Birthing the Lucifer star

by donna bartley

  *****

  Two years later, a torrential downpour trampled its steady beat on the aluminum roof of the bus stop, which heaved and buckled dangerously under the prevailing mass. Strange, thought Shirley as she sat, drenched to the skin on the shelter bench, her pocketbook acting as makeshift protection against the ever-flowing torrent of water. You’d think the design of a place exposed to the elements (whatever that meant in a place like New York City) would incorporate a more modern structure, other than a wafer-thin layer of metal overhead. She realized she was receiving hellish messages, and her mind was baffled by the onslaught of evil portent. She checked her watch; it was 11:11 am.

  Public transportation was now a necessary evil as far as Shirley Cohen was concerned. She had had to crash the SUV on the outskirts of Butte, Montana, and she was now relegated to public transportation. As a full-time inspirational speaker, she had been in the habit of going anywhere she could in that old SUV her father had given her so many years before. Shirley ran a gentle hand through her long, auburn hair, letting the beads of cold water gather around her fingers, as she thought about where she had to go—and why.

  The phone call had been so unexpected. When someone rings at four in the morning, it’s always bad news. Somehow, Shirley had expected this call someday, but this was so soon. She had created a protective aura around her, thinking everything would always be fine. She had fought back tears as she dialed her mother’s number, and they had both cried. Ruth, Shirley’s mother, had been almost as fond of Darren as her daughter had. Marty, her father, had felt the same. “Keep a stiff upper lip,” her father had told her in his deep, soothing tones.

  Marty had been born in Jerusalem, the last child in a huge, but poverty-stricken family. His father had died when he was four, and although his mother still kept in touch by mail (by sending small, scruffy letters written in broken English), all Shirley knew of this part of her family was embodied in the small photograph her father kept on his desk. It was funny—in all her twenty-eight years, Shirley had never thought to ask for anything more. The topic was something of an untold taboo in the household. The small pieces of information she did have came from dropped hints and hasty conversations her parents had initiated behind closed doors when she was a child.

  Ruth and Marty (Shirley had never called them Mom and Dad, even when she was tiny) had met at university, and two more different people there couldn’t have been. Ruth was a typical Jewish-American princess. Her family had expected Ruth to get this far, and she had, without too much trouble. Marty, on the other hand, had been something of a genius, learning English from an encyclopedia at the age of five years and doing the unheard-of in transferring to a university in America as soon as the chance presented itself: at the age of ten. They had married years later, and, well … the rest, as they say, was kismet.

  Realizing she had sat too long, Shirley peeled her damp bottom from the wet metal bench and ventured out into the teeming rain.

  The call had been brief, the voice at the other end of the line cold and formal. “Good morning. Is Miss Shirley Cohen available?”

  “This is she.”

  There was a slight pause, a rustle of papers. Shirley thought she heard muffled voices but couldn’t be sure. In the background, people talked and laughed. Who was this person?

  The woman coughed nervously. “Ah, hello, Miss Cohen. I’m afraid I have to speak to you concerning one Darren Jason. I believe you know him?”

  Shirley’s hand went frigid, as if the phone had morphed into a frozen mass. She could feel her pulse rising, her heart beating itself into a major frenzy beneath her light nightgown. She had been standing by the bed, but she sat heavily down on the comforter now, causing the mattress to creak stubbornly. Her voice finally became audible; it was parched and strained, as if she hadn’t taken a drink for weeks.

  “What’s this about?” Shirley asked, trying to regain her composure.

  The voice on the line remained silent. Then: “Darren Jason,” it repeated softly. But the voice was still cold, as if sympathy were something foreign to it. “I’m afraid I will have to have confirmation that you knew the man before we continue.”

  Knew the man—perfect tense! Shirley’s breath caught in her throat. Fuck me, get on with it, she thought, but muttered, “Yes, yes, I knew him.”

  The woman cleared her throat. “Then I’m afraid I will have to make an appointment to see you as soon as possible. There is no easy way to say this … but we think we have found his remains.”

  The months—almost two years, now that Shirley thought about it—since Darren’s disappearance had taken their toll on the Cohen family. Her mother, especially, wasn’t the same person now as she had been before. Ruth was once a kind of legend among her peers, managing to slip through the years without a trace of it on her. Time had caught up with her now, however. The hands of time had etched another ten years, at least, onto her aging cheeks.

