The Cornerstone

by Anne C. Petty

  Though a Saturday night, the pub was nearly empty, with just two older guys on stools at the bar and a couple of college students studying in a booth near the door. Tom steered his group to a big round booth at the back of the room.

  “Wow, I had no idea this place was here.” Addie was checking out the bartender topping up the mugs of the stool geezers. “How’d you find it?”

  “Instinct, I think. I have a taste for imported stouts and porters.” Tom lowered himself carefully into the booth and Claire followed. Addie slid in from the other side, followed by Morris.

  The middle-aged pony-tailed bartender showed up and nodded at Tom as if to an old acquaintance. He then offered to explain the wide range of imported beverages to the rest of them. After much discussion, Addie chose something called Killian’s Irish Red, which the bartender assured her was light and refreshing. Morris went for a Guinness pub draught from the bar, and Claire ended up choosing a bottle of Samuel Adams because it was the only name on the menu she recognized. Tom was asked if he wanted his usual, which turned out to be O'Hara's Irish Stout, a wicked pitch-black brew with a roasty, winelike aroma.

  “Do you come here much?” Claire asked.

  “Only enough for George to remember what I like.” Tom leaned back against the padded backrest. Claire could almost see his trapezius muscles slowly unclinching.

  “How’s your motorcycle?”

  Tom made a face. “Bent handle bar, kickstand broken off, bent back fender, blownout back tire. Fix all that and it’s back on the road.”

  “You were really lucky,” Addie said, licking her tongue around the lip of her beer bottle.

  “So are we. Recasting that part twice would be royal pain in the ass.” Morris didn’t sound like he was trying to be amusing, but with him you never knew.

  Addie jumped in. “That part was made for Tom. You wouldn’t be able to recast it.” She gave him a radiant smile, as if that ended the discussion.

  Claire sipped at her beer and then remembered. “Morris, what’s the difference between Lechery and Lust?”

  His eyebrow went up. “Well, that’s splitting hairs, isn’t it? And why, Claire, would you want to know? Big plans coming up?” Addie laughed out loud.

  Claire flushed. “No. I mean, in the play. Why does Marlowe use the name Lechery instead of Lust?”

  Morris sighed. “You’re just no fun, are you? If you must know, it’s a subtle bit of wordplay on the part of the bard. Think about it. One encompasses the other, doesn't it? Lechery is the excessive indulgence in lust, which we can define as unfettered sexual activity. You—well, maybe not you—can lust for anything…power, knowledge, wealth. Lechery applies specifically to sexual lust, ergo…” He shrugged as if the answer should be obvious to the average knucklehead.

  “Okay, but what I don’t get is why everybody calls her Lust now, instead of Lechery.”

  Morris leaned toward her, elbows on the table. “You can thank those Protestant Reformation chaps for that. They used the word ‘lust’ in their sixteenth-century non-Latin translations of the Bible. Dumbing the Scriptures down for the masses. No offense to those religiously inclined.”

  Addie gulped at her Killian’s. “Well, that’s obviously nobody at this table. I’m Wiccan, Claire’s a lapsed Episcopalian, Morris is a terminal atheist.” She turned to Tom. “What about you?”

  “Buddhist.”

  Morris snickered. “I do like your sense of humor.”

  “So is there really a ghost in the Janus Theatre?” Claire figured she might as well drop that bomb while she had the chance. Maybe it was the beer. She wasn’t used to drinking, but she’d nearly finished the bottle.

  “Of course there is.” Addie’s bottle was empty, too. “Old buildings like that always have some kind of presence attached to them.”

  “Have any of you actually seen it?”

  “No.” Tom’s answer was quick. The tone of his voice and his body language, arms folded over his chest, were hard to misjudge: nonbeliever. Claire wasn’t surprised, even if he did make a convincing German necromancer.

  “Not seen it, no,” Addie said, “but I’ve felt it plenty of times.”

