“Anybody got a cigarette?” Maurice asked.
Andy McHugh, the biggest kid in the whole school—he had stayed back two grades and was old enough to be an eighth grader, even though he was only in sixth—hooked the ball through the railing chain hoop and walked over to the little crowd gathered around Maurice.
“I got one,” Andy said, unrolling a pack of smokes from his T-shirt sleeve. With a swift downward motion, he forced a cigarette’s filtertip end out of the crushed cellophane package and offered it to Maurice. “There you go, kid.”
“Thanks,” Maurice said. Walking to the back wall of the school, he set the toy guillotine down on the highest granite step leading up to the doorway. Then he placed the cigarette in the half-inch-wide hole near the guillotine’s base. Maurice waited a few seconds for effect, as he’d seen Doug Henning do on one of the rare occasions his Mom let him watch something on TV besides the religious channel.
Just when they were starting to murmur, he brought the flattened palm of his right hand down hard on the top of the guillotine.
There was a noise like a papercutter, and the cigarette was chopped neatly in half.
Maurice paused again.
“Big deal,” a blonde girl said. “All you did was waste Andy’s cigarette.”
“Oh, yeah?” Maurice stuck his index finger in the hole. “Watch this.”
He slammed the top of the guillotine down again.
The girl screamed, and the other kids all started talking excitedly. Maurice withdrew his unharmed finger and waggled it at them.
“Gnarly,” Andy McHugh said. “I guess it was worth a cigarette.”
Maurice grinned and handed him the two pieces. If Andy liked it, then everybody else would too. The blonde girl, who had been watching Andy admiringly during the basketball game, now turned her blue eyes to Maurice. “That was really rad,” she said.
Maurice was about to say something back to her when Bobby Feldstein drew his freckled, bespectacled face up to Maurice’s. “How does that thing work?”
Annoyed, Maurice nevertheless smiled at him and held up the guillotine. “Here, Bobby,” he said, “stick your finger in here and I’ll show you.”
Bobby pointed his finger at the guillotine, and then hesitated. “How do I know what you’re going to do?” he asked.
“Oh, come on,” Maurice chided. “Do you think I would have stuck my finger in there if it didn’t work?”
“I guess not.” Bobby smiled nervously, and put his finger through the hole.
Still grinning at Bobby, Maurice whacked the top of the guillotine as hard as he could. There was a wet, chopping sound. Bobby looked puzzled for a minute, and then began to yowl. He pulled his finger free and stared at it in amazement. Between the first and second knuckles was an ugly gash. Blood welled up and ran down his finger, crossing the back of his hand and falling onto the asphalt in bright red drops.
Clutching his hand to his chest, blood soaking into his jacket and shirt, Bobby ran off, screaming.
Maurice noted with satisfaction that nobody was watching Bobby; they were all looking straight at him though none of them were making eye contact. They were scared of him. Even Andy—who sometimes walked right out into the street, so that cars had to go around him or even stop—looked a little pale. Only the blonde girl looked right into his eyes.
Maurice was pretty sure he would see her later.
—
When he got back from the principal’s office, it was time for lunch. Maurice didn’t want to eat in the cafeteria, so he started walking away from the school.
“Hey!”
Maurice turned to see the blonde girl running towards him. He waited for her to catch up.
“Are you skipping afternoon classes?” she asked breathlessly.
“No, I’m just walking to the store to get a sandwich.”
“Can I come?” the girl asked.
“Sure. Why not.”
As they walked down the littered sidewalk, the girl said, “How did you get away with what you did in the schoolyard, anyway?”
“It was easy. I just told the principal it was an accident. She took the guillotine away, but I can get another one.”
“Oh, yeah? Where do you get all your bread?”
“My Dad gives it to me.” Unless his Mom was around, Maurice thought, but it wouldn’t be cool to say that.
“Do you do a lot of errands and stuff for your Dad?”
“Nah.” Maurice shrugged. “Here we are.”