  Darren’s family had coped better—if “family” was the right word. He only had his dad left: a small, scruffy-looking man with graying hair and deep blue eyes that bore right into you before narrowing into small, serpent like slits. He would visit or phone every day for news—not that there ever was any. Not one piece of information had surfaced since the last time Darren was seen: walking towards the subway on that Monday morning, briefcase in hand.

  The police had come round as soon as they could, of course—as soon as he was missed in Idaho. They asked questions, following legal protocol. Shirley remembered vividly the first time they had descended on the house, a gang of New York’s finest, scaring her parents half to death. The police officer in charge of the case was a big, burly lieutenant by the name of Danny O’Toole. He led the action, calling the shots, speaking at the press conference, appearing on the weekly edition of America’s most wanted, and making numerous public appeals for information. None of it did any good, however, and as Shirley saw it, he couldn’t have cared less about her little boyfriend if he had tried. Oh, sure, she played the distressed fiancé and called the good lieutenant up for any information.

  The morgue stood at the end of a small cul-de-sac, forming a shrouded hollow of reds and yellows in the ominous October air. The air was cold, but not harsh, forming clouds of swirling mist as it was expelled from her body. The building was nothing special—certainly not the foreboding laboratory she had expected. She came upon a large, colonial brick building in the heart of Brooklyn. Hedges lined the gravel drive, accompanied by a clear stretch of freshly cut grass on either side. The windows of the morgue were blackened, as if someone inside were afraid of letting the sun in. The door was a pale gray and sported a gold nameplate: City of Brooklyn Morgue.

  On the side of the door, a list of names lined a column of doorbells. Shirley squinted to read the tiny lettering beside each: Dr. Malcolm MacDougall, Dr. Simon Silverstein, Dr. Isaac Shem Tov, and Dr. Janice Aiello. At the sight of the name she remembered from the phone call, she gingerly pushed the square button. Somewhere far off, the faint sound of a bell could be heard from within the morbid walls. Then, silence. Shirley whistled aimlessly through her teeth, a habit she had picked up as a child. Above her, the autumn sky darkened, and the first drops of a fresh torrent of rain could be felt. She pulled her already soaking coat tightly around her and hoped the downpour wouldn’t start until she was well inside.

  A slight click from behind the door made her jump, and before she could ponder it, the huge, gray monstrosity swung open to reveal a middle-aged woman, dressed smartly in a tailored pantsuit covered by a white lab coat. Her naturally blonde hair was held back in a tight ponytail, and wire-framed glasses clung firmly to her face.

  “Miss Cohen?” she asked.

  Shirley recognized the voice from the phone call and nodded her head, finding there was a lump in her throat. The bare foundations of a sympathetic smile played on the woman’s face. “I’m Doctor Aiello. Do come in.”

  The building’s interior was as dark as it had promise
d to be from outside. A thick, maroon carpet led the way to the tight metal doors of a lift, which stared boldly out, mismatched with the blue, misty wallpaper and mirror panel that it interrupted. Dr. Aiello stepped forward and pushed the Down button; when she stepped back, she looked at Shirley, who was staring straight ahead.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know,” she said softly, almost kindly. “Most of the time, we rely on dental records, but it seems that Mr. Jason didn’t go to a dentist. The DNA results will take another two weeks.” She smiled and then looked at the floor. “We would have asked his father, but none of our calls were answered. If you don’t feel comfortable …”

  “No, no,” stammered Shirley, a bit too loudly. Realizing her tone, she spoke more softly: “No, I’ll be fine.”

  The doctor smiled and signaled the way as the lift doors opened. Shirley stepped in and felt suddenly claustrophobic. The lift was small and square, its metallic walls reflecting the revolting maroon of the carpet under foot. The doctor stepped in neatly and pressed another button, which sent the lift shooting downward. Shirley felt her stomach lurch and had to fight back vomit as her already twisted insides tried to reject the latte she had sipped that morning. The journey couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but each felt like an hour as she stood in the dim illumination cast by the inset light and stared into the security camera, listening to the slight humming noise the lift made as it neared its destination. Looking up at the mirrored walls, she saw a ghost staring back at her with wide eyes: pale, feeble, scared. What had happened to her in these last few months? The lift made contact with the buffer with a slight jolt, and within a second, the doors slid smoothly open.

