by Sandy DeLuca
I don’t remember coming back in here. I don’t remember waking from a dream.
Snow batters the windows as I move past the bed to my dresser. I open the middle drawer, see the newspaper clippings yellowed and dog-eared that lay in neat piles there, where I keep them, where I’ve kept them since this all began.
Sacrificial Murders in Harlem, the headlines read, Young Woman Missing.
I slam shut the drawer, lie on the bed and close my eyes.
Tony touches me, kisses me and talks in his sweet and sexy voice. “It’s all right, what you did is all right. It all comes back around, fucking shit doesn’t stop, you know.”
“I’m glad you came back,” I tell him.
“I’ll never leave you. Some things are forever.” I swear I see the demon man staring back at me for a moment, but when headlights drift by and set the dark of night on fire I realize it’s Tony—only Tony—looking back at me.
I wrap my arms around him, listen to the storm and allow darkness and his flesh to consume me. At that very moment I don’t care about anything else.
I just want to forget and make love to my man.
8
Loneliness is a bitch on Sundays.
Tony rises before dawn, gathers his paintings and leaves me here alone. He used to wake me and we’d have breakfast and talk. We used to take our time making love. Now everything is rushed. Things have been dreary, and obviously something’s wrong. This morning is no different, Tony didn’t bother to let me know his day had begun and he was gone by the time I woke up. He didn’t leave a note and I know he won’t call later. This shouldn’t surprise me, of course, since he’s never committed to anyone and has always been a vagabond artist, loving paint and canvas more than flesh and blood or the warmth of a woman. What made me think I could change him?
I think about Detective Harris. Does he make slow love to his woman on Sunday mornings, or does he rush off into predawn thinking about murderers, thinking about how he can save the city from the decay of twisted, unspeakable acts? Can he love a woman more than the stirrings of his soul? Does he seek warmth from carnal knowledge, or is it merely a way to relieve the stress of his life? I shouldn’t think about him. I’ve got to set things straight with Tony before I do that.
Tony. He was warm last night, almost loving, but maybe it was a dream. It still seems surreal, like time was moving back and forth, mixing up events, and making things off balance. Maybe I should find another doctor, get some medication that clears my head. I won’t go back to the last one. I won’t listen to her talking trash about my mother. I need somebody who’ll help me.
Someone please help me.
I stand at the window, hold a cup of steaming coffee and gaze into the alley. Children play down there, bundled in warm coats, gloves and hats. Smoky cold air streams from their lips when they laugh, and it reminds me of Allie and me playing in the snow. Those winters in Boston were the best of our lives, so innocent and happy. Dad always made sure we were warm and that we went back in the house before dark, and Mom would just watch from her window, every now and then cocking her head to the side as though she heard someone speaking. I’d gaze up at her staring down from a second floor window. Her face was solemn and her eyes had a faraway look, as though she looked beyond Allie and me to things no one else could see. Maybe my old doctor was right. Maybe there was something terribly wrong with my mother, but I don’t want to remember her that way. I refuse to. Maybe I’m too much like her.
Someone knocks at the door. I figure it’s probably Frankie, since the rent’s late. It was due last Tuesday but I needed to stall until I got paid on Friday.
Another knock.
“Coming.” I grab my purse, open the door.
Detective Harris, not Frankie, smiles down at me. “Got a few minutes, Gina?”
“Yeah, come on in.”
He’s wearing blue jeans and a black leather jacket. He slips leather gloves off, shoves them in his coat pocket then rubs his hands together. His ring catches the light. The engraved serpent seems to wriggle. “Cold out there. I smell coffee. Is it still hot? You know, on second thought tea would be better—if you have it. I’ve had way too much coffee today already.”
“Sure. Follow me.” I throw my purse down on the couch, lead him into the kitchen then motion for him to sit. I pour hot water from a kettle on the stove into a ceramic mug and grab a teabag from the canister. “Sugar and cream?”
