By Christmastime, Stephen had obtained a battered old leather jacket on the back of which he put a skull and crossbones and the logo of some heavy-metal group that combined an upside-down cross with a bloody dagger.
He was wearing it one day when he came home from school. It was the last day of school before the beginning of Christmas vacation; outside, everything was blanketed in snow, and Stephen brushed flakes off his scarf and jacket before coming through the front door. As he walked through the house, Carmen stopped him.
"Stephen? Could you come here a second?" she called from the dining-room table.
She wasn't looking forward to the talk she was about to have with him—about to try to have—because she had a pretty good idea how it was going to end up.
Carmen and Al had talked with Stephen a lot lately—together and individually—about things ranging from the foul language he'd been using around the house to his personal hygiene, which, for reasons they could not understand, had gone steeply downhill over the past weeks.
There were a lot of things they didn't understand about Stephen lately.
Now there was the jacket. It was something he never would have considered wearing before their move. He'd always been a clean boy, a natty dresser, so polite and well-spoken.
"Sit down, Stephen,” Carmen said quietly, smiling.
With an annoyed sigh, he pulled out a chair and flopped into it, thumping his elbows onto the table, resting his chin on his fists.
In spite of the fact that his cancer had gone into remission, Stephen still looked pale and thin and, although not as distinct, yellowish-gray half-circles still darkened the slightly puffy flesh beneath his eyes.
"Where did you get that jacket?" Carmen asked.
"Somebody gave it to me."
"Leather jackets aren't cheap."
He shrugged. "It's old. He didn't want it anymore. He gave it to me."
"Well...it's not a bad jacket, really. So why did you put that stuff on the back?"
Another shrug, a long, slow blink, then: " 'Cause I like it."
She leaned closer to him. "Stephen, you know we don't want you wearing things like that."
"Like what?"
"That's the cross you've got on your back, and it's upside-down."
"So?"
"Oh, don't play dumb with me, Stephen, you know what I'm talking about." She was getting frustrated and angry already and her voice was showing it. "It's sacrilegious and...well, if you ask me...you were the one talking about evil a few months ago and, well, as far as I'm concerned, that's evil, what you've got on your back. We've given in with the music, so you pretty much get to listen to whatever crap you want to as long as you keep it to yourself, but that is too much!"
"Well, what's the difference? I don't understand. It's part of the music, it's what the music stands for, it's—"
"I know, that's why your dad and I don't like the music. That cross you're wearing on your back is a very important symbol. Christ died on that cross so we could—"
Stephen rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I learned all about it in Sunday school."
"So how can you wear such a thing!"
"You're so worried about evil, so scared of it, but you've got it all around you and you don't see it, just ignore it. I'm tellin' you, this house is evil!"
"That again. I just...Stephen, I don't understand you. I don't understand what's wrong with you."
Then Stephen did something that made Carmen drop her mouth open and gasp, shocked and hurt.
He laughed, shook his head and said, "You don't understand much of anything, do you?" He stood from the table and went to his room, leaving Carmen staring at the place where he'd sat, her mouth still open, her wide eyes full of pain.
Finally, she lit a cigarette and exhaled wearily. Her next step, of course, would be to talk to Al about it, but she wasn't too eager to do that, either.
Al seemed very short-tempered lately, especially where Stephen was concerned. He had no tolerance for the changes that had taken place in the boy; Carmen had to admit she felt much the same way, but at least tried to be fair and civil about it, tried her best to see Stephen's side (something that was getting more difficult all the time, since he seemed so unwilling to share his side). She was afraid that, sooner or later, she would tell Al about something Stephen had done or was doing, and Al would lose whatever restraint he'd been showing and come down on the boy hard, really hard, with something besides the usual grounding or suspension of telephone priveleges—like harsh physical punishment, for example. Although she understood the desire to do that—Stephen had pushed her tolerance to the edge, too, especially with his response to her complaint about the jacket—the thought of it made her cringe.
But the back of Stephen's jacket made her cringe, as well.
She would talk to Al. If he did no good, she would have to take stronger measures....
Although she waited until after dinner that night, hoping he would be relaxed, Al was furious. He went downstairs and, from the living room, Carmen could hear him shouting at Stephen. She even heard what sounded like something being thrown against the wall.
Peter was dozing on the sofa beside her; Stephanie and Michael were on the floor watching television, their backs stiff, their eyes fixed on the screen as they fought to ignore the sounds.
