by Mort Castle
“Obsessed,” Selena said. “An obsession is a spirit’s attack on a living person. It can lead to total possession of that person. It’s not to that point with your daughter. Not yet.”
“Whoa!” Warren Barringer held up his hand, palm out. “I write fiction, but I don’t live it, okay? Ms. Lazone, are you listening to yourself? Do you have any idea how crazy you sound?”
“Yes,” Selena said.
Then Selena’s eyes met Vicki’s, and Selena knew she understood—and believed.
So Selena’s next words were directed to the woman. “There’s nothing I can do, Mrs. Barringer. Your daughter needs a minister, a priest, or a rabbi…”
“How about Shirley MacLaine?” Warren cut in. “Or maybe we can get Mary Baker Eddy’s ghost! We’ll certainly want to get Missy fixed up before she starts spitting green pea soup at us or spinning her head around 360 degrees!”
“I can do nothing more for you,” Selena said.
Warren said, “Just for the sake of adding a moronic question to a ridiculous conversation, how do you know all this voodoo, black magic, poltergeist stuff anyway? Are you a witch, Ms. Lazone?”
“No.”
That was all she said to Warren Barringer.
But to herself she admitted that once she was a cohalyi, but no longer.
Not ever again.
Bater.
May it be so!
— | — | —
Thirty-Four
As soon as they got the car at the underground Grant Park parking garage, Warren started in. “I’ve never heard garbage like that in my life! Metaphysical babble! That Lazone woman has to be goofier than any of her…”
At the exit, he rolled down his window. “The ticket!” he snapped. “You have the ticket, right?”
She did. She handed him a ten-dollar bill to pay the $7.25 parking fee. Warren snorted his annoyance at “Chicago, City of the Big Rip-offs.”
Vicki thought he was upset in a way she did not understand. She was worried. She was worried about him, about Missy, about everything. She was worried and frightened and in her belly, behind the rib that still hurt, she felt an irregularly shaped, impossibly heavy weight.
Just as they were about to merge onto the Dan Ryan Expressway, they were cut off by an old Cadillac that lacked a rear license plate, a trunk lid and a back bumper. Warren swore.
In the back seat, Missy laughed.
Then Warren said, “The goddamned world is full of goddamned crazy people.”
And you sound like one of them, Vicki thought.
Missy laughed. “Daddy is talking dirty!”
“Goddamn right Daddy is talking goddamn dirty, goddamnit,” Warren said. His hands were tight on the steering wheel. “‘Psychologist? She’s the one who needs a psychologist. Maybe plug her toe into the wall socket and give her some shock treatments, goddamn crazy woman.”
Missy giggled happily.
“Warren,” Vicki said, “please.”
“Sure,” he said, “no problem.”
Suddenly, he swung his head around, peering over his shoulder, his eyebrows question marks. His voice filled the car. “Missy, how about it? Are you crazy or what?”
“Warren, watch where…” Vicki sucked in a breath and tasted fear and dryness.
“No, Daddy!” A laughing response from the rear.
He whipped his head back to peer through the windshield.
That burning intensity on his face, Vicki thought, went beyond his drunken, vicious, the-hell-with-you and don’t-get-in-my-way expression; it was madness.
“Warren, stop it,” Vicki said tightly. “Just stop it now.”
He did not. “Missy,” Warren said, “Do you have a nasty demon or anything like that in you?” His mocking and cruel tone was, Vicki knew, for her benefit.
“No, Daddy,” Missy said.
“Goddamned right!”
“You’re so silly, Daddy.”
“I am silly,” he agreed, “and that Lazone lady is a certifiable nut. And that is that.”
“No, Warren,” Vicki said. “I know what Ms. Lazone was saying, and I know why she was saying it.”
Vicki did. One might pretend that all things were rational and logical, that simple-minded common sense was the key to all the workings of the universe, but it just wasn’t so.
Melissa Barringer, their daughter, was being assaulted by a wicked spirit. Diakka. That was a word Vicki had never heard before.
