by Art Bourgeau
"Doing what?"
He hesitated, then let go . . . "Going to bed with him . . ."
"How did that make you feel?"
"I don’t know. . . angry, I guess . . . ashamed . . . it's confusing. I mean, there was no reason for you to do it. You didn’t have to, I didn’t mean to embarrass you . . ." Speaking to his mother, but did he realize it at all?
"What about the man? What did you feel about him?"
He shifted on the couch. "I didn’t like him. I didn’t want him to do that with you," he said, seeing too vividly that night.
"Tell me what you saw."
He felt something deep down inside him, a stab of pain, and before he could stop himself he began to cry. He put his hands to his face, partly to keep her from seeing him and partly to block out the memory.
"Tell me," she repeated.
"I saw you with him," he said . . . saw his mother sitting on the edge of the bed . . . "I got up to get a drink of water and saw you on the couch with no clothes on. He was behind you doing it . . ."
Margaret had no doubt he was describing, reliving, the scene as a boy seeing his mother with a man. But which man? "Your stepfather?" she said quietly. He didn’t deny it. "How did you feel when you saw them?"
"Awful, I didn’t want him to do it. God, how I hate him. I despise him. I wish he was dead," his voice rising.
And now he sat up on the couch, staring straight ahead. "The best day of my life," he said, his voice low, strong, "was the day Wolf bit him."
There seemed no fear in him now. Only in her.
CHAPTER 15
ERIN WAS just leaving the museum when her phone rang and the receptionist downstairs announced that there was a policeman to see her.
It startled her. She didn't even owe any parking tickets. She looked at her watch. With the opening party for the exhibit staring her in the face she didn’t have much time . . .
"All right, I'll be down."
In the lobby the receptionist pointed to a dark-haired man in a trenchcoat. His hair had a bit of a widow's peak in front, which with his dark complexion gave him, she thought, a rakish look.
"Miss Fraser?" Mercanto showed her his badge. "I’m with homicide. Don't get worried, it doesn’t have anything to do with you. I understand you're an expert on the Caribbean and this case seems to have a Caribbean connection, that's all. It won't take long."
"I was just going out, but okay."
Mercanto was surprised at the way she looked — in jeans with her hair pulled back and big schoolboy glasses. Not what he expected a curator to look like. "Maybe we could get some lunch."
"I'm really pressed for time, but if you’ll take a hot dog from the campus bus, we could talk and eat," she said.
"Sounds good. Cops love hot dogs."
They started toward the museum’s entrance. "Do they have chili?" he asked, holding the door for her.
"No, but they have sauerkraut and onions."
"Just as good."
Outside, she said, "How did you get my name?"
"From John at Mama Yolanda’s."
"Well, in my book, John's name is a pretty high recommendation. Known him 1ong?"
"With a name like Natale Mercanto, yeah, I've known John a long time. We're from the same neighborhood."
"You live near his restaurant . . . ?"
"My apartment’s around the corner. I usually stop in once, twice a week."
As they walked toward Thirty-fourth where the bus was always parked she wondered for a moment if Mercanto was married. The way he mentioned his apartment made her think not.
The pace got to be too much for him, and sharp pain filled his chest. He stopped for a second to lean against a building.
"Wait up," he said, breathing shallow as possible to minimize the pain. He patted his pockets. Naturally he’d forgotten his painkillers again.
When he told her to wait, she started to make a remark about the police department needed more exercise, then she saw his face. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," he said, feeling the pain lessen slightly. "I’ve got a broken rib, and sometimes it gets a little uncomfortable."
"How did it happen?"
"I got shot."
Mercanto took her arm and they started again. There was a certain naturalness in his touch, the gesture seemed complete in itself, not a prelude to anything.
They slowed down, Erin figuring her schedule would survive a little interruption. At a bench near the bus she made Mercanto sit down while she went for the hot dogs and soda. He tried to pay but she wouldn’t hear of it.