Then, after a brief silence, she heard Al's footsteps thumping up the stairs and his voice barking angrily, "That's it, I give up! You wanna go around looking like some kinda satanic punk, that's fine, just don't tell anybody you live here! Spoiled little shit is what you are! Don't know where it comes from, but it doesn't come from us!"
As he came down the hall, his tirade continuing, Carmen could hear the faint sound of Stephen's laughter from downstairs. She hurried into the hall to meet Al.
"I don't know what the hell to do with him," he growled, going into the kitchen and getting a beer from the refrigerator. "He wants to keep his fucking jacket—"
"Al," she chided, wincing.
"—he can keep it, I don't give a damn. Wants to go around looking like a thug, like a damned criminal or some kinda—I don't know, some kinda cult member—then fine." He leaned back against the edge of the counter and tilted his head back as he drank.
"Well, there's something wrong, I just don't know what."
"He's a goddamned spoiled brat, is what's wrong."
"Oh, what, it's my fault, is that what you're saying? It's my fault he's behaving this way?"
"Hey"—he spread his arms and raised his eyebrows—"you said that, not me."
Carmen spun around, stretched out her arm and leaned against the refrigerator with her elbow locked. She closed her eyes a moment, lips pressed together tightly. She knew this could turn into an ugly argument if she pursued that thinly veiled accusation any further. She decided against it, took a deep breath and turned around.
"I think I should take him to see Father Wheatley."
Al took another slug of beer and sighed. "You think it'd do any good?"
"Couldn't hurt, could it?"
He though about it a moment, frowned, became rather distant. Then he said quietly, as if to himself, "It's just been since we moved here...into this house..."
Carmen was surprised by his words—could he possibly be entertaining some of the same thoughts that had haunted her?—but hid her surprise quickly.
"You think that has something to do with it?" she asked.
"Hm? Oh, no. Course not. Just...an observation, is all. He's changed a lot in a little time."
"That's why I think he should talk to Father Wheatley."
"Yeah. Yeah, it couldn't hurt."
She called Father Wheatley the next day and explained the problem, and he agreed to see Stephen. Against his protests, Carmen took Stephen to the church and dropped him off while she went to the grocery store. When she was finished shopping, she returned, picked him up and headed home, resisting the urge to go inside and ask Father Wheatley how it went and what was wrong with her son. Instead, she tried to start a conversation with Stephen.
"So, what did you and the father talk about?" she asked.
Looking out the side window, he shrugged. "I dunno. Not much. Just...talked, I guess."
And that was the most she could get out of him. She could only hope and pray that Father Wheatley would be able to do some good.
But that was not enough for her. When she got home, she called Father Wheatley on the bedroom telephone.
"How did it go, Father?" she asked.
"Well, Carmen, if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it in any detail. I will say this much, though: You did the right thing in bringing him to see me. I'd like to see him again. Tomorrow, in fact. If that's okay?"
"Of course it's okay. I'm so glad. I mean, I was worried that...well, Al and I were both worried that..." She didn't finish, afraid that her voice would break and tears would start.
"Listen, Carmen," Father Wheatley said softly, "I'm here for you, too. I think Stephen needs these talks right now and I suspect we might make some progress. But if you need someone to talk to, don't hesitate."
"Thank you, Father," she whispered.
"Same time."
But Carmen was not able to drive Stephen to see Father Wheatley the next day.
That evening, Carmen received a call from her brother Everett in Alabama. The instant she heard his voice at the other end of the line, she became tense; he only called her when he needed something—or when something was wrong. Like their father, he was an alcoholic who had no intention of treating his problem; Carmen's heart went out to him and he was always in her prayers, but she'd finally realized a number of years ago that there was only so much she could do for him and, if he was ever going to be saved, he was going to have to take the first step himself.
"C-Carmen? You're, um, you're gonna have to come home. Right away." His voice was wet and quavery.
"What's wrong, Cal?"
"Dad. He's, um, he's dead, Carmen. Somebody killed him. He's been murdered. You gotta come."
Carmen was stunned into cold silence for a while. When she could speak again, she told Everett it was snowing in Connecticut, but she would catch the next available plane and be there as soon as possible.
After she'd hung up, she plopped onto the sofa and stared at nothing as she thought about her father. Her parents had divorced when she was twelve and she'd never been close to her father, had hardly known him, really, unlike her brother, who had remained in constant touch with him. In spite of that fact, Everett had always held their father's lifestyle in contempt—his constant drinking, his lack of care for himself, his hand-to-mouth life on the edge—but not enough, apparently, to keep himself from following the same pattern. The presence of that pattern in her family kept Carmen from touching alcohol, and was responsible for the gnawing concern she had about Al's attachment to beer, something she had not yet found the courage to mention to him.