The store—Popi’s—was just a block from the school. Popi was older than Maurice’s parents, maybe thirty-five or forty, and he had long dark hair, a beard and rimless glasses. He sold comic books, and also had video games, ice-cream and candy. He would make a hoagie to order for you for three dollars.
“Aren’t you worried about being late?” the blonde girl asked.
“Nope.”
“Don’t you worry about anything?” She frowned. “You know, you haven’t even asked me my name.”
Maurice, leaning against the freezer case, shrugged. “Well, what is it?”
“Mary Jane Toricelli.”
Maurice couldn’t believe it, but he tried not to show his excitement. “You know something, Mary Jane,” he said, “that’s a great name.”
“Thank you,” she replied demurely.
Maurice thought about explaining why he liked her name, but just then Popi brought their hoagies out and waited for Maurice to pay him. By the time they sat down at one of the three metal tables in the place. Maurice had decided against telling her. If she mentioned it to anyone, there could be trouble later.
“I’ve seen you around school,” Maurice lied. He had never noticed her until today, but now God had pointed her out to him.
Mary Jane blushed.
“You’re one of the prettiest girls I’ve seen since my father was stationed here,” Maurice said, taking a bite of his hoagie. He hated to say things like that, but it had to be done.
“You’re an Army brat, huh?” Mary Jane’s eyes widened. She had taken the compliment for granted. “Have you been around the world?”
“Germany, Japan, all over the United States.”
“It must be wonderful. I’ve only been as far as Pittsburgh.”
“Never even been to New York City?”
“No.” Mary Jane was impressed. Usually she found boys to be tongue-tied. This was the first time she hadn’t been the one they talked about. Maurice was really different.
They munched on their sandwiches and drank their cherry cokes until it was almost time to go back to school. Mary Jane grabbed Maurice’s hand to get a better look at his wristwatch.
“Liquid crystal,” Maurice said. He was sickened by her touching him like that. She was a slut, just like the other Mary Jane…Mary Jane Kelly.
“Neat.” Mary Jane frowned, letting go of his wrist. “But we better get back, or we’ll be late.”
“Yeah.” Maurice wiped his mouth and stood up. He opened the door for Mary Jane and followed her out. On the way back to school, he stopped her by touching her elbow.
“What?” Mary Jane asked.
“Do you like to play jacks?” Maurice said.
“I used to, but most kids our age won’t play,” said Mary Jane.
“I will.”
“Rad!”
“You know the gas patch?” Maurice referred to an abandoned gas works nearby, destined to be torn down by the city.
“Yeah, some kids go there after school to smoke dope.”
“Right.” Maurice grinned at her, as they continued walking. “What if we go there tomorrow morning, before class?”
“Why there?”
“Oh, just so we can be alone.” Maurice smiled his nicest smile. “It’ll be our secret.”
“My bus usually gets to school a half hour early,” Mary Jane said thoughtfully. “I guess it would be all right.”
“Great. Don’t bring anybody else, though…and whatever you do, don’t tell anybody.”
“Just
you and me, huh, Maurice?” Mary Jane blushed.
“Yeah, Mary Jane, just you and me.”
They were back at the school now. Mary Jane turned and smiled. “See you there.”
“Yeah, see you there.” Maurice nodded.
He watched her run to class, hardly able to believe his luck. Mary Jane Toricelli! Almost the same name as Jack the Ripper’s fifth and final victim! The only thing he liked about her besides her name was her willingness to go along with him. They always did once they saw how much money he had…once he got their attention. They wanted to be wicked, just like his Mom said…just like Saucy Jack had said in the videotape. It wasn’t like down south, Mom had told him again and again, where she’d grown up. These Yankee girls were all whores, all white trash, Jews and Catholics. But Maurice had found girls like that when Dad was stationed in Georgia, too. Immoral behaviour was spreading like cancer. These tramps were everywhere nowadays…just as they had been a hundred years ago in London.
Today, as then, the Lord’s work never ended.