Once seated beside him, she said, "It must be tough on your family, you being in such a dangerous occupation."
"Well, all I have is my brother Frank, and he's not doing too well . . ."
"Does your shooting have anything to do with the case you want to talk to me about?"
"Yes, but before we start let me say there’s no danger in this for you. I've been investigating the murder of a Center City optometrist named Stanley Hightower. You may have seen something about it in the papers. It happened in Fairmount Park. The other night I went up to look it over again, a kid tried to hold me up while I was there. When I went to arrest him he shot me."
"I don't quite see how this ties into me," said Erin. "I'm an anthropologist who studies the Caribbean. My specialty is shamanism. Any help there?"
"What exactly is shamanism? Any relation to Shamus? Sorry."
"Essentially it's a study of primitive religions. We call them primitive because their history is a spoken rather than a recorded one, and they have little or no established hierarchy above the local level. A shaman is a priest of one of these religions."
"Like voodoo . . . ?" Mercanto asked hopefully.
"Yes. Why do you ask?" When he didn't answer she said, "I think you owe me that much if you expect me to help you."
"You're right. At the moment everyone's thinking the kid who shot me is Stanley Hightower’s killer. Could be. But it seemed to me a couple of things need to be checked out from another angle, say, a Jamaican one. Understand, I know nothing about this stuff. Does Iamaica even have voodoo?"
"Yes, most Caribbean countries have some form of voodoo. The word ’voodoo' comes from vodun, the religion of Haiti, which is a mix of West African religions with an overlay of Christianity, especially Catholicism. In Cuba it's called Santeria, in Brazil it's Candomble, in Jamaica it's obeah."
"And this is your specialty?"
"That's right. The shaman is a leader of a cult. He differs from our notion of a priest. He doesn't interpret any body of law, history, dogma or whatever you want to call it. He teaches from a personal basis, from within. He’s almost always someone who's had some powerful emotional experience that becomes the basis of his teaching. In this country I suspect many shamans would be considered schizophrenics. In their cultures they're revered."
"You've seen their ceremonies . . . ?"
When she nodded, he said, "Tell me about them, their sacrifices, for example"
"If you want my help you’ll have to be more . . . more forthcoming."
Mercanto sighed. "Okay, we know that Stanley Hightower was involved with some very rough Jamaicans. His murder had a professional look to it, with one add-on . . . the body was mutilated afterward in a damned strange way. I was wondering if it might be some sort of ceremonial thing."
"How do you mean strange . . . the mutilations, I mean?"
He shifted slightly on the bench. Their knees came in contact. Erin could feel it through her whole body. She knew she should move to break the contact. After all, she'd just met him, but she didn't.
"Cannibalism," he said finally. He turned his hand over and showed her his right palm. "When we found him, this whole part of his hand had been ripped away," he said, tracing the area of damage with the index finger of his other hand.
"According to the medical examiner it was done by teeth, human teeth."
"And you think this type of mutilation might be part of a ceremony or
some sort of voodoo sign . . . like no trespassing, or death to outsiders. Something like that?"
At first her reaction, or lack of it, to the cannibalism surprised him, then he realized she'd probably seen a lot of things equally gruesome in her studies. It was like being a cop. It went with the territory.
"That’s what I was hoping you could tell me."
"There are a lot of misconceptions about voodoo," she said, settling back on the bench and crossing her legs. "Like I said, it's a primitive religion. God, as we know him, is worshipped, but they also worship other gods. Not multi-armed deities like we associate with Middle Eastern religions but more like a hunter society in which animals are worshipped for their special traits. For instance, the wolf because of his bravery, cunning, hunting ability. . ."
She paused. "Along with this is the concept of reincarnation. They worship the dead, figures from the darkness. The purpose is appeasement. This idea of reincarnation, or transportation between the real world and the underworld is at the root of Haitian zombies. By drugs, hypnosis, or whatever they reach a state that's between life and death, one foot in each camp. This is probably as extreme as it gets."
