The Brownstone, page 27
“You know what my wife is doing right now, Knight?” Richards let his legs slip away from the back of the seat, leaned forward. “She’s seeing a shrink twice a week. You know what that costs me—having her psy-cho-analyzed?” He drew out the word for effect. “Fifty bucks a whack. That’s a lot of money, but that ain’t the bad part. The bad part is—I ain’t getting any! Seems she thinks she’s a tart. Looks like one—that’s what she tells me. And do you know why? Because of freaks like you!”
“What do you want?” Justin stiffened and moved behind the table.
“Your ass, sweetheart!” Richards scowled.
Morgan rose first, slowly removing his parka and throwing it over the back of his chair. “So are you going to perform for us?”
“Yeah.” Richards rose quicker, slamming his hands down on the back of the chair. “I want something for my fifty bucks!”
Justin made a sudden move to his right.
Both men jumped onto the stage, cutting Justin off from either side. Justin tried to move forward, but again he was cut off.
“How’s the play going, shmuck?” Richards had his fists clenched and ready.
“Yeah, big-shot director. Did you get the actress you needed?” Morgan closed in.
“Yeah, how’s the cast?” Richards stood in front of Justin now.
“Look, your wife’s a good actress,” muttered Justin, “but she was all wrong for the play.”
“All wrong! If she took off her clothes, I’ll bet she’d been all right, then—right, shmuck? Right?” Richards pushed Justin into the corner.
“The man asked you a question, asshole!” Morgan gave him another shove.
“Hey, knock it off.” Justin brushed Morgan’s hand aside. “I was only kidding with her that day.”
“Only kidding with her. Did you hear that? Shmucko was only kidding!”
“Yeah!” Morgan shoved him one more time.
“All right, cut it out—”
“Tell me, friend”—Richards smiled—“how good was the piece of ass you finally got to do the role? Did she do you right? I mean, did the music burst open in your ears in sudden squalls when you put it in?”
Morgan laughed. “I can see the two of them now, spread-eagled she was, basking in the morning light...”
“And stud, here, standing above her, naked as a jay bird—all hard-on and panting...”
“That the truth, stud—you was panting?”
“And she was panting, just like in the movies, the two of them—panting. ‘Give it to me,’ she says...”
“And he makes her wait, right, Johnny? He knows his stuff. He makes her wait...”
“‘Oh, please—give it to me now!’ she screams...”
“Goddamn you!” Justin moved forward and was immediately shoved back against the wall, hard.
“And he smiles at her,” Richards continued. “Oh, lord, she’s really ready now. Her tits heaving, her legs spread, moaning and groaning...”
“She’s seeing stars...”
“Big, pointed, red-tipped stars...”
“Her legs apart...”
“Is that what you were going to do with my wife, stud!”
Justin charged forward.
Richards smashed him across the face hard with his fist. Justin’s head snapped back, and Morgan smashed a fist into the middle of his stomach, doubling him over against the wall.
Richards lifted Justin’s head by the hair. “Next time you talk to a guy’s wife, make sure you do it with respect!” He hit Justin again in the stomach, again, again.
Justin’s arms must have been thrashing without his realizing it, because now they were grabbing Morgan around the waist.
Morgan quickly brought his knee up into Justin’s face, sending him against the wall, sending the blood pouring out of his nose, running down his cheeks, across his white shirt. Half-blinded, Justin tried to wipe the blood away from his eyes, tried to breathe through his battered nose. He was starting to go under.
As he dropped to one knee, the room started to fall away. He reached out for Richards to stop himself from falling completely. Richards brushed him away and laughed.
Justin fell face down onto the stage, his gut aching, his vision blurred. He reached out, started to crawl on all fours.
“Shmuck!” Morgan kicked Justin in the ribs, sending him flat to the floor.
“So long, big-shot director!” Morgan snickered.
They left Justin lying there battered and beaten. He tried to get up and fell. He tried again and this time he staggered against the wall. The room turned upside down and he dropped unconscious onto the stage.
