The Devil's Wife Read online

  THE DEVIL’S WIFE

  by

  REUBEN CARBONE

  The Devil’s Wife

  Copyright ©2015 Reuben Carbone

  ISBN 978-1622-879-46-5 EBOOK

  June 2015

  Published and Distributed by

  First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.

  P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217

  www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means ─ electronic, mechanical, photo-copy, recording, or any other ─ except brief quotation in reviews, without the prior permission of the author or publisher.

  The Devil’s Wife

  Copyright ©2015 Walter and Carla Reuben-Carbone

  ISBN 978-1622-879-46-5 EBOOK

  June 2015

  Published and Distributed by

  First Edition Design Publishing, Inc.

  P.O. Box 20217, Sarasota, FL 34276-3217

  www.firsteditiondesignpublishing.com

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means ─ electronic, mechanical, photo-copy, recording, or any other ─ except brief quotation in reviews, without the prior permission of the author or publisher.

  And war broke out in heaven; Michael and his angels fought against the dragon. The dragon and his angels fought back, but they were defeated, and there was no longer any place for them in heaven. The great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world-he was thrown down to earth, and his angels were thrown out with him.

  Revelation 12:7-9

  Part One

  CHAPTER ONE:

  Even before the accident on Grand Road, Adam Crocker should have known trouble was coming. The previous evening he had a nightmare about Maria, his wife- the details of which he cannot remember. What remains is an ache in the pit of his stomach that fills him with dread and…terror.

  All day long at work his brain swirls with questions- what are the dream images his conscious mind refuses to retrieve? And where is Maria? Why isn’t she picking up her cell? True, she rarely answers her phone when she is substituting. Did she get a teaching gig this morning and is presently rocking out some badass Schubert piece on her violin before a room of ungrateful teenagers? Is that it?

  The hours drone by. He shuffles around his computer screen making very little headway on an editing project that is already three weeks late. At 6 o’clock, he walks down the hallway to the bathroom to freshen up, to gather some small measure of clarity before the half-hour drive home.

  In the mirror, his face looks pale. His usual wavy dark brown hair, dull, his handsome features too sharp and chalky like they have recently been cut from a jagged piece of limestone. His fingers feel clammy and a weight presses heavily on his chest. Maybe the stifling hundred degree day has something to do with it but he doesn’t think so.

  He sucks air into his lungs until a sound like a skittering of cockroaches’ races across the ceiling. He turns his head, listens to the murmurings, and hears what seems like a pattern, a primitive code, a drumming, a chorus and then a single voice.

  “Adam…Adam…listen to me…death is coming.”

  His neck bubbles with sweat.

  What was that?

  All he can hear is the dull roar of the air-conditioner. He runs water from the faucet, splashes it over his face.

  And the voice again, soft and feminine.

  “Death…listen…it’s coming” The voice talks to him tenderly like it is finishing a child’s goodnight story. He looks over his shoulder to a small window where the eye of the sun peers in at him.

  “Don’t be frightened sweetie. . .”

  The voice is back. The voice he heard as a little boy- the voice that guided him through the horrors of childhood, adolescence and beyond.

  Death is coming.

  He has heard these particular words spoken before in church- his preacher father bellowing from the pulpit. “ Get right with God,” he’d shout,” cause death is coming. Can’t you hear his footsteps?”

  Death. Is that what this strange day is about?

  He backs away from the mirror, listens again. The voice is gone.

  At his work station he picks up his laptop, walks down another dim florescent hall. When he reaches Mindy at the reception desk, he forces a steadying smile.

  “Are you alright?” she asks in her usual sultry tone.

  He forces another smile, which he is sure looks more like a grimace.

  “I’m fine. It’s just the heat.”

  “Well, watch out for the storm going home. It’s supposed to be a real killer.” She winks.

