Dies Irae

by Ruby Spinell

  Nothing forced attention like pain and discomfort. She was missing something. There was something right before her eyes that she did not see for the simple reason that she did not want to. She needed all the attention she could muster.

  Damian thought back to that awful Tuesday. Again, she felt the reality of the man, the delivery, causing the turn to wobble, as one after another remnants from human bodies were placed down.

  There had been a sensitiveness in the placing … a trust. The more she thought, the more she was sure, he had said, ‘Poor you.’ Did he know her? Was the statement one of those blanket statements that would have covered all the nuns, the monastery in general? She had a feeling he knew her.

  But it was ridiculous of Detective Janah to infer it may have been Father Elias. Anyway, he never rang, he had a key. He always used his key. Was she sure it was not Father? Janah had asked her three times.

  Sister Damian pulled the white linen toque on over her head fastening it to her shoulders with the two pins. Wrapping the stiff white band about her forehead, she looped it at the back of her skull before donning the black linen veil.

  A warmth grew in her torso, mostly from the scratchy friction of the vest. When she took the shirts off, her skin was excoriated and inflamed. There had been a time when mirrors were not allowed within the monastery. She still did not have one in her cell since she did not set her hair as some of the nuns now did. She didn’t need a mirror to tell her what horsehair did to your skin. All she had to do was glance down at her chest and belly. When summer heat descended, Michaels was adamant. No extra penances; heat rash was enough.

  That delivery … she kept returning to the delivery as a trust. Stop calling it a delivery! Someone had taken an assault rifle to a group of Asian children in their schoolyard … taken an assault rifle to … like bringing candy? What was happening to the language? It didn’t mean what it said anymore; it meant the latest violence.

  Those sisters who watched television brought it up at recreation. Was it happenstance that they were Asian children? They would never know; the man shot himself. Whoever cut off the hands and feet, did he leave them at the turn instead of killing himself? Was he seeking attention? Was he an errand boy for whoever severed them? Did he hate those people? Did the man with the AK-47 Russian-make assault rifle hate those children? She shook her head to clear her brain. The vestment she was working for the Bishop’s Christmas Mass … she must finish that today.

  By noon on Tuesday, all the roads in Westchester were lined with cars. People had crawled, in some instances on all fours, to bus and train stations, leaving their locomotion wherever it slithered and stopped. Freeze-thaw-freeze was becoming the byword for weather.

  Mir agreed to stay on in Manhattan and clear an unexpected proofreading obstacle from Lawrence’s desk. He was back from his sick bed but still not in great form. Since she had no one working late to read to, she would have to be extra careful not to make mistakes.

  Senior Detective Eliaphus Daniel Janah wrestled the chains onto the Nissan Sentra and headed out to St. Hilary’s.

  Halfway to St. Hilary’s, Eli passed Rapunzel’s. No one was shopping today and there were spaces everywhere. He quickly pulled parallel to the curb and walked back to the twin towers. A very heavy coil of rope, braided and varnished, ran from the second floor of the building down one of the towers to the sidewalk. A simple brass plaque reading ‘Rapunzel’s’ was fastened to the other tower.

  Very elite. Only once in his lifetime had he been inside the door, and that had been a time when he did not have a cent to his name, beleaguered with bills that five children make who wear eyeglasses, grow crooked teeth, and break arms doing Lord knows what. But because of something he saw in Mir’s eyes … he had taken a small loan out and come in here to purchase a gift certificate. He had remembered the way her eyes swung to the front door whenever they drove by. On the Feast of Lights, he left the gift certificate on top of the clothes hamper.

  She was aglow that night. He smiled, remembering the woman who always said she didn’t care about clothes dancing about their bedroom modeling her purchases. He should have done it more often.

  The young woman facing him had a tremendous amount of eye makeup on. Lazily her lashes rose, weighted Egyptian fans, and slowly … coyly … they fell. Of course she would assist him; she would keep in mind that the lady he spoke of was slightly shorter.

