Horns by Joe Hill
And anyway, it had been different between them in the time since Merrin died. It hurt them to see what had happened to him in the aftermath of her murder. They didn’t want to know about how he was living, had never once been inside Glenna’s place. Glenna asked why they never had a meal together and insinuated that Ig was ashamed to be with her, which he was. It hurt them, too, the shadow he had cast over them, because it was a well-known fact in town that Ig had raped and murdered Merrin Williams and got away with it because his rich and connected parents had pulled strings, called in favors, and twisted arms to interfere with the investigation.
His father had been a small-time celebrity for a while. He had played with Sinatra and Dean Martin, was on their records. He had cut records of his own, for Blue Tone, in the late sixties and early seventies, four of them, and had scored a Top 100 hit with a dreamy, cool-cat instrumental called “Fishin’ with Pogo.” He married a Vegas showgirl, played himself on TV variety shows and in a handful of movies, and finally resettled in New Hampshire, so Ig’s mom could be close to her family. Later he had been a celebrity professor at Berklee College of Music who sat in on occasion with the Boston Pops.
Ig had always liked to listen to his father, to watch him while he played. It was almost wrong to say his father played. It often seemed the other way around: that the horn was playing him. The way his cheeks swole out, then caved in as if he were being inhaled into it, the way the golden keys seemed to grab his fingers like little magnets snatching at iron filings, causing them to leap and dance in unexpected, startling fits. The way he shut his eyes and bent his head and twisted back and forth at the hips, as if his torso were an auger, screwing its way deeper and deeper into the center of his being, pulling the music up from somewhere in the pit of his belly.
Ig’s older brother had gone into the family line of work with a vengeance. Terence was on TV every night, star of his own music-and-comedy late-night show, Hothouse, which had come out of nowhere to mop the floor with the other late, late guys. Terry played horn in apparently death-defying situations, had done “Ring of Fire” in a ring of fire with Alan Jackson, had played “High & Dry” with Norah Jones, the both of them in a tank filling with water. It hadn’t sounded good, but it was great TV. Terry was making it hand over fist these days.
He had his own way of playing, too, different from their father. His chest strained so hard at his shirt it looked as if at any moment he would pop a button. His eyes bulged from his sockets so he seemed perpetually surprised. He jerked back and forth at the waist like a metronome. His face glistened with happiness, and sometimes it sounded as if his horn were screaming with laughter. He had inherited their father’s most precious gift: The more he practiced at a thing, the less practiced it sounded and the more natural and unexpected and lively it became.
Ig had hated to listen to his brother play when they were teenagers and would make up any excuse to avoid going with his parents to Terry’s performances. He got indigestion from jealousy, couldn’t sleep the night before Terry put on a big show at the school or, later, at local clubs. He had hated especially to be with Merrin watching Terry perform, could hardly stand to see the delight in her face, to see her in thrall to his music. When she swayed to Terry’s swing music, Ig imagined his brother reaching for her hips with invisible hands. He was over that now, though. He had been over it for a long time, and in fact the only part of his day he enjoyed now was watching Hothouse when Terry played.
Ig would’ve played, too—but for his asthma. He could never capture enough air in his chest to make the horn wail that way. He knew that his father wanted him to play, but when Ig pushed himself, he ran out of oxygen and his chest would grow sickeningly tight and a darkness would rise up at the edge of his vision. He had occasionally pushed himself until he fainted.
When it was clear he wasn’t getting anywhere with the trumpet, Ig had tried piano, but it had gone badly. The teacher, a friend of his father’s, was a drunk with bloodshot eyes who stank of pipe smoke and who would leave Ig to practice some hopelessly complex piece on his own while he went into the next room to nap. After that, Ig’s mother had suggested bass, but by then Ig wasn’t interested in mastering an instrument. He was interested in Merrin. Once he was in love with her, he didn’t need his family’s horns anymore.
He was going to have to see them sometime: his father and his mother, and Terry, too. His brother was in town, had come in on the red-eye for their grandmother’s eightieth birthday tomorrow, with Hothouse on summer hiatus. It was Terry’s first time back to Gideon since Merrin had died, and he wasn’t staying long, was going back the day after tomorrow. Ig didn’t blame him for wanting a quick getaway. The scandal had come just as the show was taking off and could’ve cost him everything; it said something about Terry that he would return to Gideon at all, a place where he would be at risk of being photographed with his sex-murderer brother, a picture that would be worth a grand at least to the Enquirer. But then, Terry had never believed that Ig was guilty of anything. Terry had been Ig’s loudest and angriest defender, at a time when the network would’ve preferred him to issue a terse “No comment” and move on.
Ig could avoid them for now, but sooner or later he would have to risk facing them. Maybe, he thought, it would be different with his family. Maybe they would be immune to him, and their secrets would stay secrets. They loved him, and he loved them. Love had to count for something. Maybe he could learn to control it, to turn it off, whatever “it” was. Maybe the horns would go away. They had come without warning, why shouldn’t they go the same way?
