Read Online Three by Cain: Serenade, Love's Lovely Counterfeit, the Butterfly by James M. Cain - Free Book Online
Authors: James M. Cain
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the crucifix, and I couldn’t make myself light up. Another storm began to come up. I enjoyed it that she was across there in the vestry room, all alone, and scared to death. It kept rolling up, the worst we had had yet. There came two flashes of lightning, and then one terrific shot of thunder right after them. The candles were just guttering up again when there came a blaze of lightning, and the thunder right with it, and every candle up there went out. For a second you couldn’t see a thing but the red spot of the sacristy lamp.
Then she began to scream. From where she was, with the door to the altar open like I had left it, maybe she caught it sooner than I did. Or maybe for a split second I had my eyes closed. I don’t know. Anyway, the church filled with green light, and then it seemed to settle over the crucifix, so the face looked alive, like it was going to cry out. Then you couldn’t see anything but the red spot.
She was screaming her head off now, and I had to have light.I dived for the choir loft, scratched a match, and lit the organ candles. I don’t know how many there were. I lit them all, so it was a blaze of candles. Then I turned to go and light the altar candles again, but I would have to cross in front of the crucifix and I couldn’t do it. All of a sudden I sat down to the organ. It was a small pedal organ, and I pumped with my bare feet and started to play. I kept jerking out stops, to make it louder. The thunder rolled, and the louder it rolled the louder I played. I didn’t know what I was playing, but after a while I knew it was an Agnus Dei I cut it off and started a Gloria . It was louder. The thunder died off and the rain came down like all Niagara was over us. I played the Gloria over again.
“Sing.”
I couldn’t see her. She was outside the circle of light, where I was sitting in the middle. But I could feel her, up at the altar rail again, and if singing was what she wanted, that suited me too. I skipped the Qui Tollis , the Quoniam , and the rest of it down to the Credo , and went on from there. Don’t ask me what it was. Some of it was Mozart, some of it was Bach, some of it was anybody you can think of. I must have sung a hundred masses in my time, and I didn’t care which one it was, so I could go on without a break. I went straight through to the Dona Nobis , and played off soft after I finished it, and then I stopped. The lightning and thunder had stopped again, and the rain was back to its regular drumming.
“Yes.”
She just whispered it, but she drew it out like she always did, so the end of it was a long hiss. “… Just like the priest.”
My head began to pound like it would split. That was the crown of skunk cabbage, all right, after all the years at harmony, of sight-reading, of piano, of light opera, of grand opera in Italy, Germany and France—to be told by this Indian that couldn’t even read that I sounded like a priest. And it didn’t help any that that was just what I sounded like. The echo of my voice was still in my ears and there was no getting around it. It had the same wooden, dull quality that a priest’s voicehas, without one particle of life in it, one echo that would make you like it.
My head kept pounding. I tried to think of something to say that would rip back at her, and couldn’t.
I got up, blew out all the candles but one, and took that one with me. I started up past the crucifix to cross over to the vestry room. She wasn’t at the crucifix. She was out in front of the altar. At the foot of the crucifix I saw something funny and held the candle to see what it was. It was three eggs, in a bowl. Beside them was a bowl of coffee and a bowl of ground corn. They hadn’t been there before. Did you ever hear of a Catholic putting eggs, coffee, and corn at the foot of the cross? No, and you never will. That’s how an Aztec treats a god.
I crossed over, and stood behind her, where she was crouched down, on her knees, her face touching
Then she began to scream. From where she was, with the door to the altar open like I had left it, maybe she caught it sooner than I did. Or maybe for a split second I had my eyes closed. I don’t know. Anyway, the church filled with green light, and then it seemed to settle over the crucifix, so the face looked alive, like it was going to cry out. Then you couldn’t see anything but the red spot.
She was screaming her head off now, and I had to have light.I dived for the choir loft, scratched a match, and lit the organ candles. I don’t know how many there were. I lit them all, so it was a blaze of candles. Then I turned to go and light the altar candles again, but I would have to cross in front of the crucifix and I couldn’t do it. All of a sudden I sat down to the organ. It was a small pedal organ, and I pumped with my bare feet and started to play. I kept jerking out stops, to make it louder. The thunder rolled, and the louder it rolled the louder I played. I didn’t know what I was playing, but after a while I knew it was an Agnus Dei I cut it off and started a Gloria . It was louder. The thunder died off and the rain came down like all Niagara was over us. I played the Gloria over again.
“Sing.”
I couldn’t see her. She was outside the circle of light, where I was sitting in the middle. But I could feel her, up at the altar rail again, and if singing was what she wanted, that suited me too. I skipped the Qui Tollis , the Quoniam , and the rest of it down to the Credo , and went on from there. Don’t ask me what it was. Some of it was Mozart, some of it was Bach, some of it was anybody you can think of. I must have sung a hundred masses in my time, and I didn’t care which one it was, so I could go on without a break. I went straight through to the Dona Nobis , and played off soft after I finished it, and then I stopped. The lightning and thunder had stopped again, and the rain was back to its regular drumming.
“Yes.”
She just whispered it, but she drew it out like she always did, so the end of it was a long hiss. “… Just like the priest.”
My head began to pound like it would split. That was the crown of skunk cabbage, all right, after all the years at harmony, of sight-reading, of piano, of light opera, of grand opera in Italy, Germany and France—to be told by this Indian that couldn’t even read that I sounded like a priest. And it didn’t help any that that was just what I sounded like. The echo of my voice was still in my ears and there was no getting around it. It had the same wooden, dull quality that a priest’s voicehas, without one particle of life in it, one echo that would make you like it.
My head kept pounding. I tried to think of something to say that would rip back at her, and couldn’t.
I got up, blew out all the candles but one, and took that one with me. I started up past the crucifix to cross over to the vestry room. She wasn’t at the crucifix. She was out in front of the altar. At the foot of the crucifix I saw something funny and held the candle to see what it was. It was three eggs, in a bowl. Beside them was a bowl of coffee and a bowl of ground corn. They hadn’t been there before. Did you ever hear of a Catholic putting eggs, coffee, and corn at the foot of the cross? No, and you never will. That’s how an Aztec treats a god.
I crossed over, and stood behind her, where she was crouched down, on her knees, her face touching
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