—
When Maurice got home from school, he found his Dad in the kitchen, starting to cook dinner. It was some kind of stew. Maurice figured he would go up to his room as soon as possible, to make plans for tomorrow. He set the table to hurry things up, so when his Mom got home they could eat right away.
His Mom being out this time of day wasn’t unusual. It happened every time they were stationed someplace new. She was probably at the church. The first thing she did whenever they moved to a new place was find a church she liked. He could depend on her being gone a lot, working for some religious group. It made things a lot easier for him to do what he had to do.
“Maybe we can go to a movie after dinner,” his Dad said, “if it’s not too late.”
Ordinarily, Maurice would have jumped at the chance, but not tonight. He had things to do. Leave it to his father to pick the wrong time.
The stew was boiling when Maurice heard the front door open. He saw his Mom in the shadowy hallway, taking off her coat. She hung it up in the closet and came into the kitchen.
“Dinner’s ready, Rayette,” his Dad said.
His Mom pursed her thin lips and nodded. She sat down at the table. Maurice and his Dad sat down too. They folded their hands and bowed their heads over their bowls. It smelled so good, Maurice could hardly stand it, but he had to wait until the blessing was over.
“Thank you, O Lord, for these thy bountiful gifts…” they recited together.
“Maurice,” his Mom said as soon as he started eating, “you’ve got to spend more time on your studies. The Almighty is watching, and He knows when you’re not doing your best. Right after supper, go up to your room and do your homework.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Perfect.
“Dear,” his Dad said, “I was thinking about taking Maurice to see a movie this evening.”
She glared at him. “Did I hear you correctly, George?” she asked in her prim southern accent. “Do you want this boy to neglect his studies so the two of you can run off and watch some salacious filth?”
“Of course not…I just thought…”
“Keep your thoughts to yourself, if they’re going to be that sinful.”
His Dad muttered apologetically, and went back to his stew.
As soon as the dishes were washed, Maurice went up to his room to “study.” He bolted the door from the inside. Through the ventilator, he heard his Mom nagging his Dad. That would keep them both busy for a while. It was great to be in his own private place, he thought as he tossed his books on his desk. Except for his bed, the desk was the room’s only furnishing. There were no posters on the walls, only one framed reproduction of a painting of Jesus; the Redeemer had blondish-brown hair and he was looking up toward heaven. Maurice always glanced at it when he came in. His Mom had put it in a place that was hard to miss, over the bed, so that it hit you right in the face the minute you walked in the room. He couldn’t have any rock star posters or movie posters, even if he’d wanted them. Mom, who had given him the picture of Jesus for his fifth birthday, wouldn’t allow it. It was okay, though, because Maurice only cared about those things to the extent that he would be excluded from the company of the other kids if he didn’t know a little about them.
His Mom said he could be anything he wanted to be when he grew up, unlike his Dad. His Dad didn’t mind just being captain in the Army, but Maurice was expected to do something really great. It didn’t seem as if anything he did was quite good enough for his Mom yet, but he was already doing the Lord’s work secretly. Trouble was, only the Lord knew about it. That was okay, though, because he hated to stand out, unless he was being cooler than all the other guys, like today with the toy guillotine. What he really liked were the things nobody else knew about…the things in his collection.
Maurice pushed his bed away from the wall and reached down towards the baseboard. There was a little door down there. He opened it and crawled inside. He had gotten pretty dirty the first time he explored this secret passageway, but in subsequent trips he had swept it out with a whisk broom and removed the dead mice, throwing them down the garbage disposal while his mother was busy praying. When she was praying, Maurice could do just about anything he wanted, and she never knew. It was like she was on another planet. Maurice knew that her heart was in the right place, but all the weeping and wailing in the world wouldn’t help clean up the filth on the streets that his Mom always went on about. Maurice had his own ideas about how to deal with sin. Talk and prayer were not enough.
His Dad had told him the secret passageway was designed for ventilation and insulation when the house was built in the nineteenth century. Today they had air conditioning and central heating, of course, so there wasn’t any real purpose for it…until now.
