The Madonna of Shadows and Darkness

The

Madonna

of Shadows and Darkness

Kenneth Tucker

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive, Suite 200

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: 1-800-839-8640

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2008 Kenneth Tucker. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse

ISBN: 978-1-4343-8719-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-3521-3 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

For Fran Koski,

Friend, Former Student, and Fellow Scholar

Chapter One

I pulled the tiny brass chain and turned off the bronze hammer-headed fluorescent lamp sitting across from me on my flat-topped desk, and rose from my normally comfortable swivel chair. I glanced at the battery-powered moon-faced clock to my left. The hand hadn’t moved an iota, of course, since I had looked at it seconds before. Tension held my stomach like persistent hunger. I had to get up, walk about, if even for only a few moments. Of course, my legs couldn’t walk away the inner pressure, but I had to get up.

I went around the left corner of my desk, past the wall-length shelf of theology books, and stepped through the open door into what we called the nave of our rectangular level-roofed church. I turned again to the left, and opened the doors leading out to the gravel parking lot.

I heard the rain lashing the metal top of the awning above the entrance. Crazily, I had ignored the downpour. I would have no chance to walk a block or so and then return. I didn’t relish getting soaked, and I doubted that even an umbrella would provide much protection against the brutal wind. I stood in the doorway looking out at the grim dusk. The air before me was darkened by the clouds, yet lightened by an orange band across the horizon, so that I faced a kind of momentary no-land, some hybrid between day and night, partaking of both, but actually neither.

I thought about the lighted sign to my left in the side yard, facing the street: St. Peter’s Southern Anglican Church, the Reverend Sam Stone, Rector. How gruesomely awkward it would be should some agitated driver, seeing the sign, wheel into the parking lot to speak with me about a drug-beset teenager, an alcoholic parent, or an unfaithful spouse. What I was preparing to do, it seemed at the moment, would disqualify me forever from dispensing what I hoped was sound spiritual advice, or raising my hand in benediction.

As I turned from the doorway, I thought of the pint bottle of Jim Beam in the bottom right-hand drawer of my desk. As I recalled, barely an inch of the russet-colored liquid remained in the bottom. No, I told myself. I hadn’t called on that old friend — or rather enemy — for six years. Whatever happened in the coming hours, I would not taste of that damned bottle. I kept it there only as a reminder of my will power not to drink it.

I returned to my office, opened the long narrow drawer in the center of the desk, and took out my night-black Bursa 380. I removed the clip, saw that it was loaded, and jammed it back into the handle. Since I often worked in my office late at night, I didn’t want to be defenseless should young hooligans break in to steal Communion wine — which we did not have — or to use the sanctuary for a pot party. Since the Seventies, things like that had occurred more than just now and then in Louisville churches.

I put on my black suit coat and jammed the pistol into the right-hand pocket, hoping that the weapon would not be conspicuous. Then decided that it would be, and located a small brown bag and placed the weapon inside it. If the events that I feared were to follow, then perhaps within the next half-hour to an hour, I would put a bullet into the heart of a sixteen-year-old girl with a peaches-and-cream complexion, honey-blond hair braided to hang down on each side of her face, and a smile that called to mind a nearly grown-up version of Heidi. She could have starred in a Juicy Fruit commercial of the 1950s, implying to one and all that life was an unending beach party of sunlight and chewing gum.

I wanted to tear away my clerical collar, but instead I took an umbrella from a clothes tree, turned off the overhead light, and began stepping toward the church’s parking lot.

• • •

Then I was driving through the mizzle, through that strange late afternoon that was neither day nor night, wishing somehow that the miles would lengthen beneath my wheels — but I knew that the distance from south Louisville to the fringes of Cherokee Park was not more than five miles, and not much time would pass before I began my march up the seemingly endless limestone steps to the mansion. I exhaled restlessly. Then I wondered when it had all begun. Possibly with the Big Bang, or with, Let there be light! Who knew or could begin to know? But I knew when it had begun for me. It had begun at the week’s beginning, on Sunday evening, at the start of Derby Week. I had just returned from my customary jog along the pathways beside Southern Parkway and had entered my second-floor apartment near the church and heated a hearty-seeming cup of Brazilian coffee in my microwave. I had been planning to get comfortable and begin Steinbeck’s East of Eden. It had been on several of my shelves for fourteen or fifteen years. I had decided that at last I would read it. My evening had been mapped out. I would read several chapters, shower, work on my sermon for the following Sunday, read a few more chapters, if time permitted; then it would be bedtime — or so I thought.

