A Long December

by Richard Chizmar

  The two-level red brick building known as the Hope Street shelter actually sat on the corner of Bell Street and Third Avenue. The “Hope Street” part of the name was the brainstorm of one of the founding sponsors; a cheerful reminder, she’d explained, that no matter how desperate things appeared, there was always hope. Not many of the people who worked or lived at the shelter gave the name much thought, though. Their business at hand was far too important for such concerns.

  The morning after the murder was typically busy. Breakfast, clean-up, wash-up. Duties for everyone. Sandwiches to be made and distributed to those still on the street. Second-hand clothing and blankets to be collected. Various housecleaning details to complete.

  Shortly before lunch, one of the staff coordinators introduced Frank Lofton, a brand new volunteer, to Thera Waterston, and assigned them both to the “box city” on the Broad Street subway concourse.

  Kinda old for a new volunteer, Thera thought, smiling cheerfully at the quiet newcomer. But still green behind the ears, I’m sure. Just like all the others.

  Loaded down with sandwich-filled paper sacks and thermoses of steaming coffee, they slowly made their way through the city streets, toward the subway concourse. From time to time, Thera stole a sidelong glance at Frank, and she found it amusing that he appeared visibly nervous. First day on the job jitters? she wondered. But then when he finally spoke up and said what seemed to have been perched on his lips for some time—“I, uh, heard you were with Judge Langford last night, before he was attacked.”—she understood why.

  “Terrible tragedy,” Thera said. “Imagine with all the crime in the streets, he gets attacked by a bunch of dogs.” She shook her head. “Such a nice man, too. You know, he had just about everything, but twice a month, no matter what the weather, no matter how busy he was, he’d still be out here helping those less fortunate than him. Poor guy.” She shook her head in pity. “Hey, you mentioned earlier that you’re an attorney, right? Did you know the judge?”

  Frank laughed, a deep, husky echo. “Oh, we tangled some. I’m a defense attorney, semi-retired. Judge Langford and I are about the same age, matter of fact. To answer your question directly, yes, I did know him.” He hesitated, still following Thera, seemingly more relaxed now. “You see, I’ve always been a bit unconventional. Eccentric. Whatever you want to call it. A royal pain in the ass is what Judge Langford called me on more than one occasion, I’m proud to say. You see, I never made it easy on him. Sometimes just one step away from contempt. Controversial, but effective. He didn’t think too highly of my tactics, if you know what I mean. But he was a very decent man.”

  They reached the entrance and descended the steps to the subway platform. Thera saw that Frank—his nose wrinkled, forehead creased—was clearly revolted by the smell.

  Thera breathed in deeply, savoring the sweet aroma that enveloped them at the entrance to the box city. Human feces, rotten food, and vomit greeted her like an old friend as it assaulted Frank’s senses. She saw him blanch and wondered if he would puke like so many of her other “protectors” had at their first taste of man’s descent into hell.

  “How can they live in this squalor?” Frank asked.

  She shrugged and said, “Most do so out of choice.”

  “I don’t understand. Why…why don’t they come to the shelters? This place is horrible…at the very least a breeding ground for disease.”

  She shook her head and explained patiently: “These people long ago abandoned the system. To get into a shelter there are forms to fill out and questions to answer, a time when you must be in at night and a time when you must leave each morning. In many cases, it’s the same old bureaucracy, that drove them out onto the streets in the first place.”

  “But they’re little more than animals here.”

  She shrugged again. “Free to come and go as they please.”

  “Are they transients or…regulars down here?” he asked, searching for the right word.

  “Depends. This particular group here has formed their own little community. To most this is their permanent residence for the winter. They discourage those who come uninvited to crash for just a day or two or to get free sex or rob someone for drug money. This is their turf, as they say, and I’ve known some to protect it to their death.”

  “You make it sound almost noble,” Frank said. “Like you’re proud of them. I’m sorry, I know I’m naive, but I think these people are sick and need help.”

