we had to sit far up front. That meant going down the center aisle in front of everyone, which meant more being recognized and more getting hugged. I hated it. We'd had a hard time even getting past the greeters, and although Ca.s.sie was trying hard not to laugh, she was having a fabulous time. I'd almost had to clock her when Mrs. Rose, who was pa.s.sing out the candles, started talking about how well behaved I'd been in her Sunday-school cla.s.s.

"Selective memory," I insisted when we finally got away. "My friends and I used to throw spit wads in church."

She just smiled.

"How come you didn't have to go through this at Thanksgiving?"

"I'm not stupid, Devvy. I wasn't about to introduce you to any more people than I had to."

Smart. She was smart, all right. I was doomed but good.

We pa.s.sed another pew, and I felt the temperature drop sharply, as it does in the most haunted part of the house. Mom and Aunt Kitty were sitting there, along with Dad, Connor and Jen, both of them looking particularly unappeasable.

"Evening. What happened to Ryan and Amy?" I asked.

"They'll be along," Mom said curtly. Her glance swept up and down us both, clearly disapproving of our nice wool trousers.

"We didn't pack prom dresses," I explained. "Besides, it's 15 degrees out. Too cold for panty hose."

She didn't respond, except to cross her panty-hosed legs ostentatiously. Well, if she wanted to catch pneumonia, that was her business.

"You can sit here," Aunt Kitty said grudgingly. "There's probably room if we all move down."

With maximum effort, I smiled. "Wouldn't think of putting you to any trouble." Then I pulled Ca.s.sie down the aisle to an empty pew, Mom and Aunt Kitty glaring holes in the back of my head all the way.

"What do we do with these things?" Ca.s.sie asked, gesturing with her candle.

"This." I stuck mine into one of the holes in the pew back in front of us. They were, I dimly remembered, for the little cups of grape juice Methodists got at communion, but they were just candle-holders to me now. She did the same. No sooner had we finished getting settled than Ryan and Amy shoved in.

"You're late," I said, feeling virtuous.

Ryan shrugged. "We were watching a movie. You going to move down and let us in, or what?"

"Depends. What movie?"

"Santa Claus Conquers the Martians."

"Move," I told Ca.s.sie.

We scooted down to give them room. Ryan climbed over both of us to sit on my right, and Amy sat on Ca.s.sie's left.

"It's probably not safe to let them sit together," Amy told her, "but it'll probably be more fun in the long run."

Ca.s.sie laughed. "I've known Devvy for six years. It's really hard to scare me."

"Happy to try," Ryan offered.

I was about to have back at him when the choir started filing in. I knew most of the members in one way or another -- a friend's father, a local pharmacist, my junior-high geography teacher -- and was careful to smile. But the friend's father saw Ryan and me sitting together, and a dark look crossed his face.

"I bet he's remembering the Jesus Christmas," Ryan whispered in the sudden hush.

That almost caused me to lose it. A few years ago, for reasons known only to them, Connor and Ryan had started telling me Jesus jokes during the service, and they got so outrageous that I cracked up several times.

Of course, sitting next to either of my brothers at this service was never a good idea. If "We Three Kings" was on the program, which it usually was, they always sang the version about the rubber cigar. Then we'd all start doing sotto-voce commentary on the sermon, and at least one of us would have to leave the sanctuary to laugh.

This year, though, Ca.s.sie was with me. I wasn't going to subject her to showtime with the Kerry kids in the middle of church. Even though she might never have to come back to this town, I would, and I wasn't going to have people thinking badly of her for something that wasn't her fault. Let them think whatever they wanted about me, but not...

Something small, hard, and wet hit me in the back of the head. Scowling, I turned around. Connor tried to look innocent, pretending to be fascinated by the poinsettia arrangement on the altar, but I wasn't fooled for a second. If he was going to start throwing spit wads, I was eventually going to revert and start throwing them back.

Closing my eyes, I repented most of my life to date. Somehow, I hadn't realized that bringing Ca.s.sie to this church would mean giving her a tour of my childhood -- the moral equivalent of touring a swamp in a gla.s.s-bottom boat. By seventh grade, my friends and I were sneaking out during the sermons to steal c.o.kes out of the c.o.ke machine in the bas.e.m.e.nt. We'd started filling out the guest books with fict.i.tious names. We'd even called the church office a few times to ask if their refrigerator was running. And on top of all that, I had these brothers to deal with. No wonder I had a demon.

Ca.s.sie nudged me. "What's wrong?"

Another spit wad whizzed through my hair; I got a hand up just in time to catch it. For answer, I showed it to her.

Where was Mom while he was being such a brat, anyway? I turned around again. She was deep in conversation with Aunt Kitty; they appeared to be gossiping about someone in the choir. Oh, well, she probably didn't even know why Connor was doing it, so it would be no fun making her mad about it. The reason was that when we were kids, we'd gone to Gatlinburg several times, and our favorite thing to do there was ride the chairlift up Crockett Mountain. It wasn't that we liked the ride so much; it was that at one point, the line went over a motel swimming pool, fairly low. Connor and I liked to spit on whoever was in the pool.