But just as I raised my cup from the Formica tabletop in the kitchenette, the phone shrilled like a nervous banshee. I stepped into my small living room and lifted the receiver.

Sam, this is Bishop Wade.

My lips must have twisted; they usually did when I learned that Bishop Freddy was on the other end of the line.

I began with customary pleasantries, but he cut me off. Sam, I assume you’re doing nothing of real importance, something that can’t be put aside for the time being.

I looked forlornly across the room at the book upon the shelf. No, I’m not committed for the moment.

Then, Sam, I must ask you to come here immediately.

Where’s here? a slightly perturbed part of me asked.

But his voice continued, overriding mine, and I doubt he caught my snideness. To the residence of Captain Caldwell, the most important member of our church, of course! A grave matter has come up, and he needs our assistance.

I fought to control a bitter chuckle. I should have known that only Captain Caldwell could have Bishop Freddy jumping about like a frog on a griddle. I did not reply.

The good bishop continued. Sam, you must come here immediately. I’m afraid there is currently another crisis in the Caldwell family.

Another crisis? But I knew what he meant. Captain Caldwell’s family had suffered several tragic deaths during the past twenty to thirty years. Locals had even begun talking about a Caldwell curse.

It’s the Captain’s granddaughter — she’s sixteen. Sam, she’s begun … now, I am correct that you did your honor’s thesis at the seminary on, well, demonology, spirit hauntings, and so forth.

Yes.

"You’ve studied cases of supposed possession, haven’t you? I mean, you’ve even studied up on that case involving that boy Roland in the 1940s in Georgetown, the one they based The Exorcist upon?"

Yes, I had to read up on that case. Since I had completed my studies, I had not looked at my paper. Something in me didn’t want me to. I almost asked whether the Captain’s granddaughter believed herself to be possessed, but again his voice headed me off.

You’re also acquainted with theories of reincarnation, that sort of thing, aren’t you?

I’ve done some reading on it. But that wasn’t the focus of my study.

But you are conversant enough with the subject to discuss it with the Captain and his family?

Yes, I can discuss it. You know my opinions on it: It’s nonsense!

Well, Sam, let’s don’t be too hasty. The girl claims that she is remembering her former life as a local radio and TV performer back in the 1940s, early 50s, a woman named Gloria Valentine. Sam, it’s eerie. There was such a woman. I’m certain the Captain’s granddaughter couldn’t have known about her — yet her memories, if that’s what we’re to call them, are uncannily accurate.

I drew a blank on the name given me. Then, slowly, like a message scribbled in lemon juice and heated before a candle, the words Gloria Valentine manifested themselves from my memory. She died rather tragically, didn’t she?

"Yes, she was shot by her husband in 1957. He found that she was conducting an affair with some other fellow. The Caldwell girl claims that she even remembers Gloria Valentine’s last moments, her last breath even. At any rate, the girl’s hysterical. The Captain called me. I came here, talked with him and the girl. I told him we had a man who had studied such things and would be able to help out, and he asked me to get you here immediately.

So get here as fast as you can. And, Sam, none of that casual sweatshirt crap. Remember that the Captain believes that when on duty, a priest must wear clerical attire. Look, get here as fast as you can. Before I was called, he was thinking of committing her to an asylum. I can’t stress too much how important it might be for the church if we could solve the girl’s problems rather than his having to turn to secular agencies.

