Chapter 5 The Voice
THE VOICE
I pound on the brass call bell by the bookstore’s cash register after work, wondering where the man from last night is. I need answers. Craning my neck in all directions, I finally see him make his way over from a slender door in a back corner.
He looks perturbed, but then sees it’s me. “I know you didn’t finish it that fast.” He’s in the same well-fitting jeans and a dark green button-down, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
His nearness unnerves me, makes me want to touch my hair and face, roll the toe of my boot on the ground like a sheepish child. Especially when he seems bristled like this. “What?”
He points at the book in my hand—The Bell Jar from last night.
“Oh, not exactly.”
He circles around from behind the register. “No returns or exchanges. You didn’t pay, remember?”
I try to smile but it falters. “You said you didn’t recall stocking this book.”
“That’s right.”
“So, do you know who did?” I follow him to a back shelf as I wait for him to respond, hovering anxiously.
“I’ve been managing the store since my grandfather had to start dialysis,” he tells me. “He opened it in 1955. But he hasn’t been able to do much around here since the kidney disease set in.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say quickly, too preoccupied to appreciate what he’s telling me, how personal it is. I’ve seen the old man in here numerous times before, his face long and lined, but I don’t really make the connection. “What about your father? Could he have stocked it?”
He sets the book he’s holding down and turns to face me. “That would be impossible, I’m afraid. My father died six years ago. Car accident.”
I feel like an ass. My cheeks burn with shame. “Shit. Sorry.”
He shrugs. “He lived a good life. No regrets.”
I nod, a little taken aback by how well he seems to have processed his loss.
It occurs to me that I don’t know what healthy grief looks like, just the crushing weight of guilt and the acidic burn of a secret so deeply buried, it’s practically congenital.
“Okay. Umm, well … There wouldn’t be any other Ormans floating around, would there? Someone else you could ask?”
He pushes his sleeves even farther up the thick, bare clubs of his forearms. “Just me, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint you.”
I cringe at the edge in his tone. I must seem so rude barging in like this, asking a thousand questions. “Not at all,” I blurt. “I mean, I’m not disappointed. You’re not disappointing. Anything but, really.” Jesus, Jude, stop talking.
He gives me a sidelong glance, and I see the crook of a smile. “I’m Levi, by the way,” he says, holding out his hand.
I hesitate, the waiting flat of his hand an open pocket for me to slide into.
Jude, I remind myself. You are Jude Clark.
It’s all Roger ever knew of me. All he ever wanted to know.
He inquired once after my family, and I told him my parents were dead.
He didn’t ask any more questions after that.
Not how they died or when. He almost seemed relieved not to have to meet them.
And I saw it as a blessing in disguise. Maybe that’s the reason we worked for as long as we did.
Because he had no desire to know who I really was, and I had no desire to tell him.
But the truth is, I’m not Jude Clark. I never have been.
And I’m suddenly tired of pretending to be.
Until the invitation with my real name scrawled in gold, it didn’t occur to me that I’d grown weary of this self-imposed exile.
A decision I made to seal off what happened along with who it happened to like baby shoes in a time capsule.
But maybe it was penance, time served for a secret offense, a bargain struck in the night—one life for another.
And another. And another … Since they didn’t walk away, I couldn’t let myself either.
And now a stranger has breached the hold, making me question everything.
“Judeth,” I reply, giving his warm palm a hearty squeeze, liking the feel of it more than I anticipated.
“You have family here?”
It’s a simple enough question, but it’s personal, and it puts me on edge. I have no easy answer for it. “Not really,” I say, batting it away. “No.”
He nods, taking that in. “You from Seattle or…?”
I clear my throat, refusing to answer. “Do you recall if anyone came into the store before me?”
He gets the message and crosses his arms over his chest. “You came just before close. It was a long day. Plenty of people were in before you.”
“Right. Of course. Just … Did you notice anyone out of the ordinary? Anyone strange or … strange?”
He squints. “You have someone in mind?”
“A woman, maybe? Shorter than me. Black hair styled like a pinup model. Attractive in a wicked-stepmother kind of way?”
That raises his eyebrows. “What about this book’s got you so rattled, Judeth?”
The sound of my name in his mouth startles me, familiar and unexpected at once.