Intake Interview 5 (Excerpt)
I. Luther, M.D. 33236
Sessions for this time period have been canceled due to patient’s violent attack against Head Nurse Weiss with Weiss’ own scissors, at the nurses’ station. When Weiss withdrew with superficial stab wounds, patient then used scissors to cut own hair close to the scalp in uneven chunks. When put under restraint, patient laughed.
Patient has undergone a change which makes me think seriously of a diagnosis of pseudo-neurotic schizophrenia.
Recommendation: patient will be allowed no freedom outside room without an accompanying guard.
I. Luther
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THERE WERE LESS THAN TEN PEOPLE AT THE WAKE.
Sissy, wearing black gloves and a red hat, was the first to arrive and sat beside Chandal the entire time. Chandal’s mother had several friends who came, all of whom spoke highly of their close friendship with her mother. Billy arrived last, having only heard the news in passing through the stage manager.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Billy, sitting down next to Justin.
“You need my problems, right?” Justin’s face was covered with cuts and bruises. Chandal had spent most of last night patching him up, but his lower lip and jaw were still swollen and his left eye was black. Chandal had wanted him to go to the hospital for X-rays, but he had refused.
“Listen, I heard about what happened at the theater last night. You going after them?” asked Billy.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll get them in another way.”
“What way?”
Justin never answered the question.
Services began. The casket sat closed, a smiling picture of Chandal’s mother on its gleaming wooden lid, a red rose in a bud vase close beside it.
Chandal’s eyes kept wandering to the picture. “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen it—when they didn’t open the casket,” she murmured to Sissy.
“I think it’s better,” said Sissy. “Surely you wouldn’t want to see—”
“No, not really. But at least if I could see her, I could realize it, maybe. Believe it. This way, it all seems so unreal.”
A woman started weeping. She sat in the second row of wooden, fold-out chairs. At regular intervals, she emitted a graveled cough-like sob; Chandal had the feeling that she would go on forever. Justin and the others didn’t seem to notice. Chandal was surprised, as she didn’t know who the woman was. Her mother had never mentioned her, nor had she brought her over to the old apartment. Chandal wanted to stop her, to reach out and shake her hard.
“She was a dear friend of your mother,” whispered another woman to Chandal, leaning over the back of her chair. Chandal nodded. Now the woman’s sobbing became less frequent until she fell silent. The woman next to her blew her nose. Quick eulogy and the chapel was completely cleared and dark by ten P.M. Sissy and Chandal went to the Public House, a small restaurant on Seventy-ninth Street, for a chat. A quiet evening with a friend—it would do her good.
Billy walked Justin back to the brownstone, all the while filling him in on how the rehearsal had gone that day. In Justin’s absence, Fein and Stark had insisted that the actors read through the play twice for the playwright. Many things had been discussed; nothing had been decided.
Saying good night at the door, Billy headed to the East Side to meet with his girl friend. Justin lingered on the front stoop for a long time before entering the house. He had made a decision during that time that he wasn’t aware of making. Perhaps, in some strange way, Billy had helped him make that decision. What was it he had said? “There’s a lot of ways to pay those bastards back. Go inside, think about it. You’ll come up with the right answer.”
Justin quickly closed the front door and went into the kitchen. Without thought, he started gathering various items: one white candle; a cup; a glass of wine; and two dishes, one filled with salt, the other with water. Next he took a double-edged kitchen knife with a wooden handle from the drawer and placed it among the other items.
Going into the bathroom, he moved a small side table center, and around the table he created a circle by pouring baking soda on the floor. Having completed the circle, he began to set the table.
Accurately, his mind continued to receive images, diagrams, messages: place the knife center on the table, blade pointing south: Image: wine, incense, and dish of salt above the knife. Diagram almost complete. Put the dish of water below the handle of the knife, place the candle carefully at the west edge of the table.
Once this was done, he took a plain piece of paper, wrote “The Tree” carefully across the top, and signed his name below. Then he put incense into the cup and lit it. Next he lit the candle.