“No, this is fine.” He picks up the cup, closes his eyes as he drinks. He sips, seems to savor the taste a moment then sets the cup down. “Tastes good, thanks.”
“I’ve got some donuts. Cinnamon—”
“No, I don’t need the carbs. Sit down, Gina.” He’s silent, as if gathering his thoughts and won’t speak until it’s all perfect in his head. My father was the same, always thinking ahead, always careful with his words, a stone statue frozen in time, chin resting on his hand, forever contemplating questions an ancient sculptor chiseled into his head.
But the detective is here for a reason. Cops don’t just drop by unless they’ve got questions. I wait for him to speak, and after a few minutes, his words take shape. He removes a grainy photograph from his pocket. “You know this guy?”
I smile. A young black man with a crooked smile, braided hair and a small scar over his left eye looks into the camera. “That’s Rico. He hustles knockoff bags down on Canal. Allie and I used to get fake Gucci’s and Louis Vitton’s off him.” My heartbeat quickens. I look Officer Harris in the eye. “I can’t get in trouble for it, can I?” I think of how Allie went much further than that.
“We don’t generally arrest people for buying knockoffs,” he says with a hint of sarcasm, “and we only pinch the vendors when there’s nothing else going on. Even then, that’s not exactly my department.” His eyes turn intense and he points to the photograph. “Back to your buddy, Rico. We suspect he may have taken his hustle a bit further.”
“How much further?”
“He doesn’t hustle on street corners anymore. Now he keeps his stash in an empty office building a few blocks over from Canal, tempting chicks with Coach’s, Vitton’s, Gucci’s—you name it.” He bites his bottom lip. “We found a body in a dumpster outside his building, young girl. She had a fake Gucci slung over one arm, and an inverted cross was carved into her chest. Other shit I can’t get into.”
“Bodies turn up in the city all the time.”
“We searched every office in that building. Most were empty or occupied by struggling, but legitimate businesses. All except for Rico’s so-called office. Lots of suspicion there, but that’s all it is for now. We shut down his counterfeit operation. Normally we’d look the other way.” He stops speaking for a moment. I know there’s more to what they found in that office—near that body—but he can’t tell me. He thinks for a moment and then begins to speak again. “We held Rico a day for illegal vending, but we don’t have enough evidence to tie him to the murder. Forensics couldn’t tie his DNA to the body, couldn’t prove the girl had been up to his place. The knockoff bag and carving proved to be circumstantial. We cut him loose first thing this morning.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask.
He sips tea and then says, “Did he ever say anything or do anything to scare you or your sister?”
“Rico? No, he’s always been sweet. I know he hustled with a couple Asians guys and some dude from the Caribbean. I didn’t really know them, though, maybe you should talk to them.”
“We questioned the Asians and the guy from the islands. They’re on our list, but Rico’s the main suspect right now. Did he ever mention being in an offbeat religion, ritualistic shit?”
“No, never.”
I can see Rico moving up close to women when they walk down Canal. He’s saying, “Coach, Prada, Louis Vitton…” He talks low, slow and seductive like he’s inviting a chick to bed, like he’s talking dirty to her. I shake my head. “Rico wouldn’t hurt anyone, believe me.”
“That’s
the problem. Girls like you and your sister are too trusting. Can’t be in this city.” Harris touches my hand. “Tell me more about Allie. Would she have gotten involved in stuff like that?”
“Hustling knockoff bags or ritualistic murder?”
He stares at me, apparently not finding my attempt at humor amusing.
“Look, Allie was weird,” I tell him. “Sometimes she did bizarre things just for the hell of it. She had a strange outlook on life. I know for a time she stood on the corner of West Houston and hustled purses for Rico. She did it for a kick, once for a wine-colored Prada he’d promised her. There were other things—she’d get obsessed and do weird shit.”
“Like what?”
