by Anela Deen
“What friend?” I asked.
“Well, Tommy of course,” she chuckled.
Tommy. I didn’t know a Tommy. I also didn’t know who I was talking to. My mother horded her cheerful tones more than Scrooge did his gold.
“Mom, I don’t know any Tommy.”
“Oh, you’re such a kidder,” she chided. “He said he left something with you last time you were out and wondered if you couldn’t pop over so he can get it back.”
“Mom, I really have no idea—“
“I assured him you weren’t too busy to swing by home,” she said and I detected a pointed edge beneath her dulcet words. “Not to worry, I’ll keep him company while he waits.”
“Well, the thing is, I’m at work and—“
“Wonderful, we’ll see you in a few. Bye-bye.”
She hung up.
I guess technically my plea was answered. I’d be getting out of here, though not the way I’d hoped. When the Gods wished to punish you…Maybe it was better to not finish that particular saying.
***
The radio buzzed monotonously with news and weather as I turned into the winding streets of my mother’s neighborhood. Talk radio. The answer to a drive’s entertainment when one’s truck predated anything fancier than a cassette deck. The sound of their blather dug on my nerves but I left it on. The chatter of my own thoughts annoyed me more.
I caught the tail end of something they said.
“…the cause of the spectral colors in the night sky two weeks ago.”
My heart jumped and I turned up the volume.
“Scientists have determined that solar flares were responsible for the green striations, as well as the changes in tectonic pressure that resulted in tremors felt worldwide.”
“Yeah, and every UFO siting is a weather balloon,” I grumbled.
“And as a reminder folks, the exhibit Soldiers of Heaven is still on display at the Institute of Art till the end of the week.”
“That’s right Alex, and it includes a special gallery dedicated to Saint Joan of Arc, the teenage martyr who led the French army to victory over the British during the Hundred Years’ War.”
“Now there’s a teenager with ambition. Something this generation could use a little more of, wouldn’t you say Amy?”
“Well, the church did technically burn her at the stake, remember?”
“And who hasn’t wanted to do that to those teenage drivers on the roads these days. Am I right, people?”
Cue the banter prompted laughter. Was that required training at radio school?
“Be sure to get a look at what’s on display while it’s here, including transcripts of her trial, paintings by renown artists, and the recently discovered shards of her sword, the sword of Saint Catherine de Fierbois. Long believed lost, it was found last year amid the possessions of the Duke of Alençon. Am I saying that right? My high school French is rusty.”
More inane chuckling.
“His descendants graciously donated the remains of the sword to the Musée d’Orsey. Our own Frank Upland managed to arrange a stop in Bellemer on their worldwide tour. They’re here on loan from France for just a few more days. Oo-La-La!”
Ugh, these people must be impossible to live with. I switched off the radio as I turned into Delanor Avenue, a winding street of high-end realty interrupted by a quaint but attractive old house that belonged to my mother.
It was a nice place, with a decent apartment over the garage that I called home. To my mother’s eyes it stood out like a thumb print in the mashed potatoes at a fine restaurant. This made the old Ford truck I drove look like a dead fly on the plate to her. I was required to cover it up when I parked in the driveway, lest anyone mistake us for middle-class. Thus, it came as a shock to see her waving enthusiastically at me as I neared the house.
In our driveway I spotted a shiny, red BMW with the top down. No wonder she insisted I come home. By the look of it, the car was easily worth double what I made in a year. She’d want that baby on display for the neighbors as long as possible.
My mother’s face was alight with interest while she chatted with who I assumed was its owner leaning casually against it. As I approached the drive, he stood and turned my direction, revealing a young, good-looking, blond guy with a clean-shaven face and a sharp crew cut. He wore a blue sweater vest over a white-collar shirt and dress pants.
Who was that? Jeans and flannel were more my uniform. Mr. Business-Casual over there wouldn’t rub shoulders with me. He did look oddly familiar though.
What name did my mother call him? Tommy?
The pin dropped. I nearly rammed into the mail box.
Tommy from Tommy’s Malt Shop, aka: Moreau, the witchdoctor from his little shop of horrors. My heart thudded as I parked and scrambled out of the truck. How did he find where I lived?
“Here he is,” my mother chimed.
I approached with the caution of nearing a rattlesnake. The blue eyes of Moreau’s avatar met mine and I could see the old witchdoctor staring back at me from behind them, cool and calculating.
Oblivious, my mother stepped lightly to my side and planted a kiss on my cheek.
“I had no idea you were friends with a doctor, dear,” she said and wiped at my cheek with her thumb.
A doctor. Wasn’t he just clever with words?
“Right,” I said, maneuvering myself between them. “We met not too long ago.”
Tommy flashed a smile full of perfect, white teeth.
“Hey there, Sam old pal. I’ve been having a great chat with your sister here—I’m sorry, you said you were his mother.” He gave his brow a light slap. “I keep forgetting.”
I wrinkled my nose at him, while my mother trilled with laughter, her eyes surreptitiously scanning the windows of the surrounding houses.