Maurice wormed his way to the two boxes where he’d hidden his collection. There was a flashlight hanging on a nail there. Maurice lifted it and wrapped its looped strap around his wrist.
He opened one of the boxes.
All of his books, magazines, and newspaper articles on Jack the Ripper were in this one, complete with a police photograph of the Ripper’s last victim, Mary Jane Kelly. The name was so much like the name of the girl he’d met today that it seemed incredible.
Remembering the way Mary Jane Toricelli had touched him at lunch, he studied the photograph of her namesake, as he had done hundreds of times before. He savoured the details: the legs, flayed down to the bone; the belly, slit open like a gutted fish, with the hand placed decorously inside the cavity; the breasts, cut off and laid on the table next to the bed; the intestines draped over her shoulder; the other organs, placed next to the breasts; the face, mutilated beyond recognition, a skull-like horror from an old black-and-white monster movie. He had been in love with this image for four of his nine years.
Maurice was only five when Jack came into his life. His parents had just got cable TV, so his Mom could have the religious channel. While they were out, Maurice started to watch a movie showing Jack the Ripper as a minister, a holy man who was doing the Lord’s work by cleaning up the filth of Whitechapel’s slums. Maurice’s Mom had come home before it was over, and Maurice was so engrossed in the movie that he didn’t hear her. He thought sure she would punish him, but she didn’t. The movie had ended in a church, a shaft of sunlight illuminating the altar, and that was when she walked in. She thought it was a religious programme. Not that it would have mattered, even if she had punished him. The resemblance between Jack the Ripper and Jesus had been burned indelibly into his memory. They both had the same soulful gaze and blondish-brown hair, just like the picture his Mom had nailed onto his bedroom wall. The scene where Jack killed Mary Kelly had reminded Maurice of something his Mom said a lot: “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” Maurice’s heart had pounded in excitement as the camera lingered lovingly on Mary Kelly’s mutilated corpse. The scene looked a lot like the police photo, one of Maurice’s proudest possessions, along with the magazine articles, books, tran
scripts of the police reports, and the rest of the stuff in this box. But it was the other box that contained his greatest treasures.
Tomorrow morning, he would bring his treasures to school with him.
—
After his Dad dropped him and his bundle off, Maurice slipped away from the school. It had been tough, talking and acting normal while they drove through the wet, early morning streets, but his Dad hadn’t noticed anything unusual. Maurice was a little worried, because he couldn’t remember if he had closed the door to his little hideaway before he left the house, but he guessed it didn’t matter much. He had more important things to worry about right now, anyhow.
Maurice made his way through the mist to the gas patch, where he waited for Mary Jane in the shadow of a half-destroyed old brick building. That was one of the things he liked about living in this northeastern city: the old buildings, the narrow streets, some of them paved with Belgian block pavement, reminding him of cobblestones. When a fog set in, it could have been London in 1888, the year of Jack the Ripper.
There was a thick fog this morning, rolling down the hill and spilling through the link fence that never kept the kids out. That would help, but Maurice was still nervous. He was always nervous before he did the Creator’s work. To calm himself, he looked around carefully, making sure nobody was here, no kids, no old winos sleeping it off behind the brick piles. The building was partially collapsed, one wall fallen into rubble on the inside and overgrown with weeds. Huge black tanks stood just outside the ruined building, empty now but once filled with some kind of gas. Maurice had been here often enough to know that nobody could see you when you were inside, but you could see people coming down the hill that led from Warren Street. Still, he was shaking. This always happened. It wasn’t just that he could get caught, and that the police wouldn’t understand the importance of what he did. He was acting as God’s right arm, and that was something that he had to take seriously. What he was going to do this morning was part of the same righteous quest that the Ripper had undertaken.
Mary Jane was coming now. When he saw her, Maurice’s breathing was so fast and ragged that he thought he was going to faint, but he somehow calmed himself as she approached. She was wearing blue jeans and a pair of Ponys, her blonde bangs hanging in her eyes as she negotiated the hillside. She found the hole in the link fence and crawled underneath it, being careful not to get her jeans dirty.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 33