Now ready, Justin removed his clothing and jewelry. Naked, he picked up the candle, moved clockwise around the circle, and softly spoke these words: “The Temple is about to be erected. Let all within this Temple be here of their own free will and accord.”
Returning the candle to the table, Justin picked up the knife and placed its point into the dish of salt. “Salt is life. Let this Salt be pure and let it purify our lives, as we use it in these Rites.” He then used the knife to lift three portions of the salt, which were dropped into the water. Stirring the salted water with his knife, he said, “Let the Sacred Salt drive out any impurities in this water that together they may be used in the service of Ahriman—spirit of darkness! Ahriman; spirit of darkness. Here do I invite you to join with me in my Rites.”
Removing the knife from the salted water, he kissed the blade; then he replaced it on the table. Next he drank the wine. “Now is the Temple erected. Let none leave it, but with good reason,”
Having satisfied himself that he was doing the right thing, Justin lifted both arms high above the table and shouted, “Ahriman, hear me now! Grant me that which I desire! Permit me to worship the devil and all that the devil represents!”
Once more, Justin picked up the knife and kissed the blade, then holding it high, said, “Ahriman, here do I stand before you, naked and unadorned, to dedicate myself to your honor. Ever will I protect you and that which is yours. Let none speak ill of you, for ever will I defend you. You are my life and I am yours from this day forth. So be it!”
Sissy and Chandal sat with their backs to the front window on the wooden seat. Cheerful forced conversation over margaritas. Sissy folding and unfolding her gloves. Chandal couldn’t take her eyes off those black gloves. Black, the color of mourning. Sissy said something about the museum. Chandal stared at the gloves, sipped her drink. The sound of voices was good and reminded her that life goes on. It was the right thing to do, coming here, being with a friend. Sissy said with her busy calendar, she hadn’t been inside the museum in three years. Chandal hadn’t heard her. She sat with her spine against the hardback chair, her arms hanging loosely at her sides.
“You’re not saying a word, honey,” said Sissy in a moment, whisking the gloves away into her lap, away from Chandal’s remote eyes. “Say something. Cry. Something.”
“I’m not sure what to say,” said Chandal, transferring her eyes to the necklace around Sissy’s neck, a Zodiac sign. Libra, she thought. The necklace blurred. Tears?
“Get it out,” said Sissy, and she handed Chandal a napkin.
“No, I think I’m all right.” Chandal took the napkin, started tearing bits of paper from it and wadding them between her thumb and forefinger. “I always wondered how I’d react to something like this, and now I’m still wondering, I guess. It hasn’t caught up to me yet.”
“But, your father—”
“That was different.” She laid aside the napkin and her hand was steady. She looked at the blue veins running through her hand and they reminded her of the veins in her mother’s hands. She’d had big veins, too. “What would you say,” Chandal said, “if I told you my mother was killed intentionally?”
“Now, you can’t blame the hospital...” started Sissy, then stopped. “No, now, wait. Maybe there is a lawsuit here. I knew a man who got a hundred and fifty thousand...”
“She said it was a demon,” said Chandal, and Sissy fell silent, face downcast and anxious. “I believe her,” Chandal added defiantly and imagined that the couple at the next table glanced at her.
“What kind of a demon?” whispered Sissy, her hand at the side of her face.
“There’s something going on,” said Chandal, wondering if she was talking too loud. “It has something to do with the brownstone. I’m sure of it. Before we moved in, there was this bell on the Christmas tree ringing by itself, and I kept seeing faces. Magdalen. I saw her face. It was like a demon. And she wants Justin. I’ve seen them together...”
“Magdalen and Justin?” said Sissy, her face red and shocked.
“Please, Sissy—you must believe me! I’ve seen them together!”
“But there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Sissy, listen to me. First the baby dies, then Sheila, and now my mother.”
“Sheila?”
