Step To The Graveyard Easy Part 2

"Is that what she told you?"

"Well, not in so many words..."

"She's all through with me. I'm not going back anyway."

"Matthew..."

"I'm leaving town tomorrow," Cape said. "Going away."

"Leaving Rockford? Have you lost your mind?"

"Found it. Made it up."

"My Lord, you can't just leave."

"Why can't I?"

"You have responsibilities here-Anna, your work, your family-"

"I'll take care of my responsibilities. The rest doesn't matter."

"How can you say that? Don't I matter to you? Don't Ralph and the children matter to you?"

"Yes, but I don't see any of you except on holidays. We have almost nothing in common, and you and I don't get along half the time."

"That isn't true."

"It's true. You keep trying to shove religion down my throat, everybody's throat."

"What a G.o.dless thing to say!"

"Right. Anyone who doesn't think the way you do is evil and G.o.dless."

"You sound just like Pop."

"Pop again."

"The devil's in you, Matthew, the same as he's in Pop. Consorting with harlots, blaspheming, doing Satan's work. If you don't cast him out, embrace the Almighty, you're doomed to eternal d.a.m.nation-"

Cape said gently, "Good-bye, Mary Lynn," and hung up on her.

He called the old man's number in Vero Beach, Florida. Sudden impulse. Bernie went out to buy some groceries, and Cape was sitting there in the silence, and the phone caught his eye. The next second he was on his feet, using it.

An unfamiliar voice answered, saying "The Party House" in faintly slurred tones. Laughter, music, loud voices, came over the wire behind it.

"I'm calling for Sam Cape. This the right number?"

"Sure, Sam's Party House. Who're you?"

"His son. Matt."

"No kidding? Sam never said anything about having a son."

"If he's there, put him on."

"Just a minute."

The receiver banged against something on the other end. The party sounds rose and fell like a pulse. Somebody yelled, somebody else squealed, a woman said distinctly, "That Polly, she gives b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs a bad name." A minute pa.s.sed. Then the same male voice spoke again in his ear.

"He can't come to the phone right now. Sam can't."

"Why can't he?"

Seal-bark laugh. "He's indisposed. Any message?"

"No. No message."

"Want him to call you back?"

"Forget it," Cape said. "We don't have anything to say to each other after all. h.e.l.l, we never did."

3.

The bank officer was a plump middle-aged woman with a smile that she wore like cheap perfume. She peered at her computer screen, wrote carefully on a slip of paper; tapped the keys, and wrote again. She slid the paper over to Cape's side of the desk.

"There you are, Mr. Cape. The balances in both your accounts."

He looked at the figures. Checking: $1,678.24. Savings: $26,444.75.

"Let the checking account stand," he said, "except that I want my name taken off it."

"And the savings?"

"Withdraw thirteen thousand, leave the rest. My name off that one, too."

"Ah, may I ask the reason you're-"

"No," Cape said.

She colored slightly, as much from his direct stare as from the sharp negative. She lowered her gaze a couple of inches, kept it fixed on his mouth and chin. "What would you like done with the thirteen thousand dollars?"

"Open a new checking account in my name only, deposit nine thousand. The rest of the money in cash, six hundred in fifties, four hundred in twenties."

"Yes, sir. If you'd like a new ATM card-"

"I won't need one. I've got credit cards."

She busied herself with forms. Not looking at him any longer, not saying anything, as if he were already gone.

At his brokerage firm downtown Cape put in an order to sell his shares of Emerson Manufacturing stock and deposit the proceeds in his new checking account. After transaction fees, the amount came to a little more than fourteen thousand.

Cape's car was a three-year-old brown Buick Riviera, supercharged V-6, chrome premium wheels, all the options. He'd driven it out of state only a few times, on short business trips; it had just 29,000 miles on it, was in near-new condition inside and out. He took it around to half a dozen dealers.h.i.+ps before he found the car and the trade package he was hunting for. When he left Hammerschlag Motors, "n.o.body in Illinois Beats Our Prices," he was behind the wheel of a '91 yellow-and-black Corvette, six-speed, most of the extras plus a new gla.s.s top. The odometer read 57,500, and the salesman swore it had had just one owner. Cape didn't believe either claim, but he took it anyway. It was exactly what he'd always wanted.

On his test drive it had handled reasonably well on turns and curves, smooth-s.h.i.+fting through all the gears, fast pickup, no pings or knocks or rough spots in the engine. Now he took it out on the interstate and opened it up to eighty-five for a mile or so on a straight stretch where the traffic was light. Blew along just fine.

He was almost ready to go.

St. Vincent's was on the south side, in the neighborhood where he'd grown up. Old neighborhood, old church: grit-darkened stone, twin steeples surmounted by bronze crosses, scrolled and bra.s.sbound entrance doors. Inside it was cool, dark, hushed. And empty this afternoon, as far as he could see.

He walked slowly down the center aisle, slid into one of the pews toward the front. He sat there with his hands on his knees. Crucified Christ gazed down on him from the wall above and behind the altar. So did the Virgin Mary, the twelve apostles at the Last Supper, other biblical scenes in bronze and backlit stained gla.s.s.

Cape stared at the altar, seeing it for a time and then not seeing it. The silence seemed to echo faintly with half-remembered voices, half-remembered words. Dominus vobisc.u.m. Et c.u.m spiritu tuo. Pater noster, cut es in caelis. Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed art thou among women. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Kyrie eleison.

For a long time he sat without moving. The restlessness stirred in him finally, brought him out of himself. On impulse he made the sign of the cross, something he hadn't done in more than a decade. Mary Lynn would have been astonished. Probably would've tried to take credit for him being here. He stood, turned out of the pew.

Someone was standing in the shadows by the nave, watching him.

Priest. Young, Cape saw as he came forward, dark-haired and moonfaced, shapeless in his robes. Smiling.

"h.e.l.lo. I'm Father Zerbeck."

"h.e.l.lo, Father."

"I don't believe we've met. Are you a member of this parish?"

"Once, a long time ago. I grew up three blocks from here."

"You still have family in the neighborhood?"

"Not anymore."

"Have you moved back here, then?"

"No."

"But I've seen you here before, haven't I? Recently?"

"A time or two," Cape admitted.

"May I ask why?"

"It's a good place to sit and think. Look inside yourself, make decisions."

"Is that the only reason you come to St. Vincent's?"

"I'm not much for prayer, Father."

"That's too bad," the priest said, but he was still smiling. "You seem troubled. Is there anything I can do?"

"No. My decisions are all made."

"That isn't what I meant."

"I know what you meant," Cape said.

"If you'd like to take confession-"

"I don't think so. Wouldn't do me any good."

"Are you so sure of that?"

"Sure enough."

"It's never too late to ask for G.o.d's help."

"Isn't it?"

"Have you... lost your faith?"

"The way you mean it, I guess I have."

"What caused you to lose it?"

"That's between G.o.d and me."

"So you do still believe in him?"

"I believe in him, all right," Cape said. "What I question is that he's as benevolent as we're taught."

"Then why do you still come to his house?"

"I told you, it's a good place to sit and think."

"Have you tried talking to him? He does listen, you know."

"I'm all talked out."

"He'll help you find yourself, if you let him."

"I'm not lost. Not anymore."

"Aren't you?" the priest said.