He passed the old colonial Dutch Reformed Church next and walked past the wrought-iron fence of the cemetery. The wind caught him again and he put his head down and away from the wind.
Hie facet.
The words caught his eye and he stopped in the wind.
Hie facet Johannes Niewkirk. Anno Aetatis Suae 1714.
There were many other stones, but the wind drove him onward. At the comer he turned into the wind; he walked half a block and turned again, into a cobbled alley with townhouses on either side. He walked to the middle of the block, found his number and rang the bell.
A buzzer unlocked a grated garden door and he paused.
“Come to the back, please,” said a speaker.
He pushed the grated door open and walked a brick walk along the alley to the back of the house. A garden in winter wraps opened up—small leafless trees, shrubs packed in tarpaper, and a bright green lawn. A man stood inside a doorway, peering out from a large white door.
“Yes.”
“Ummm.” He struggled his hand out of a pocket, pulling a receipt book with it. “Ummmm. Miss Alice Polsley.”
“Come in.”
The boy stepped over the threshold onto a thick blue carpet. The man shut the door. “Wait here,” he said.
The house air felt hot on his cheeks. The boy’s eyes wandered over the white woodwork, the gold stars on the curved ceiling of the entryway and the fierce-looking carved eagle on the wall of the circular stairwell.
The blue carpet marched away in every direction to closed white doors and paraded up the circular stairs.
“This way.”
He walked into the room. More blue rug and desks. The lady looked at him with large green eyes. He eagerly surrendered the white box to her and held out the receipt book.
Quickly, with accustomed efficiency, she thumbed the pages until she found her name and office address. She signed her name and handed it back to the boy. “Wait,” she said.
She left the room and returned. She held out two quarters. He pushed them down into one of his gloved hands. The coins were warm.
“Thank you,” said the boy. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” He followed the butler back to the door and stepped out into the freezing breeze again.
“Pull that gate shut after you,” said the butler.
The boy did.
11
She pushed the office door shut and sat down at her desk. She looked at the box, then pulled it onto her lap and looked again. White box, white crepe string. She opened a desk drawer and withdrew a pair of scissors. She snipped the crepe string. Then she lifted the cover. Green tissue paper filled the inside. She pulled it back.
It was a rose. A single red rose.
Alice Polsley sat looking down at the boxed rose in her lap for a long time.
Next to it was a white card.
“Farewell.”
Chapter The Ninth
1
Richardson sat in his apartment, at war.
- He’d played the tape recorder with idiot reiteration. Now he sat with the recorder in his lap slowly turning, waiting to record any sound. As he sat, his eyes studied the ceiling, millimeter by millimeter, seeking a hole, a pinhole, a telltale bulge.
He heard a door slam. The front door down in the vestibule. He listened alertly. A footfall in the hallway. He drew a deep breath and waited. The sound slowly rose up the staircase, stumped along the passageway and rose up the next flight. The steps crossed the hallway to his door and paused. A knock sounded.
Richardson rose and walked to the door. “Who’s there?”
“Me. Clabber.”
Richardson opened the door.
“It’s colder than ever out there,” said Clabber. “I hope your car has a heater.”
“Gets cold out there every winter, Clabber.”
“Not like tonight. Tonight we have a special treat from the
weather service. It seems that the clouds have blown away and there's nothing up there to hold any heat in. We have also had a windy cold front going through all day with air direct from the Arctic. Neat? It's going to be the coldest night in fifteen years.”
“Why don't you stay home, reading a good book by your radiator and drinking nice hot tea?”
“Don't think I didn't consider it, Richardson. Are you ready?”
“I don't know if I’m ready or not.”
Clabber’s face flushed. “Richardson, I’m through playing games with you. I went to some trouble to set this up with Anna Quist. She's been exhausting herself with sittings lately, and that goddamn Brother Brendan is mouthing off about the English and Sir Robert Peel endlessly.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Nothing. Just get your coat and let’s go. This may be the most important night in your life.” Plis prodding hand nagged Richardson toward his closet.