  “Felt how?” Claire didn’t seem to be getting the right details from them. It also occurred to her they might be stringing her along.

  “Like a cold breeze down your back,” said Morris. “Or a noise, a screech maybe, just on the edge of hearing. Something you thought you heard, but when you paid attention to it, it’s not there. Like quantum physics. You can only see those particles moving if you glance at them sideways. If you look directly, they freeze.”

  “So we have a quantum ghost.”

  Morris laughed and chugged the rest of his beer. “That’s very good, Claire.”

  “But seriously. What’s in the basement?” Silence settled around the table.

  “Nothing but junk. I’ve been down there.” Morris caught the bartender’s attention and held up four fingers for another round.

  Claire took a breath. “I think there’s something fishy down there.”

  Morris leaned back. “Well, it doesn’t have the most pleasant smell, that’s for sure.”

  “I could do a reading on it.” Everyone looked at Addie, who started digging around in her bag. “Got my cards with me.” She pulled out a black mesh drawstring bag containing a well-worn deck of cards. “I don’t mind doing a reading here. I like the vibe—it’s benevolent. And we practically have the place to ourselves.” She was wiping moisture from the space in front of her with her napkin, feeling with the flat of her palm to be sure the surface was dry before placing the cards down on it. She shuffled the oversized deck three times and then held it face down in her left hand. The cards were black on the back, with a small silver pentagram in the center. “What’s the first question?”

  “Who’s in the basement?”

  “Oh Morris, you can’t ask questions worded like that. It has to be something like, ‘comment on the energy in the basement of the Janus Theatre’…something that doesn’t require a specific name.”

  “Why don’t we each pose a question?” Claire said. “Just go around the circle.”

  “Perfect. I’ll pull four cards, one for each question.” Addie was all smiles. “Claire, you go first.” Addie put her right hand over the deck and closed her eyes.

  Claire swallowed the last of her beer. “Comment on the energy down in the Janus basement.”

  Addie pulled one card off the top and placed it face up on the table. They all leaned in.

  “Three of Wands.”

  “Is that good or bad?” Claire crooked her neck around, to get a better look at the image of three women, one young, one middle aged, and one silver haired, each holding a stick of wood with leaves growing from the end.

  Addie moved the card to the left of the open space in front of her. “It generally means that the thoughts of the querent—that’s us—have taken form and direction. It’s the card for understanding, seeing one’s way clearly.”

  Morris did not look impressed. “We could all use some of that. But the card didn’t comment on the basement, it commented on the person asking the question. I guess the deck has a mind of its own, eh?”

  The next round arrived and the bartender cleared away their empties.

  Claire pulled a small note pad out of her purse and jotted down the first card info.

  Addie laughed. “Looks like we have an official record keeper. Tom, you’re next.”

  “Skip me.”

  “Then I’m next.” Addie cut the deck, placed her right hand over it, and closed her eyes. “What is the nature of the presence we feel in the Janus Theatre?” She pulled a second card and placed it face up. “The Horned One.”

  They all stared at the new card. Two naked figures, a man and a woman, crouched in an attitude of flight before the towering muscular torso of a manlike creature with antlers and furred goat legs.

  Morris squinted at the card. “Oh, I get it. That’s the Wiccan version of the
devil. More benign, I suppose.”

  “It’s not the devil,” said Addie. “Pagans don’t believe in a ‘devil.’ This card represents the male aspect of deity, the counterpart of the earth mother.”

  “Cernunos,” said Tom.

  Addie shot him a look. “That’s one name for it. Anyway, the card means empowerment, earth magick.”

  “Or the Devil, if you want a Christian interpretation,” Morris added, “which would be appropriate, given the context of the theater and the play being rehearsed there.”

  “I like the pagan image better,” said Claire. “You’re next, Morris.”

  “Why does Claire want to know about the ghost in the basement?”

  Claire flushed. “Hey, that’s not fair. Addie isn’t doing a personal reading.”