  The black top in the parking lot feels sticky in places. The sky darkens. His old Saab has air-conditioning, but even as he turns on to the Taconic Parkway the draft from its vents is only cool by comparison with the scorched air outside. He puts his window down to catch the moving breeze. From the mountains to the west, a low rumble echoes across the river valley.

  Adam gives no thought to the impending storm. All his focus remains on the explicit warning of the voice in the bathroom. Death is coming but where…when? The voice rumbles in his head and he can sense it magnetically pulling him towards a destination. This compulsion swells into a conviction.

  He slams his foot on the accelerator.

  Maria. He repeats his wife’s name. Maria. Get home fast. Time is running out. He looks at the clock on the dash.

  His whole body shivers with a rippling fear that spreads like hundreds of tiny eels swimming up his spine. He knows every move he makes, every important calculation is now being orchestrated by this power outside of him.

  He swerves, speeding past vehicles as if they are standing still. This is not like him. He is always a cautious driver. If a state trooper pulls him over what will he say?

  Time is running out.

  Death is coming.

  The perspiration on Sister Vincent’s forehead is like the ceramic glaze on a plastered statue of an altar saint. She is in her late 30's, her wide face and deep set eyes well suited to the habit that frames it. Her smooth skin gleams in the green light of the instrument panel of the Dodge Dart. A zigzag of lightning flares so bright it stings her blue eyes and the thunderclap that follows is so tremendous that it seems to come not only from the sky but from the ground as well. It’s as if the earth has split open and God is announcing Judgment Day.

  Sister Vincent holds tightly to the steering wheel, oblivious to the storm, her thoughts chaotic and contradictory.

  She glances at Sister Francis beside her who peers ahead at the fierce wind and driving rain unfazed. The tree shrouded Grand Road is as familiar to Sister Francis as the contours of her own ruined face. She has not aged well, her skin mottled with brown spots and broken capillaries. The sheets of rain, the tires hissing on the pavement- the wipers thumping on the windshield like an eerie metronome- all of this for Sister Francis, is part of God’s wonderful plan.

  She turns around, looks at the five year old girl scrunched up in the corner of the back seat, her head on a pillow.

  "Sarah is sleeping well now," she says with a stern look of satisfaction.

  The little girl’s sleeping face is stained with hours of tears. Oddly, it’s the storm that finally put her to sleep.

  Sister Francis sighs softly then glances back at Sister Vincent and smiles.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Sister Vincent says,” but doesn’t it seem reasonable to question what we are doing?”

  Sister Francis stares straight ahead again, at the wiper blades stuttering across the glass.

  “I never fail to feel God’s everlasting love as we approach the convent. I’ll be seventy-five next month. My eyesight is nearly gone. Otherwise I’d still be the one driving. We need say no more.”

  The two narrow lanes of black top that is the Grand Road disappear under a blanket of fog and driving rain. Sister Vincent gently applies her brakes as she enters a blind turn. From around the curve she can see headlights up ahead rapidly speeding towards them. A 2 ton red truck is swerving, coming right at them; the man’s face behind the wheel is sallow and withered with dark charred holes where his eyes should be. It looks to Sister Vincent like a malign spirit is at the wheel- a demon or the Devil himself.

  She swerves to avoid him, and the Dodge begins to slide- a sickening spin like a ride on a water greased spillway at an amusement park flume.

  “Oh my God!" Sister Francis screams. “ God help us.”

  Adam turns on to Grand Road as a chain of thunderbolts roars through the darkness. Lightning blinks strobe-like, bristling clusters of shrubbery blowing across his windshield; small shadows in the shape of leaves, then larger silhouettes of tree trunks, and black bars from the rail fences on the sides of the road- each blot of darkness, each geometric breach, a potential opening through which Death may come.

  He turns his head left then right looking for a sign, a signal, a warning- anything. The shadows melt together and grow. All is ink-black. He tries to focus only on what lies ahead. Through the pitch dark and billowing of fog a ray of light on the side of the road shines upward from inside a ravine. Adam's headlights illuminate something in the underbrush.