  “Some are. And others…” She let the statement dangle. “Is that the only reason you volunteered; to make sure they get the help they need?”

  “Yes, isn’t that why you’re here?”

  “Sure, we’re here to help—a sandwich, some coffee, and a healthy dose of sympathy and compassion. But we can’t force them to accept our help and we shouldn’t. If we tried we’d be no more than a shelter on wheels. The ‘man’ telling them what to do again, which is what they walked away from in the first place. Assert your superior attitude or values here, and they’d just as soon slit your throat as accept your food.”

  Frank squinted in confusion. “Are you saying you turn a deaf ear to their suffering?”

  “This is their city, Frank,” she said with growing impatience. “They make all the rules…and enforce them. If someone is sick, you do what you can, but you always ask first. If someone doesn’t want to be helped so be it. If you see someone shooting up, look the other way. If a man beats his woman, turn a deaf ear. Trust me, don’t become personally involved in their despair. It will suck you under like a whirlpool.”

  “You make it sound so callous.”

  “Maybe, but I’m also being realistic. You know how long I’ve been doing this?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

  “A long, long time. And I leave here in one piece each night. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  She picked up her pace, momentarily leaving Frank trailing behind her on the concrete stairs. Suddenly, she stopped and turned. “Listen, if you want to live with these people, then you can interfere. But, just like Judge Langford, after a few hours you’ll go back to your posh home, your wife, and your cute little grandkids. You’ll have a good meal, maybe even seconds before dessert, and you’ll sleep in a comfortable bed with too many covers. And, pardon me for being blunt, but you’ll be telling your cronies down at the courthouse how fulfilled you feel helping those less fortunate than yourself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not condemning you for volunteering. That would be silly. But let’s face it, you’re not here for the duration. My job, so to speak, is to make sure you make it home in one piece. Like I said, some of those down here would be just as happy to slice and dice your throat as they would be to accept your offer of a sandwich, all depending on their mood. That won’t happen with me around to guide you. A few months down here and you’ll understand. But for now, just observe.”

  Frank simply nodded, startled by the eloquence of the woman’s speech, stunned by its stark truth. They reached the bottom of the steps and took in the tableau that lay before them. It stretched a good city block; dozens of boxes, from Amana refrigerator cartons that housed two, even three persons, to boxes no bigger than a doghouse with a lonesome soul curled up within. Fires of various sizes burned in metal trash cans or on the bare concrete. Clotheslines stretched in every direction. The forty or so tenants of the cardboard condo took no visible notice of the interlopers, but Frank could tell they were aware of a foreign presence. A quiet hum sounded across the concourse—a hush of whispering—and soon tensions eased as word of Thera’s presence spread.

  Thera smiled, instantly forgetting the frustration the conversation had filled her with. She felt at home down here, in total command. These were her people, her disciples. She swept the concourse with her eyes, sensed an undercurrent of lingering fear and loathing and confusion…and she knew her powers here were strong. But there was still—always—so much to do…

  Pretending to trip, she reached out and grabbed Frank’s hand. Rubbed his skin. Felt his ve
ry soul. As they touched, Thera probed his mind much like a computer searching for data.

  What do you fear most? she asked, using the strongest and darkest of her powers.

  Suffocation, he answered automatically, though no words left his lips, though no thought entered his conscious mind.

  Why? she asked.

  My brother used to put a pillow over my face at night. At first, he was just clowning around, but all the same a part of him wanted to rid himself of competition for our parents’ affection. He seemed to know just how long he could keep the pillow over my face without killing me. Once or twice I passed out. Worst of all, he seemed surprised each time when I woke up. Relieved he hadn’t gone too far, yet a bit disappointed, too.

  You never told on him?

  My father despised weakness. Demanded we fend for ourselves.

  Satisfied with what she had learned, Thera led Frank to a GE air-

  conditioner box. A man’s face swathed with scarves peered out at her approach, his eyes darting from Frank to Thera. His eyes locked with Thera’s, and terrified by what he saw, he scampered from the box, moving as fast as he could on a gimpy leg down the subway platform. He was soon lost among the maze of cartons.