"But they do have sacrifices, things like that . . ."
"Yes, they do. Most times a chicken, sometimes a goat. They're the most common animals around. You just go out in the backyard and get one. Sacrificing an eagle or a leopard would be tough. You have to understand, most religions have live sacrifices.
"In other religions certain rituals are often mistaken for sacrifices. In Tibet, for instance, the dead are often taken to a hillside and chopped up, their meat left for the birds. It's called a sky burial but it’s not a sacrifice. Or in Africa there are different pubertal rites like circumcision, tattooing, various mutilations. In fact, I remember one Haitian shaman — but that was something else entirely. What you're talking about doesn’t exist in Jamaican voodoo."
"You're sure?" he said, obviously disappointed.
"Well, I'm not sure it couldn’t have been done by Jamaicans, but it is not part of their voodoo."
CHAPTER 16
MARGARET CLIMBED the steps not looking forward to the night ahead. Tonight was the party at the museum, a must for faculty members and their wives to attend, but she was in no party mood.
When she opened the door she heard the sounds of the Rolling Stones' "Brown Sugar" blaring on the stereo. Adam was home. She dropped her coat and purse and went into the study, feeling shot.
Adam was at the window staring out, a pitcher of martinis and two glasses on the coffee table, waiting. He turned and came toward her, his biggest smile in place, his eyes unnaturally bright. He had on jeans and a heavy sweater. His curly hair was matted and oily, and he hadn’t shaved. When he bent to kiss her she could tell he hadn’t bathed either.
"Hi," she said, making no effort to return his kiss.
"Come on in, sit down. I’ve been waiting for you," he said, leading her to the sofa. She sat down, looking at him like he was a stranger while he poured their martinis.
"What are we celebrating?" she asked over the din of the music.
"My poetry," he said exuberantly, taking no notice of her distance. "The whole volume of Vietnam Nights is finally finished, put to rest, the whole thing" He went to the stereo and turned it off. "I thought we might have a couple of martinis to put the cap on it."
In spite of herself, she was pleased for him. "I know it's been giving you a lot of trouble."
"It’s been a bitch . . . reliving those experiences has been the most painful thing I’ve ever done. Sometimes I think it was worse than being there. You know how things are when you get older. People say they don’t affect you like when you're young, but they're wrong. They affect you more. When you're young you're too busy to feel anything, not so when you're older, you're more vulnerable to the emotion . . ."
She took a sip of her drink. "You make it sound like we’re ready for the old-age home." Which tonight is how she felt.
"Not by a long shot, but you know what I mean . . . God, it feels good to be through with it."
She watched him drain his glass with a gulp and move to pour himself another. It was like watching the Adam of ten years ago, the part of him she had loved best, the zest for life that wouldn’t be contained by anything.
"I wouldn't have too many of those. We still have to go to the party at the museum tonight," she said, deliberately holding back, afraid to let her mood rise to meet his, knowing he was right . . . when you were older you sure were more vulnerable.
"The way I feel tonight I could drink a gallon of these and they wouldn’t affect me at all," he said.
At least half-true. Adam did have a tolerance for booze that defied belief. He continued his pacing, almost boyish with his enthusiasm.
"Now that it's over we can get back to being ourselves," he said, taking hold of her hands. "I know I've been . . . distant lately but I’ll make it up to you."
If a patient had recreated this scene for her, she would have tried to make her see the reality of it. But now she was no analyst — she was a woman wanting badly to believe . . . "Right now we have to get ready for the party."
"Yeah, I guess so." He finished his martini and poured another. "I’m not looking forward to it."
She kissed him on the cheek as she got up to go change.
"Me either," she said.
As she applied her makeup she could hear Adam singing in the shower. His cheerfulness seemed to point up the loneliness that had become so much a part of her life. It seemed her whole life consisted of being there for others but having no one for herself. A lousy imbalance, as she might suggest to a patient.