“You are such a card, Tommy,” she said and gave his cheek a pinch. “I’ll leave you boys to it. Hope to see you again soon.”
“You got it, June,” he winked. “And hey, thanks for the tip on a good decorator for my office downtown.”
Jeez, the guy oozed with enough charisma to sauce a beef wellington. I watched my mom retreat toward the house until I was sure she was out of earshot. Then I rounded on him.
“What kind of black magic did you use to find where I live?”
The all-American voice vanished, replaced with Moreau’s French-African lilt. “Your address is in the online directories, mon petit.”
Online directories. Talk about incentive to be unlisted.
“I didn’t recognize you at first,” I said. “I hadn’t realized you could wander around in this costume of yours outside of your shop. What did Alice say to reveal your true form? The lie cannot blind—“
“Please,” Moreau interrupted. “I don’t think you want my true form revealed before your mother, yes?”
I glanced over at her where she fussed with several potted plants at the entryway, glancing our direction in a poorly contrived attempt at disinterest.
Right, not a good idea.
“I assume you’re here about the favor I owe you and not my mother’s charm.”
“Indeed,” he nodded. “I thought you should know the debt has been paid.”
That sounded too good to be true, which meant it was probably worse.
“Paid,” I repeated. “You’re letting me off the hook?”
He gave his head a thoughtful tilt. “Not exactly. I traded the favor to someone else.”
Yep, it was worse.
“Traded?” I said. “What do you mean you traded it? That wasn’t part of the deal.”
He held up one interceding finger. “Ah, but you did not stipulate against it in the contract we made, thus it was not prohibited.”
“Well, no, I didn’t expressly say you couldn’t. The sky was falling at the time. I figured it was just understood.”
He lifted his palms with regret. “I’m afraid that is not the way of things.”
When was it ever?
“Who
exactly did you trade it to?”
“Mors Janua Vitae.”
“Come again?”
“Death is the gate of life eternal.”
I stared at him. “Is this a riddle?”
“It is Latin,” Moreau said. “And the name of the coven to whom I traded your favor.”
“A coven. You mean witches?” I gave him a sidelong grin. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”
“Long have they refused to trade with me. At last I had something to bargain with that interested them.”
Oh good, he was serious. A spiral from bad to desperate.
“What could witches possibly want from me?”
“The same as any in need of your services, I presume. They want you to open a door. Ne t’inquiète pas. Not to worry, I endeavored to specify the exact terms of our agreement in the transaction.”
“The terms?”
“Mais oui, Sam. You indicated a preference against violence. I made sure to pass this along.”
What a guy.
“They ask that you be available this evening in the city at Fourth and Main,” he went on. “They will pick you up there.”
“What, tonight?”
“Yes, Sam. Tonight.”
At least it wasn’t going to be hanging over my head for long. I still felt conned.
“Fine. What time?”
“Trois uur. Three a.m.”
“Three a.m! Are you sure these are witches and not vampires—No, don’t answer that,” I added hastily when he drew breath to reply. “I’d rather not know. I still like to sleep at night.”
“As you say. If I may offer a word of caution?”
I threw up my hands. “Why not.”
“The men of your faith have not treated their kind well throughout history. Aller doucement. Tread gently with them, Sam.”
Oh, right. The trials. The burnings. The condemnation. The excommunication. They might still be miffed about all that?
Moreau gave a short bow. “As this concludes our current dealings, I bid you farewell. Do look in on your grand-mère. I’m afraid I gave her a fright with my arrival.”
“Nana?” I glanced at the house. “She can see through your disguise?”
“Not exactly, but it doesn’t work well with those who, shall we say, are unwilling to be deceived.”
As Moreau’s false form moved smoothly around the hood of the car to the driver’s side, I saw what he meant. There were imperfections, a shimmer in the outline of his body, a blip when he turned his head too quickly.
“What is with this get-up you use?” I asked.
“Get-up?”
“Yeah,” I gestured at him. “You know, the young, blond guy routine. What gives?”
He slid into the driver’s seat. “You have your ways of opening doors, and I have mine, n’est-ce pas?”
He started the car and revved the engine, the sound like the deep purr of big cats.
“Nice ride. I suppose this is really a chariot of snakes or something.”
He arched a brow and looked at me like I was an idiot. “It’s a BMW.”
Chapter 11
My mother materialized at my side as Moreau pulled out of the driveway.
“How did you meet someone like him?” she asked, waving.
“Uh, you know, through a mutual acquaintance.”
“Well it’s good to see you including a better caliber of person in your life.” The cheerful smile never wavered on her face as she said this. She was talented that way.
His car turned at the corner and disappeared from sight.
“Jenny Doroughty drove by twice while he was here,” she said gleefully. “She thought I didn’t notice, but I did. I can’t wait to see her face when I bring it up at next week’s ladies’ supper.”
I sighed. “Mom, if you feel like you always have to prove yourself to these women, why do you bother hanging out with them?”
She cast me a look that said I was infinitely obtuse. “Because they’re my friends, of course.”
