by Sandy DeLuca
I’m fine except for demon eyes peering at me, except for the old Impala that cruises by every now and then.
I wonder if one of these times it’ll pull up to the curb and if its driver will shut off the engine and make his way to the door.
Has Ma been the one who stopped him from doing that all these years? Or has it been the dope?
I’ve got to make a call. I’m running low on coke. I tug at the belt on my jeans. My waist has whittled down to nothing. I haven’t been this thin since 1971.
* * *
Paul answered the door, groggy and surprised on that Sunday afternoon. “Sis, I told you. I can’t eat now. My stomach isn’t right today.”
“Dad made me. He said he’d throw away my art stuff if I didn’t bring you the turkey and ham.”
Paul’s cat, Ernie, rubbed up against me. His nose twitched. His tail flicked back and forth.
Paul chuckled. The old mischievous look glowed in his eyes beneath the film of tranquilizers. “I think Ernie appreciates you coming by.”
We sat there tossing shreds of ham and turkey to Ernie. Paul laughed out loud. It was the first time I’d heard him do that in a long time.
At one point he turned to me and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m glad you came by. Really glad.”
So was I.
That night my father was sick. I heard the toilet flushing every twenty minutes or so. Next morning he called in sick at his job and stayed in bed all day.
That night Aunt Lil stopped by. “Don’t fuck with my little angel,” she said with a mischievous smile.
The toilet upstairs flushed.
“Now I’ve got to do something to lift your brother’s spirits.” She sipped tea and stroked the cats.
My mother rolled her eyes.
But a few minutes later, the toilet flushed again.
* * *
After several hours I put away the painting I’ve been working on all night, then feed the cats, take a shower and make myself some strong coffee.
The small brown envelope I left in the flowerpot by the back door last night was gone this morning, and in its place was another two-week’s worth of white powder.
I feel a little better than I did earlier in the day, but I know full well that hell can break loose again at any time. That realization is always with me. Always.
CHAPTER 10
I guess it’s my duty to visit my mother, maybe pick up a magazine or some books for her. I’d rather stay here and paint.
I’ll take the paintings for my New York show to UPS on my way to the hospital. I’ll make hotel arrangements for the night of my opening when I get home.
I’m almost happy now. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s not here. Maybe if I wish hard enough she’ll never come back.
* * *
Paul’s spirits lifted for a while.
I went to see him every night after work, and Dad was more than happy to let me use the Impala so I could do Paul’s grocery shopping and spend time with him so he wouldn’t be alone. If he’d known Kim was there most times too he would’ve never allowed it.
I bought the groceries and Kim did the cooking, and now and then Kim even talked Paul into going with us for a long ride. Paul was often silent, and had a lost, distant look in his eyes almost all the time.
Kim said the medication affected him, that everything was fine, that Paul was getting better. But I knew better.
One day my brother called me at work. Something he rarely did. “Julia—I—” his words were cut off by sobs.
“Paul, what is it?”
They’d found Kim that morning lying in the alley between her apartment and a liquor store. Her throat had been cut. A diamond that Paul had given her was gone—along with the finger on which she wore it.
“It was those Spanish kids from Cranston.” Paul smashed his fist against a table. His voice seemed far away. “They’ve taunted gays and drag queens in that neighborhood for months. But the cops didn’t bother arresting anybody until one of those punks cut Dusty French’s face while she was on her way home from a late night party at Xavier’s. The boy was released because Dusty was too afraid to press charges. I should have killed the bastards.”
I didn’t know what to say, how to make him feel better, and was in shock myself. I knew how deeply he loved Kim, and she’d become my friend too. But it reminded me how dangerous at all times the world was for people like Kim and my brother. I held the phone tight, listened to Paul cry and did my best not to join him.
Kim had a small funeral. A bunch of the guys from her apartment building chipped in for a decent burial up at Swan Point Cemetery, but it was a very low-key ceremony.
Paul said she talked about having a stone angel on her grave when she died, and how they used to joke about it when they took walks through Swan Point on Sunday afternoons. They loved to go to the old section where the elaborate saints and angels guarded the graves. People who died in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries could easily afford intricate stones and statues on their graves, but they became too expensive in the 70s.
Paul bought Kim a small statue of Michael the Arch-angel with some money he’d saved. “What good is the money to me?” he’d said sadly.
For Paul, things got even worse after Kim’s death. He distanced himself from everyone—even me. “Don’t come by anymore at night,” he said. “I need some time to think.”
“What about your groceries, your dinner, I—”
“I can have people deliver all those things—people who don’t ask questions—people who aren’t concerned.”
Paul’s doctors said his behavior was part of a normal grieving process and that he’d be OK. According to them he was always going to be OK, though he never was.
They also told us he wasn’t suicidal.
They were wrong.
It was a Saturday afternoon when the phone rang. My parents had gone out for the day.
“Julia?”
I hadn’t seen or heard from my brother in three weeks, so at first the sound of his voice was comforting. “Hey, stranger. What’s happening?”
“I cut my wrists.”