  Frank grimaced and said, “What was that all about?” But before he could finish, Thera grabbed his hand and led him—controlled him—into the opening of the now vacant box.

  You’re back in your bedroom, Frank, with your brother. He’s putting a pillow over your face. Don’t struggle. He’ll only press harder. Sleep.

  Frank slept.

  Freed from the shackles of her companion, Thera emerged from the box and surveyed her flock. Suddenly, she felt unexpectedly sapped of her strength. Tired beyond belief . A wave of nausea coursed its way through her body, and she felt strangely disoriented. She bent to a knee, rested her head.

  Several minutes later, her head cleared and she felt fine again. But before she had the chance to dwell on the cause of her sudden weakness she sensed an intruder; a new inmate who had committed himself to this asylum without her permission.

  A fury so great welled within her she had difficulty maintaining her benign facade. A predatory animal, she prowled the clapboard village. A tiny trickle of urine snaked its way down her pants leg and sizzled when it hit the cold concrete, as she laid claim to her territory. Half­way down the platform she felt his eyes bore into her, felt the man’s sexual frenzy take hold at the sight of a vulnerable woman.

  She made her way to a battered moving storage crate and saw the transient. She peered at the hardened face, the face of a man used to getting his own way. Stubble from a week’s growth couldn’t hide his boyishly handsome features. A real ladies’ man, she thought. She knew his kind. They took what they wanted, through deception, and discarded the fragile psyches when they were finished. No emotional involvement. All he wanted was a vessel for his carnal desires.

  “Where’s Walter?” she said.

  “Who the fuck is Walter?” His eyes were all over her.

  “You’re in his box. He was an older man with gray, almost white hair. Real skinny. Had a problem with one of his eyes. Wore a patch.”

  “That guy? You could say I convinced him to find other lodging.”

  The rage surged in Thera. “You had no right. He was one of mine.”

  “Well, now I’m one of yours. Better yet, you’re one of mine.”

  As he spoke, his hand wandered up Thera’s leg. She ignored his touch and he grew bolder. His hand was on her thigh, moving upward; a snake seeking heat on a crisp night. She scanned his mind. Fire—he feared fire.

  Why? she asked.

  I used to like fires, his mind responded, his hand inching still closer toward its goal. I used to set animals aflame and watch them swat themselves silly, roll around like crazy, but…

  Now you don’t like it anymore? She probed deeper, searching for answers.

  I set fire to my parent’s house when I was fifteen. I was pissed at my old man. No one was home…rather no one was supposed to be. But when I was watching it burn, I heard someone scream. My sister. She was supposed to be on a date. She couldn’t get out, and the firemen couldn’t get to her in time to save her. She jumped through the top-floor window—a spinning ball of fire—and landed at my feet. I watched her flopping around, her skin melting, her hair burning, beating herself silly, like one of those damn animals.

  Thera looked down at him and smiled. He screamed in anguish.

  He withdrew his hand and stared into his own private hell. His hand was ablaze, the flames racing up his arm. Boils formed, blistered, and burst; bubbling pus coursed down his arm, dripping like wax through his fingers. With his good arm he flayed at the flames with a blanket, to no avail. The unchecked fire snaked around his body, tentacles of flames clawing at his face.

  He bolted for the tracks, jumped off the platform, all the while swatting at the invisible flames that clung to him like molasses. Within the cardboard city, dozens of eyes watched the crazed youth running helter-skelter down the tracks beating at some invisible demon.

  Thera watched until the screams faded to silence, then she waded among the boxes, distributing coffee and sandwiches to her charges. She worked in an ordered pattern, until she came to a big wooden box leaning perilously to one side. She had something special today for Randall, a bum who seemed to be escaping the blue funk that had enveloped him the past three months.

  “You’re looking mighty chipper today, Randall.”

