Chapter Eight
I met Faith at The Truth. On Tuesdays, I answer phones for four hours in the morning while Howard and Susie Applegate, Thelma McCoy, and Doris Mae Johanssen have their weekly meeting about what stories are coming up and what they’ve got cooking already. Since I only do the horoscope, I’m not part of the reporting staff.
Faith came in on the Tuesday after I first saw her at the Germaine Cafe. She wore black again. It was a good color for her. She walked with a slight limp and I realized the cane was not for show.
“Hello, Ms Applegate. What can I do for you?” I asked.
She didn’t seem to notice that a stranger knew her name, as if she was used to people recognizing her. “I thought I might see my old friend, Thelma McCoy. Is she here today?”
“Oh, yes. She’s in the staff meeting with the rest of them.” I pointed at the closed door behind me. “They will be in there all morning. I can give her a message for you.”
“That would be very kind,” She put her purse on the counter between us and began to look for something to write on.
I pulled a message pad from off the desk behind me and gave it to her with the pen from behind my ear.
“Thank you, my dear.” Faith wrote her message and folded the paper in half and in flowing script wrote Thelma McCoy on it. As she pushed the note toward me, she said, “You have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I’m afraid I don’t know yours. Please forgive me if we have met. You’re not a cousin of mine, are you?”
“No,” I smiled at her, feeling her warmth and genuine interest. “I’m Cynthea McCoy. I’m married to Harlan McCoy.
“So you are the young lady who writes the horoscope. Madame Zorro.” Her look was unreadable, but her tone was still friendly, not disapproving. “I know Harlan. He’s a good boy. Used to come and visit my daughter, Rochelle.”
It was weird hearing Harlan referred to as a boy.
“I suppose he is not a boy anymore,” Faith said as if she were reading my mind. “But memory freezes people in time at the age they were when you last saw them. Or even at the age they were when you knew them best. I knew Harlan best when he was in high school. I remember he was handsome and generous.”
“He still is,” I said. I don’t give people a hard time about their pasts. I mean, look at me. But I felt good knowing this elegant woman had nice memories of Harlan. “I bet Harlan would like to see you again,” I blurted out. “Maybe you could come to supper sometime.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice. Thank you. I don’t know how long I’ll remain in Wilbur County, but I have the notion it’ll be plenty long enough to enjoy a meal and see Harlan McCoy all grown up.” Then she looked me square in the eyes and held my gaze. Time slipped, her thoughts tapped at my skull wanting in. Rockie nudged me in the ribs, but didn’t say anything. I rubbed my side where her elbow poked at me. Faith spoke again. “Something very familiar about you, Cynthea McCoy.” Then she asked the question I always hate. “Who’s your father? Did you grow up around here?”
“No. I grew up in Portland.” I looked her back in the eye. “I don’t have a father. Least not one I know.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Faith put her hand on mine. Her skin was cool and the texture of silk. I wished she was my mother.
“Tomorrow,” Rockie whispered, “ask her to come tomorrow.”
Faith took her purse off the counter, clearly preparing to leave. I took a deep breath, “What about tomorrow, Ms Applegate?”
“Tomorrow, dear? And please call me Faith.”
“For supper. Could you come to supper tomorrow, Faith.”
“I believe I could. Shall we say 6:30?”
“Six-thirty would be great. Are you okay with vegetarian? Harlan and me are vegetarian.”
“Vegetarians in Wilbur County. This is news. Yes, of course. If you could spare the salt a little though. I do have to watch my blood pressure. Do you live out on the old McCoy place on McCoy Road off of Buckeye?”
“That’s it. We call it McCoy Agricultural Technologies Experimental Farm,” I said.
“Quite a mouthful.” She looked at me solemnly. “Harlan isn’t still running drugs out of South America is he?”
I felt the color fall from my face. Ohmygod. How did she know? That was Harlan’s past. Gone and buried and never to be revived, but Jesus, how did she know? “No,” I squeaked. “Harlan don’t do that anymore.” I was immediately embarrassed at how awful that sounded. I had been trying so hard to use good English. It’s not easy when you pretty much dropped out of school at fourteen and all you have is a GED.
“People around here know each other’s business,” Faith said voicing the obvious. “What they don’t know, they suspect. I left Wilbur County years ago, as you no doubt know, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t kept in touch. Thelma is just about the best source of news about this town you will ever find. The Truth only reveals a little corner of this valley you live in.” She paused and gave me a reassuring smile. “So, I will see you tomorrow night. Perhaps I should bring some cake from the bakery?”
“We’d like that,” was all I managed to reply before Faith left the office. I wondered if Harlan knew his past was such an open book. “He knows,” Rockie said. She was standing at the window watching Faith walk down the street. When she turned around her face was sad and she had a far, far away look about her eyes.
“Rockie,” I said to her. “I get the distinct impression you think you are Rochelle LaFontaine.” But Rockie didn’t hear me. She wasn’t there.
“Charlie, open the door.” The black man does not move. Click, click. The knob turns. The door opens and a dark shape fills the doorway. The man says, “What do you want?” There are three pale men in the room and their arms are stretched out like zombies, hands reaching for the dark man on the bed. They chant his name without moving their mouths. “Charlie, Charlie, Charlie.”
The dream is becoming familiar. When I wake up, I try to remember the faces of the three men, but they look like that painting of a scream that the Halloween masks are made to look like. Just white faces with round empty eye sockets and open, lipless, mouth-holes. I know what I am dreaming. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, but I know the dream is still unformed and I don’t want it to take form. If I have to have the dream, I’d rather it be just flashes of images like a broken film.
