Angrily, he stepped back; the cab lurched forward. “God damn it!” he cried. Then he walked off as the taxi turned the corner and disappeared.
17
“Are you alright?” The driver turned and peered through the plastic partition. “Miss?”
The cab swerved into uptown traffic. The driver refocused his attention on the street. “I can take you to a hospital,” he offered.
“Just keep driving,” she said meekly.
“It’s your money,” he concluded. He looked through the side windows. “We’ve passed this spot five times already.”
“Just keep going,” she snapped.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He pressed the brake, looked up at the bright red light that glowed overhead in the darkness, then looked in the rearview mirror at the passenger, who lay sprawled on the back seat. He shook his head and shuddered. The woman looked near death, her swollen eyes reflecting a non-presence that infused the entire cab with a sensation of crawling terror. “Just drive on the West Side between Forty-second Street and One Hundredth Street,” she’d said, and for the last hour that was exactly what he’d been doing. The girl was sick and needed a doctor. There was no doubt about it. If she suddenly croaked on the back seat, it wouldn’t have surprised him.
The light turned green; the taxi moved forward.
The last hour had been horrible. She’d laid immobile, sprawled across the back seat, sweating like a pig, frightened, and unable to look out the windows, or do anything other than choke. Her eyes seemed to be on fire; her head pounded. Relentlessly, she’d rubbed her scalp, gasping, her mind flashing to Michael. What was he up to? He knew the statue of the old woman was there. He had to or he wouldn’t have been so insistent that they go into the museum, And if he knew that, he’d know what had happened to Chazen, the lesbians, and the others. And what had happened that night in the brownstone. But why? The more she thought, the more confused she became, and the more nauseated.
She pulled herself up and leaned against the window. Rows of buildings and houses shot by in darkness. The cab was moving quickly, too quickly to allow her to comprehend the passing view.
“Pull over,” she suddenly screamed.
“What?” he asked.
“Pull over. This is where I want to get off.”
“Here?”
“Yes, stop the cab.”
The tires screeched; the cab stopped.
The driver looked around the dark street and turned toward the back. “This is a bad place to get out, miss. A rough Puerto Rican neighborhood. I don’t think…”
“How much?” she interrupted.
The driver shook his head and checked the meter. “Nineteen dollars and ten cents.”
She dug into her picket, removed a twenty, and laid it in the protruding dish. “Keep the change,” she declared.
She kicked open the door, stepped onto the curb, and looked up at an old and beaten two-story building.
The cab driver leaned partway through the open door. “Miss, you really don’t look too well,” he cautioned hesitantly. “Why don’t you get back in the cab and I’ll take you to a doctor or a hospital.” He paused. “Can you hear me?”
He listened, but received no reply. His patience ended, he slammed the door and sped off down the block.
She watched the cab recede into the darkness, then glanced at her hands; they were shaking, bloodless. Blinking nervously, she turned toward the curb. A brown paper bag blew across the concrete in front of her, tossed aimlessly by the swirling wind. She looked about. A crusty mongrel romped in a pile of garbage cans nearby; the remainder of the block was empty and silent. Most of the buildings were boarded, marked for demolition. The street was gouged by potholes. Broken furniture lay on the sidewalks, decorated with graffiti written in English and Spanish.
She coughed and held her spinning head. The street seemed to fade in and out of reality. She squinted, tensing, fighting for balance. Then she turned toward an old building and looked at the inscription over the doorway: CHURCH OF THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION. The letters were large, cut in stone and eroded, the once sharp incisions now rounded and dull. She’d seen the legend out of the corner of her eye, when she’d pulled herself up in the seat. It had startled her. Yet, now, standing in front of the building, it seemed as if some unexplainable force was impelling her to do something she’d not done in so many years. A strange coercion, but not unprecedented in its similarity to the impulse that had eased her into her father’s bedroom to retrieve the crucifix.
To enter a church? Unexpectedly, the thought was anything but repulsive. She climbed the cracked and displaced front steps and walked into the outer vestibule of the chapel. To the right was a marble bowl, sparingly filled with holy water; above was a statue of the Virgin Mary.
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” she murmured, staring at the Holy Mother. The words were strange, yet rapturous. “The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” She was surprised that she remembered the words, after such long disuse. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners. Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
Trembling, she dipped her hand into the holy water, crossed herself, and walked through the chapel door.
Michael hurried down the sterile corridor and located the editor’s office.
“Could you help me?” he asked, as he closed the scalloped glass door behind him.
“Perhaps,” the editor said.
He reached over his cluttered desk and adjusted the desk lamp.
Michael sat. Glad to be off his feet.
He was tired. He’d been walking the streets for the last hour, thinking.
“I need some information,” he declared.
He removed a fifty dollar bill from his pocket and dropped it on the desk.
The editor put on his glasses and regarded the ten spot appreciatively. “About what?” he asked curiously.
