sprawled, dead body and stepping out of Harmony House for the last time.
Parked on the gravel, the sheriff’s truck has been split almost completely in half by a fallen tree.
In fact, all the surrounding trees have fallen in the storm. They lie like so many dead bodies, rotting, piled on top of one another.
Only the white oak remains standing—the one Sister Margaret carved her initials into—but with those two other letters—the ones I never saw in my vision.
AMJG.
I walk on down the driveway, climbing over fallen branches.
When I reach the street heading into town, I put my bag down and concentrate.
“I need a ride,” I think. “I need a ride.”
And then an old man in a pickup pulls to the curb.
“Some storm,” he says as I open the passenger door.
“Sure was,” I say.
“Where you headed?” he asks.
I don’t answer him.
But he drives me to the Staffordshire Township Hospital—because that’s where I want to go.
The hospital is overflowing with people injured from the storm, but I manage to find Christy’s room on the third floor.
I duck my head in, carefully, trying not to make any noise opening the door. Christy is lying in the bed, her legs propped up in a cast, an old black-and-white movie playing on the wall-mounted TV. I recognize Robert Mitchum dressed as a preacher—right hand tattooed with “love,” left hand tattooed with “hate.” The Night of the Hunter. Christy watches absently. She seems okay. That, at least, is a relief.
Then from behind me I hear Rose’s voice.
“You did it,” she says. “Oh, Jen, I’m so proud of you.”
I turn to her with my head bowed.
“Sheriff Jarrett came to the house last night,” I say, feeling the tears at the backs of my eyes again. “My dad . . .”
“Shh,” she says, not letting me finish. “Shh. I know. It’s not your fault.”
“But I could’ve saved him,” I tell her.
She puts her big arms around me.
“You did everything you could.”
She holds me to her. I smell the smell of her shampoo and laundry detergent. I start to cry.
“You don’t have to worry anymore,” she says. “You’re safe now.”
“I’ve got nowhere to go,” I tell her.
She pushes my hair back out of my eyes.
“You’ll stay with me,” she says. “I’ll protect you.”
“But what do I do with this power I have?” I ask her. “I don’t know how to control it.”
“You do know how,” she says, smiling. “And I’ll help teach you.”
From her hospital bed, I hear Christy murmur weakly, “Jen? Is that you?”
“Yes,” I say.
And I go to her.
“You’ll stay with us now, won’t you?”
I take her good hand in mine and feel the softness of her skin.
“Is that all right with you?” I ask.
She manages a smile.
“Yes,” she says. “I want you to.”
“Thank you,” I tell her.
And then I turn away so she doesn’t see me cry.
Rose walks over and takes me by the arm.
“Come on,” she says. “I’ll take you home.”
“Home?” I ask.
“To my home,” she says.
She smiles more.
I remember my mother’s last words to me—in Harmony House.
“Thank you,” she said.
And that’s what I say now.
“Thank you,” I tell Rose.
“It’s all right,” she says. “It’s all going to be okay.”
And for the first time since I can remember, I think that might be the truth.
I say good-bye to Christy, and then Rose and I walk out of the hospital together into the bright perfect clear cold sky.
HARMONY HOUSE
May 1961
Anselm Noonan
11 years old
EPILOGUE
It is a warm night—the moon half-full, shining bright across the grass. The leaves on the branches of the trees shimmer in the light. A cool breeze blows in from the ocean.
I climb out the open window and down the trellis on the side of the house that is overgrown with vines and purple blooming wisteria. I repeat a prayer to myself, saying it quietly over and over.
“God,” I say. “I humbly offer myself to thee, to do with me and build with me as thou wilt. Thy will, not mine, be done.”
I pray unceasingly—walking through the grass—smelling the damp earth—hearing the night sounds of mice and garden snakes and mosquitos. My linen dress shirt is damp with sweat down the back. My hand grasps at a small pocketknife. I say the prayer.
Any time I might have a thought about anything—anything sad or scary or mean or sinful—I just replace it with the thoughts of the prayer. I don’t let myself think anything else. With the prayer, I am able to hold only God in my mind. And he makes me a channel of His will. And so I enact His will. I do nothing on my own. I do everything with God. And as long as I keep on praying to him, then nothing I do can ever be wrong.
So what happened to Sister Margaret, that was not my fault. It was God’s will. His will guides me forward. His will, not mine, is being done.
Sister Margaret had to be punished.
Father Meyers was right.
For he is a man of God.
And I must follow him.
Just as I must follow Him.
“God, I humbly offer myself to thee. . . .”
I say it again.
I say it and say it.
I cannot stop.
I will never stop.
God’s will makes me walk through the grass here and into the forest. His direction guides me to the tree—the great white oak—where Sister Margaret carved her initials with that boy—where she sinned against God. Now God has vested me with the power to make it right. He tells me what to do. He tells me to take the knife and with its blade to carve into the bark of the tree. On one side of the initials he has me put a G—a G for “God”—so that Sister Margaret can be with God, in the afterlife, for all time.
And then my hand moves to the other side, next to the initial M—next to Sister Margaret’s initial—and I carve an A—bigger than the other letters—so that I can be with her forever more. Anselm and Margaret.
And God.
All together.
Forever more.
The power of God courses through me. It leaves me breathless and flushed with heat. The power of God is so strong it can raise me off the ground. I feel it all in my body. I feel it like a thousand electrical currents. I feel it in the very center of me. I feel it shiver for a long time—and then release.
Anselm and Margaret.
And God.
Together in Harmony House.
Never to part.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you: Amanda Urban, Kristen Pettit, Hrishi Desai, Molly Atlas, Dan Halsted, Nathan Miller, Ron Bernstein, Jeremy Kleiner, Felix Van Groeningen, Luke Davies, Brad Weston, Andre and Maria Jacquemetton, Patricia Resnick, Julia Cox, Nicole Yorkin, Tim Shaheen, Veena Sud, Peggy Knickerbocker, Armistead Maupin, Chris Turner, Gary Lennon, Jerry Stahl, Susan Andrews, Sue and Nan, Yoko and Sean.
And then my family: Jette Newell Sheff, papa and mama K, Jasper & Daisy, Mom, Nancy and Don, Susan and Steven, Mark and Jenny, Lucy, Becca, Bear, Joanie and Sumner. Is it dumb to thank dogs? They don’t speak much human. But Ramona, Rhett, Cold War Charlie, and Cole, who’s a very bad cat. Deep in my heart there’s a house that can hold just about all of you.