The Brownstone, page 18
“Of course you can. I want to see you!” he chortled.
“But Justin...”
Across the room, Sheila cast an uneasy glance at the executive manager’s open door. Chandal caught the look, hastily whispered she’d be home for lunch, and dropped the receiver back on the hook. It was only then that she remembered the chaos in the basement. He hadn’t seen it yet, or he’d never have been in such good spirits. Come to think of it, what was he doing home? Wasn’t he casting today? She frowned. A beep from her telephone intercom pulled her back to her surroundings. It was the executive manager. He wanted to speak with her in his private office directly after lunch. The message was loud and clear—she hadn’t long to go at this particular job. The manager’s door slammed shut; further emphasis.
“Does he want to see you?” Sheila indicated the executive manager’s office with the tip of her pencil.
“Yes,” Chandal said in a thin voice.
“When?”
“After lunch.”
“And the condemned girl ate a hearty meal.”
“I know.”
“Chandal, I’ve been thinking about—you know, your problem. I was wrong. Me of all people, I should have believed you.” Sheila drew a long breath, bent closer. “You should get help.”
Chandal drew away.
“No, let me finish. I don’t mean a psychiatrist—nothing like that. I mean from someone who deals in these things.”
“What things?” asked Chandal softly.
Sheila didn’t answer. Her eyes moved in little jerks, as if she were expecting someone to be listening. She shoved a folded piece of paper into Chandal’s hand.
“I wrote down a woman’s name, Chandal. She’s very good. If there’s anything going on, she’ll know.”
“How?”
“She’ll know, that’s all. I wrote down her phone number. Call her.”
“I’ll think about it,” Chandal said, slipping the paper into her purse.
“Good. And when I get back, you should have something to tell me.”
“Back? Where are you going?” asked Chandal.
“The bosses are giving me my vacation early. I told you.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Out of the blue, they switched it. Somebody probably had a hitch in their plans. I don’t care. I need to get away. I’ve decided to take a run up to Vermont. Do some skiing. No paperwork, no office managers, nothing but pure white snow as far as the eye can see.” The smile fell from her lips. “See this woman, Chandal. You’ll find out what you need to know.”
“Do you really think she can help?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I think it’s worth a try. You let me know as soon as I get back. If not, I know some other people who can help you.”
Chandal sighed.
“Try not to worry.” A faint smile came to Sheila’s lips. “I’m going to have a wonderful week of skiing and you—you probably just need a marriage counselor.”
Chandal looked deep into Sheila’s eyes. She hesitated. “Sheila, just in case she can’t help me... could you... could you give me the other phone number? Just in case.”
Sheila shook her head. “Not yet. Not until you’ve seen the woman. These people won’t talk to you unless... She gripped Chandal’s hand. “It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.”
Chandal watched Sheila hurry off to lunch, a distracted frown playing over her face. She certainly didn’t look as if she thought everything was going to be okay. She looked worried as hell. Chandal picked up her coat and made her way slowly toward the exit. Maybe Sheila was crazy with that “I’m a believer” nonsense. Maybe both of them were.
Chandal shrugged it off. She wasn’t in the mood to worry about it. Like Sheila said, it was all going to be okay. It had to be.
In the meantime, she felt happy to be going home to spend time with Justin. It seemed like ages since they’d sat down together over lunch and talked.
A sudden feeling of joy made her walk differently. Her feet moved more rapidly; her steps were surer. Everything about her felt fine. More than fine.
When she got home, Justin was at the door to greet her. He immediately handed her a large bouquet of pink and white carnations and kissed her. Chandal was intrigued by his performance and hardly knew what to say. “Gee, I like this!”
“You deserve it, honey. Come on—lunch is on the table.” He took her by the hand and led her into the kitchen. The room was immaculate. Everything had been scrubbed and cleaned. Dirty dishes were now washed and put away. The floor had been waxed. For the first time, Chandal noticed how cheery and pleasant her kitchen really was! “My Lord—what’s going on?” she gasped.
“I finally decided to get our new home in order. Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful.”
And it was. Having rearranged the table by the window, Justin had managed to make the room appear much larger and easier to live in. He had mounted a cabinet over the sink, divided the area between the stove and refrigerator, and hung several plants from the window. It looked perfect.
Justin offered her a chair, after which he sat down and they began to eat. They had shrimp casserole, sliced cheese, and white wine for lunch. Chandal attacked her meal with relish and even ate several slices of French bread before she gulped down dessert.
When they were finished, they remained seated at the table—Chandal started to talk. She mentioned her mother’s condition first. Justin was disappointed that she hadn’t told him before. She apologized, saying that she’d only found out today how serious it was. The conversation shifted to other things, including last night.
“Justin, have you been down in the basement today?” she asked cautiously.
“Yes, just for a little while.”
“And you’re not mad—or surprised?”
“At what?”
“At what? The way it was torn apart like that. I wonder who could have done such a thing?”
Justin smiled. “What are you talking about? There’s nothing wrong with the cellar.”
“Justin, last night—I saw it.” Was he joking?
“Come on. Let’s see what you’re talking about.”
