The Boy Who Drew Monsters: A Novel by Keith Donohue

the painting. “Poor souls beneath the sea.”
    Coming here was a mistake, Holly thought. She searched for some polite way to excuse herself.
    Like a spider scrutinizing a fly, Miss Tiramaku stepped closer, a look of sudden recognition on her face. “You are Mrs. Keenan. The mother of that boy.”
    Her words sounded like an accusation. What had the priest been telling her about Jack? Or was it common knowledge around town that her son would not willingly leave the house? Was there some cabal of housekeepers gossiping about the strange child and his hapless family? That Keenan boy. Stricken by a dizzying nausea, Holly wanted to run away, but the one-eyed witch in the doorway blocked the passage.
    Whistling from the hallway saved her. The tune of “O Tannenbaum” pitched loud and clear on his lips, Father Bolden trundled toward them, his face red with exertion and pine needles clinging to his cardigan and the front of his black trousers. “The Christmas tree is here. That was the man come with our big balsam, and I had to instruct him how best to set it up in the parlor. Free delivery can’t wait. It’s a beauty, Miss Tiramaku, seven feet if I’m any judge. I see you two have made introductions in my absence.”
    The housekeeper had stepped aside when he had entered the room, and in his presence, she seemed far less frightening. “Yes, Father. Mrs. Keenan was just telling me how much she enjoyed my coffee cake.”
    He looked anxiously at the remaining pieces on the dessert plate. “You’ll stay, Holly, and help us with the decorations. My mother left me the most exquisite glass ornaments from the old country. Been in the family over one hundred years.”
    “I couldn’t—”
    “But I insist,” said the priest. “We can continue our little talk while we trim the tree.”
    “No, I really must be going. Last-minute shopping, I’m afraid.”
    Fiddling with the thick buttons of his sweater, the priest looked as crestfallen as a schoolboy. “Perhaps the tree can wait.”
    “Not on account of me. Thank you for your hospitality, but I’ve got to run.”
    The priest and the housekeeper took a step toward her, but it was not till she had breezed between them that she realized they had only wanted to shake her hand. The antiseptic aroma of a pine forest drenched the front hall, and she burst out of the house, wiggling into her coat, glad to breathe in the fresh cold air. Safely in her car, she looked back at the rectory, and on the front steps stood the priest and his housekeeper, refugees from a gothic fairy tale, waving good-bye. She ripped the gearshift into reverse and gunned her way out of there.
    Rather than heading straight into town for shopping, she drove along the shoreline and stopped at an overlook and parked the car. The engine ticked like a bomb when she pulled the key from the ignition. Christ, one more thing, she thought, and then it purred to silence. The gray Atlantic pushed its waves against the rocks below the cliffs, and the clouds dumped snow far out at sea. Yurei , ghosts of the drowned. She shook her head in disbelief. Her hands trembled as she stepped out into the cold, and she longed for a brandy. The wind pressed against her body. Mother of that boy. That boy . She longed for some way to force a good cry, but it was too cold for that now. There were gifts to buy, an alibi for her deceit, and so much to do before the holidays.

 
    ii.
    Tim skinned an orange for the boy and poured himself another cup of coffee. No reason not to take it easy for a while. Holly would be gone for hours, granting them a reprieve. The oatmeal bowls soaked in the sink. The list of chores on the fridge was an artifact from a distant age. A lazy Saturday morning stretched out before them, promising idleness. Padding in his slippers to his easy chair, Tim wrapped his robe tightly against the cold and settled in with the crossword from the newspaper. He scanned the clues, filling in those boxes with words readily known