Black Creek Crossing by John Saul
“I’m gonna—” Angel began, then stopped herself, but could see by the malicious sparkle in Zack’s eyes that it was too late.
“You gonna tell?” he taunted. “What are you—still a baby?”
“Why don’t you just leave me alone?” Angel asked, and once more heard the quiver in her own voice.
Zack heard it, too. “Ooh, is the baby going to cry now?”
Her eyes welling with tears, Angel turned away from Zack, hurried down the stairs and started toward Seth. But as she crossed the lawn, a car pulled up in front of Seth, he got in, and the car drove away. Wanting to run now, but having no place to run, Angel dropped her head down so no one would see the tears in her eyes. She crossed the street and headed for the corner, but instead of turning toward home, she kept going straight for another block until she came to the corner where the Catholic and Congregational churches stood across the street from each other. The sun had moved far enough across the sky so that the shadow of the larger church no longer fell over the smaller one, but even without the shadow, the little Church of the Holy Mother looked oddly defensive, as if it were afraid that at any moment its far larger and grander neighbor across the street might simply devour it.
Angel made her way into the church, dipped her fingers in the font and crossed herself. No lights were on in the church, and only a few candles were lit for the Holy Mother and the saints, but just enough light made its way through the darkly stained glass of the windows that Angel was able to find the confessional.
It was empty.
Nor was there a sign telling her what time the priest would be available to hear her confession. But if there was no priest, how was she supposed to confess her sins?
Maybe she should just leave—after all, she’d tried, hadn’t she? She turned toward the door, but before she’d taken even a single step she heard a voice.
“May I help you, my child?”
Turning back toward the altar, Angel saw the figure of Father Mike emerging from the shadows.
“I—I need to make my confession,” Angel stammered.
Father Mike nodded toward the confessional, and a few moments later she was sitting in one side of it, with the priest hidden in the other.
“How long has it been since your last confession?” she heard the priest ask.
“A—A month,” Angel said, though she wasn’t really sure.
The familiar ritual began, and though she still wasn’t certain exactly what she was supposed to confess, she did her best. But fifteen minutes later, when it was over and she had left the church and started home, she felt no better.
Indeed, she felt even worse.
Seth had felt one faint ray of hope as he saw Angel come out the front door of the school. After the last bell rang, he’d gotten out to the sidewalk as quickly as he could, knowing better than to keep his father waiting for even a minute or two. There’d been no sign of the Lexus, but Seth also knew better than to risk leaving without waiting for at least fifteen minutes, and fourteen of them had already passed when the front door of the school opened and Angel Sullivan appeared. He raised his hand to wave at her, but she turned—apparently to say something to her cousin—before she noticed him. Then his father’s car rolled around the corner and pulled up next to him.
“Get in,” his father commanded. “We’re already late.”
Seth’s hand dropped back to his side and he pulled the door open and got in. His father was pulling away from the curb even before he’d shut the door, and Seth could tell by the throbbing vein in his father’s forehead that whatever happened when they got to the country club wasn’t going to be pleasant.
“I don’t understand how come you’re not on the team at school,” Blake Baker said a couple of minutes later, barely glancing at Seth as he spoke. “Do you have any idea how much dues I pay the club every year? If you’d just take advantage of the opportunities I provide . . .” His voice died away as he shook his head, both his tone and the gesture letting Seth know how incomprehensible—and annoying—he found his son’s behavior.
Seth said nothing, certain that any response would turn his father’s irritation into a full-blown rage, and neither of them spoke again until they were inside the clubhouse. As his father checked in at the desk, Seth gazed out the picture window, and once more felt a faint ray of hope—nobody was on the practice range, so at least he wouldn’t have to go through the humiliation of having people watch while he tried to master swinging his driver. His heart sank again as he heard his father talking to the guy behind the counter.
“Taking my boy out for a practice round,” Blake Baker was saying. “We’re gonna kick some serious ass on Saturday.”
Five minutes later Seth stood at the first tee box, gazing down the narrow fairway toward the green, which looked like it had to be at least five hundred yards away even though he knew it was only a little more than three hundred. “Easiest hole on the course,” his father had told him two years ago, the first time Seth tried to play golf. “Half the guys can drive the green, and even the kids always get on in two.” Seth hadn’t gotten on the green at all that day—it had taken him five swings with the driver just to hit the ball, and finally his father had told him to pick it up. “Can’t hold up play all day,” he’d said, giving Seth an encouraging pat on the shoulder and grinning apologetically at the four men waiting a few yards away, watching every clumsy swing he’d made. He’d put the driver back in the bag, picked it up, and tried to sling it over his shoulder the way his father did, and almost lost his balance. His father had steadied him, but as soon as they were alone, Blake Baker’s grin had faded. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he’d demanded. “Anybody can carry a golf bag!”
“Go ahead,” Blake Baker said now. “Keep it to the left and let it roll into the middle of the fairway.”
Seth carefully teed up the ball exactly as his father had shown him, putting the tee between his forefinger and middle finger, then pushing down on it with the ball itself.