Justin casually opened the cellar door and flicked on the light. It worked. Together, they entered the basement. It was more perfectly arranged than the kitchen. Nothing was damaged and the mannequins stood upright and still. The developing trays were in proper order and the floor was free of photo paper. Magdalen’s portrait had been replaced by a large, snow-capped picture of Central Park.
“Justin—I saw it! This entire room was a mess.”
“Well, if it was, the good fairy must have cleaned it up!”
Chandal moved to the small door. “This door—someone pushed it open. When I went to see who it was, the door closed. I was trapped inside the stairwell.”
“Honey, look at it. The hinges are all rusty. That door hasn’t been opened in years. Here, I’ll show you.” Justin forced the bolt open and pulled on the door. “You see? It doesn’t open.”
“Here, let me try.” No matter how hard she tugged, it refused to open. Frantically, she looked around. “That wall—Justin, there is something behind that wall over there.” She passed through the row of mannequins and indicated the spot where she had burned her fingers.
In order to humor her, Justin examined the wall. Then he tapped at the spot she indicated with a hammer. The sound was the same the length of the wall. “Honey, this is a solid wall. There can’t be anything behind it.” His gaze was candid.
Chandal was startled and afraid. Finally, she said in a deeper voice than usual, “You’re lying to me, Justin.”
“I’m what?”
“You heard me. You’re not telling me the truth.” She grew pale—her breathing became faster and sharper. “Justin”—she swallowed hard—“why are you doing this to me?”
Justin did not reply. Instead, he left Chandal standing alone in the basement. Overhead, she could hear his footsteps as they made their way to the hall closet. Next she heard the front door slam shut.
“Justin!” she screamed, running up the stairs. She wanted to apologize for acting so silly. It was too late. By the time she reached the front door and opened it, Justin had already vanished.
She turned and closed the door. She could feel Magdalen’s presence—she was near. The living room. But when she opened the door, the room was empty. Mintz scurried across the floor and jumped onto the back of the couch. It was then that Chandal saw it lying there, Magdalen’s lace shawl. Justin had been with the woman again today.
Chandal backed away from the room and moved into the bedroom. Quickly she opened the bottom drawer of her dresser. The picture of the young man was gone. Chandal was sure that Justin had removed it. He was no longer to be trusted.
At the office, she felt indifferent to her surroundings. Her meeting with the thin-haired and black mustached executive manager was direct and to the point. Fascinated, she stared at bald spots on his head, barely hearing his voice.
“I hate to say this, Mrs. Knight. It’s not pleasant—but we’re not completely satisfied. In fact,” he concluded apologetically, “I may say we are rather dissatisfied.” His lips curved in the slight smile that some people give when they have just delivered bad news.
“I’m pregnant,” she said in soft revenge and color forced its way into his face. Delighted, he said. He was simply delighted. She kept smiling, disliking him more and more. He said that changed everything. He understood. She smiled.
Back at her desk, Chandal drew a doodle on her ink pad. It resembled a goat’s head. She made heavy black marks with her magic marker until it was covered over. She understood nothing. God help me, she thought. No, she’d help herself.
Later that evening, the bus Chandal had taken wound its way through a narrow residential street and then made a left hand turn onto Hadly Avenue in the Bronx. Both sides of the wide avenue were lined with smallish brick buildings from another age. The street lights glowed brightly against the surrounding darkness.
Chandal turned, looked through the back window of the bus, making sure she hadn’t missed her stop. The woman on the phone had said One Hundred Twelfth Street and Hadly. There were still twenty blocks to go.
Upset, almost desperate, Chandal had called the woman who dealt in psychic phenomena. At first the woman admitted to knowing no one by the name of Sheila Marsh.
“But you must—she gave me your number.”
The woman still refused to acknowledge that Chandal had the right number until money was mentioned. Then, grudgingly, the woman agreed to see her.
The corner of One Hundred Twelfth and Hadly was a chaotic sea of rubble. People in all states of dress and disfigurement were milling about between the doorways and between the parked cars.
Chandal had been instructed to go into the small restaurant on the corner where she was to call the woman letting her know that she’d arrived. Then and only then would she be given the woman’s address.
What Chandal found when she entered the restaurant was one of the most commodious pubs in existence. Social activities centered around the pool table and the counter. The mutters, shrieks, and music made it difficult to hear over the telephone.
“What?” asked Chandal, covering one ear with her hand.
“You’re late!” snapped the woman. “It’s eight o’clock.”
“I know, I’m sorry, but—”
“What?”
“I said I’m sorry!” Chandal was almost screaming. “The bus took forever!”
The woman sullenly gave Chandal the address. She advised her not to bring anyone with her and to have the fifty dollars in cash for the visit.
“Yes—all right. Thank you.” Chandal hung up and left the restaurant without looking around. She walked directly to the woman’s apartment building, a tiny tenement without charm. She climbed the stairs and knocked on the door.
“I’ll be right there,” the woman said as Chandal glanced at the broken letter “D” that hung crookedly on the battered door. The door opened and Chandal was greeted by a large pair of almond eyes belonging to a small Italian woman with a spine as rounded as the letter “D.”