He pushed a hand back through his limp and thinning hair—thinning at twenty-six!—then squeezed his head between his palms. He hated the frantic scurry of his thoughts, how desperately one idea chased after another. His fingertips brushed the horns, and he cried out in fright. It was on his lips to say, God, please, God, make them go away… but then he caught himself and said nothing.
A crawly sensation worked its way up his forearms. If he was a devil now, could he still speak of God? Would lightning strike him, shatter him in a white flash? Would he burn?
“God,” he whispered.
Nothing happened.
“God, God, God,” he said.
He cocked his head, listening, waiting for some response.
“Please, God, make them go away. I’m sorry if I did something to piss you off last night. I was drunk. I was angry,” Ig said.
He held a breath, lifted his eyes, looked at himself in the rearview mirror. There were the horns. He was getting used to the sight of them now. They were becoming a part of his face. This thought caused him to shiver with revulsion.
At the edge of his vision, slipping past on his right, he saw a blaze of white and yanked the wheel, pulling up to the curb. Ig had been driving without thinking, paying no mind to where he was and with no idea where he was going. He had arrived, without meaning to, at the Sacred Heart of Mary, where he’d gone with his family to church for over two-thirds of his life and where he’d seen Merrin Williams for the first time.
He stared at the Sacred Heart with a dry mouth. He hadn’t been in there, or in any other church, since Merrin was killed, had not wanted to be part of a crowd, to be stared at by other parishioners. Nor had he wanted to get right with God; he felt God needed to get right with him.
Maybe if he walked in there and prayed to God, the horns would go away. Or maybe—maybe Father Mould would know what to do. Ig had an idea then. Father Mould might be immune to the influence of the horns. If anyone could resist the power of them, Ig thought, wouldn’t it be a man of the cloth? He had God on his side, and the protection of God’s house. Maybe an exorcism could be arranged. Father Mould had to know people he could contact about something like that. A sprinkle of holy water and a few Our Fathers and Ig might be right back to normal.
He left the Gremlin at the curb and walked up the concrete path to the Sacred Heart. He was reaching for the door when he caught himself, drew his hand back. What if,
He forced himself to reach out and take the latch. One leaf of the door opened to his hand—a hand that did not burn, or sting, or feel any pain at all. He looked into the dimness of the nave, out over the rows of dark-varnished pews. The place smelled of seasoned wood and old hymnals, with their sun-worn leather covers and brittle pages. He had always liked the smell and was surprised to find he still liked it now, that the odor didn’t cause him to choke.
He stepped through the door. Ig spread his arms and waited. He looked down the length of one arm, then the other, watching to see if any smoke would come trickling out of his shirt cuffs. None did. He lifted a hand to the horn at his right temple. It was still there. He expected them to tingle, to pulse, something—but there was nothing. The church was a cavern of silence and darkness, lit only by the pastel glow of the stained-glass windows. Mary at her son’s feet as He died on the cross. John baptizing Jesus in the river.
He thought he should approach the altar, kneel there, and plead with God for a break. He felt a prayer forming on his lips: Please, God, if You make the horns go away, I’ll always serve You, I’ll come back to church, I’ll be a priest, I’ll spread the Word, I’ll spread the Word in hot Third World countries where everyone has leprosy, if anyone has leprosy anymore, just please, make them go away, make me who I was again. He didn’t get around to saying it, though. Before he took a step, he heard a gentle clang of iron on iron and turned his head.
He was still in the entrance to the atrium, and there was a door to his left, slightly ajar, which looked into a staircase. There was a little gym down there, available to the parishioners for various functions. Iron banged softly again. Ig touched the door, and as it eased back, opening wider, a trickle of country music spilled out.
“Hello?” he called, standing in the doorway.
Another ding of iron and a breathless gasp.
“Yes?” called Father Mould. “Who is it?”
“Ig Perrish, sir.”
A moment of silence followed. It lasted a little too long.
Mould said, “Come on down and see me.”
Ig went down the stairs.
At the far end of the basement, a bank of fluorescent lights shone down on a puffy floor mat, some giant inflatable balls, a balance beam—equipment for a kids’ tumbling class. Here by the stairwell, though, some of the lights were out and it was darker. Arranged along the walls were a circuit of cardiovascular machines. Close to the foot of the stairs was a weight bench, Father Mould stretched out on his back upon it.
Forty years before, Mould had been a wingman for Syracuse and afterward was a marine, serving a tour of duty in the Iron Triangle, and he still had the mass and overwhelming physical presence of a hockey player, the self-assured authority of a soldier. He was slow on his feet, hugged people when they amused him, and was lovable in the way of a gentle old St. Bernard who likes to sleep on the furniture even though he knows he isn’t supposed to. He was dressed in a gray warm-up suit and ancient, beat-up Adidas. His cross hung from one end of the weight bar, swinging softly as he dropped the bar and then ponderously raised it again.
Sister Bennett stood behind the bench. She was built a little like a hockey player herself, with broad shoulders and a heavy, mannish face, her short, curly hair held back by a violet sweatband. She wore a purple tracksuit to match. Sister Bennett had taught an ethics class at St. Jude’s and liked to draw flow charts on the chalkboard, showing how certain decisions led inexorably to salvation (a rectangle she filled with fat, puffy clouds) or inexorably to hell (a box filled with flames).