I’d heard the words but they didn’t register. “What?”
“The blood’s coming out so slowly, I—I don’t think the knife I used was sharp enough,” he said groggily. “I’ve got to do it again with a…a sharper blade.”
“Paul? Paul, listen to me, don’t—”
Heavy breathing and a series of sobs interrupted me. Then in a dreamy voice I heard him say, “That’s better. Now the blood’s pouring out.”
My father kept the number for the rescue squad by the phone. Dr. Albert’s number was there as well. I had to call for help.
I screamed at my brother. “Hang up the fucking phone! Hang up!”
* * *
Ma’s drowsy but still complains about being in pain.
“You’re lucky,” I tell her. “Everything’s going to be fine.” I reach for her hand and she pulls it away.
“You’d better keep the house clean while I’m gone. I can imagine what a mess it’ll be when I get back.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “What kind of a God lets things like this happen?”
“Don’t worry I’ll—”
“Are you still going to New York for that ridiculous art show?”
My mother’s face is pale. Her skin is thin and lined with more wrinkles than I remember. There’s hatred in her eyes.
“Yes, I’m going. That’s important.”
“Call Monica Arsenault. She’ll feed the cats.”
“I’ve already spoken to her.”
“She loves animals. She’ll take the cats if anything happens.”
“No way, Ma.”
“You can’t take care of them if I die.”
Anger burns inside me, but I keep it bound. “I take care of them now.”
I need a fix, some coke on my gums at the very least.
“You’re good for nothing. Go home. I want to sleep. Get out.”
I do. Gladly.
CHAPTER 11
I gaze at my Aunt Lil’s photograph, framed in a sterling silver frame. Her smile is sly. Her eyes twinkle. She cradles a black cat in her arms.
I wonder if she chose the time of her death, or did my grandmother reach out from Hades and manipulate my aunt’s demise.
My grandmother had the same kind of hold on Aunt Lil as Ma does on me. Two days after my grandmother died Lil went out and bought herself a red Mustang. She said it was a symbol of her new freedom, a statement that she refused to grow old, or settle for the mundane life of a housewife.
“I could have had the husband, the kids, and a life like your mother. There were many men, but they were all so boring, so ordinary. All the ones I loved were unobtainable for one reason or another—wild mustangs within the fabric of my life. Perhaps if things had been different with your grandmother then my attitude would have been different. If I’d given in, then I think I would have turned out like your Ma. But now I have my Mustang, fiery red, a passion that I can drive to Hell if I choose.” She pursed her lips. “In dreams she tells me she’s coming for me.”
One winter night, during a snow storm and after one too many glasses of wine, Aunt Lil drove her red Mustang off the highway and into the Pawtuxet River. They found her the next morning, frozen, her hands clutching the steering wheel, death glazed over her eyes, a smile etched on her face.
I pour myself a glass of wine; toast Lil. I often wished she’d been my mother, and though I miss my aunt desperately, at any moment I expect her to come waltzing into the room, skirts swirling, some obscure or mysterious book in her hands.
Wind taps on the windows. The rocker moves slowly back and forth.
“Are you here, Aunty?”
The rocker stops. Mother cat rubs her head against it, meowing softly as though she’s singing to a ghost.
“Lil?”
For now, I’m alone, but she still comes to me in dreams, cradling my brother and me the way she did when we were little. She still whispers magic chants to me.
* * *
I called the police so they could dispatch an ambulance then phoned Paul’s doctor at the VA hospital to let him know what had happened.
Later, I learned they were too late. By the time they got to his apartment he’d slashed his arms in three places then run the blade across his neck. They couldn’t save him.
Little Ernie was next to him, licking his face, letting out tiny cat meows.
My mother was hospitalized and heavily sedated.
My father made arrangements for my brother’s burial. No tears. No words. Except, “Bring the kitten home, Julia. I don’t want him going to a shelter. Paul loved him. He’ll be fine with our cats.”
While he and my grandmother went to the hospital to watch over my mother, Aunt Lil and I mourned together that night. We spoke of things we dared not say to others, and she rocked me gently in her arms.
Ernie slept on my lap. His tiny body seemed to be sobbing as he twitched about, probably dreaming of the horror he’d witnessed.
“If only he could talk, Aunty.”
“He can talk. I saw it all in his eyes. Animals will reveal their secrets to those who listen.” She passed her hand gently over the kitten’s back. He twitched again. My aunt sighed and shook her head. “Why do they all leave us?”
“Was there someone else in our family who—?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Tell me?”
She thought for a moment and then began to speak. Her eyes watered and her hands shook. “I knew a boy. I was around your age. His name was Vincent Dean. He was a thug. I knew he was bad news. I saw things around him, vile things and they beckoned me—probably the same kinda things your brother Paul saw—” She lit a cigarette. “I shoulda known better, but I had this crush—”
“You went after him, had to have him ‘cause he was dangerous and exciting.” I saw Sammy’s face for a moment.
“Yeah, we have this allure to the dark, to the damned even though they scare the shit out of us.