  The rain suddenly stops like someone has turned off a faucet; the lingering rumble of thunder fades in the distance. To his right the white flesh of an uproote
d tree can be seen, its freshly broken limbs torn and bleeding exposed to the sky. Below, through a mass of brambles, is the Dodge Dart. He pulls over on to the shoulder of the road, angles his high beams towards it.

  The car is on its roof- its tires still spinning. Broken scrub pines and torn earth mark the trajectory it has taken in its plunge from the road. A torrent of water rushes by, part of a creek swollen with rain that has jumped its banks. Adam pushes his way through the brush and debris.

  In the partially lit confusion of torn metal he can just make out the figure of a woman in a black robe: Sister Francis. Her body is intact but her face has been smashed into a bloody pulp. The rushing creek flows violently over her half-submerged body. The mud and rubble push against the old nun's torso. He reaches down to pull her up to drier land. Her arm curls around his shoulder tenderly as he hears a moaning, forcing him to look into Sister Francis's crushed face. It is not coming from her. She is dead. He is sure of it. He turns around and sees another figure trapped behind the wheel. He lays Sister Francis gently on the ground.

  Opening the driver's door he pulls Sister Vincent onto the embankment. Holding her in his arms, he can feel an elegant expressiveness in her body, and when he looks down into her startlingly blue eyes, she is looking directly into his.

  “In the backseat….”

  The child is pushing her way out of the side door. She scrambles through the underbrush like a small, feral creature, up the embankment, and directly towards the road.

  “Little girl!” He yells,” little girl!!”

  "Sarah… Sarah…" Sister Vincent mumbles.

  Adam looks down at the young nun, her face gaping in wide-eyed fear.

  “Sarah!” She screams.

  The little girl is almost at the road. The screech of an approaching vehicle- some drunken asshole in a car out for a joy ride on a stormy night, Adam thinks, and as soon as he thinks this image, he feels sure it is a prophetic glimpse. Death is coming again.

  "Sarah," he yells in a breathless exhale as he runs up the embankment to catch her.

  The growl of the car’s engine- its clutch grinding through its gears- grows louder as Adam nears the crest of the hill. His eyes widen as he watches in horror, the car swerving directly on a course with Sarah. His destiny is inescapable. His life means nothing. This little girl is not going to her grave.

  Adam leaps directly into the path of the oncoming car, grabbing the little girl around the waist. In one continuous motion he carries her through the air to the other side of the road. They fall, rolling in a clump of wet leaves as the car roars away.

  The little girl is very still as he holds her tightly in his arms. He rests his head on her shoulder feeling a profound, irrevocable darkness as if he were in a coffin being lowered slowly into the earth.

  “My name is not Sarah,” she says in a whisper.

  Chapter Two

  One of the few local newspapers still publishing in Louden, the Daily Gazette runs the headline; Local HERO Saves Lives and beside the article is a photo of Adam. The Gazette is understaffed and the only photo they can afford is from Adam’s Facebook page; Adam on a beach with his arm around Maria. The picture adds confusion to the story. Is the woman Adam has his arm around also a hero or is she the victim?

  That morning at the Bagel Shop everyone stands up to applaud their entrance. Adam holds Maria’s hand high in the air as if it is she and not him who is the real hero. Soon everyone is shaking their hands and referring to them as the Bat Man and Robin couple. This embarrasses Maria more than she lets on. It is just like Adam to not want to be the center of attention no matter how much he impresses those around him.