“Yes?” she asked coldly.
“I’m Chandal Knight—I just called.”
“Come in,” she ordered, leaving Chandal standing in the doorway alone. Trying to subdue her nervousness, Chandal entered the room and closed the door.
“Sit down,” the woman said, herself already seated, with dangling arms and limp outstretched legs, in a dirty armchair. Her head was covered with shocking silver hair which gave her the appearance of being some eternal mother of a great order.
Chandal sat in the center of the room, her hands resting on top of a wooden table.
The woman eyed her suspiciously. “What do you want?”
Hesitantly, Chandal described each incident, starting with the bell, and concluded with the chaos in the basement last evening. The woman listened attentively until she was finished.
“You’re pregnant, are you not?” she asked suddenly.
“Why, yes. How did you know?”
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t help you.” She rose to her feet.
“But—”
“No! You shouldn’t have come here—not carrying a child.” The woman appeared frightened. She went to the small stool near the window, sat down, and closed her eyes. There was a momentary silence. Then she began to mutter to herself, something unintelligible. Something like a prayer. When she finished, she opened her eyes and said, “Now go!”
“You can’t just send me away—”
“Now go!” repeated the woman, her voice snapping like a whip.
“You can’t act like this and then not tell me—” Tears gathered in Chandal’s eyes.
The woman looked at her for a long time. “I tell you this,” she said finally. “You must go somewhere far away.”
“But why?” asked Chandal.
“That I choose not to know. But your danger is great. Trust no one. Best...” She chewed her lip and thought. “Yes. Best to go far away—tell no one where.” She took up her torn coat from the sofa. “I’m going to take a walk now. When I return—you are not to be here.” She left the apartment, ignoring the money in Chandal’s outstretched hand.
All the way home, Chandal kept her hand in her coat pocket, fingers curled around the tightly rolled bills. That the seer had not taken the money had made her words more ominous, more real.
It had been snowing for over an hour by the time Chandal reached the brownstone. She wished to God that she hadn’t talked to the woman. She was more confused now—it was worse than ever. And she felt guilty for not having gone to visit her mother in the hospital. Goddamn it—the ring. She hadn’t picked it up yet.
She sat in the living room for a while and barely stirred. She knew where she was, but her feeling of emptiness cut her off from everything around her. She had checked to see if Justin was home. He wasn’t. The red light over the door wasn’t on. Mintz placed her little face on her lap and began to purr. It was the only thing that kept Chandal from crying.
Upstairs in the attic, the young man’s face glowed, the feeling of love spread through him. He felt warm and comfortable. It was easy to let go, to forget the other life and to exist only in this moment, where the smell of incense was sweet. Later, he must reexamine his volumes of medicine, his logs of experiments. It had been so long now. But there would be time. As for now, it was so delicious to lie before this woman, his head resting in her young lap, and to feel her hands, white as magnolia blooms, stroke through his thick black hair, loving him, loving him.
Below, Chandal fell asleep on the couch with Mintz cuddled in her arms. In her dream, faceless worshippers knelt before the altar. Ahriman, said a voice. Another voice, familiar to her memory in some way, explained that when first they had summoned Ahriman, god of darkness, he had appeared as a thin shadow. Now, when the Woden tin whistle sounded, he sprang before them in flesh and savagery.
A whistle lifted to old lips. Chandal opened her mouth to scream, but could not. In a flash of fire, the goat appeared, advanced toward her smiling. Her body was naked and trembling. Ah! said a voice. The goat’s eyes burned black, passionate. She could feel his hot breath. Closer. Her heart began to beat faster. Candles were lit, wax dripped, reds and yellow—smells scorched her nostrils. A circle of shadowy figures moved around her. Pointed thin fingers whispered—Ahriman. Ahriman. Ahriman, Chandal whispered and turned over on her side. Silently, Mintz jumped down from the couch and gently padded into the kitchen.
PART TWO
“Because I have communed with those who know...”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHANDAL AWOKE TO FIND JUSTIN STANDING OVER her. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was. Her whole body ached and she felt as if she was burning with a fever.
“Good morning, honey.”
“Morning? What time is it?” Her body shot forward until it rested awkwardly on her elbows. Justin continued to observe her in an amused sort of way.
“It’s seven-thirty.”
Chandal glanced at the alarm clock on the night table. Night table? She looked up at him questioningly. “How did I get in here to the bedroom?”
“When I came up from the cellar last night, I found you sleeping on the couch. I spent the next half-hour trying to wake you up. When that didn’t work, I carried you into the bedroom. You mumbled something, got undressed, and crawled into bed. Don’t you remember?”
“You were home last night?”
He smiled. “Of course—where else would I be?” He went into the bathroom and turned on the light. He began to shave.
Chandal yanked herself to a seated position. “But I checked—the red light wasn’t on.”
“I know,” he said, popping his head out of the door. “The bulb burned out. I just replaced it.” He wiped the lather from the corners of his mouth. After a slight pause, he continued. “Listen, honey, I’m sorry for storming out of the house like that yesterday, but I did go to a lot of trouble. I wanted you to be pleased. Instead, all I heard was some nonsense about the basement.”