In the mirror she could see their bed, and remembered how she felt when Adam crawled in and went to sleep without touching her. The major continuity in her life was her practice, and, she had to admit, especially tracking Loring's case.
Adam’s booming voice broke through her thoughts, singing the Beatles' "Yellow Submarine." His off-key gusto made her smile, such a silly song but it made her think about their better years of marriage.
This wasn’t the first time he’d withdrawn, she had to admit. Whenever he was working he was always distant. And at the best of times he was too mercurial ever to take for granted, to predict.
But of course what made this time different from the others was his affair. That’s where the loneliness came in. She wasn’t even forty yet. She wasn’t ready for the scrap heap. Giving and receiving pleasure with a man was still important to her, damn important.
She took off her housecoat and inspected herself in the mirror. The martini’s glow helped. Adam took her for granted but someone else — lord, what was she thinking? Who was she thinking of? Like a reluctant patient, recognizing and not accepting the unacceptable, she pushed away the object of her thought . . .
She turned abruptly and went to her closet, where she chose a floor-length sarong-type evening dress by Carolyne Roehm. Behind her she heard Adam’s voice. It startled her. She hadn’t heard the shower stop. She turned to see him standing in the doorway in his terrycloth robe. "Remember that French film we saw. . . the one where the guy said it's sexier to watch a woman dress than undress . . . it's like seeing her prepare for another lover?"
The guilt she felt made her angry. "Adam, please not now."
He shrugged and left.
Charles' words about wish — thinking came back to her . . .the wish is the deed. Pure theory, she thought impatiently as she slipped the dress over her head.
Adam was in the study when she came downstairs. He had switched from martinis to beer and was standing there in his tux with a Heineken bottle in hand.
"I’m sorry, I’m just a little edgy tonight," she said. She went to him and straightened his tie like she did whenever they went to something formal.
"You look very nice," he said as he helped her with her coat.
Which was what he always said when they got dressed up. The familiarity of it made her teary.
; * * *
The Braddon was lighted like a Hollywood premiere. People were milling around in evening dress.
Adam took her arm. "Let’s see if we can find the bar."
They started down the hall to the main room. Exhibit cases on both sides were filled with colorful tapestries. A beautiful way to open the exhibit, she thought. She resolved to wander through the whole exhibit before the evening was over. In the distance she heard the sounds of an orchestra playing. A night of dancing — suddenly she stopped. On a pedestal in the center of the hall was a small glass case, and in it was a single item — a mask. She went for a closer look. It was simple in design, like the mold of a face. The top half was violet, the bottom half a fleshy pink that somehow seemed to convey . . . what? Agony? The only decorations were tracks of rhinestone tears from the eyes.
"That really stops you short after those tapestries, doesn't it?" said Adam. "It’s like what you'd find underneath if you pulled the skin off a person's face." He read the card at the bottom of the case. "Haitian voodoo mask. Some kinds of knowledge you’re better off without."
Her eyes were still fixed on it. Something about it . . . like she'd seen it before but couldn’t say where, when.
Adam took her arm. "Now about the bar. . ."
She allowed him to lead her away, searching for perspective, for what it reminded her of.
The music was louder, the crowd thicker as they neared the museum's main room. The band was playing "Bad Bad Leroy Brown."
"There must be five hundred, a thousand people here. What would you like?" Adam asked.
"White wine," she said, and waited as he pushed on the final few feet to the bar. While she stood there the head of Adam's department and his wife stopped to say hello. They exchanged small talk until Adam returned with their drinks.
His face betrayed him at the sight of the department head. Theirs was a strained relationship. He was an old-line English professor, a tweedy appreciator of Hardy and Conrad, while Adam was more avant garde, preferring the works of people like Bukowski and Crews.
"Erin Fraser's done a grand job with the exhibit, the party, the whole works. Do you know her?" the department head said.