As soon as he took his hand away, the ball fell off the tee. He tried it twice more, feeling his father’s eyes boring into him.
“Jesus,” Blake finally muttered. Edging Seth aside, he set the ball up, leaving it standing steadily atop the tee. “Now, just take it easy and hit it, okay?” he said, his voice making clear his doubt that Seth was going to be able to strike the ball at all.
Seth stood over the ball, trying to remember everything his father had told him. Holding the club in his left hand, he placed his right hand on the shaft so his little finger overlapped his left forefinger. He laid the club head behind the ball, then adjusted his grip so the face of the club was as square to the ball as he could make it.
He bent his knees slightly, and slowly pulled the club back. The head hovered in the air, then Seth brought it around, swinging directly at the ball.
He came close enough that the ball fell off the tee.
“Jesus.”
Seth put the ball back on the tee as quickly as possible and tried another swing.
And a third.
On the fourth try he finally managed to hit the ball, but it came off the toe of the club and shied away to the right, into the woods. “I’ll find it,” Seth said.
“Forget it,” Blake Baker snapped. “It’s just a junk ball anyway. Tee up another one.”
The second ball—to Seth’s utter amazement—shot off the tee on his first swing, flying at least fifty yards down the fairway.
“I did it!” Seth cried. “I hit it!”
“You call that hitting it?” Blake replied. “I could kick the ball that far. Let me show you how it’s done.” Teeing up his own ball, Blake stepped back, took a couple of practice swings, then stepped behind the ball and gazed straight down the fairway for a moment, moved into his stance, and drew the club back.
There was a sharp crack as the club face made contact, and Seth watched the ball soar high into the air, streaking straight down the fairway, finally coming to rest less than a hundre
“See?” Blake asked. “Nothing to it.”
Putting their drivers back in the bags, they walked down the fairway to the spot where Seth’s ball lay.
“Better use a three iron,” his father told him.
Certain it wouldn’t make any difference which club he used, Seth pulled the three iron out of the bag, did his best to set up the shot the same way his father did, even taking two practice swings, and standing behind the ball for a few seconds. But when he finally made his swing, the ball only bounced a few feet to the right.
Seth didn’t even need to look at his father to feel his disgust—it rolled over him like a breaking wave. Moving quickly to the ball, he swung again, and then a third time, and with each swing he felt his anxiety rising.
Finally, on the fourth swing, the club connected with the ball, but once again the ball only shot off into the woods to the right.
“I’ll get another one,” Seth said, moving toward his bag.
“You’ll find that one,” his father told him. “Once it’s off the tee, you play it. You’ve got five minutes to find it or it’s a penalty stroke.”
Seth looked pleadingly at his father. “I thought we were just practicing,” he blurted, and instantly wished he could reclaim his words.
“How are you going to get any better if you don’t know how badly you’re doing? I’m giving you enough of a break by not starting to count until you’re at least decently off the tee.”
Putting his iron back in the bag, Seth started toward the woods.
“What are you going to hit it with?” Blake asked, his voice stopping Seth in his tracks.
Seth went back and picked up his golf bag, slinging it over his shoulder, then trudged once again toward the woods. To his surprise, his father came with him.
“Maybe it’ll speed things up if I look too,” Blake told him. When they finally found the ball, it was lying half hidden under some brush. “Better declare it unplayable,” Blake said. “You’re just going to get another penalty stroke if you break any of the branches off the bush.”
Ten minutes later they finally arrived at the point where Blake’s ball lay. He took a pitching wedge out of his bag, swung it a couple of times, then set up the shot. The ball came to rest three feet from the cup.
After three more strokes, Seth’s ball finally rolled onto the green.
It took him five strokes with the putter before the ball fell into the hole.
As Seth picked up the flag, his father picked up his own ball from where it had come to rest after the second shot, a little more than a yard from the hole.
“Don’t you have to putt it in?” Seth asked.
Blake Baker glared at his son. “From that distance? It’s a gimme, isn’t?”
Seth said nothing.
“All right,” Blake said, his voice taking on a hard edge. “I guess if you won’t give it to me, I’ll have to putt it out.”
Blake set the ball back on the green, and Seth was sure it was closer to the hole than it had originally been. He circled around, studying the putt from every angle. At last he stepped up, took three careful practice swings, and then struck the ball.
It rolled past the hole.
“So it’s a four,” he said, reaching down and picking up the ball.
When Seth finally got a glance at the score card two holes later, he saw that his father had given him fourteen strokes on the first hole.
He’d given himself three.
Chapter 21
HE NEXT DAY WAS EVEN WORSE THAN THE DAY before. Angel had barely slept, lying awake through the long night, terrified that at any moment she would hear the door to her room open and the floorboards begin to creak as her father slunk through the darkness toward her bed. It was worse when she slept, for with sleep came dreams, and in the dreams her father was always there, gazing at her with burning eyes, reaching out toward her, his fingers straining to touch her flesh.