  Morris grinned at her. “Rephrase. What is Claire’s connection to the entity haunting the Janus Theatre?”

  Claire sulked. “That’s not much better.”

  “Shhh.” Addie held her hand over the cards. “They want to answer.” She cut the deck and pulled a third card. They all leaned in again. On the card a young man in a red robe was placing four gleaming daggers into a square formation. “Four of Swords.”

  “Looks ominous,” said Morris.

  Addie was thoughtful. “Not necessarily. Swords usually indicate direct action or decision making. The number four is positive, which I would take to mean directing one’s energy toward a constructive goal. It could also mean thinking things through before taking effective action.”

  “That sounds like Claire.” Tom took a long pull at his second stout.

  Addie nodded. “It does, doesn’t it?”

  Claire squirmed, self-conscious. “Well, sorry, I don’t think being spontaneous is in my DNA. I’m methodical, always have been. Last question is yours.” She turned to Tom, who’d slouched down in the booth.

  He was silent, just looking at the cards. Claire wondered what was going through his mind.

  At last, he sat up with an effort. “Assuming there’s a presence in the Janus Theatre, what does it want?”

  Addie cut the deck and pulled the final card. “The Tower.” She pushed the card forward for all of them to see. The image depicted a round three-tiered tower with bright red and yellow light blasting out all its windows, the top cracking apart and falling, and its foundation stones crumbling.

  “Destruction,” said Morris.

  “Massive change,” corrected Addie. “Illumination or revelation. The truth comes to light, in a forceful way.”

  Claire’s skin tingled, looking at the image of the exploding tower. “Comes to light how? Does it mean the ghost wants to do something physical, like destroy the theater?” She looked around the table. “Are we in danger just by being there?”

  Addie made an exasperated noise. “Of course not. The picture on the card isn’t meant to be taken literally. The interpretations are metaphorical, suggestive. It’s just there to give you an impression of energy being released.”

  Morris held up the card for a better look. “That’s some energy blast.”

  “Let me see.” Tom reached out for the card.

  Claire gulped at her second beer. “Now you guys are getting me spooked.”

  Addie swept up the cards and stowed them back in their mesh bag. “I think you’re looking at this all wrong. My feeling is that we have an unhappy spirit that for whatever reason is unable to move on. We should all flood the place with white light and feelings of love and peace when we go there—reach out to the entity and help it let go of this earth plane and head to the light.”

  “What if we don’t believe in the light? Should we suggest it go toward the dark?” Morris was in irony mode.

  Addie sniffed. “Well, you can do what you like. I’m going to try to help the poor soul move on.”

  “Do you think Bayard knows he has an unhappy spirit haunting his building?” Claire was wondering how his “you harlot” remark squared with a poor unhappy spirit that needed help.

  “I doubt it. He doesn’t strike me as the spiritual type.” Tom’s expression was dour, but it might have been his post-accident aches and pains setting in. Claire had a half-empty bottle of Lortab in her medicine cabinet at home she could give him, if he’d take them. She made a note on her pad to bring them to the next rehearsal.

  “I wonder if he’d have a cow if we did a cleansing ritual on the building, like with incense and smudge sticks.” Addie was fishing for encouragement.

  It was obvious to Claire, if not the rest of them, that Addie was already making plans to do that very thing, no matter what the consensus was. She wouldn’t mind going along with it, just to see what happened. If it got her into the basement for a look around, so much the better.

  Morris finished his beer and dabbed at the edge of his mouth with a napkin. “You’re on your own, I’m afraid. This Mephisto plans to keep his otherwordly interventions confined to the stage.”

  “Same here,” said Tom, maneuvering his wallet out of his back pocket. “Much as I like sitting around here I need to get home and stretch out.” Since he was driving, obviously they all had to leave.

  Claire woke from the comfy alcohol daze she’d slipped into. “Absolutely. You should be in bed.” She quickly got out of the booth and stood up, pulling on her jacket. Morris and Tom split the tab, refusing to let either of the women pay. Claire made no objection, and Addie gushed about chivalry not being dead and buried.