“What did you expect at that funeral today, Clabber? You and Anna Quist were all eyes.”
“Maybe something did happen today, Richardson. Come on. Get your coat.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means get your coat.”
Richardson stood at his closet door, then turned to Clabber. “So help me, Clabber, if anything happens tonight, I’m going to run you through a pencil sharpener.”
Clabber sighed, then looked angrily at the ceiling. “Thousands of people sit down every night all over the world to conduct séances. Thousands and thousands of people. Sometimes they reach the spirits of dead people they are trying to reach and sometimes they don’t. I’m telling you again: there’s nothing to be afraid of. No harm will come to you. And we can stop it anytime you say. So relax and let’s see what happens. Okay?”
“I think I need to have my head examined.” Richardson reached into the closet for his coat.
“Wear five scarves and two extra sweaters,” said Clabber.
Richardson drove south on Flatbush Avenue along Prospect Park to Ocean Avenue. Clabber rode in silence, huddled before the rush of warmth from the humming car heater.
The wind was gusting, rocking the car and whistling at the car windows. An occasional pedestrian ran along the sidewalks under swaying store signs, frozen face bunched, head down, hunched against the breathtaking cold. Near Parkside Avenue, a traffic policeman directed traffic in and out of a funeral home while trying to keep his back to the wind. As the car passed him, Richardson saw water running from his reddened eyes.
The traffic was light on Ocean Avenue. The wind, skimming down the faces of the two solid rows of apartment buildings, cuffed the car alternately from two angles.
“Oh boy," murmured Clabber.
“What’s the matter?”
“Parking. I don’t see any place to park. We’re going to have to walk blocks.”
“Where is it?”
“Right there. That’s her apartment building.”
Richardson turned off Ocean Avenue and cruised through the streets, circling a block at a time. He found a place three blocks from the apartment. Clabber got out reluctantly.
“I’ll bet the wind-chill factor is at least fifteen below.”
“Walk fast,” answered Richardson.
Clabber adopted a shuffling sidewise trot, trying to turn away from the wind. He was heavily muffled in the fur-lined parka, leather mittens and scarves. He drew a flap from the hood across his face and snapped it in place. Only his eyes showed.
Richardson pulled a scarf from his neck and put it around his head, tying it under his chin, then he fitted his felt hat over it, holding it by the brim against the wind. His hand began to freeze.
They hurried along the street and turned the comer. By now, Clabber was doing a crabwise jog and Richardson was stepping fast behind him. They went two blocks wincing with pain before turning the corner to Ocean Avenue. The last half block to the apartment house they did in a sprint.
Inside the lobby, Clabber sat down on an old red-velvet-covered chair, gasping.
“My lungs are frozen,” he said.
“Get out. They could run you up the North Pole in that outfit and let you blow in the breeze for a month and you’d come down nice and toasty warm, Clabber.”
“I tell you I’m frozen.”
“Then get your money back on the coat and hood.” Richardson peeled the scarf from his head, feeling the deep pain in his skull from the wind. “You know, this is silly. Really silly. Here we are about to communicate with the spirits of the dead. We’re going to rattle the gates of heaven itself, and there you are— an invincible colossus bestriding the earth above matters of the flesh—complaining about the cold like any mortal. It does your image great damage, Clabber.”
Clabber stood up and angrily pushed the elevator button. “A hairshirt I could stand. You understand? Temperatures in the desert—I could stand them too. Gruel three times a day. Penance on my knees on a marble floor for hours, days! I can even stand the cold. I sleep with my windows open. And if I had to, I could stand out there right now all night. But I will tell you, Richardson, of all the various pains and aches in the universe, cold is the one that bothers me most. And I don’t need any remarks about it. I notice you were running right behind me.”
Richardson opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. “Okay,” he said.
