Suppressing a laugh, she nodded. “If you call this functioning. I’d like to meet your son sometime, see if I can be of any help.”
For a moment, Holly felt a surge of hope, a fleeting possibility that Jack might not be forever trapped inside.
The priest turned around to the two women.“Cinnamon buns in the morning, Miss T.?”
“It wouldn’t be Christmas without them.” She smiled. “May we meet again soon, Mrs. Keenan.”
“Holly,” she said. “And a very merry Christmas to you.”
Miss Tiramaku went on her way, pushing open the doors and disappearing into the night, leaving the church nearly empty.
“When I was a little girl, we used to come to midnight Mass every Christmas eve,” Holly said.
“Welcome home. And how is that boy of yours?”
“I need to talk with you, Father. It’s not just Jack but my husband, too. He’s been acting strangely. Wandering around at night, seeing things.”
“Seeing things?”
She leaned forward and spoke in a hoarse whisper. “He left the boys alone and went out by the ocean because he saw something. All day long, came back with these wicked deep scratches in his throat. He was a bloody mess. Claims it was ghosts.”
The von Trapps marched up to them in single file, a song waiting to be born if she ever saw one. In order to give them a proper greeting, Father Bolden released her, and shook each hand one by one and gave the littlest among them a pat on his sleepy head. The moment was ideal for her escape, but Holly found herself bound to the priest by invisible wires. She had said too much, and having heard “ghosts” emerge from her mouth, she felt slightly embarrassed by the ridiculousness of the word. She did not believe in ghosts, and thought all those who believed in them to be slightly mad. Even the Japanese housekeeper with her yurei. Perhaps Tim had gone mad as well, out wandering the shoreline, pursued by monsters. She wanted to retract her confession, rewind the conversation to its beginnings and beyond, to the moment she had ever decided to come to this place. Her husband and child were asleep in their beds. She should be home, dreaming of sugarplums.
Just as she was about to leave, Holly felt a tug at her sleeve and saw that the old priest had latched on to her again and would not let go. The last of the von Trapps bid him auf Wiedersehen, adieu, and they trooped off. Father Bolden drew her closer. He reminded her of a Cub Scout at a campfire, ready for the thrill of the story. “What do you mean by ghosts?”
“That was wrong. I’m not sure if he really meant ghosts or something else. What I meant to say was that he’s been acting strangely lately. My husband. My son, too. I just needed an hour’s peace. Jack will be up at the crack of dawn, waiting by the Christmas tree, and it’s just been madness. Chaos, the holidays, you know?”
“Better than most. A case of the Christmas spirits.”
She shrugged at his joke and offered him half a smile.
“The offer stands,” he said. “You come see me anytime you want or need to. There’s always a lull after Christmas.” He relinquished his grip and sent her on her way.
The clouds had fallen during the service, and a soft fog settled upon the landscape. In the mist, the lights in the parking lot sprouted halos. A minivan purred to life, its headlights picking the way through the gloom. The von Trapps, she imagined, heading home to bed, and in the morning there would be confetti of wrapping paper and ribbons and bows, and whiskers on kittens, and a few of her favorite things. Why isn’t my life more like a musical? As she reached her car, Holly stuck her hand inside her purse to search for her keys but was surprised instead by the candle and its cardboard circle concealed like a gun. She debated whether she should return it to the church, but decided a small white sin was preferable to further embarrassing conversation with the priest.