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TWO YEARS LATER.
CHAPTER ONE. house of lies and pride & bone.
Bring me my bow of burning gold! Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold! Bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my chariot of fire! I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.
___
WARNING: mentions of suicidal ideation & death.
HAWKINS, 1984
THE CAR WAS BROKEN, and the clocks were striking four. Heloise Earnshaw smelled like whiskey and copper. It was late on an autumnal Sunday, and mass was over. They had stuck around for the barbecue for once, passing salad and bread back and forth with the congregation. Colm Earnshaw was smoking a burning cigarette, ash flying as he spewed his words at the girl. Uh-huh, she said, she thought she said, she couldn't quite be sure. The bench was warm and bright, presumably lit by the holy light of the stone chapel looming behind the pair. People filed past them, couples and families, and the elderly and the young. Dark green fishermen's sweaters, white crinkled button-downs, army green jackets. All seeking some type of salvation. Her father had just returned from confession, and so he smoked a cigarette. Give away your sins just to pick one up right after. She wondered what he confessed. She imagined it was something like:
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was a week ago. Since then, I have thought many, at least four, impure thoughts. I have been consumed with despair. I have sworn at an elderly neighbor who knocked over my clay pot. I have stolen a grocery cart from a man who took too long to return. I have been drunk and foolish. I have been cruel in my silence. I have let myself succumb to despair, and now it eats away at me. I have not committed any murder yet. This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins."
"Fuckin' people and their fuckin' dogs." He spat with every syllable. "That dolt Coleman's shepherd bit me on the ankle." His old navy workwear jacket was fraying, eaten away by weather and moths and labor. He was always tired, nodding away behind the wheel and at the dinner table, awoken only by the church and the bar. The holy duo. Helly didn't judge, couldn't judge; alcohol wasn't sinful in itself. And her father wasn't sinful when he drank it, he just got sad and quiet, and sometimes she heard him cry at night. She didn't mention it, and she knew he appreciated it. Two people bound in silence.
"Maybe it's an answer, to your confession." She coughs on day-old remnants of nicotine in her lungs. "Your sins were too great for poor old Father Paul to absolve, and God himself sent down Bill Coleman's dog to haunt you."