“Yes. The girl I worked with at the museum. She said that she’d help me. She tried—gave me the name...” Chandal broke off, aware that Sissy wasn’t paying attention to her. Instead, she had turned to the closest table, kind of nodded her apologies for Chandal’s having become too loud.
“Sissy!” She reached out and gripped her arm tightly.
Sissy turned to her. “Chandal, please.”
“I saw Sheila die days before she actually died. I was there when it happened—I mean, when I thought it happened. But she did die—just as I envisioned it.”
“I believe that you are a psychically very sensitive woman. It’s incredible, Chandal. Don’t you see? You’ve picked up on vibrations. It’s not that it’s actually happening; it’s...”
“But it is actually happening!” cried Chandal, and the host took a half-step toward their table. It’s all happening! Her voice echoed inside her head. Now she was finally losing her control. Shut up! said a familiar voice in her brain. Why should I? she answered back to the other woman who was also occupying her body at the moment. Trying to crowd her out. Chandal fought back, attempting to push the other woman outside.
Hands touched her. Dazed, she looked at a roomful of smiling faces. Sissy’s face—stretched out of proportion by a grotesque grin. The waitress’ face—mystical, glowing. Also smiling. The couple at the next table laughed. Everybody laughed.
She was alone. Now, nobody on earth could see her anymore. She was absolutely invisible and alone.
She scarcely remembered leaving the restaurant.
Justin was asleep when Chandal entered the bedroom. She paused for a moment, the pungent sickening-sweet odor assailing her nostrils. At first she thought it was her senses playing tricks on her. But the odor intensified, became more oppressive. And something else. There was a faint chill in the air. Yet the rest of the apartment was warm. Suddenly Justin’s face loomed up at her from beneath the covers. He straightened up, holding his breath, and stared into the darkness around him.
Something had changed.
Chandal stood motionless. She could hardly believe her eyes. His face had been completely healed. There wasn’t a mark on it! All signs of violence had vanished.
In a voice that she’d never heard Justin use before, he said, “Come to bed, Chandal.”
She started to speak, but Justin refused to let her. Naked, he rose up from the bed and placed his hand across her mouth and kept it there three or four minutes. Their bodies barely touched, but she felt as if Justin were making love to her.
High above, on the third floor, Magdalen stared at the specimen case. In the center of the room stood Elizabeth. They remained frozen and silent for a moment. Then Elizabeth said, “Did I tell you? He is not to be trusted.”
Magdalen turned and began mounting the stairs to the attic. “We shall see.”
Elizabeth followed her as she climbed and heard the voice in her mind. I should kill him. I should kill him.
They entered the attic and closed the door.
Outside the breeze rattled the rain gutter that ran along the upper portion of the roof. Loose-jointed, a broken fragment leaped forward, its tinny surface tapping at the edge of the building like a quick, brittle finger.
Magdalen smiled. Across the room her white lace dress hung waiting, like a ghost in the corner. Neat. Ready.
Elizabeth wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She knew what was to follow. The amount of vital energy that must flow from the essence of Magdalen if she would become... “Stop,” she said suddenly, closing her hand on Magdalen’s arm.
Magdalen’s eyes jerked from the whiteness of the waiting dress to her sister’s face. “What is it, Elizabeth, dear?” The endearment held a contemptuous note.
Elizabeth trembled slightly and withdrew her hand. “I don’t think you should, Magdalen. Please, not tonight.” She stared into Magdalen’s vacant eyes. Through the thickness of her glasses, they looked far off and yet, back, recessed deep within the tiny, barely discernible irises, was a faint glimmer of ecstasy.
“My health is none of your business,” Magdalen said, her voice cold and remote.
Elizabeth felt a strong desire to leave the room, but she dared not. Magdalen was her sister, the only person she had, really, in the entire world. It mattered little that she hated Magdalen, that she had hated her imprisonment all these years with a cheerless nag, performing duties within the house like a servant. You’re right, angel—it’s none of my business, she thought. But deeper within the depths of her mind, she promised herself that in the end, she would have the final say. The final ecstasy would be hers.