The elevator was an antique. After they entered the car Clabber banged the metal door shut, then pulled the reticulated inner gate shut. He pushed a button and from below issued an electric motor whine. The car gnawed its way up the shaft, lurching arthritically.
Richardson stared at Clabber, who scowled back at him. Richardson’s earlobes were now hot and were burning.
“I still feel that this whole thing is ridiculous.”
“Wait and see what happens. Judge for yourself.”
The car stopped with a shudder. Clabber pulled the folding gate aside and opened the metal door. They stepped into an old hallway and walked on a marble floor—along corridors lined with murals and old plaster scrollwork. The wall lights wore metal shades of an outmoded design.
They passed apartment doors silently, hearing television programs, bumps, bangs and muffled voices.
Clabber led him to a door and stopped. He glanced at Richardson’s clothing, then lifted his chin and worked his neck inside its turtleneck sweater. Then he pushed the bell.
“Shrimp,” said Clabber.
“Huh?”
“Someone is cooking shrimp.”
Richardson considered that for a moment. He shrugged concessively. “What else would you do on the coldest night in fifteen years?”
2
The door opened.
Anna Quist looked at Clabber, then at Richardson. She was dressed in a pale blue floor-length gown and wore an ankh symbol on a chain around her neck. She nodded gravely. “Mr. Richardson. Good of you to come.” She stepped back from the doorway to permit them to enter. She looked tired. Her eyes seemed dull and there was something withdrawn, preoccupied in her manner.
“Albert told me that you were very reluctant about all this. I’m glad you finally decided to come. We may be able to help you.”
Richardson murmured, “Thank you,” and took off his overcoat and hat. Anna Quist hung them in a closet and then waited patiently for Clabber to undo his hood, unbutton and unzip his parka, remove the several scarves, pack the heavy leather mittens in the parka pockets.
“I know Albert will have tea. Will you join him, Mr. Richardson?”
Richardson nodded. “Sure.” His earlobes and cheeks were burning now, hot to touch, but the pain in his skull was subsiding.
Anna Quist seemed elfin as she padded away in her gown. A faint odor of cooked food hung in the air. Clabber inclined his head toward the living room.
3
Richardson followed Clabber past the kitchen door. He saw a small grease-stained bag of garbage standing on a table by the dumbwaiter door. At the stove Anna Quist was heating water for the tea.
The apartment was heavily draped and thickly carpeted. Several small oriental-type rugs lay on the wall-to-wall carpeting. The only lighting came from several small lamps in the living room and the dining area next to it. The general effect was a muffled twilight.
It reminded Richardson of the inside of a coffin.
“Sit, sit,” said Clabber.
Richardson sat down on a couch next to a portable television set. He watched Clabber kneading his thin hands and twiglike fingers together. Then he gazed about the living room and dining area.
There were dozens of places they could conceal a speaker. They could have whooshes coming from left and right. He looked at the dining room table. They could have that thing dancing in air from nearly invisible piano wire.
He noticed a portrait in full color on the dining room wall— a painting of Jesus. The right hand was raised, showing the stigmata in the middle of the palm. The left hand indicated the glowing red heart at his breast. Jesus was smiling.
“First time I’ve ever seen a portrait of Christ smiling,” said Richardson.
Clabber raised his chin from his fists and turned his preoccupied eyes to the portrait. “Anna,” he murmured.
“Family pictures?” asked Richardson.
“Huh?”
“The other pictures on the wall. Photographs of people.”
“Oh. They’re...” He paused. “They’re pictures of famous clairvoyants. There’s a picture of Houdini there somewhere.” He put his chin back on his fists and stared at the rug. He was shivering.
Richardson began to feel hot The apartment was warm-very warm, and dry. He glanced at Clabber. The two of them, Clabber and Anna Quist—thin as threads each—probably reveled in heat. Richardson stood up.
“What’s the matter? Sit down.”
“It's okay, Clabber. I’m going to take off this jacket and the sweater too. Okay?”