“An apartment ad that appeared in your Sunday section three weeks ago. I want to know who placed it. How long it ran. And any information you might have on a J. Logan or Joan Logan, a rental agent.”
The man tossed Michael a pad.
“I’ll need the address,” the man said.
Michael smiled, pleased with the expectation of additional information. He scrawled the address and tossed the pad back on the desk.
The editor glanced at the paper, paused to shift his glasses to his forehead, then lifted the desk phone and asked for Real Estate.
The chapel was empty. The silence unbroken. The darkness absolute, except for the light expelled by the myriad tiny candles that burned on the small altars on either side of the room.
Allison walked down the aisle, genuflected, crossed herself, and moved to a kneeling position in a pew. The crucifix that hung from her neck lay securely in her hand. She looked around. Now what? What should she do? And why was she here? This place was alien. A world she’d deserted. She clasped her hands together and bowed her head. Could she remember the words? “Our Father who art in heaven Hallowed be thy name.” That was it. She’d said them a million times as a child. “Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done.” The darkness. The headache. The nausea. But the words felt so good. “On earth, as it is in heaven.” Michael or no Michael, she was going to pray. She’d come back. First, the room. Then, the crucifix. Now this. “Give us this day our daily bread.” It had taken so long. “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” It was almost as if nothing bad had ever happened. “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. Amen.” She said the prayer three times.
Grasping the crucifix in a damp hand, she pulled herself to her feet and stepped from the pew. The soft light of the wicks illuminated her presence. She fumbled in her pocket and removed some coins. It was cold; the silver had retained the chill of the frigid night air. S
he dropped the money in a box, pulled a taper from a container, and, crying, lit a candle for her father. Yet, she could not pray for him. Instead, she stood immobilized, staring at the flickering lights.
A cold chill ran down her back, as if a draft had blown through the church from a hastily opened window. She looked at the candles. They burned erect; the air was still. But she’d sensed something, perhaps the manifestation of the subconscious dread of a coming self-revelation. Her skin tingled, as her perception of the circumscribing darkness intensified; she could feel it pressing against her. If this had been any place other than a church, she would have cracked under the horror of the absolute emptiness. Yet, it was precisely this feeling of isolation that pushed her toward the confessional.
She carefully measured her steps. “Hello,” she cried. “Father?” Her voice reverberated among the walls. “Hello, Father? Father?”
But there was no reply.
Another step. She listened to the echo of footsteps, mixed with the lingering vibrations of her calls.
Another step. The chill again. She had to take confession.
“Father?” No answer. “Father…? Father…? Father…?”
She stood silently before the booth. Pulling the drape aside, she stared at the bleak interior, the worn oak paneling and the small velvet stool. She eased into a kneeling position, bowed her head, folded her hands, and whispered dolefully, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“When’s the last time you were to confession, my child?”
She gasped.
“When was the last time you were to confession?” The voice was deep and authoritative.
Her heart pounded from the sudden, unexpected intrusion. The voice came from the other side of the tiny grating, the side where the priest should have been during the time for confession…or when summoned…but not at this late hour in a darkened church with no sign of life anywhere.
And he hadn’t answered her calls.
She panicked, gripping the grating and moving closer.
“Are you all right, my child?”
She stammered, “Father?”
“Yes, my child, go on.”
She grabbed the curtain and held it aside, ready to spring from the booth. “Father, you are a priest?”
“Of course, my child,” he said benignly. “Go on.”
“I…uh…how…”
“I’m here to listen to you.”
“But you didn’t answer my calls!”
“I’m here to listen to you. Don’t be frightened.”
“I am, Father. Very!”
“That’s why I’m here. Because you are frightened. I am here to rid you of your terror by hearing your confession.”
She leaned her head against the wall over the grating. Was he a priest? Could she trust him? She had to. She had to reveal herself, accept penance, and receive his absolution.
But why hadn’t he answered when she’d called?
“It’s been eight years since I’ve been to confession, Father!” She stopped talking, fearful.
“Yes?
“I can’t believe it’s been so long.” There was a nervous pause. “Why am I here?” she gasped.
“You are here to be heard!” replied the voice. “I am here to listen.”
She whimpered, then quickly caught her breath. “I have committed the following sins: I’ve not been in church in eight years! I’ve rejected everything. But most of all Jesus Christ. I want to come back to the church and to him.” She stammered unsurely. “I need to tell all that’s been kept inside me for so long!”
She fell silent and wept.
“Why did you desert the church, my child?”
“Why?” she mumbled, as if the question had been incomprehensible. There was another long silence, after which, fighting back tears, she began to tell him of her adolescence, her early devotion to Jesus, and the beginning of her doubts and denials. She told him of the degeneration of her father. The adultery. The drunkenness. The beatings. The virtual destruction of her family. And she told him of the night!
Then she laid her head in her hands and coughed spasmodically.
“Is that all, my child?” he asked in a hollow-toned voice.