Ig’s brother, Terry, had mocked her relentlessly, drawing flow charts of his own, for the amusement of his classmates, showing how, after a variety of grotesque lesbian encounters, Sister Bennett would wind up arriving in hell herself, where she would be only too glad to indulge in disturbing sexual practices with the devil. These had made Terry the hit of the St. Jude’s cafeteria—an early taste of celebrity. It had also been his first brush with notoriety, as he’d eventually been ratted out (by an anonymous tipster, whose identity was unknown to this day). Terry had been invited to Father Mould’s office. Their meeting took place behind closed doors, but that was not enough to muffle the sound of Mould’s wooden paddle striking Terry’s ass or, after the twentieth stroke, Terry’s cries. Everyone in school heard. The sounds carried through the vents of the outdated heating system to every classroom. Ig had writhed in his chair, in agony for Terry. He had eventually stuck his fingers into his ears so he wouldn’t have to hear. Terry was not allowed to perform at the year-end recital—for which he’d been practicing for months—and was flunked in ethics.
Father Mould sat up, wiping his face with a towel. It was darkest there at the foot of the steps, and the thought crossed Ig’s mind that Mould genuinely couldn’t see the horns.
“Hello, Father,” Ig said.
“Ignatius. Seems like it’s been forever. Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“I’ve got a place downtown,” Ig said, his voice hoarsening with emotion. He had been unprepared for Father Mould’s solicitous tone, his easy, avuncular affection. “It isn’t far, really. I keep meaning to stop in, but—”
“Ig? Are you all right?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s happening to me. It’s my head. Look at my head, Father.”
Ig stepped forward and bowed slightly, leaning into the light. He could see the shadow of his head on the swept cement floor, the horns a pair of small pointed hooks sticking out from his temples. He was afraid almost to see Mould’s reaction and glanced at him shyly. The ghost of a polite smile remained on Father Mould’s face. His brow furrowed in thought as he studied the horns with a kind of glassy bewilderment.
“I was drunk last night, and I did terrible things,” Ig said. “And when I woke up, I was like this, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I’m becoming. I thought you could tell me what to do.”
Father Mould stared for another long moment, openmouthed, baffled.
“Well, kiddo,” he said at last. “You want me to tell you what to do? I think you ought to go home and hang yourself. That’d probably be the best thing for you, for your family—really, for everyone. There’s rope in the storeroom behind the church. I’d go get it for you if I thought that would point you in the right direction.”
“Why—” Ig started, and then had to clear his throat before he went on. “Why do you want me to kill myself?”
“Because you murdered Merrin Williams and your daddy’s big-shot Jew lawyer got you off. Sweet little Merrin Williams. I had a lot of affection for her. Not much of a rack, but she did have one fine little ass. You should’ve gone to jail. I wanted you to go to jail. Sister, spot me.” He stretched out on his back for another set of reps.
“But, Father,” Ig said. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill her.”
“Oh, you big kidder,” said Mould as he put his hands on the bar above him. Sister Bennett settled into position at the head of the bench press. “Everyone knows you did it. You might as well take your own life. You’re going to hell anyway.”
“I’m there already.”
Mould grunted as he lowered the bar to his chest and heaved it up again. Ig noticed Sister Bennett staring at him.
“I wouldn’t blame you for killing yourself,” she said without preamble. “Most days I’m ready to commit suicide by lunchtime. I hate how people look at me. The lesbian jokes they make about me behind my back. I could use that rope in the shed if you don’t want it.”
Mould shoved the bar up with a gasp. “I think about Merrin Williams all the time. Usually when I’m balling her
“You…you took a vow of chastity,” Ig said.
“Chastity shmastity. I figure God is just glad I keep it in my pants around the altar boys. Way I see it, the lady needs comfort from someone, and she sure isn’t going to get any from that four-eyed sad sack she’s married to. Not the right kind of comfort anyway.”
Sister Bennett said, “I want to be someone different. I want to run away. I want someone to like me. Did you ever like me, Iggy?”
Ig swallowed. “Well…I guess. Somewhat.”
“I want to sleep with someone,” Sister Bennett continued, as if he hadn’t said anything. “I want someone to hold me in bed at night. I don’t care whether it’s a man or a woman. I don’t care. I don’t want to be alone anymore. I can write checks for the church. Sometimes I want to empty the account and run away with the money. Sometimes I want to do that so bad.”
“I’m surprised,” Mould said, “that no one in this town has stepped up to make an example out of you for what you did to Merrin Williams. Give you a taste of what you gave her. You’d think some concerned citizens would pay you a visit some night, take you for a relaxing tour of the countryside. Right back to that tree where you killed Merrin and string you up from it. If you won’t do the decent thing and hang yourself, then that’d be the next best thing.”
Ig was surprised to find himself relaxing, unbunching his fists, breathing more steadily. Mould wobbled with the bench press. Sister Bennett caught the bar and settled it in its cradle with a clank.
Ig lifted his gaze to her and said, “What’s stopping you?”
“From what?” she asked.
“From taking the money and leaving.”