I take a step back. Who is this man whose bookstore brought the devil to my door?
The way he stands, feet planted like an oak tree in a broad, sunlit field, the way he stares down at me—I can’t imagine he’s ever experienced a crisis of confidence, ever wandered through a park at midnight because his name was written on a piece of paper, ever run for his life from the pyre of his childhood.
I can’t imagine he’d ever suffer a man like my grandfather. He’s too solid, too firm.
“Nothing, I—”
He peers at me, waiting, expectant. Giving me his undivided attention. I can’t remember the last time Roger gave me his undivided attention. Maybe he never did.
I clear my throat. “Sorry. It’s nothing. I should go.”
“Where you off to in such a hurry?” he asks before I can scramble away.
I glance down at the book in my arms. “An outing of sorts.”
“This late?” He looks skeptical, and I realize again how unbalanced I must seem—slamming the bell, the rush of questions, the strange female description I gave, and now my hurry to leave.
“Do you know which is the oldest church in the city?” I’ve been thinking about it since I woke up, and the phrase icon shines must refer to a religious structure.
This catches him off guard, but despite his surprise, he tries to answer, glancing up as he thinks.
A curl of hair escapes his bun and he tucks it quickly behind an ear.
“Well, there’s St. James Cathedral. I don’t know if it’s the oldest, but it’s definitely old.
Probably the most well-known, the most Instagrammable anyway.
And then there’s Trinity Parish, also in First Hill.
Lovely but smaller. There’s also the Temple De Hirsch Sinai.
We’re Jewish and my grandfather took me there as a kid.
And of course, Bikur Cholim Machzikay Hadath is the oldest synagogue in Washington state.
Though, if you want a real old-world treat, you should go to St. Nicholas Russian Orthodox Cathedral. ”
Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “You know a lot about churches,” I tell him, amazed and a little alarmed.
He shrugs. “I know a lot about old buildings. Local history buff.”
“Right.” I break eye contact to stare at my shoes, twisting my mouth to one side, and take a step away. “Okay then. Thank you. Levi.”
“You’re welcome. Judeth.” He doesn’t quite smile, but there’s a lift to his eyes that says this exchange wasn’t all bad.
It strikes me as so boyishly cute, I stumble on my way out the door.
Did I just flirt? I wonder. With a man in a bookstore not even twenty-four hours after I contemplated taking my own life?
The whiplash of it leaves me sickened. The fires of the night I fled, blazing against an indigo sky choked with smoke, burn through my brain.
A quiet, Saturday morning on the toilet, feeling the one thing I could promise Roger slip away from me.
Reminders that I don’t deserve the kind of happy, easy existence so many other people enjoy.
That someone—maybe not God, but someone—is always watching.
Who am I to flirt? To take pleasure? To move on?
The one person on this planet I loved and wanted to protect above all others, I killed her.
All she ever told me was not to trust my grandfather, not to heed the voice, not to use the power.
But I didn’t listen. If I had, she’d still be here. They all would.
I’m rotten inside. It’s why I lost the baby.
I let the devil nest in me as a girl, something willful and dark natured.
Of course nothing that innocent could take root in my womb.
No matter how many years have passed, how desperately I’ve tried to live a quiet, upstanding life since leaving Solidago, I can’t escape it.
I can’t escape who I was. Even if she died that night as well.
I right myself on the street, stiffening my spine. I’ll get to the bottom of this—who these people are, how much they know, how they found out. And then I’ll bury this along with all the other shameful secrets I carry.
But first, the cathedral. The Fathom are waiting.
THE SUN SITS low in the sky—too low. I’ve combed every church and synagogue older than the moon landing in this city for the last forty-two hours, when I wasn’t putting in an appearance at work.
I started with Levi’s suggestion and went to St. Nicholas first because nothing says iconography quite like the Russian Orthodox Church.
And it did not disappoint, with its gleaming spires and painted iconostasis, the red carpet passing through the Beautiful Gate into the building’s holy heart.
I pored over every fine detail, looking for any kind of clue, anything out of place, anything left for me.
I fully expected to find another envelope resting against the Deacon’s Door or tucked against a towering candlestick.
Maybe with another verse, something more to go on than shadows bend. But I found nothing.