  Wedged in the back seat of the tiny rental car with Addie, Claire felt a moment of panic as they approached the empty theater. All its lights were off, even the ones over the entrance. It looked like an empty shell. At least she’d managed to park out front this time—a rare bit of luck. Normally the parking slots along both sides of the road were filled all day and often past dark.

  Tom stopped and kept the car idling as Morris unfolded his long legs and got out. He helped first Claire and then Adelaide maneuver out of the cramped back seat. They stood on the sidewalk together, his arms draped companionably around both women. Tom nodded to them and drove away.

  “Must be hard on a cycle kind of guy to be stuck driving a four-cylinder minicar,” Morris remarked. “I heard him mention an accident?”

  “Yeah, he was nearly killed!”

  Claire gave Addie a look. “It wasn’t that bad. He got bruised up but nothing broken or damaged. The car that swerved to avoid hitting him lost control and turned over. That driver was lucky, too. Just a broken collarbone. We got her to the hospital in good shape.”

  “I don’t know how you do the work you do,” Addie said. “I have such a weak stomach when it comes to blood.”

  “Likewise. We stand in awe of you, Claire.” Did he really mean that? Claire scanned his face under the streetlight. Hard to tell. She found her keys and headed toward her Honda.

  “I guess I’ll see you next week.”

  “Drive safely.” Morris hunched his shoulders against the wind that picked up as they’d been talking. It had been a fairly mild winter so far, with December just a few days away. But there were warnings of an approaching cold front with temperatures in the teens and twenties. Claire shivered in her thin jacket. Maybe she would get to wear her wool overcoat this season after all.

  She cranked the car and eased away from the curb, letting the few cars still on the street go by. In her rearview mirror, Adelaide and Morris stood on the sidewalk watching her drive away. This was the first time she’d done anything social with a group from the Mummers. They turned out to be people she’d gladly call friends, people she would consider investing time in beyond her theatrical connection with them. Even Tom, who was unforthcoming and somewhat taciturn. Thinking about them made that sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach ease up.

  She didn’t have many friends these days, which she knew was part of her problem. Most of her circle of pals from high school was gone, scattered across the country. Jackie came back, but she’d brought with her a girl friend, as in serious girl friend. They bou
ght a small townhouse together in a newer housing development and Claire didn’t see much of Jackie after that, except at rehearsals. Who else was there that she could call friend? There was Paul, whom she’d trust with her life, but he wasn’t really the kind of person she’d go hang out with or confide her darkest fears to. Although maybe that wouldn’t be a bad idea—he’d been through some genuine hell of his own in Kuwait and Iraq and somehow seemed to be coping with it.

  Claire drove the remaining miles toward home in a kind of road amnesia, her thoughts drifting back through images of high school and earlier, times where small moments of significance stuck up above the cloudbank of a nondescript life. She turned off the main road into the old neighborhood where she’d lived all her life. A few newer houses were scattered among the Craftsman cottages and bungalows and brick ranch-style houses that had been there since the 1920s and 30s, but mostly it was an old neighborhood, drowsing in its decline, where memory lay thick along the tree-lined narrow streets. The weathered picket fence marking the small front yard of the house she’d grown up in came into view. Even in the headlights she could see how soot had stained the tall chimney and vines encrusted the brickwork arches over the front porch. The house needed some work, but there was no money for it.

  Tendrils of that black creeping emptiness she associated with clinical depression, which she held at bay most of the time, crept into her thoughts and tightened the lump in her throat. Only then did she realize it had been completely absent for that cozy hour and a half she’d spent in the pub with Addie, Morris, and Tom. They’d taken her out of her usual routine and caused a shift in her psyche, somewhat the way Tom’s takeover of Faustus had shifted the play into new territory. It was something to think about.

  Chapter 7

  Friday, a week later – after midnight