When she turned away from her father, her mother was there, but her back was to Angel, and no matter how Angel begged, her mother wouldn’t even look at her.
When she turned away from her mother, she found herself facing Father Mike, who looked at her coldly, then spoke: “Go forth and sin no more.”
It was always his words that awakened her, leaving her alone in the darkness, too frightened to sleep and too tired to stay awake.
By the time she got to school, she wasn’t sure she could make it through the day at all.
Seth Baker had gotten no more sleep than Angel, the stinging welts from the lash of his father’s belt making it impossible for him to lie on his back, and even the weight of his sheet and blanket hurt enough to keep him awake until almost dawn. His father was already gone when he went downstairs, and when his mother asked him if he was going to practice playing golf again that afternoon, he shook his head.
“Do I really have to play in the tournament on Saturday?” he asked as he poured some cereal into a bowl.
“Well, of course you do,” Jane Baker told him. “Why would you even ask such a question?”
Because I’m no good at golf and Dad will just give me another beating when we get home. He knew better than to speak the thought out loud, though, and only shrugged in response to his mother’s question. And the worst part wouldn’t even be the beating. It would be the humiliation of having Zack Fletcher and Chad Jackson and Jared Woods and all the other jocks watch him as he flailed away at the ball. But he knew there was no point in trying to argue with his mother, since she wouldn’t argue with his dad any more than he would.
He ate his cereal in silence and left the house in silence, and somehow got through the day.
By the time he had to strip for gym, the welts on his buttocks had faded enough so no one noticed them.
Five minutes after the last bell, he met Angel Sullivan.
“You okay?” he asked as she fell in beside him.
“I guess,” she sighed. “What about you?”
Seth shrugged. “I’m used to it.” Today’s lunch had been an almost exact repeat of the one the day before, with Zack and Heather and their friends making the sucky-kissy noises, and the boys grinding their hips at both Angel and Seth.
Except they hadn’t called him Seth, and every time they’d used its rhyme, Angel had seen him cringe. “How come they call you that?” she asked as they began walking out Black Creek Road toward the house that stood at the Crossing.
“I don’t know,” Seth said. “The same reason they called you all those names in Eastbury, I guess.”
“At least they called me girls’ names.” For a second Seth looked as if she’d slapped him, but then he laughed.
“ ‘Beth’ isn’t a girl’s name?” he asked.
“That’s not what I meant,” Angel said. “I meant—”
“Oh, who cares, anyway?” Seth cut in as she began floundering for the right words. “It’s just names. Let’s talk about something else.”
But instead of talking, both of them lapsed into silence, and neither spoke until they were across the street from Angel’s house, where, as if by common consent, they both stopped, staring at the house.
It looked exactly as it had this morning, and yesterday, and the day before, and yet, as they gazed at it, neither Angel nor Seth could stop thinking about the strange images that Seth’s camera had caught in the window of Angel’s room, or the odd drawing that had appeared on the mirror in Angel’s room.
Nor could Seth forget what had happened when Angel’s father had found them in her bedroom. “Maybe I shouldn’t come in,” he said, his voice sounding hollow.
Angel looked at him uncertainly. “I thought you wanted to see if there was something under the stairs,” she said.
Seth bit his lower lip, then: “If your dad comes home—”
“He won’t,” Angel said. “And even if he does, we just won’t be in my room.”
Still Seth hesitated. “I don’t know. . . .”
“You were the one th
Seth cut her off. “Quit worrying. Let’s both go in and see if we can find anything.”
They went around to the back of the house, and Angel found the key her mother had hidden under the same pot that had been on the back porch in Eastbury. “If we’re supposed to be looking for something under the stairs, shouldn’t there be a loose board or something?” Angel asked as she opened a Coke and split it between two glasses.
“I guess,” Seth replied. But ten minutes later, after tugging at every stair in the case leading to the second floor, he shook his head. “Even the ones that squeak don’t come loose.” He looked at Angel. “What about from underneath? Maybe there’s some kind of hidden cupboard or something.”
They went around to the door of the closet that was built under the stairs, but again found nothing. The walls and the steeply slanted ceiling under the stairs were plastered and painted white, and in the glare of the naked bulb that illuminated the space, they could see that there weren’t even any cracks in the plaster, let alone places where it might come open to reveal a hidden space.
“So now what?” Seth asked. But before Angel could reply, they heard a muffled sound, and Seth’s eyes widened. “If that’s your dad—”
Angel shook her head and held up her hand to silence him.
The sound came again, still muffled, but this time Angel was sure she recognized it. “It’s Houdini—he’s come back!” Leaving the closet under the stairs, Angel hurried into the kitchen, certain she would find the cat waiting for her.
The kitchen was empty.
“Where is he?” Seth asked as he too entered the kitchen.
Angel shrugged. “I don’t know—maybe I was wrong.”
But then they heard the sound again, and this time there was no mistaking it. Both Angel and Seth turned to look at the closed door that led to the basement, and when Angel pulled it open, there was the cat. But instead of coming out into the kitchen, he turned and bounded down the steep flight of steps.