She called the airport. Carmen was able to find a plane leaving that evening. Al had to scramble to make arrangements at work so he would be able to take care of the kids while Carmen was gone. He cringed at the thought of doing such a thing so soon after starting at the quarry, but it was one of those unpredictable and unavoidable crises that happened to everyone from time to time, and his boss would just have to work it out.
After driving Carmen to the airport, Al and Stephanie and Peter picked up a pizza on their way home; Al had never been able to cook and had no intention of trying now, so, until Carmen returned, they'd live on take-out and frozen dinners.
That night, once the pizza was gone, Stephen retreated, as usual, to his room. He'd spent most of the evening there, anyway, taking his dinner downstairs with him. Tension was growing between Al and Stephen; the room was quieter when they were together, the air somehow thicker. They spoke to one another only when necessary, which was slowly becoming less often as time passed. That was fine with Al; he didn't care to have much to do with the boy until he cleaned up his act. Maybe that was harsh, but it was the best he knew how to do. There was no reason for Stephen's recent behavior, and to act as if nothing was wrong seemed no different to Al than telling him it was okay.
Al and Michael watched a football game on television while Stephanie and Peter did some pasting and coloring at the dining-room table. There was no school tomorrow, so Al wasn't concerned with how late they stayed up. But they had grown used to going to bed early and it wasn't long before they were all sleepy enough to retire to their rooms.
Al was left alone after the game, watching sitcom reruns. And thinking.
He didn't look forward to going to bed. Not alone. Alone, he might just lie awake...waiting...for the music...the voices...the vibrating...
Three hours later, his eyes were heavy and his head kept drooping forward as he watched television. Finally, he gave in, turned off the television and the lights and went to bed.
Once beneath the covers, his weariness vanished and, just as he'd suspected he would do, he lay awake, twisting and turning to find a comfortable spot, a soothing position.
He did, eventually. His eyes closed on their own, he felt the heaviness of sleep wash over him, was aware of his breathing becoming slow, felt himself slipping away, until...
He heard music and his eyes snapped open. He sat up. It was the same music he always heard: old and tinny, conjuring black-and-white images of rooms full of cobwebs, old photographs in ornate frames, and antique furniture.
Al lay back down, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and groaning.
Faint voices laughed. The music continued. And there was something else.
Barking. The dog was barking outside once again.
I'm going to ignore it, he thought. All of it. I may not sleep, but I'm not getting out of bed.
The music went on. The voices continued to talk and laugh festively. The dog's barking became more intense.
Al rolled over and pressed his head into the mattress, pulling the pillow down over his ear.
But he could still hear it. The phantom party, the persistent barking...
And then he felt the familiar vibration ooze through his body, through his bones. It curled its long and bony fingers around his elbows and knees, over his shoulders and over the top of his skull, increasing its pressure, vibrating deeper and deeper.
Al rolled onto his back and began to kick frantically at the blankets, his breath hissing through clenched teeth as he rolled off the bed and thunked to the floor, then crawled a few feet away from the bed before clambering to his feet. Moving backward, he bumped into the dresser, stood there and stared at the bed.
He could see nothing. There were no visible signs that the bed was filled with some kind of sinister movement. He reached behind him and flicked on the small lamp on the dresser, but still there was nothing to be seen.
There was, however, plenty to be heard.
Music played from somewhere deep in the house, and muffled voices and soft laughter mingled with it.
Outside, the dog barked as if it were ready to attack and kill.
Al turned the overhead light on, slipped on his pants and went into the short hallway outside the bedroom, turning on lights as he passed the switches, his movements rapid and jerky.
The voices murmured on.
Once again there was only darkness downstairs.
Al was halfway down when the sounds stopped.
Silence.
He felt a sharp pain in his hand and realized it was because he was gripping the bannister so hard.
Outside, the dog continued to bark so hard that it was becoming hoarse.
Al turned, went back up the stairs, into the living room—he switched on two lamps there—across the hall and into the dining room, where he froze.
Someone was standing at the front window, looking out into the night; the blinds were raised and the figure was silhouetted in the dim moonlight that reflected off the snow.
Al held perfectly still in the doorway, except for his hand, which crawled over the wall, searching for the light switch as the figure turned and faced him.
Al flicked the switch, filling the dining room with light as he sighed with relief, "Stephen."
"Somebody's dog is"—he chuckled—"kinda carried away out there."
"Were you playing music just now?"
