The Halloween Project 2024 - Story 7: Saint Joseph

The house just wouldn’t sell. They knew it was in a “questionable” neighborhood. Their 32 years there had been fine, caring, they raised two great kids. Holidays came and went, barbecues in the tiny backyard, decorating for Halloween and just about any old celebration that rolled around. Birthdays and engagements, weddings and even the sad ones, a passing and a funeral. But times had changed and so had the streets around them.

Bev and Charlie just wanted to move. They’d talked about it for a few years but it was hard to leave the place they called home for so long. They craved something different. Both newly retired, they weren’t moving to some “senior retirement community”, just a condo one town away. They chose a nice place, not too expensive, not too big, and closer to their oldest son, his wife, and two young kids. With lots of bank meetings, they signed the binder, deposited the down payment, and hoped for a new lifestyle. That was six months ago, and still no action on their home.

“It’s been six months!” Charlie lamented, “We haven’t had a single offer. This just isn’t happening. Let’s take it off the market. We’ll wait until next year.”

”We can’t, Charlie. You know we can’t handle two mortgages. Not on our income. We can’t dip into that little savings we have. We’ll just have to lower the price, and keep our prayers up,” Bev replied.

”Again?” he was clearly exasperated. “Why don’t we just give it away while you’re saying your rosary? " He turned and walked out the back door, a sure sign this conversation was over for now.

Bev sat at the kitchen table a slight frown darkening her face, not from Charlie’s anger as much as his comment about her rosary. She softly ran her hand first over the warmth of her coffee mug and then across the surface of the old wooden table. In some momentary lapse of reason many years earlier she allowed her older son, Charlie Junior, or C.J., to carve his initials into the table when he was 10 or 11. Charlie Senior lost his mind and his temper and tossed quite a few angry words, threats, and swears at Bev.

But somehow, over time, the table became a relic of every person who had ever sat down for a meal, a discussion, or an argument. Here was a heart with an arrow. In the very middle were the four grandparents; full names, no initials, who were all now gone. Friends, relatives, one-timers, even the scratches of a cat who had jumped on the table, been scared off and left her mark. Dozens of etchings. Both C.J.’s and his younger brother, Bob’s, names multiple times. There were several names of C.J.’s past girlfriends which always bothered his wife, Lisa. A few odd markings, like symbols, were left behind. Bev had taken care to clean, gently buff, and lacquer that table with the lightest varnish. It was a record of their lives in that house, and would, of course, go with them to the condo. Even Charlie reluctantly came to like it over the years.

While running her fingers over the table, Bev caught a single “T” for Father Timothy, who had come occasionally for dinner and the germ of an idea. It was about selling the house. Any house. Something that would help. A mystery, or perhaps a miracle. And then she remembered.

A half-hour later, she was knocking on the door of St. Stephen’s Church rectory. She hoped Father Timothy would be there, and indeed he was. He opened the door rather than the housekeeper.

”Bev!” He greeted her with an enthusiasm that she always appreciated. He wasn’t quite as young anymore, maybe in his late fifties, but had been at St. Stephen’s for at least 20 years. He had performed the marriage ceremonies for both C.J. and Bob, and more funerals than she preferred to remember.

In the living room they relaxed and chatted for a few minutes until Bev said,” “Father, you know we’re having some difficulty selling the house.

”I know, it’s been what now…how long?” he asked.

”Six months,” she replied.

”That is a long time, too long, I’m sure. But in all honesty, I hate to see you go.”

”Well, I’m considering just coming here to Mass every Sunday, even after we leave,” Bev said.

”That would be fine, but what’s on your mind today? How can I help?” he asked.

I was thinking about a Saint Joseph statue. You know the old saying or the ritual or whatever it’s called?” Bev asked.

”Of course I do,” Father Timothy answered, “Wrap it in linen or cloth, bury it in the ground. Always upside down, of course, that’s very important. It should be facing the house. Maybe near the entrance or a special spot. Say a few prayers and after the sale, dig it up and bring it to the new house. A kind of blessing and relic all in one.” His explanation satisfied Bev.

”Do you believe it, Father?” Bev asked, “Can it work?”

”Who am I to doubt the powerful effects of true faith? Is it a little bit of superstition? Sure. Does it work? Who knows? How can it hurt? I sell the little Joseph statuettes here in the office. They come with directions if you can believe it. Heck, Bev, I’ll just give you one and bless it to boot. But remember, I’ve always heard, and a couple times its worked, head facing down.”

”Why upside down?” Bev asked.

”Oh, there’s a whole bunch of theories, some religious, some not. People believe it’s a plea to urge St. Joseph to intercede quickly and find a buyer. Many consider it a prayerful gesture. Who really knows?”

That evening, well after dark, Charlie was asleep in his recliner, the glow of another missed TV show bouncing off his slack face. Bev went outside with a small garden trowel. She picked a spot just under a rose bush next to the sidewalk extending to the street. She dug just enough, about a foot down, when the front door snapped open.

”Bev! What the hell are you doing?!” Charlie exploded down the steps in his socks and confusion. He marched over and looked down at his wife, on her knees with hands in kitchen gloves clutching the trowel. “What the hell is this!?” he repeated.

Almost apologetically, she held up the small, plastic Saint Joseph statue. He understood immediately. “Bev,” he said, his alarm cooled, “That’s just an old superstition. It means nothing.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Come on, let’s go inside. Now!”

”Not until I’m done,” she countered.

”You’re done now,” Charlie said.

He reached down, grabbing the trowel with one hand and the Saint Joseph statue in the other. With a swift thrust, he tossed the statue into the hole and layered all the dirt back into the gaping earth. He tamped down the soil with his stocking feet.

“Maybe it’ll make the rose bush grow. Come on.” He reached down a hand, and Bev reluctantly took it. She recited a prayer in her mind as they went up the front porch.

It was just short of 2 A.M. when the furnace fired for the first time that autumn season. It was a cold night, the first frost. A crack in the boiler that was undetected and had widened sent a small jet of flame against some cardboard boxes errantly left a few inches away. They flamed like matchsticks then caught the drywall nearby. In the space of a few minutes the entire basement was an inferno.

Bev smelled it first, the faint scent of smoke as if something had burned in the stove, but not food. She slowly arose, grabbed a bathrobe, and went to the hallway. Opening the door the smoke poured along the ceiling of the second floor Iike a gray poisonous cloud. She screamed and yelled back toward the bedroom, with no response. She found her way to the top of the stairs and saw only smoke. Returning to the bedroom she clawed at the covers and roused Charlie from his deep snores. They returned to the hall. Arching flames were now at the stairs, with no possible way to escape the heat, flames, and smoke. They retreated to the bedroom. Fire engine sirens could already be heard in the distance.

An hour later, when the house, now blackened husks of linear timbers, risers, and shingles, was finally extinguished, dozens of firemen lingered along the yard, street, and adjacent sidewalk. Water hoses were still being aimed at sparks emanating from the collapsed basement. The “For Sale” sign was blackened with soot, and rivulets of water poured across the yard.

There are two bodies inside, that’s what our records show. Damn shame,” the chief said.

Trampled grass and mud were everywhere.

”Chief, check this out,” a young fireman called. The chief moved over and peered down under a rose bush with wilted, dried leaves. Just below the bush, head upright and facing the house, was the top half of a Saint Joseph statue.