chandelier.
“What’s the matter? Has the Catholic representative of the Puritan Ethic made you so crazy you want to go back to the convent already?”
Susan laughed. “He left at six forty-five. He had a press conference at nine.”
“That’s our Danny. Two hours to rehearse the six words it takes to make a sound byte.”
“Maybe you ought to take some time to rehearse something. Don’t you ever do anything, Andy?”
“No. And I don’t intend to. You want to do something, though.”
“You’re right, I do.”
“If it requires physical labor, I won’t help.”
Susan had been sitting on a loveseat, the only piece of furniture in the foyer. She stood up and started walking around the checkerboard marble floor. “Do you ever think about it? About Mother and Daddy and everything that happened?”
“No,” Andy said. “You shouldn’t think about it, either.”
“I know. I don’t, usually. Something Dan told me this morning got my mind on it.”
“Well,” Andy said, “that makes Dan a jerk, but we always knew he was a jerk. You don’t have to be a jerk along with him.”
“Maybe I can’t help myself. I told Reverend Mother all about it when I was, I don’t know. A novice. A canonical novice? A senior novice? I don’t remember. I thought I’d tell her and then she’d kick me out.”
“She didn’t, though.”
“No,” Susan said. “I should have known better. I’m sorry. I know I’m acting morbid. And I want a favor from you, too.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I want to go downtown. I want you to come with me.”
Now it was Andy who was sitting on the loveseat. He always claimed he was indolent. He didn’t like standing up for long. “If you want to go buying dresses,” he said, “I don’t want to come. The last time I did that with a woman, I ruined a beautiful relationship.”
“I don’t want to buy dresses.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to go down to this place off Congress Avenue. It’s called Damien House.”
Andy tilted his head back and stared up, at the chandelier, at the domed ceiling beyond it. His body had gone very still.
“Does Dan know you want to do this?”
“He probably suspects.”
“He probably told you not to go.”
“I’m thirty-five years old, Andy. I’m not a baby.”
“You’re not a baby, but this is a bad idea. A very bad idea. You don’t know the half of what you’re getting yourself into. They had a murder there last Friday night.”
“Does that mean you won’t take me?”
Andy sighed. His head was at a normal angle again. His arms were wrapped around his chest. Susan thought he looked infinitely tired, as if he’d taken a sleeping pill when she wasn’t looking and it had just started to hit him.
“Oh, I’ll take you all right,” he said. “But I want you to know up front I think you’re crazy.”
Chapter Two
1
S USAN HAD DRIVEN TO New Haven from Saint Michael’s. She could remember it in detail, mostly because she had been so terrified. Nuns in traditional orders weren’t handed car keys as a matter of course. There were designated drivers and designated riders. Susan had always been one of the latter. Getting into a car again, bumping along beside the Housatonic River on the Derby Road, had been the second most frightening thing Susan had ever done. She’d thought the particulars of that trip had been burned into her brain: the shacks that had once been summer cottages now lying in ruin next to the water; the patches of ice in front of every stoplight along the new six-lane stretch between Derby and New Haven proper; the car dealerships that cluttered the intersection at the turn-off to Orange and promised Mazdas and BMWs for practically no money at all. Searching her memories of that trip, she came up with a picture so complete it was almost documentary footage.
Sitting in the bus next to Andy, she realized she didn’t really remember anything. She’d been so wrapped up in her fear, she’d
“What’s the matter? Has the Catholic representative of the Puritan Ethic made you so crazy you want to go back to the convent already?”
Susan laughed. “He left at six forty-five. He had a press conference at nine.”
“That’s our Danny. Two hours to rehearse the six words it takes to make a sound byte.”
“Maybe you ought to take some time to rehearse something. Don’t you ever do anything, Andy?”
“No. And I don’t intend to. You want to do something, though.”
“You’re right, I do.”
“If it requires physical labor, I won’t help.”
Susan had been sitting on a loveseat, the only piece of furniture in the foyer. She stood up and started walking around the checkerboard marble floor. “Do you ever think about it? About Mother and Daddy and everything that happened?”
“No,” Andy said. “You shouldn’t think about it, either.”
“I know. I don’t, usually. Something Dan told me this morning got my mind on it.”
“Well,” Andy said, “that makes Dan a jerk, but we always knew he was a jerk. You don’t have to be a jerk along with him.”
“Maybe I can’t help myself. I told Reverend Mother all about it when I was, I don’t know. A novice. A canonical novice? A senior novice? I don’t remember. I thought I’d tell her and then she’d kick me out.”
“She didn’t, though.”
“No,” Susan said. “I should have known better. I’m sorry. I know I’m acting morbid. And I want a favor from you, too.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I want to go downtown. I want you to come with me.”
Now it was Andy who was sitting on the loveseat. He always claimed he was indolent. He didn’t like standing up for long. “If you want to go buying dresses,” he said, “I don’t want to come. The last time I did that with a woman, I ruined a beautiful relationship.”
“I don’t want to buy dresses.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I want to go down to this place off Congress Avenue. It’s called Damien House.”
Andy tilted his head back and stared up, at the chandelier, at the domed ceiling beyond it. His body had gone very still.
“Does Dan know you want to do this?”
“He probably suspects.”
“He probably told you not to go.”
“I’m thirty-five years old, Andy. I’m not a baby.”
“You’re not a baby, but this is a bad idea. A very bad idea. You don’t know the half of what you’re getting yourself into. They had a murder there last Friday night.”
“Does that mean you won’t take me?”
Andy sighed. His head was at a normal angle again. His arms were wrapped around his chest. Susan thought he looked infinitely tired, as if he’d taken a sleeping pill when she wasn’t looking and it had just started to hit him.
“Oh, I’ll take you all right,” he said. “But I want you to know up front I think you’re crazy.”
Chapter Two
1
S USAN HAD DRIVEN TO New Haven from Saint Michael’s. She could remember it in detail, mostly because she had been so terrified. Nuns in traditional orders weren’t handed car keys as a matter of course. There were designated drivers and designated riders. Susan had always been one of the latter. Getting into a car again, bumping along beside the Housatonic River on the Derby Road, had been the second most frightening thing Susan had ever done. She’d thought the particulars of that trip had been burned into her brain: the shacks that had once been summer cottages now lying in ruin next to the water; the patches of ice in front of every stoplight along the new six-lane stretch between Derby and New Haven proper; the car dealerships that cluttered the intersection at the turn-off to Orange and promised Mazdas and BMWs for practically no money at all. Searching her memories of that trip, she came up with a picture so complete it was almost documentary footage.
Sitting in the bus next to Andy, she realized she didn’t really remember anything. She’d been so wrapped up in her fear, she’d
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