I nodded, even though he wasn’t there, muttered, Okay, and hung up. Somewhat bitter, I showered and shaved. I felt as though I was one of the Captain’s trained Basset hounds. He assumed that all he had to do was blow a whistle and I’d appear at his door, wagging with pleasure because he had deigned to summon me. I chided myself for being so irked by the old jackass. I should direct my attention to the young girl. She obviously needed help, and needed it like a desert straggler needs a cold glass of water. My sole concern should be her well-being, and whatever means I could use, to restore her peace of mind — if, indeed, I were capable of doing so.

Still, as I walked down the stairs, left the building, and stepped toward the spread of gravel that served as a parking lot for the tenants, I rankled at the Captain’s lord-of-the-manor attitude. I suppose it was ingrown in him like an ugly toenail, but then, his becoming one of Louisville’s richest men did little to lead him to humility. I believe his father and grandfather had been in the money and had passed it on to him, and he had quadrupled it time and again. He had invested in West End slum real estate and bought up used-car lots and restaurant franchises, and God knew what else. He owned a good many of the Denny’s restaurants, Kentucky Fried Chickens, Waffle Houses, and Taco Johns about the state. Recently, he had started his own chain of seafood takeout eateries, and as I understood, these were doing extremely well. Of course, he had never been a captain in the army or the navy, and his sea-going experience consisted of cruising in a sailboat or a yacht on the Ohio. He had adopted the persona of a sea captain during his twenties; evidently, it continued to please him.

Of course, Christ is supposed to be the originator of the Church, but the founder of our branch of it was the Captain. A lifelong Episcopalian, he had become increasing irritated by his Mother Church during the late 1970s, when its conventioneers had voted to junk the 1928 Prayer Book and adopt the swinging Seventies rewrite with the two versions of the Ten Commandments. Moreover, the Captain had smoldered because of the ordination of women to the priesthood. At the dawn of the Eighties, when it became apparent that the national church would not revoke these changes, the Captain had decided to break from that august organization and found his own version of the Episcopal Church. Of course, he had the ready greenbacks to make a reality of what would have been another dissatisfied parishioner’s pipe dream.

Freddy Wade had been the rector of St. Michael of the Sword, the church the Captain had held court in. Our noble priest didn’t need much time to consider whether to remain with the Mother Church. A week after Captain Caldwell had announced his decision to found a new break-off denomination, Freddy Wade was its first bishop. He was sly enough, and the Captain was loud enough, to attract a considerable number of similar discontents, so that now, more than twenty years later, the Southern Anglican Church was a denomination of nearly forty individual congregations in the southern states — although some of these met in charitable fire stations or in the basements of their members’ houses.

All of these events occurred long before the controversial gay bishop appointment by the Episcopal Church proper, which now seems to be splitting the Church into even more warring fragments. Thank God, we haven’t been involved in that controversy, although we seem to be benefiting from a number of refugee parishioners searching for some sort of spiritual home.

At the time of the Captain’s famous split with the Episcopal Church, I was in the seminary. I had paid little attention to it. I knew, of course, about the squabble over the prayer book. But like most young seminarians, I was entranced by the new Pepsi-generation version. I wasn’t daunted by the possibility of a woman’s donning priestly robes and giving a sermon. After earning my degree, I was quite happy in the Grand Old Episcopal Church as an assistant rector. But my then-wife wasn’t very happy, and she continued to be unhappy, and we had our blow-up. Afterward, I learned that I wasn’t welcome as an assistant rector in the church I had been involved with. Nor were doors of opportunity opening in other directions. A dry-out stay in a sanitarium is generally not considered an appealing item on a sky pilot’s application.

It was a lucky thing that Bishop Freddy heard about my predicament and, coaxed by my then-wife, offered me the job as the rector of St. Peter’s. So I felt a trifle guilty whenever the good bishop caused the hair on the nape of my neck to bristle, but I told myself that I’d have to become accustomed to such bristling, if I were to continue earning my bread at St. Peter’s.