I repented that, too, as yet another spit wad hit me. Verily, it is more blessed to give than to receive.

"He's been practicing," Ryan observed. "Just proves he has no life. Let's make a bunch of wads and ambush him after church."

Amy leaned around Ca.s.sie to give him a stern look.

"Oh, c'mon, babe," he protested. "This is about honor."

She shook her head but sat back. It was just as well; the choir was about to sing. I glanced over them with little curiosity, more or less counting heads. One head in particular caught my attention.

I blinked, but it was no use; it was Vanessa, trying to look angelic in a choir robe. That was no use, too.

Alarmed, I leaned over to whisper to Ca.s.sie. "Third row, second from left."

"I saw," she whispered back. "Fourth row, far right."

Fourth row, far right, fourth row, far... Oh, h.e.l.l.

Monica waited till our eyes met. Then she smiled just enough to show her fangs.

"Where do you want to be buried?" I asked Ca.s.sie.

(c) 2000, K. Simpson To Part 16 The Devil's Workshop (c) 2000, M.C. Sak Disclaimers, Credits, & E-Mail: See Part 1.

Chapter Notes:.

Strom Thurmond is the oldest man in the U.S. Senate; you can make your own jokes about that. And lest you think I make all the weird stuff up, the rooster painting is real. (The rooster's name has been changed, to protect it.)

CHAPTER 16.

There is a French Christmas carol about the Devil. I'd always thought that concept was a little peculiar. But now there were demons in the choir on Christmas Eve, so why not?

Ca.s.sie was taking it fairly well, I thought; she looked as though she'd bitten into an apple and found half a spider but decided it was better than half a rat. "We'll get out of this," she whispered.

"In how many pieces?"

She didn't answer. Right -- that was my guess, too.

All around us, oblivious to the impending doom, the congregation waited for the choir to get on with it. At the same time, the choir waited for the choir director. He was a real fossil, the oldest man on earth after Strom Thurmond, and you could see his hearing aids from the back row. Technically, a deaf choir director probably wasn't a good idea. But if I remembered this choir right, deafness might be an a.s.set.

The director finally nodded to the organist. She hit the keyboard -- and a flock of bats shot out of the pipes along with the chord.

Everything went straight downhill from there. No sooner had the bats left (yes, through the belfry) than an altar cloth caught fire. And no sooner was the fire out than one of the decorative angels fell on an old lady, totaling both her hat and her good will to man. By the time Rev. Pritchard restarted the service for the third time, he was sweating visibly.

I glanced at Ca.s.sie, who had been speechless since the bats and hadn't let go of my sleeve either. "It's usually not like this," I a.s.sured her.

She let out a long-held breath. "It's never like this at Episcopalian services."

"So you're not having fun?"

"I didn't say that."

No, but she would. Resigned, I checked over my shoulder to see how my family was holding up. Ryan and Amy had moved back to sit with the rest of them after the fire, thinking it might be safer there. They were wrong, but at least the demons were gone; they'd disappeared during the confusion with the bats.

Meanwhile, the choir was at it again. It was impossible to tell what the song was or what key it was supposed to be in, but with these people, there never was any telling.

"Just out of curiosity," Ca.s.sie asked, "what are they singing?"

I checked the program, which listed some obscure number from the Methodist hymnal. "No one ever knows. It's not really singing. It's performance art."

She snorted.

"No, seriously. It's like folk art that way. Did I ever tell you about the folk-art show I went to once? There was a painting with a big rooster on it, and the caption was 'JIM BOB, THE MIND-READING CHICKEN. HE KNOWS WHAT YOU ARE THINKING.'"

Ca.s.sie lost it, laughing out loud. The choir was making such a ruckus, I figured no one could hear her or blame me. But seconds later, a wadded-up program hit me in the back of the head.

I refused to acknowledge it. Besides, Rev. Pritchard was staring right at me, not in a nice way.

"Judgmental creepazoid, isn't he?" Vanessa asked, materializing on Ca.s.sie's left.

We both flinched a bit. She wasn't wearing the choir robe anymore and was dressed conservatively, for her, but she still looked spectacularly out of place.

"Relax. This crowd can't see demons. Not enough imagination." The demon yawned. "This is boring. What if I set something on fire?"

"Again?" I asked sharply.

"Oh, tosh. That was Monica. Don't worry -- she's not here right now. She said something about going downstairs to steal c.o.kes out of the c.o.ke machine."

Ca.s.sie, puzzled, waited for me to explain. But I folded my arms and stared at the altar in grim silence.

"So what about this Jim Bob?" Vanessa asked. "Is he a real chicken or just something you smoked?"

"Something I smoked? C'mon, I haven't touched that stuff for..."

"In the church parking lot," she prompted.