Stephen rubbed the back of his neck and started to walk slowly out of the dining room. "Music? No, I wasn't playing any music."
Al gently held his arm as he passed through the doorway. "You didn't have anybody in here? You didn't sneak some friends into the house?"
"Why? It's crowded enough in here as it is."
Al let go and the boy went down the hall...down the stairs.... Later, Al would wonder about Stephen's words and how he had spoken them; they would bother him, even give him a chill when he recalled them. But for the moment, he took them only at face value. When Stephen was gone, Al went to the window and looked out at the dog.
It looked like a lab and was closer to the house now, but seemed tense, ready to run if necessary. Much closer and it would actually be biting the corner of the house.
After lowering the blinds, Al went back to the bedroom, dressed, and went outside. He ran along the front of the house toward the dog, waving his arms and calling, "Get out of here! Git! Go! Beat it!" He threw, even kicked, snow at the dog, but it was surprisingly difficult to tear the animal's attention away from the house. When he finally did, the dog hurried off, stopped and turned, whined a little, gave Al a few insistent woofs, then went away.
Back inside, Al undressed, then stared at the bed a moment, wondering if it was safe to lie down again. He realized it didn't matter because he was wide awake. In his robe, he went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
"Damn, that's right," he whispered. "No beer."
He was still staring into the refrigerator's glaring light when the barking started again.
Al slammed the refrigerator door. Glass clinked and cans rattled inside. He clutched his fists at his sides as the barking got closer, louder, more vicious. Eyes closed, breathing harshly though his nose, Al thought, Boy, oh, boy...sure could use a beer.
In the living room, Al settled into his recliner. His thumb trembled as he used the remote to turn on the television.
"Gonna have to talk to somebody about that damned dog," he breathed as he flipped through the channels.
Its barking was relentless.
He settled on an old western and put the remote on the end table, where he spotted a rosary. Carmen kept them all over the house. He picked it up idly in his trembling hand, silently telling himself it wasn't necessary, that he wasn't upset, wasn't frightened, just restless, that was all.
The dog went on barking and barking...
Al whispered, "Hail Mary, full of grace ..."
...barking...barking...
In the back of his mind, Al thought—but he wasn't quite sure because it was faint, so faint—he heard the tinny sound of music....
Carmen returned three days later.
Her father had been found in his small, run-down trailer. No bullet holes and a minimum of blood were found in the trailer, so it was presumed he was murdered elsewhere with his own .22-caliber pistol and brought back to his trailer. Although they didn't say as much, of course, the police seemed to think that finding the murderer was of little importance—after all, the victim had been an old drunk who barely subsisted, and who associated with the shadiest of characters, the kind of people most likely to do such a thing casually.
Carmen and her brother made the burial arrangements and, because she wanted to get back home as soon as possible, she left Everett as the executor of their father's estate—what there was of it.
She was glad to be home, and Al was glad to have her back. Everything had gone smoothly in her absence, he told her, but she had been missed.
Everyone seemed fine, Al included. But somehow, Carmen felt something was wrong. She couldn't put her finger on it...it was nothing visible...nothing anyone said...
Just my imagination, she told herself. After the last few days, everything looks pretty dark.
They began the usual Christmas activities. Al brought home a tree and Carmen and the kids—except for Stephen—decorated it.
Al had taken Stephen to see Father Wheatley every day while Carmen was gone, and she kept it up after returning. She resisted the temptation to ask Stephen about his visits with the father, telling herself that the results would begin to show soon. But they didn't. Stephen was still rude and profane when he spoke, quiet and brooding when he didn't.
If the talks with Father Wheatley didn't work, she hoped her prayers would. She wanted her son back.
Carmen put a wreath on the door, some holly and garland here and there in the house, and brought out the records and tapes of Christmas music they'd collected over the years. She played the music often, kept egg nog in the refrigerator.
Michael, Stephanie, and Peter made a snowman in the front yard and Carmen gave them a broom and an old scarf and hat to put on him.
They watched A Christmas Carol and It's a Wonderful Life again, as they did each year.
They did all the things they did every Christmas, all the things that made them feel good, put them in the holiday spirit, and made that time of year different from any other. But this year, as Christmas neared, then passed, none of those things quite worked. It wasn't the same. Something was missing, something other than Stephen's usual willing and cheerful participation.
Carmen didn't know how the others felt, but no matter how hard she tried to work at it, it just didn't feel like Christmas. She didn't feel the way Christmas always made her feel.
No matter how silly it sounded, Carmen simply did not feel safe.
Not even in her own house.
Perhaps especially in her own house.