“We used to take the Metro to New Haven on Saturdays sometimes, go to basketball games at the Coliseum. There was this guy who collected our tickets—nice looking, Spanish—she used to flirt with him, go have a smoke with him out on the platform when the train stopped in New Rochelle. They weren’t supposed to, but they did. She started riding the Metro every Saturday, back from Grand Central to New Haven, just to see him—just to smoke with him. I’m not sure if anything else went down between them.” I remember hickeys on her neck once when she came back from riding the Metro, and another instance when her blouse had blood stains on it. Merely circumstantial, as the detective would say. I don’t mention it.
“Odd.” Detective Harris smiles. “But attraction makes you do strange things at times.” His hand is still on mine.
“It stopped after a couple months. She told me one day he just wasn’t there anymore.” I sigh, remember riding that train before Allie started going without me, looking out the window on the way back from basketball games and how it was so dark and some places were so desolate I thought I’d seen demons looking back. I wonder if those demons took the guy away one night when he was standing out there smoking. I wonder if Allie called them.
“Gina, people get transferred. They quit, get fired.” Detective Harris moves his hand away from mine.
“They die.”
“I know it sucks, I know you’re feeling all kinds of guilt and fear, but let’s be real here, OK?”
I think of something to say, anything to keep his eyes from boring into mine. “You said you were watching people. Who else do you suspect?”
“Look, I’ve told you a lot already.”
“Ok, sure.”
“The city’s strange.” He sips tea, smiles at me. “Lots of things happen that can’t be explained. This city has history and lots of people are intertwined in that history. They’ve left a legacy of death and horror. I know a lot—too much about obsession—about how religion is perverted.” He stops speaking and sighs.
Has he seen the things I’ve seen? Does he know what Allie saw?
”Thanks for the tea.” Detective Harris looks at his watch then stands. “We’re still watching Rico, but if you remember anything or anyone else, call me.”
“I will.” I think of the black woman. Why am I dreaming of her? Why did she speak to me yesterday? The detective looks at me as if he knows what I’m thinking.
“Don’t keep anything from us, even if it might seem...strange. Hell, even dreams can hold secrets.” He hesitates a moment. “I’ve seen a lot of craziness, a lot of things that defy reality. You’re not alone, Gina.”
I understand. I’ll tell him more, one day, but not now. “Goodbye, Detective.”
“It’s Daniel, call me that, OK?” He turns to go.
I don’t follow him, listen instead to his footsteps, to the sound of the door squeaking then shutting behind him. I wonder what the hell my sister was into and what this other woman has to do with it. I’m afraid and wish I could run after the detective—after Daniel—and drive away with him through Manhattan on this quiet Sunday morning.
I lock the door and make myself another cup of coffee. I’ll stay in today and hide from the danger out there. But I know I still won’t feel safe. Not today. Not ever.
9
Daniel’s cup remains on the table. The napkin he used is beside it. Tea trickled down the ceramic when he drank, and a small pool of tea and remnants of the bag remain at the bottom. I don’t want to wash it, not yet. I want the memory of him to linger a while. It was good talking with him, and I find myself wishing I knew more about him, about his life.
My father always read the newspaper when he drank his morning coffee. He’d make Allie and me eggs and bacon on Sunday mornings along with fresh-squeezed orange juice. My mother would sit there with a cigarette dangling from her lips, the ashes falling in her plate, her eyes empty and void of emotion. One Sunday morning Allie, only eight at the time, turned to me and whispered; “The demons got Mommy. They told me last night.”
“No such thing, Allie,” I said with the ten years of wisdom I’d felt I’d acquired. “Daddy says Mommy’s just stressed. Her last job gave her nerves. That’s all.”
“It’s the demons. They’re all around her. Can’t you see them?” She pursed her lips. “One of them hit Matthew McDrake when nobody was looking. “
Earlier that week Matthew McDrake, a first-grader, had emerged from the school playground, nose bloody, right eye swollen and black. When teachers asked him who’d hurt him he merely repeated over and over, “A scary-looking guy dressed in old-fashioned clothes.”
“No way, Allie, it was some drunk guy who wandered down from the projects. Police are looking for him.”
Allie put her folk down carefully. “It was a demon.” Her little girl eyes seemed wise beyond their years.