Since parking was not allowed on Cherokee Parkway, I had to leave my rattling 1999 Altima on Willow, a side street; walk down it; and turn to the left. Night had just claimed the air, and a drizzle was making taps upon my umbrella. I felt rather creepy — especially when, on Cherokee Parkway, I glanced to the right and saw not a hospitable row of houses with cheery windows, but the amorphous darkness of the beginnings of the park: scattered trees with groping branches that seemed like tentacle-arms in dreams, indistinct benches, the nearly hidden lights of some building, perhaps a picnicker’s pavilion, and almost everywhere eye-impenetrable shadows.

I kept my eyes to my left, to the mansions high atop the meandering hill that looked down upon the park. All were lighted pleasingly, although most of the exteriors were partially hidden by bushes, trees, and sundry other specimens of what might be termed elegant vegetation. From the sidewalk, I could not see the Captain’s house designation, but Bishop Freddy had told me to count the appropriate number of dwellings from the intersection, and soon I stood before what had to be Caldwell mansion. Stairs made of hunks of limestone led up from the sidewalk to the dwelling above. I started up the steps. Despite my twice-a-week workouts at a gym and occasional jogs, I was panting by step thirty or so. Ten steps farther, and I found myself in the center of a circular stone rest area, replete with a concrete bench, offering what in daylight would have been a grand view of the park. I didn’t remain long, just enough for the heaving of my lungs to settle down.

I continued to mount the steps. My heavy breathing returned, and the calves of my legs began to ache. And then I reached the top and moved between two large maples, one on each side of the flagstone walkway, and gained a better view of the façade. The house, made of gray limestone, was huge, evidently having three stories. A long wide front porch seemed to be floating atop a sea of bushes. The porch light was on. The left side of the mansion ended in a straight block effect. The right was not a mirror image. Rather, several feet beyond the edge of the porch, the stone wall of the façade swelled and curved outward to become part of a circular tower with a pointed turret, which rose slightly above the building itself, as though the architect could not decide whether or not he wanted the home to recall the Middle Ages and had settled for a strange, but not ineffective, compromise.

Nearby a fountain gurgled, but I could not discern it. I stepped into the cone-like glow of the porch light, closed my umbrella and shook it out, stepped to the door and rapped lightly on its dark-stained surface.

I had no inkling whatsoever that, in stepping over the threshold, I would be committing myself to a course that might lead to my death.

Chapter Two

Almost immediately, through a thin rectangle of frosted glass set in the door, I saw someone approaching. Something about the indistinct clothing suggested both a ghost and a woman. I didn’t have to wonder long to determine which. The door groaned open, and a woman’s smiling face greeted me. In a voice that sounded as though she were greeting a guest of honor at a country-music shindig, she said, Well, come on in. You must be Father Sam Stone!

Stepping through the aperture, I said, I’m afraid I’m unable to fool you. I’m not exactly wearing a disguise. After shaving and showering, I had abided by the honorable bishop’s advice and donned my clerical garb.

As she chuckled, I stole a moment or two to study her face — what I could see of it. Much was hidden by the tangle of salt and pepper hair that surrounded her head and hung downward on each side of her face, as though she single-handedly were trying to bring back the Veronica Lake hidden-eye look of the 1940s and was having some success, except that she was attempting to do so on each side of her face. In the opening between the two sides of her hairdo, I could see an unadorned mouth, a narrow nose, and one of a pair of oil-dark eyes. I’m still not certain how she managed to make her way up and down steps without breaking her neck.

As I shook her hand, several large bracelets jangled and slid up and down her forearm. Her other arm displayed similar, but not matching, noisy bracelets. I noticed that her rather narrow face exhibited no trace of powder.

I’m Gladys Thornwell, she said enthusiastically. I’m Captain Caldwell’s niece. The butler doesn’t work at night, so I’m subbing for him. Earn a little extra money for popsicles!

Jiggling my umbrella, I began to ask where I might stow it before it wetted the entrance hallway’s dark green carpet. Smiling, she took it and placed it, with the ferrule downward, in a large pewter vase of some sort. Don’t worry about the carpet. The Captain will probably decide any day now that he doesn’t like it, and have a new one put down.

As she faced me again, I noticed that she was wearing some sort of white silken chemise that drifted down about her thighs to midway to her knees. The garment was baggy, almost amorphous. It disclosed little hint