The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,104
little devil in a stroller.
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”
I hand the bowl to Rick and lead Kathie out into the night.
She wears a lovely pair of knee-high leather boots that make a sharp tap-tap-tap on the pavement. I ask about the tinnitus, which she says is getting worse. Despite the doctors, she has stopped believing the problem is stress-induced. There’s something wrong with her, objectively wrong, only they haven’t managed to diagnose it.
“Cognitive therapy is a crock, Beth. Don’t let anybody ever talk you into it.”
“I’m sure it helps some people.”
“It makes me want to stick needles in my ears. I wouldn’t mind losing my hearing, honestly, if only this ringing would stop.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I don’t know. I can’t think straight. Don’t listen to me.”
A couple of high school vamps walk past, their legs sheathed in fishnet. Kathie turns to watch them. I shake my head.
“We didn’t do it that way when I was in school.”
“Didn’t you?” she asks. “I was a wild child, remember? Lots to regret.”
The way she says it doesn’t sound like she regrets too much.
We run into a tiny ghost wearing an old-school sheet with eyeholes. True to form, the holes are slightly misaligned, which forces him to wobble as he walks. Too young to be out on his own, I think, but this is Lutherville. There are people here who still leave their doors unlocked. I can only imagine what Deedee must think, seeing all the Halloween ghouls standing in for her desert fathers.
“I have to say, for a woman whose husband has just quit his job and then turned down the opportunity of a lifetime, you seem amazingly calm.”
“You’ll see why. We’re on the same page, me and Rick. Things are a lot like they used to be. I have plenty of good reasons to worry, you’re right. But I’m a lot less worried than I was a month ago.”
We circle the block before heading back. To my surprise, as we pass the Smythes’ house, Margaret and Deedee are out on the front porch, handing precious Zagnuts out to the children of Lutherville. We line up behind a couple of Harry Potters, a Dr. Who, and some zombies, waiting our turn to say hello. Margaret insists on our taking some candy.
“I’ve never had one of these before,” Kathie says.
Margaret gives her a sly grin and gestures with her cast. “You be careful, then. They’ll ruin you for anything else.”
“Will we see you in the morning?” Deedee asks.
“We’ll be there.”
As we walk across the yard, Kathie asks what I meant.
“One of the things Rick wants to show you is a mural in the church up the hill.”
“The Catholic church?”
I nod. “Then there’s something else. Down in the city.”
When it’s time for bed, Rick and I walk the Shaws into the backyard, where we have a little surprise for them. I have converted the shed into a guesthouse. There’s an antique bureau on loan from the Smythes, a lovely four-poster bed, and heavy drapes over the windows. In the hearth, a golden fire gives the room a warm glow.
“It’s so . . . romantic,” Kathie says.
It is certainly that. Rick and I exchange a look.
“In the morning, we’ll all have breakfast, then start over to the church.”
I’ve rarely been to a Catholic service. It’s the opposite of the formless meetinghouse ritual of my youth, but also unlike the stage show at The Community. Apart from the costumes, there are no production values to speak of. The priest’s voice, in contrast to the majesty of his getup, has a droning, high-pitched quality that never varies. There’s a lot of kneeling and standing, and by the time I get the hang of it, the whole thing is over except for communion.
Rick squeezes my hand. “You trust me, right?”
“I guess I have to.”
“Seriously. You do trust me.”
“Yes. I do.”
Kathie sits beside me, heavy-lidded but for once apparently not in pain. Beside her, Jim continues to fidget as he’s done all morning, not a big fan of being kept in suspense. Even Roy, who isn’t much of a churchgoer, sits on the pew in front of us, not bothering to attempt the liturgical movements, contenting himself to gaze absently at Deedee’s mural, which is now revealed.
After the final prayer, we join the press of parishioners moving toward the nave for a closer look at the newly painted wall.