“Kids, eat your breakfast. Stop with the secrets.” My father’s eyes twinkled. I’m sure he thought we were sharing innocent childhood chatter. Maybe we were, maybe not.
Even as a child Allie seemed devoid of innocence. She was a strange and precocious child, a loner who chose to devour the works of Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath and other dark, innovative poets, in favor of dolls and childhood games. She drew pictures of sinewy, hooded creatures she claimed she dreamed about. The nightly news and adult crime shows captivated her. She knew Santa did not exist long before I did. She grew into a pretty teenager, and then a beautiful, intelligent young woman, running with people from offbeat and dark subcultures. She wore dark clothing, dyed her chestnut hair black and wrote Goth poetry which was often published in rags run by people who claimed to drink blood. Rather than the hippest night-spots in town, she could more often be found frequenting local graveyards. “It’s the core of our being,” she once told me while painting her nails blood red. “We come from darkness. Our souls are sick and we’re reborn again and again in hopes of redeeming ourselves. Most of us fail, so why not embrace the evil, the demons that surround us?”
For a while she painted with a fervor she’d generally reserved for passionate affairs or wild spending sprees. It was the summer she fell in love with an art professor from the city college. She created at least three canvases a week, brilliant abstract pieces in black, deep reds and slashes of pure white. I still have one of her paintings. It hangs above a bookcase in the living room. I find it profound amidst Tony’s lesser work. In the painting, cathedrals and skeletal trees are strewn here and there. A winged figure flies above the bleak landscape, blood spurting from its head as its finger touches a cross atop a towering spire. I am always reminded of death when I look closely at it, and sometimes I’d swear I can hear Allie’s demons speaking to me.
Did you go away with them, Allie? Is that why they never found your body? Are they coming for me now too?
Time has passed way too quickly. It’s getting late, almost dark now. A shadow seems to swiftly pass over me. I used to feel safe here, but not anymore, like they’re breaking through.
Something thuds outside my door. I hear Frankie talking in the hall. There’s a man with him, but I can’t make out the voice. I walk to the door, press my ear up against it and listen. It’s not Dave Souza, a co-worker of mine who lives in the building, or any of the men who live on the block. They’re moving away, heading
down the stairs. Words are muddled, meaningless and slurred by liquor.
“Cops—trouble—ain’t got patience for this—” Frankie laughs once, as though pausing to take another swig from a bottle of beer.
The other voice is sarcastic, malicious. “Bitch is gonna go down.”
I know that voice. I close my eyes and see a man with clothes from another time. Loud laughter breaks out. Another thud sounds. It repeats over and over. Something—someone—has fallen down the stairs. Frankie in a drunken stupor? Laughter sounds again.
The front door opens and closes and then everything’s quiet.
I open my apartment door a crack. There’s a streak of blood stretching from here to the top of the stairs. I click the door shut, lock it behind me.
Footsteps sound up the stairs. A key turns in the latch and the door slowly opens.
I scream.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tony’s standing there. He seems to be mocking me.
“I heard something, thought somebody…”
He waves his hand. “You need a drink. You spend too much time locked up in this hole.” His face is flush from the cold. “I’m hungry. Let’s go for a slice and get a glass of wine. Get your coat, come on.”
“OK.” I tell myself it’ll be all right. I’m going out with my man and there are no demons, there’s no danger out there. It’ll be just Tony and me walking in the snow, talking like lovers do and being normal. It’ll be a good night.
10
It’s beautiful walking through Downtown when snow is falling. Store owners have shoveled walks, and cars creep by slowly. The moon is a crescent, shining amidst winter stars, a magical sliver of light above the snow-covered city. I’m reminded of an old book I once bought from a vendor simply called The Moon. The front cover is signed by its previous owners, six in all. It was new in 1921. Now the spine is cracked and the cover stained. I often wonder about its previous owners. Were they into magic, Astrology? Were they kind or wicked? Do their spirits live on within brittle pages?