“I’d take the bus up to the pool parlor where Vincent hung out. He ignored me at first, but I was persistent. I knew he didn’t care about me, knew he was just using me. but he taught me a lot about sex. Fucked me so good that I got pregnant. When I told him about it he just shrugged his shoulders, said he’d deny the baby was his.”
“Oh, Aunty—”
“Served me right for being such a fool.”
“The baby? What happened?”
“This story calls for another bottle of wine.”
The rain was thumping hard against the windows. The cats were huddled together on the rocker. Aunt Lil hung her rosary beads over the door.
“I still wonder about those demons. We’ll all see them before we die.” She kissed me on the forehead. “But not you, Cara mia, you have a sweet guardian angel who’ll come for you. I dreamed it.”
* * *
I gulp down my wine, pour another glass of Pino Grigio, my aunt’s favorite, and decide to do another line soon.
“Did you see the Demons before the car crashed, Aunt Lil?” I ask that night. “Did you see Paul? Can you still pray for me?”
And if you can, is God still listening?
CHAPTER 12
The rocker is still. The cats have curled up beside it, huddled together, and have fallen asleep.
I should be thinking about my mother, if she’ll be all right. I should long for her to come home, but I don’t. I hope she never does. I don’t want to remember her or anyone other than the dead right now. They are the ones I loved.
* * *
The wine was potent; imported from Italy. The crystal glasses shined beneath the kitchen light. Aunt Lil plucked a stray lock of hair from her forehead. The lights flickered when a roll of thunder, loud and furious, shook the house. She made the sign of the cross. “Bless all the dead,” she whispered.
She looked at me. Her eyes were red from crying. She was trembling. “Well, now, you want to hear the rest of my story?”
“Yes, I do.”
“It was a long time ago. Single mothers didn’t have babies back then. These days I hear more and more about young girls having their kids, raising them alone without the help of a man. Back then abortions were performed in cellars, by butchers. A lot of girls died or were ruined for life.
“I had these pipe dreams about my parents accepting the baby, helping me to raise it. I was wrong. Their generation, their beliefs, the world would never allow it.” She leaned close. “It was taboo then. Unheard of. I had no place to turn. Yet I prayed, did my magic and believed that it could all work, but I knew deep in my gut it never would.
“I used to get sick in the mornings, then go off to work still feeling like shit. Wasn’t long until my stomach started to pop out. I’d stand in front of my mirror. When your Nana came in the room I’d remark about how fat I was getting. One morning she told me she dreamed I was pregnant. Your Nana’s dreams always told tattle tales. She knew and so did my father.
“Dr. Alonzo, the old sleaze who they referred to as a family doctor, said I was too far gone for an abortion. He’d take care of things. It was best they kept me hidden for the next few months. Then he’d take care of the birth. Make sure there’d be a place for the baby.
“I cried, prayed even harder. I screamed, ‘I can’t give away my baby.’ Your Nana’s wishes, her magic, were stronger than mine. But she thought she was doing what was best for me.
“Once when a neighbor came to visit Nana made me go down to the basement. I had to wait until she left.
“I used to lie on the couch and I’d see the baby kicking. This child was part of me.
“One night in May I knew the baby was coming. I cried to my mother. Sat on the top step, clutching my belly, racked with pain.
“They called Dr. Alonzo. He smelled of liquor. They took me down to a room they’d prepared in the basement. It smelled of dampness. Water was starting to rise because it had rained for two days straight
. The doctor told everyone to leave. He’d make sure both me and the baby would be okay. He was like an ugly gnome, bent over me, stinking, barely able to stand on his own feet. Before long I heard the baby crying. The doctor went into the other room to tell them I’d had a boy. I heard my mother yelling. Then everything was quiet.
“I noticed that the water had risen in the basement. The rain continued throughout my labor. And that’s when they began to rise—right out of the water. First it was just smoke curling like fingers, then the faces formed, white and mournful.”
She sipped her wine. Tears trickled down her cheeks. “Spirits. All of them who’d died and come back to watch over me—from heaven, Hell and every fucking place in between. Twin brothers who died from pneumonia when they were three, my father’s brother who they found dead in a basement apartment down in Brooklyn, an old aunt who they buried three years before—the dead—screaming—telling me to hold on tight—as I bled like a pig.”
“Oh, Aunty—I—”
“I almost died. I doubt that Doctor Alonzo had anything to do with me pulling through. I was a fighter, strong. I wasn’t ready to die yet.”
“The baby?”
“A woman carried him out—a nun. Remember Sister Theresa from the parish? Years before she was one of the nuns over at the orphanage. She cradled him in her arms. He was screaming. I swore I’d find him and get him back, move away, but what kind of life could I have given him as a single mother back then?”
“You don’t think—”
“I wondered about him a lot. Still do all the time. He’s grown now of course. I know he’s okay too. My Papa took me driving one night and pointed out the house where my son lived. It belonged to a doctor on the East Side. A heart doctor over at Rhode Island Hospital. Big money there. That’s when I decided that maybe he was better off.