“No,” she rasped through the grating.
“Tell me.”
“Father, I’ve committed adultery! I didn’t know he was married, when I met him.”
“Yes?” he prompted.
“I began to suspect, but I didn’t want to know that I loved a man, who was doing to another woman what my father had done to my mother.” She swallowed arduously, her saliva creeping down her throat like molten lava. “His wife committed suicide!”
“Did she?” asked the priest suddenly. “Is that what happened?”
“Yes,” stammered Allison. Why should he question her admission? Did he doubt her word? Or did he know something to the contrary? No! That was impossible. “After her suicide, I discovered the truth of the wife’s existence.” She stopped again and waited silently.
“Is there anything else, my child?”
“Else?”
“Yes, my child.”
“No.”
“There is! Tell me!” He was probing, as if he were searching for something specific.
She held her breath. “I’ve tried to kill myself,” she declared agonizingly, rushing her words quickly through her lips, as if hoping that they would not be heard. “Twice. Once after I found my father and the two women in bed. The second time after the death of my lover’s wife. I felt so guilty, so evil.”
“Other than that?” he cried, his voice rising. “There is more! Tell me!”
Other than that? Wouldn’t he want to hear more of the suicides? Or did he know everything already? Impossible!
“Tell me what else!” he commanded sternly.
“I’m frightened, scared, and alone. I can’t take the pain anymore.” She was stuttering. “Someone is trying to hurt me.”
“Who is trying to hurt you, my child?”
“I’m not sure, Father. But it may be the person I thought loved me, Michael.” She waited for his response; he said nothing. She continued. “I met these people in my brownstone building I found that they didn’t exist, and then one night, I…”
She stopped. No, that she couldn’t reveal, even though she needed his counsel.
“What happened that night?”
“I was frightened by footsteps and I ran from the building.”
“And?”
“I got sick.” The image of the hospital momentarily emerged, then dissolved. “Today Michael took me to a museum. There was a statue of a person, who I’d met in the brownstone, and who was dead…yes, she was dead. He must have known the wax statute was there! I just can’t comprehend!” She hesitated, ran her tongue over her dry lips, and said, “Then I came here.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“There is more!” he cried angrily. “Tell me!”
She could see the wisps of his breath through the grating.
“What else happened that night you ran from the brownstone? Tell me?”
The confessional shook from the pounding of his voice.
“Tell me,” he repeated loudly.
“No,” she pleaded, as sweat dripped from her face.
“Speak, my child. Tell me what you must!”
“I saw my father,” she blurted.
“Yes,” he prompted. “Yes!” His voice was almost exhilarated.
“I stabbed him! But he was dead already!”
Silence that seemed to creep over the darkened walls like a stalking spider. Then the sound of sobbing.
She wiped her wet cheeks and leaned her head against the screen. She was exhausted, having extirpated the filth and torment. She’d
felt like a balloon releasing air. Yet, unlike the balloon, she hadn’t shriveled.
“Is that all, my child?”
“Yes, Father.”
There was nothing. For what seemed an eternity.
“You feel lost, my child,” he finally said. “Since you abandoned the church and Jesus Christ, you’ve been lost and without guidance. And, now, you must come back for that guidance, as you have done tonight. Sin is a dangerous thing, my child. It spawns guilt and that is as it should be. But if the sin is not recognized and absolved and the guilt is allowed to remain, it can breed suspicions and deceptions. It can materialize evils and threats that don’t exist, except in the recesses of the mind. And that is why you have conjured these horrors. Because you have lived in sin, continue to do so, and have not absolved yourself. You must do penance. Once that is done and you have re-embraced Jesus Christ, the suspicions will fade, the evils will disappear, and the pain you talk of will haunt you no more. You must come back to Jesus Christ and believe in Him. For He is good, and by rejecting Him, you have embraced evil. You must reclaim your faith in the Holy Father. Open your heart to Him. Reject suspicion and self-deception. Receive openly the love of your loved ones, and do not fashion that love into other than it is. Believe. And live your life with Christ. You say you were impelled to come here. The Lord works in mysterious ways, and He is difficult to understand. We cannot, and that is why we must have faith and believe that God will guide us on the path to righteousness. Only when you root out the sin, embrace Christ, believe in Him, and trust again will the fears, horrors and doubts disappear. Forget the past and believe. And He will give you the inner strength to fight the evils around you. To start you on your way, I want you, for penance, to say a rosary every day and to start practicing your religion by coming to church again, having communion, and believing in God. And if at any time you have doubts or fears, do not hesitate to come back to me for guidance. Now say the Act of Contrition and I will absolve and forgive you.”
She bowed her head and started to chant.
The priest began his absolution, his back against the wall of the booth. His bushy gray hair and long gray eyebrows stood out in the darkness. He, too, was sweating. He wiped his forehead with freckled hands that were covered by little tufts of white hair.
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