She checked the watch-bracelet around her wrist. With a jump she hurried up the driveway like someone had flipped a switch at her back. I followed.
“I’ve got to get going,” she said. “I promised Mr. Lindonbury I’d be just an hour over lunch to check on your Nana. It’s already fifteen minutes past.”
Mr. Lindonbury was a partner at a big advertising firm where she worked as an executive assistant. The guy’s name always made me think of Scandinavian fruit.
I frowned. “Why did you need to come home during the day to check on her?”
She paused beside her car to dig through her purse for the keys, pressing items into my hands like she’d undertaken some kind of excavation.
“She asked me to pick up a prescription she’d forgotten to fill.”
“Is she okay? I could’ve gotten it for her. Why didn’t she call me?”
“I don’t know. The woman worries about any trifle with you. She worries about you worrying, for heaven’s sake.”
“Did you get it for her?”
“Of course, I did,” she said and shot me an annoyed look. “And of course, she’s fine. I found her weeding the garden in the front here.” She gave a disgruntled shake of her head. “I do think she’s starting to get odd. You should’ve seen her reaction when Tommy pulled into the driveway.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she went berserk and started screaming God knows what in Spanish, running into the house like she was on fire. Here they are!” She triumphantly dangled her keys in front of my face like an unearthed diamond. Scooping her things out of my hands and back into her purse, she tossed a kiss in my general direction.
“I’ll be working late.” She got into her car. “Be a dear and see to the old woman’s dinner. I don’t want her tearing apart my kitchen again.”
As it happened, I did find Nana in the kitchen. Only, she wasn’t cooking. She sat at the table, her hands folded in her lap, still wearing her garden gloves. She stared straight ahead at nothing. It was unusual to see her so still. Nana was always busy with something. I used to think she never slept.
“Nana?” I put a tentative hand on her shoulder.
She stirred and clasped it in her own. The fear in her eyes surprised me. “M’hijo, there’s a strange man here.”
I squatted down beside her. “Everything’s okay Nana, don’t worry.”
“Es un demonio.”
“He’s not a demon. He’s just a very…strange, like you said.”
Then again, what did I know? I mean, he did just trade my favor to strangers like a charm bracelet at a swap meet. But I was pretty sure he wasn’t a demon now that I’d met one before.
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t like him.”
“He’s gone. He won’t bother you; I promise.”
“Maybe they come for you now, my Sam. Like your papá.” She looked at me and touched my cheek. “I’ve tried to protect you.”
Something was definitely wrong here. She was so pale.
“Are you feeling all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said and rubbed at her chest.
I pressed a hand against her brow. Cold, clammy skin.
Keeping my expression neutral and my voice calm, I stood and offered her my arm. “Come on, Nana. We’re going to take a little trip to the hospital.”
“I don’t need a doctor. Is just a little pain.”
“Then it won’t take us long and we can have lunch together afterward.”
***
Chest pain will get you out of an emergency room waiting area quick enough. Then the real waiting begins.
Tests.
Followed by more tests.
Followed by waiting for the results.
Followed by waiting for the doctor to actually explain the results.
Not to worry, they throw in the stark walls and bright lights to make everyone feel at home.
The diagnosis relieved and terrified me simultaneously: deh
ydration and mild angina brought on by a sudden fright. Due to her apparent disorientation, her age, and her heart condition they decided to admit her overnight for observation.
She was oddly quiet through the whole thing and I often caught her staring at me. They checked her into her room in time for dinner service which offered the standard food groups of hospital fare: Produce from a can, bread from frozen dough, and over-boiled meat doused with gravy from a packet. It didn’t pique her interest. Shocker.
Still, it was better than nothing and she hadn’t eaten since early afternoon. I managed to coax down a few bites of peaches in syrup, and a roll. Afterward she dozed to the murmur of the TV set tacked into the corner on the ceiling. A nurse popped her head in a while later to let me know visiting hours had ended.
“I’ll come back to see you in the morning,” I said, standing.
Nana’s eyes were closed and her breath came slow and rhythmic. “Okay, Mateo,” she murmured in Spanish. “Be careful.”
My breath seized and it took me a moment to steady myself before I kissed her forehead and padded quietly out the door. Mateo. My father’s name. I hardly ever heard it spoken aloud. Funny how the sound of a name can ricochet through your insides like shrapnel.
When I got in my truck, I sat there gripping the steering wheel. My eyes were hot, my chest tight with the angry sadness from my childhood, longing for the father I’d never met. My mom was eight months pregnant when he was killed in that accident. They say a person can’t miss something they’ve never had—a claim likely made by someone who had everything because it was a crock of cosmic proportions. I’d seen pictures of him, imagined the kind of guy he’d been. Would he have loved the son he hadn’t gotten the chance to hold?
These days, I saw him in my reflection. The same smirk, the same eyes, only a lighter brown. Absence was a tricky thing. My dad’s life ended before mine began, but I carried his death with me every day.
On my way home, I called my mom to let her know what happened with Nana. Her fury that I hadn’t called her sooner took me by surprise.