Best to start with the largest truths, like I’d begin with the biggest pieces when I’m arranging a sales display for the store.
First, there are other supernaturals. I knew that much, though I’ve never met any. That’s the one big truth blaring at the front of my mind right now.One of us, Gatsby said. One ofwhat, exactly? What is he? And his girlfriend, Daisy—what is she? She’s got some kind of voice power, that much is obvious.
Second, whatever the strangers might be, it’s clear they’re concerned about the integrity of the god’s burial site beneath Old Sheldon Church. They’re worried something might be happening, and they want to be sure the leadership of Wicklow Heritage Chapel has it under control. Objectively that’s a more concerning, more important fact, but I’m still mind-blown that I just met people with supernatural gifts. People likeme.
Third fact: Pastor Linton, my dad, and the other deacons are hiding something terrible. Pastor lied to the strangers because he thinks the church can handle the situation on our own or because he doesn’t want outside interference. Or maybe both.
Fourth, unless my dad can talk his way out of it somehow, Pastor Linton now knows I’ve got a supernatural ability.
All of these facts, taken together, mean that my life as I know it is over. Not that it was great to begin with, but it’s about to get a hell of a lot worse.
I allow myself five minutes. Just five minutes to freak out, to try to cope with what I heard, what just happened, what might happen next. And then I stand up straight, and I do what I’ve always done—force myself to walk in the direction I need to go, no matter how scary or uncomfortable it may be. I walk straight back to Aunt Nellie’s, back to the café counter to clean up and close it down. Dad is gone, and sois Pastor Linton, so at least I’m spared from facing them right away.
As I work, I notice Aunt Nellie watching me, glancing at me now and then—keen looks, like you give a person when you’ve learned some new piece of information about them that enlightens you about their whole personality. But she doesn’t say anything, only smiles brightly at customers and tells me what needs doing in her usual pleasant tones.
I can’t be sure she knows anything; maybe it’s all in my head. But as I finish out my shift that afternoon, a pit of resentment slowly condenses in my stomach because she has the luxury to pretend the problems in my life don’t exist. Like she did when Mom left. Like she did when she dropped by once and found Dad clearly hungover and me with a bruised wrist. Like she has done every time I’ve had to leave work for “health reasons.” She can ignore my pain and go on like everything’s fine. And she acts perfectly nice, always, but she never really digs into my life to find out where I hurt. If we get too close to any sensitive topics, she ends the conversation by turning away briskly and throwing me a bright smile.
I’ve always hated people who can smile, and smile, and be silent, even when you most need them to speak.
But maybe I hate that about her because I do the same thing. I smile and fake it every day of my life, just like I’m doing right now. All the new information racing around in my brain, the new number saved in my phone, and yet I’m working like usual, right up until the store closes. And fuck it, I’m going on my date tonight, as long as Edgar doesn’t cancel on me.
When I leave at six and Aunt Nellie says, “Have a good night,” I respond just as brightly, “You too!”
And we smile at each other, masks firmly in place. Heaven forbid they should ever slip.
7
Cathy
I can sense it the second I walk in the door.
The roar of football on the TV. The clink of a bottle being set down too close to another. The creak of the old recliner. The smell of greasy fried chicken, of green beans swimming in salty water, of hush puppies and barbecue. The blinds on the narrow window by the front door are closed tight because my dad is a respected man in Wicklow and he can’t let anybody know about his secret vice.
He’s binge-drinking. Which means it’s a good night to be out of the house.
It’s not hard to guess what brought this on. The appearance of supernatural strangers in Wicklow shook him up. Not to mention the fact that Pastor Linton now knows there’s something supernatural about me. And maybe he’s more worried about the god’s grave than he let on.
I’ve always known the god was real, that something slept beneath Old Sheldon Church. I’ve been told the story ever since I was little, how the gods of Ireland, the Tuatha Dé Danann, fled to this continent, weary from battling with men and their newreligions. Eventually most of the Tuatha Dé Danann chose mortality or were forced into sleep beneath the earth.
Years later, when the slumbering Tuatha Dé Danann began to stir again, Protestants and Catholics banded together and built structures of iron and stone over their tombs—military complexes and churches. They appointed some of the faithful to keep watch over those sites throughout future generations.
I knew all of this, even before the manifestation of my banshee side made it impossible to doubt the reality of the supernatural. But hearing strangers talk about it openly today made it twice as real and ten times as frightening. They mentioned an actual god already being raised, walking around free…Mana-something. I’ll have to look it up later. One god isn’t at full strength without the others, apparently, so as long as our congregation keeps the faith and does our duty, the god under Old Sheldon Church should stay dormant.
I hope Pastor Linton and the deacons have everything under control, but I can’t stop remembering the worried looks on their faces last Sunday. I want to ask Dad what made them so scared, but I’m not sure I should.
I venture into the living room doorway to assess his mood. Sometimes, when he’s buzzed, he’ll tell me things. I have to catch him at the right moment, when he’s feeling warm and blurry, before he gets mean and dangerous.
“Hey, Dad,” I begin. “I’ve got a date tonight.”
He sits up and turns to look at me, bottle in hand. “Who?”
“Edgar Linton.”
“Yeah?” He scratches his chin through his thick beard. “All right.”
“Do you think that’s okay? I mean, do you think it’s a good idea,after what happened today? What Pastor Linton heard from that woman, about me?”
He leans back against the chair. “Won’t be a problem. I handled it.”