  He chose two lovely white tops, one a flowing silk and the other a very soft linen with little white rosebuds embroidered about the square neck. A deep purple cotton skirt with a tribal motif was the closest he could find to the one Marion had worn; they had nothing in paisley. Then he saw a soft faun brushed denim and bought that too. He wrote, ‘In case blueberries do not wash out, E. J. on a card which he enclosed in an envelope, asked the sales woman to gift wrap and deliver to the address he wrote on her pad. He paid for it and was gone, leaving the young woman looking wistfully at his back.

  Mrs. Berens opened the door of the rectory. “Afternoon, why don’t you come in, Detective, place is quiet right now, boys all off. We could use the TV room.” Boys? She wasn’t exactly smiling, but she did seem more amenable than she had the other day. Letting her call the shots on time and place appeared to have paid off.

  “Can I make you some tea?”

  “That would be nice; it’s quite miserable out there.”

  She nodded, directing him to the soft chair in the room with the fireplace, and continued on out back to the kitchen. She must have had the kettle on, for she returned almost immediately carrying a small tray, which held a tea pot, cups and saucers, and a small plate of cookies.

  As he helped her place the kettle and the dish of butter cookies on the table in front of the sofa, Eli felt her eyes on him. He chose the easy chair and immediately sank almost completely to the floor. Mrs. Berens chose a straight chair, pulled it around to face him, and sat above him there, like the avenging angel or the ticket collector at the door. So much the better.

  “Mrs. Berens, how long have you worked here at the rectory?” Her face, already pinched and wary, drew in at the edges. He saw a furtive animal for a moment, opossum or ferret; it embarrassed him. This reaction always embarrassed him. It was not altogether fear of law enforcement, he knew that from long experience. More, innate dis-ease. Something people couldn’t cope with showing.

  He wanted to look away, pretend he’d not seen the canker. Instead, he settled more comfortably back on the floor, stretched his long legs out, and sipped the tea. “Ahh, that’s good.”

  The drawn lines about her eyes and jaw relaxed a little. “Seventeen years.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s OK. Widow women can’t complain.”

  He decided to wade right in, “What do you think of the delivery at the Annunciation?”

  She seemed to have been expecting more questions about herself. She shifted on the chair and pulled her skirt down further over her knees. “What’s there to think?” He waited. She hadn’t taken any of her tea. The cup rattled against the saucer as she picked it up and drank it. He listened to her swallow. “They been courting it. A long time now they been asking for something jus’ like this.”

  “Who, Mrs. Berens?”

  She seemed to think about it for a long moment, “Those that don’t belong, Detective. Foreigners taking our men’s jobs, taking our houses we can’t afford to live in no more, buying up our land for their Buddha monasteries. Where they getting the money? Third world they call ’em … hah!”

  “I understand the sisters at the monastery have helped some people from Southeast Asia re-locate here.”

  “Humph! House of prayer they call themselves, that’s a laugh. Their fault really, should have left well enough alone. When I first came here, I kept quiet. The old monsignor let it be known he didn’t much care what my personal opinion was long as I kept it to myself.”

  She nibbled on the inside of her mouth. “But I seen too much since then. Should never have brou
ght those children over. If those women had only stayed where they belonged inside the cloister, praying like they should, never would have happened.” She seemed lost in thought. “Poor boys coming here don’t know, young boys … trying to be a priest today … lots of confusion.” She shook her head, then looked at him, a peaked smile playing about her narrow lips. “My Billy was going to be a priest, you know. Couldn’t keep him when the war broke out.”

  “Which war?”

  “Vietnam. He was killed over there.” She licked her lower lip. “These boys … so much like Billy.”

  Eli, watching her, began to see where she could conceivably have been someone’s mother … at one time … a long time ago. “Mrs. Berens, were you here at the rectory on the afternoon in question?”

  “No, I already told you I visit my sister Tuesdays.”

  “When did you leave for your sister’s?

  And by the way, may I have her name and address.”