  On the other side was a cold, impersonal world. Nothing could have been more in contrast to the pale colors and serenity of the upstairs level. The entire place was constructed of stainless steel, with white marble floors. Two waist-high metal gurneys stood in the center of the room. One of these was covered with a white sheet, from which a pair of dark shoes protruded. The other was empty. Over on the far wall was what looked like a large filing cabinet used for storing dead bodies; it reminded Shirley of the doors on the Good Humor ice-cream truck. Above them, wide-paneled lighting hummed relentlessly. There were no windows; instead, very large turbofans were embedded in the walls above the cabinets where the deceased were chilled. Dr. Aiello stepped out of the lift and indicated for Shirley to follow. She walked over to a small desk that sat between the lift and the two long tables; the desk was surrounded by three small chairs.

  “Please, have a seat.” The doctor smiled at Shirley as she spoke for the first time since they had entered the elevator.

  Shirley did as she was told and wrapped her arms around herself protectively as she felt the hard plastic dig into the small of her back. This room seemed even colder than the bitter autumn day she had left behind. Noticing her discomfort, the doctor shot a brief look of sympathy across the table. “We have to keep it cold for the cadavers …” She trailed off and looked down at the desk, moving after a moment to retrieve some papers from one of its many drawers. “We’ll need you to sign these before and after you’ve seen the body.”

  Shirley nodded, feeling the nerves and upset inside her beginning to claw at her skin. She felt as if she needed to run. She needed to get out of this cold building with its stale smell of disinfectant and hard, cold, metal walls. She wanted to get outside, even in the torrential rain, and be free of this godforsaken room of death.

  “Miss Cohen?” Dr. Aiello tapped her gently on the shoulder as she slid the papers across the table. Handing her an expensive-looking fountain pen, she whispered, though there was no one to hear, “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  At another nod from Shirley, the doctor took the signed papers gently from her trembling hand. “You know, most people say it isn’t as bad as they expected.” She stood up. “They say it’s more like seeing someone in a very deep sleep. Don’t worry. All you need to do is identify him. You never know—this might not even be your fiancé.”

  Shirley managed the faintest of smiles as she got up, but inside she was screaming with the agony of it all. Even before the other woman stooped to draw back the bright white sheet on the shabby metal gurney, she knew it could be Darren; she just couldn’t believe it actually would be. How could he wind up back here in Brooklyn? She knew he was dead, because she had seen his body, although she had dumped it in a deep fissure thousands of miles away. She knew the man under the sheet might be her missing fiancé, Darren Jason. She knew, because she had put him there. She had taken his life.

  The good doctor slowly pulled down the thin sheet that covered the corpse. Shirley could not take her eyes off the doctor’s hand as she performed the procedure. She let out a gasp as the head and face were exposed.

  “No, no … this isn’t my Darren. Darren was short … his face rounder.” Shirley perused the physical features of the cadaver. “Darren had a pug nose; this man has a very prominent nose, almost like an eagle’s beak.” She almost laughed with relief. “This person’s hair is obviously black and long … Darren had blond hair.”

  “Okay, well. The lieutenant will be disappointed, but thank you, Shirley.”

  Shirley couldn’t wait to get out of that place. She turned and asked, “Why did you think this was Darren?”

  “This man was found with Darren’s wallet on him, but I really can’t tell you much more. Maybe the lieutenant can bring you up to date,” Dr. Aiello surmised.

  “Well, I guess I’ll be going …” Shirley was booking for the lift door.

  “Yes, sure. Thank you, Miss Cohen, for your cooperation. It looks like this man drowned; his body was found washed up on shore at the south end of Fire Island.”

  “Fire Island?” quizzed Shirley. What the heck was going on?

  “Yes, bodies always seem to turn up there. The riptide near Coney Island is very strong, and many people get caught up in it; some are found among the rocks near Fire Island after they are taken by the undertow.”

  Shirley had to find out how Darren’s wallet, which should have been deep in a Montana fissure, could possibly have turned up on a dead Native American on the rocky shores of Fire Island.

  Ode to the sacrifice

  I hold my secret, tightly

  beneath the layers of my skin

  away from prying queries or conflicts that might have been.

  In metered beat, the rain will fall

  south, where winged creatures fly;

  no longer will my afflictions pause

  to hear the fates’ reply.

  My mental anguish, given wings above fields of waving grain,

  will search a greener meadow, surviving winter’s cold refrain.

  If carried in a windswept seed

  to deserted, ghostly towns,

  a facet shaped from yesteryear will bring forth age-worn frowns.

  My friend, I’m writing tactfully

  with fighting words that sparred,

  to reveal my truest nature,

  leaving undisturbed the scarred.

  For I’ve dishonored deep-set wounds,

  never sounded bells of warning.

  In doing so, I duly pray

  to be left alone while mourning.