But she understood. She believed in wicked spirits, and she had good reason. A wicked spirit had attacked her, tried to kill her. It was not—she would stake her life on it—her child!
Superstition? Foolish mythology? How could you watch television news or read the daily papers, how could you be alive in the twentieth century and question that evil as a force above and beyond human nature really, truly existed?
Vicki Barringer did not know how to combat the evil, the diakka, but she knew that God was more powerful than evil, that God could defeat evil, destroy evil.
She needed someone who knew and understood God. Someone who walked with the Lord and in His ways.
She knew of such a man.
And it all somehow made perfect sense.
Now was the time for a healing, and not only a healing for Missy.
As soon as they got home, she would call Carol Grace and ask for the help of Evan Kyle Dean.
They were pulling into the driveway when she told Warren.
“What?” He slammed into PARK. “Bullshit! That goddamn charlatan, that snake oil salesman…”
Warren was positively screaming as they got out of the car. “Hi, you-all, I’m your Reverend Jimmy Bob Jumpsuit, preaching my fat, phony ass off! Put your hand on the nineteen-inch Zenith and I’ll cure your cancer or your constipation!” Warren waved his hands overhead, doing a spastically ludicrous impression of a television faith healer. “Jay-zuss! Jay-zuss!”
Then Missy scampered out of the car and took Warren’s hand.
As though a switch had been thrown, Warren instantly became calm. He shrugged and grinned apologetically. “Sorry, I guess that woman really got to me. I know I’m acting foolishly.”
All Vicki could do was stare at him.
“Sorry,” Warren said again.
Really, he assured her, anything Vicki thought they should do, why, that was what they would do. He had no problem with that. After all, they both wanted the best for Missy. Of course. No, no way he really thought there was anything to what Ms. Lazone had told them, but, okay, for Missy’s sake, he would be open-minded.
He was speaking too rapidly, too soothingly. It was not genuine.
He was trying to put something over on her, Vicki thought.
You…fake! Anger flared within her. What did he think he was doing with his placating, condescending attitude?
Whatever he was up to, whatever his game and his reasons for it, Warren was not opposing her. For the moment, that was all that mattered.
In the house, Warren and Missy making themselves scarce, she called her sister and cried when she heard her voice.
Carol Grace cried, too.
With all there was to say, there really was very little to say—not on the telephone, anyway. “I am sorry.” Both sisters said that. This was something that should have happened long ago. They both knew that.
Vicki needed her sister’s help, the help of the man her sister had married.
Vicki spoke with Evan Kyle Dean. It was so hard to explain. It sounded, well, quite frankly, like she was utterly insane.
But she wasn’t. I need God’s help! I need this man of God, Evan Kyle Dean, Vicki told herself.
Despite her stumbling words, Evan Kyle Dean assured her he did understand. He promised he would help. He had encountered similar situations.
She was not to bring the child to him.
The evil must be confronted where it had beset the little girl. There, the wickedness must be banished from this, the rightful realm of God and His children.
Tomo
rrow, he would be there. For now, trust in God.
In Vicki Barringer’s thanks, he heard a wet, heartfelt sob.
“God loves you,” he assured her.
“Yes,” she said.
He hung up the phone. “God loves us all!” Evan Kyle Dean sank to his knees. He folded his hands. He did not pray, did not speak to the Lord God, but instead listened with his most secret heart and his most secret mind.
God spoke to him: Evan Kyle Dean, servant and prophet of the living God, in My name will you cast out evil? In My name, will you work miracles and wonders?
In his most secret heart and his most secret mind, Evan Kyle Dean replied, “In Your name, Lord, will I cast out evil. In Your name, will I work miracles and wonders.”
God spoke: My name be your shield. My name be your sword.
Evan Kyle Dean answered, “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
It was past one o’clock in the morning and Warren could not sleep. Just as he’d start to drift off, he would get this urge to laugh and had to stifle it. What struck him as funny?
Everything struck him as funny!
But no, he was not laughing, not out loud.