  “Haven’t had a drink in three days,” he said, before a racking cough shook his body. He wrapped a tattered blanket he wore like a shield tightly around him before he continued. “There are times my mind starts to clear. You know, times when an end to my nightmare is almost within my grasp. So close…I can almost touch it.”

  Sobbing, he rested his head on Thera’s shoulder. She consoled him, caressed the back of his neck…

  …and went to work on him.

  “Remember coming home and finding your wife had left with your children, Randall? Fled your tantrums and beatings. You’re alone, Randall. You listen for them, but all you hear is silence. They’re gone. Forever.” She pulled a flask from her purse and gave it to him. “Have a drink. You’ll feel better.”

  The craving for alcohol struck him like a kick in the groin. He gulped down the liquor she offered.

  Thera smiled. He had almost made it out. Made it to freedom. He’d gotten to the front door, she mused, but now he was back in the basement; the door locked. He was trapped with only bottle after bottle of cheap wine to offer solace.

  She pressed some money into the man’s hand. She didn’t have to tell him what to do with it. Randall was an easy one. Satisfied, she moved on to the others.

  She was administering to Sophie, thirty minutes later, when Frank surprised her. Sophie had been the first person she’d transformed many years ago, and the old woman held a special place in Thera’s heart. Sophie had once been a doctor who spent three nights a week tending to the homeless—her way, though she’d deny it to her death—of displacing the guilt she felt at having a chauffeur, maid, cook, and a huge house empty now that the children were grown and her husband was dead.

  Thera, who had been new to the city at the time, had marveled at the woman’s total command of the downtrodden. Sophie had known when sympathy was the right tonic; known when to badger, cajole, or chastise to get her way. She had taught Thera everything she knew about the urban underworld, and was unknowingly responsible for showing Thera just how much potential working with the homeless possessed for a woman with her unique powers. Thera’s final test was turning the old woman into one of the legion of dispossessed herself, and she had passed it with flying colors.

  Ultimately, it had been Sophie’s greatest fear that was her downfall—rape. Gang rape, at that.

  After discovering her fear, it had simply been a matter of fabricating the horrible act…A cry for help at the end of the platform. Sophie rushing to comfort a poor soul. A hand placed over h
er mouth. Dragging her into a maze of boxes that housed vermin who wanted more than coffee and a sandwich. One of them shoving himself inside her, another stuffing his hardened penis into her mouth. Bugs that had nestled in the man’s crotch awakening and scampering all over her face, past her lips, into her mouth…between her legs…

  Sophie now spent her days trying to rid herself of the phantom parasites that wended their way through her body. Thera almost felt sorry for the once-proud woman who now sat scratching her crotch, oblivious to the stares of others, her face pitted with oozing sores, rubbed raw.

  Absorbed in the reverie of her first conquest, Thera was startled by the hand on her shoulder.

  “Do you, uh, think we could go now? I…I think I’ve had enough for one night.”

  Thera stared unbelieving at Frank. It wasn’t possible, she thought. No one she put under her spell had ever awakened on their own. She’d always had to rouse them after she’d completed her work.

  She studied Frank with renewed interest.

  He was tall and lean, his skin black as tar; his lanky frame topped by a fleshy face that seemed almost out of proportion with the rest of his body. White, almost iridescent teeth poked through a mouth that seemed unable to contain them. Brown eyes sat deep in his skull, alive and alert, but too old to be dangerous. Certainly nothing special about him, Thera thought. Just a typical face in the crowd.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Sure. I’m just…surprised to see you is all. You passed out, you know. I left you in one of the boxes while I tended to their needs,” she said, holding up her near empty bag of sandwiches.

  “I’m terribly sorry. And embarrassed. I was afraid that’s what happened. I’m feeling a bit queasy, but I’ll stay if you—”

  “No, no. I’ve done all I can for tonight. Let’s go. By all means, let’s go.”

  Leading him away by the hand, she probed his mind but came back with nothing. A swell of nausea attacked her. Suddenly feeling hot and stifled, she picked up her pace. She had to get away from this dungeon, this man. Needed fresh air. Needed to toss off her camouflage.