  “The plumber came that day, I wanted to watch him. Pokey, he worked like he was being paid time and a half. I left after he was finished, after I made sure he did the job … about one o’clock.”

  “Who was here when you left?

  Mrs. Berens thought for a moment. “Father Strisbel was out making sick calls. Father Allen was heading over to the elementary to coach basketball. Touranment’s next week. Father Elias had the books to balance.”

  He would check her sister’s.

  He would check that the basketball team had indeed received the benefits of Father Allen’s coaching that afternoon.

  And he could see that unless Father Elias came up with someone, no one was going to be able to vouch for his whereabouts that afternoon.

  “Mrs. Berens, I’m sorry about your son.” She had reverted. The frosty look she gave him said she cared less than a split pea what he was sorry about. “Thank you for giving me time on your day off. I may call you again as the investigation progresses.” He played a game with his thighs, daring them to raise him from the hole he was in. They tightened, took the bit and ran with it. Mrs. Berens’ eyes widened as he came up before her all in one movement.

  It was almost midnight when Mir finished proofreading The Empirical Epistemology of Epicurean Womanhood by Evra Wimin. The article had given her a giant headache. It went on and on and on. Gad, what she was learning about bad writing. If she was home now she would walk out over the fields, climb a few fences, go to the State Forest. Walk, walk, walk. She couldn’t see herself going back to the tiny room at Pius. Putting on her coat and hat, locking up the office, she started walking South, down lower Park instead of westward toward the Hudson.

  She was walking fast onto Fourth when she realized she’d never seen CBGD’s, only heard her sons refer to it. That’s what she needed: loud, loud music, Suczzy or no. In a moderate rainfall, amid whispering car treads, she pulled the brim of the floppy wool hat down to shield her face, dug her hands deep in her pockets, and pretended she was heading to Battery Park, all stops loosed.

  Her long legs gobbled up the blocks. An innate sense told her when to cross. Black piles of snow were shoved every which way to enable the traffic to pass, but not the people. Sewers were blocking up, water ankle-deep rising at the crossings. She laughed at the appalling mess of it all.

  At Cooper Square, a black man came up to her and said something about food. She pulled her hands out of her pockets and waved them emptily in the air. She wasn’t prepared; her wallet stuffed too deep in her rear pants pocket to pull it out there in the street.

  At Jones St. three young men pushed her, forcing her to climb a snow bank. She caught her balance and counted off the streets to Bleecker, in her head. CBGB’s should be on the next block.

  Mirari Buttrick Janah always told herself that she kept out of trouble by gauging the prevalent vibes. As she approached Bleecker, she put all her antennae out. If the place was really as scuzzy as all that, she would walk quickly past it westward and on to Pius.

  She was talking thus to herself when she saw Arthur Danley. He was striding from Second Avenue, crossing Bowery, about to enter Bleecker. Excitedly, she started to hail him when a man grabbed his arm. Danley knew him, something was said, a right arm to right arm clasp was exchanged. They headed together along Bleecker, westward.

  Quickly, she walked to the corner and peered down the block. Danley stood to the side of the lighted entranceway to CBGB’s talking to three men. As one looked down the block toward her, she instinctively faded back against the service door to her right.

  For about five minutes, they stood in the muted light off to the side of the main entrance, while the rain fell. Danley and the man who had clasped his arm at the intersection were both about six foot one, well built. The other two were slightly shorter. These last wore camouflage pants and laced paratrooper boots. When they moved their feet, the light from the door of CBGB’s glistened on the wet leather. The man who had met Danley back at the corner turned to the side. His hair was slicked back, long and wet, and the nose was the most outstanding Roman nose she had seen outside of the blurb on the jacket of the Collected Works of Marcus Aurelius.

  She was suddenly aware of a man close to her face eyeing her. He started to pull his wallet from his pants pocket, fumbling under a dirty raincoat. Shaking her head quickly from left to right, she put a large sick smile on her face. He quickly moved on.

  When she looked westward again toward hardcore hall, there were only two bikers standing, slapping each other on the shoulder in the light from the doors.