That doesn’t mean he wasn’t laughing inside.
Quietly, he slipped out of bed, although he was positive he could have unloaded a truckload of church bells without waking Vicki.
So what to do with these wide-awake moments? Say, he was a writer, right, so down to the writing room.
His room. His typewriter. His desk. In the drawers of his desk, some secrets.
The little doll!
Our secret.
He saw it was nearly three o’clock in the goddamn morning!
Time sure flies when…when…
When what?
A gear clicked, and within a part of his mind that had been blocked off, there was a shifting and a linking as he answered himself:
When you are fucking out of your mind! When you are hop, skip, and a jump crazy! When up looks like down and down looks like up and every way is sideways! When you’ve lost it, really lost it all, and your whole life is no deposit and no return. When she makes you do what she wants you to do.
The moment of clarity and its overwhelming feeling of loss vanished.
He stood up and left his room, remembering to shut off the light. He went up the stairs slowly, so slowly.
He walked into Melissa’s bedroom and gazed down at the underwear-clad child. She slept on her stomach. The blankets had been kicked away.
He did nothing but stand there in his daughter’s room.
The child rolled over and sat up.
She was so beautiful.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you,” he said.
— | — | —
Four: o Drom Le Baht
The Way of Fate
The Romany are unfailingly light-hearted and optimistic, a joyful people. Often compared to carefree grasshoppers in a world of hard-working ants, Gypsies live by the creed: “Now is our moment and tomorrow will take care of itself.”
The quotation comes from Travel on the Wind, the book written by noted anthropologist and researcher Dr. Milos Bartok, who spent more than half of his life with the Rom. When the Rawnie, the great lady, Pola Janichka, was told of the doctor’s assessment, she agreed. How could she not? After all, Dr. Bartok was only repeating what she had taught him.
To the Gypsy, the world is dark and grim. Man is small and weak, helpless against natural and supernatural forces he can sometimes vaguely perceive but cannot understand. Animistic magic and shamanistic religion offer the Gypsy small solace and minimal protection in such a hostile universe. Philosophically, the Gypsy stands with head bowed in fatalistic acceptance of the whims and workings of a cruel cosmos.
The quotation is taken from Modern Man and Primitive Religions, the textbook written by Dr. J. L. Popovich, the noted philosopher and sociologist who studied the Rom for over 20 years. When the Rawnie, the great lady, Pola Janichka, was told of this doctor’s assessment, she agreed. How could she not? After all, Dr. Popovich was only repeating what she had taught him.
Both doctors knew something of the Rom.
But neither doctor was Rom.
Thus neither doctor would have understood this swato of Pola Janichka:
“Puri Tibbo? What is there that has not been said about old Tibbo, Rom Baro among Rom Baros, a Rai, a chief, a king! Strong? Why, once Tibbo lifted up a grai on his shoulders and, as the horse neighed its surprise at this turnabout of events, carried it all through the camp. ‘After all,’ Tibbo laughed, ‘this horse has often carried me on his back! Why should I not return the favor?’
“Stories are told of Puri Tibbo’s miraculous skill in foraging, his splendid luck, bahtalo, in always finding chickens and pigs and sheep and cows when others were fortunate to find even berries. Hah, the kumpania of Puri Tibbo never went hungry, you may be sure and never once did the Gaje policemen lell old Tibbo to jail for his foraging skills.
“Yes, Puri Tibbo was clever, so clever that he once sold a three-legged mare to a blacksmith! There was a cleverness in his hands as well. Puri Tibbo could juggle a dozen sharp tshcuris, no knife ever giving him even the slightest cut.
“And with such hands, you might think Tibbo was a grand musician, and so he was, but remember, one needs both hands and heart to make true music. When Puri Tibbo played the guitar, all people, Gaje and Rom, wept; when he played the mandolin, people and animals, crawling and flying, large and small, wept, and when he played violin, people and animals and vila, all manner of spirits, good and evil, wept.
“Puri Tibbo was a good man and a clever man, and you might think being good and being clever sufficient gifts for any man, but Puri Tibbo had wisdom as well—uncommon wisdom.