  The first time Maria set eyes on Adam was at one of those parties in Williamsburg where everyone wore black-rimmed glasses, picked cleverly worded fights with each other and drank too much. She spotted him on the fire escape smoking a joint, gazing at the river. He was seriously gorgeous. She had no idea what possessed her to approach him, but for the fact that this beautiful man seemed very much alone, perhaps a misfit like herself. She could not remember what they said other than every thought of his was punctuated by a quote from a movie, none of which she had seen. He seemed more nervous than a distractingly handsome man should have been. He asked her questions about herself and he really listened. She had to take a pee badly but was afraid to leave him for a second. She wanted to put a bow around him and claim him as her own. They giggled and ate a powdered Krispy Kreme that blew over their faces. As they looked at the Brooklyn Bridge sparkling in the sunset, he reached over to kiss her and she could see the powdered sugar in his eyelashes and knew then and there she would never leave this man.

  It’s July in the Hudson Valley and the heat of the day begs for rain. Maria still marvels at the stroke of fate that got her to offer the Krispy Kreme to Adam that evening. She stares at the side of his face- the beauty of which still takes her breath away. His head leans casually back against the seat, their old Saab chugging along the black top. A wheezing emanates from the air vents just as Adam makes the turn onto Grand Road.

  “Shit! There goes the air-conditioner again.” His hand bangs the dashboard. “ Look hon, I know we can’t afford to move, but just this once let’s not think too clearly about what we’re doing.” He speaks in sober tones as if he is a physician prescribing a rest cure.

  “Let’s think of this like we just bought a lottery ticket, and we are simply going to enjoy the fantasy.”

  For a three mile stretch, The Grand Hudson Road, as it is referred to in all the travel magazines, meanders along the banks of the Hudson River where some of the most elegant gilded estates of the 19th and 20th centuries still stand.

  “Even if we were gazillionaires," Maria says,” I wouldn't want one of these gigantic manor homes. Living like the one percent I’d have to park my soul somewhere else before even entering one of these places.”

  “It’s not a mansion. It’s just a lovely little cottage.”

  “ Have you seen it?”

  “ You know I haven’t seen it.”

  “My point precisely. It’s probably a monstrosity.”

  Maria puts her window down, places her foot on the dashboard, tilts her head into the wind and closes her eyes. The late afternoon sun mixes with a smattering of rain which sooths her eyelids. It’s at moments like this that Maria knows she needs to curb her negativity. Why can’t she just let Adam have his fantasies? For his sake she hopes that something good will happen. She’s content with living over the Smoke Shop in town but if Adam wants to dream about some idyll cottage in the country, what’s the big deal?

  The air –conditioner in the Saab suddenly kicks on again, ruffling the tops of their hair.

  “Feel that breeze,” Adam says with a smile. “ Who knows, hon…maybe our luck is about to change.”

  It has certainly been as if the last few years have been working against Adam. Maria blames it on the economy. Blames it on the fact that the movie industry is drying up, the screenwriters and film directors competing with you-tubers, bloggers and the Internet. You can blame his lack of success on all of that or maybe it is just bad luck.

  The rain stops, leaving only the sun to highlight and shadow the rolling green pastures. Maria turns her face to the heavens then looks over again at Adam. Everything seems to glisten and in spite of his luck or lack of- he is still her hero. Ever since she had met him on the fire escape her whole world has changed. It is like he has wiped out all the bad that has gone before.

  “So where do we turn?” Her voice sounds surprisingly enthusiastic. He reaches in his shirt pocket and hands her a rumpled piece of paper. She squints down at the paper trying hard to make heads or tails of what’s on it.

  “His writing is like hieroglyphics. Really. I think we’re supposed to turn right at two green posts. Or maybe that’s two green ghosts. Did we miss them? You know, I think I used to ride my bike near here.”

  Two years earlier it had been Maria’s idea to move to Louden. Her grandparents owned a lake house a few towns away. She can remember her twin sister Iris sitting on the wooden raft bobbing in the rippling water, her pink bathing suit with the red patterned roses still dripping, her head slouching over like a sunflower, her legs dangling in the water as she watched the minnows nibbling her toes. Maria had felt all the insecurities of a younger child even though she and Iris were only three minutes apart. Their parents joked that Maria was holding on to Iris’s toes when she came out. And that’s exactly how she always felt.