  Her eyes hadn’t been off the four men for more than a minute and a half. No longer visible on the street, they must have gone inside. It didn’t feel right; she discarded the initial impulse to follow them. Danley hadn’t exactly lied, but it was fairly clear he had no intention of bringing her here. A hangout? Distorted percussion reached her, followed by a wail that could have been a human on drugs or a guitar. No longer interested in loud music, she wondered about the men he had met. For a bishop, he got around.

  Pulling the hat down over her forehead, she walked quickly in the direction of the two leather-jacketed bikers. A low whistle as she approached made her glance up in time to swerve neatly out from the arm wearing the leather-spike bracelet flung in her path. She did not break stride, but kept moving fast down Bleecker toward Lafayette to Washington Square beyond. Very seldom is a target moving that fast followed.

  “Deo gratias.”

  “Reverend Mother, my name is Mirari Buttrick. As I told the sister, I’m a freelance writer. No, I understand. I don’t mind waiting until you clear it with His Reverence. I spoke to him a couple of days ago. The phone company will be connecting my home phone this afternoon. No, I’m not new to the area. I’ve spent most of my life here. I’ve been working and living in the City for the past three years. You might say I’ve decided to move out to give my soul a rest.” No harm in a few brownie points. “My number will be 761-8888.”

  Thanking her, she hung up the pay phone. Having deposited two dollars in quarters just to hold … when she could have run the eight miles up the road … she was not impressed at the speed at which the sisters moved. Fortunately, the operator did not ring back for more money.

  It was good, though, to grab the early train out of the City. Lawrence was pleased that she finished the job. More likely he’s seen the time and a half I’ve put in … decided he would even cut the pay by giving me the afternoon off, she thought. Tch, tch my dear, are we getting a bit sour? No way! Pragmatic is all. She would do a little food shopping and grab a taxi up the hill.

  The taxi driver took one look at the driveway and whistled, “Lady, I’d rather not tackle that!”

  “S’OK.” She paid him, he drove off, and all was still.

  The drive curving up to the house looked narrow. Freezing rain and sleet had brought the trees together. From either side, they leaned on each other, rigorously interlacing. Those that found no support cascaded into the opening that was the driveway. This fabric of frozen, clinkin
g daggers swayed, playing wind-chime magic.

  Snow was deep, unbroken, but for tracks up and down one side. She crunched along, parting the waterfall with her gloved hand.

  Clam and Chowder’s heads swung langorously … a regal boredom in their eyes—‘Oh well … she’s home’—as only cats can humph. They stood and stretched. One at a time they jumped, rubbed against her legs, flag up, followed her to the bathroom where they sat patiently, one on either side, listening to her tinkle. The little ritual performed, intimacy reestablished, they shadowed her for the rest of the afternoon until she fed them.

  Chapter Twelve

  “John, how many unofficial contacts have we in Southeast Asia? Rather not go the usual routes, no police computers, OK? Talk more later.”

  Eli had made four phone calls so far that morning. Woke at five, stripped, exercised on the mat in the cold, dark room. When he had worked up a sufficient sweat, he lit a small candle and let the Tai Chi weave him a body. Form, tempo, shape, the space directions … wind-song dynamic finding balance by continuously flowing.

  While the kettle boiled, he went into the bedroom to the bookshelves for the I Ching. Bypassing a tall cylindrical crock full of varying lengths of yarrow stalks, their prickly ends skyward, he glanced at the one stalk lying on the floor, the one always put aside from the forty-nine. He reached for the coins. Easier to throw them in the breakfast nook, on the table.

  Tao is obscured. You fix your eyes on little segments of existence only.

  True quiet means keeping still. When the time has come to keep still.

  Going forward. When the time has come to go forward.

  You will then be in agreement with the demands of the time.

  Your attention should center not on things in their state of being. It should center on their movement in change.

  This last set caused such a prickling along his scalp that he laughed out loud.

  What did it mean?