“What is wisdom, you might ask-and there are more foolish questions by far. The wise man sees what is as it is.
“And that is how Puri Tibbo saw everything. It is told how, when Puri Tibbo’s oldest and best beloved son died of tate shilalyi, the chills and fever, old Tibbo wept and danced for three days. ‘I weep in sorrow,’ Tibbo told the kumpania, ‘because my son is dead,’ and all the Rom could understand this. But why did Puri Tibbo dance? ‘I dance in joy,’ Tibbo told the kumpania, ‘because I had a wonderful son,’ and, I am sorry to say, that not all of the kumpania had the wisdom to understand this.
“Ah, the wisdom of Puri Tibbo…It was said of Puri Tibbo that doctors sought his advice on how to dispense medicine, that judges sought his advice on how to dispense justice, that priests sought his advice on how to dispense salvation.
“Now, as must all people, Puri Tibbo died, only O Del, the good God, is eternal. Can it be too great a surprise that the death of a Rai, a noble and wise man, should be a noble and wise death?
“It happened that the kumpania of Puri Tibbo was obliged to pass through a land in which the Rom were despised and cruelly treated by the Gaje, a country in which Gaje law said Gypsies might be imprisoned or beaten or killed for the crime of being Gypsies. Thanks be to O Del, the caravan safely journeyed nearly the length of this wicked land, coming at last to a wide, rain-swollen, rushing river. Furious white explosions of foam burst against huge, jagged boulders in the path of the waters. The river roared like a thousand hells. It was a fearsome place and an awesome place, and on its bank, waving his hands in the air, was a Gajo dressed in the clothing of a farmer. He was screaming, ‘My child! My baby! Someone save my little baby!’
“And there, far out in the water, being swept downstream was something small and pink.
“Puri Tibbo swept off his hat and stepped out of his shoes and started for the river.
“At that very second, Baht, fate itself, appeared to Puri Tibbo, and in such a way that Baht could only be seen by Puri Tibbo. Such a thing is strange and miraculous, of course, but as we know, much that happens in the life of each and every one of us is strange and miraculous. ‘Tibbo,’ Baht said, ‘do not go into the river. You are strong, but the r
iver is stronger. You see, this is my river, O Paya le Baht, the Waters of Fate. You are safe on the land. The water will surely kill you.’
“Roughly, Puri Tibbo pushed Baht aside and leaped into that awful river.
“A short but most violent time passed, and then, bones broken, lungs full of water, Puri Tibbo was hurled on shore far down river. Death, black and cold, was crawling within him.
“In Puri Tibbo’s strong arms was a piglet, an eyeless freak with a split snout. The ugly piglet was the kind of sport the Gaje thought it bad luck to eat, and so it became sport, a killing joke on a Gypsy.
“Again, Baht appeared before the eyes, now growing dim, of Puri Tibbo. ‘Tibbo, you knew you would perish if you went into the river. This time, Fate itself gave you a choice!’
“‘No,’ Tibbo said, not at all regretfully, ‘You are mistaken. You, Baht, made me what I am, Mandi Rom. I am Gypsy man. So I had no choice. I had to try to save a drowning child.’
“Then Puri Tibbo again said, ‘Mandi Rom; I am Gypsy man. I have lived a good life.’ For a moment, Tibbo’s vision cleared and above him he saw the infinite blue sky; he would die outside befitting a man of the Rom.
“So he would say, ‘Now I have a good death,’ which is what he did say before he closed his eyes forever.
“May we all be able to speak so when it is our time to go into the nation of the dead.”
— | — | —
Thirty-Five
Walking along Michigan Avenue at 8:30, Tuesday morning, Selena Lazone felt a touch too warm in her London Fog coat. She doubted anything she could have worn would have been exactly right for today. It was chilly but not actually cold; today struck her as neither the end of autumn nor the beginning of winter. It seemed a day between seasons, a time between times, a temporary suspension of chronology and progression.