Clabber nodded and rubbed knuckles against a palm vigorously. “Now that I’ve got you here, I think we ought to explain a few things to you, but I’m going to let Anna do the talking. I hope that that flannel-mouth Brother Brendan stays off the sauce.”
“How many more are coming?”
“More? No more. Just the three of us.”
“What about Brother what’s-his-name?”
“Oh. Yes. Well. More about him in a moment. Let me get some hot tea down first.”
Anna Quist approached softly, bearing two cups brimming with hot water. She set them down on a long coffee table. They rattled slightly in their saucers. “Milk and sugar,” she said, walking back to the kitchen.
She returned with a small silver tray holding a milk pitcher and a bowl of sugar. In her other hand she carried a third cup of tea. “I suppose I shouldn’t drink this at this hour, but it’s so cold out. I felt it flowing off your clothing when you came in.”
Clabber dunked his tea bag eagerly, spooned two servings of sugar into the cup, squeezed the bag and stirred. Then he picked up the cup and held it in both palms, sipping rapidly.
“I didn’t have much opportunity to speak to you at the funeral, Mr. Richardson,” said Anna Quist. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I was that you lost your friend. He was an exceptional person and truly your friend.”
“Friendl” exclaimed Clabber. “He died for him!”
“No, no, Albert. That’s overstating it completely. Ozzie went too far with those pills he was taking. He needn’t have frozen to death—and he certainly didn’t believe that freezing to death would help Mr. Richardson here. No, no. His death was completely unpremeditated and unintended. That’s what makes it all the more lamentable.” She turned to Richardson. “I must tell you that I was very fond of Ozzie Goulart. He was here on a number of occasions and we talked the night away. He had unusual powers, and I’m convinced he had an extraordinary
career ahead of him as a clairvoyant. I talked at great length to him the last time he was here—and that was shortly before you had your party. I told him again and again not to use those drugs. They made everything he did invalid. He was obsessed with the idea that someone int
ended to harm you and that if he could foresee the event—if he could at least see the face of your enemy—he might help save you."
“How come he didn’t foresee his own death?” asked Richardson.
“I’m afraid he did."
4
Clabber helped Anna Quist set up a small hexagonal table with a carved beading around the edge. Mrs. Quist put a small vigil candle in the center of the table, then sat down on the couch next to Richardson.
“I feel, before we get started, that I ought to explain a few things to you. You are emitting strong psychic disturbances."
Richardson pointed a finger at himself. “Me?"
“Yes. As you sit there. Ordinarily, I will not sit under such circumstances. It takes all my strength of concentration to communicate with the other world, and I have found in the past that if there is just one person in the room who is not wholeheartedly with us, then it causes unbearable strain for me and I’m out of sorts for days after. You see?"
Richardson nodded and started to rise. “Yes, I see. Maybe another time.”
“No no,” said Clabber. He looked at Anna Quist and she looked silently back at him.
He turned to Richardson. “Look. What Anna is saying is that she feels more than skepticism coming from you. It’s hostility. Anger. You understand? You’re a skeptic and that’s bad enough, but also you’re scorning the whole thing. Now, unless you put aside the violent mental emissions, we won’t be able to get-get—get this thing off the ground. Understand?”
Richardson sat back irritably. “Look, Clabber, you set this up. Not me."
“I know. I know. I know. It’s very important. Very important. Maybe—well—” He turned to Anna Quist. "How’s Brother Brendan behaving?”
Anna Quist shrugged. "Ecclesiastes.”
"The whole thing?”
She nodded and studied a finger ring unhappily.
Clabber sighed. "Okay. Well. Let’s get back to Richardson here. Look, Richardson. This is what we do. We sit at that table and we clear our minds. I’m convinced that Ozzie Goulart had more information he wanted to give you. So all you have to do is sit at that table with your mind cleared of everything. Just think about Ozzie. Or if that disturbs you, forget it. Just clear your mind entirely. Okay?” He looked at Anna Ouist. "Okay?”
The Search for Joseph Tully Page 18