by Ira Levin
She made a cup of instant coffee and turned on the TV—to a news anchor touching his ear, listening. “We have word now,” he told her, “that there are fifty-seven known dead.” He sighed, shook his head. “To recap for you...”
Another Hamburg. Smaller. This time Quebec.
On Christmas Eve . . .
She sat sorrowing, shaking her head.
Half the channels had it coming in.
An anchor said, “No one has claimed responsibility.”
“Asshole,” she said.
She flipped past Jimmy Stewart dancing with Donna Reed on the floor opening over the pool—sweet movie but twice was enough—and watched some of The God’s Children’s All-Holy-Days Special. When Andy started talking she flipped away; didn’t feel like watching him do his stuff tonight. She thumbed back to news. The death toll was up to sixty-two. She zapped it.
She stood looking out the window at the park’s quilt of snow—rounded shapes aglow with lights, laced with footpaths—wondering how Joe was faring out in Little Neck, at Ronnie’s table with Mary Elizabeth and her doctor. Would erratic train service make him stay over? He hadn’t volunteered details about the marriage and its breakup, but she’d gathered that the physical side hadn’t been the problem. Would he be spending the night in former-fashion-model Ronnie’s room? The thought stung—with surprising sharpness. A brake screamed below; she heard the screams in St. Patrick’s, banging, ringing. She shuddered, hugged her arms.
Changed AMOURLESTS into LOSTMAUSER. Vaguely familiar.
At a quarter of eleven, she freshened her makeup and fixed her hair—she’d had Ernie undo his inspiration, Andy had been right—and took half of one of the pills, just to be safe.
She cracked the hall door and peered off at the concierge’s desk; one of the women was on, she couldn’t tell which, talking to a couple in coats. She drew the door closed and waited, looking at the framed hall map with its red emergency exits. She’d find hers somehow— ten feet dead ahead.
She cracked the door again and—as a few people came out of a door farther down on the opposite side—drew it closed. But cracked it, waited till the two men and a woman were near the desk, blocking her—and stepped out, closed the door with its DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging, crossed the hall, pushed open the glass-paned EMERGENCY EXIT door, went onto the landing, pushed the door closed.
The stairway was whitewashed cinder blocks and fluorescent lights. Holding a black metal banister, she climbed zigzag half flights to the eighth-floor landing.
Leaned her cheek to the door’s glass pane.
She opened the door and went out into a softly lit hall—forest-green vinyl and sky-blue walls—like the hall on ten but half its width, and fully walled except for a large pair of doors across from the elevators and rest rooms.
She walked down there, to walnut double doors sealed with a giant brass GC logo. Saw herself askew, in black, in its polished surface.
She crouched, a hand to the floor; put an eye to the crack beneath the brass.
She stood, drawing breath, and took the flashlight and the card from her pockets. Reached the card to the slot by the door frame and ran it through; if it let her into Andy’s private elevator it ought to open his front door for her.
Before she could touch the brass logo it split backward, the doors swinging open on darkness.
The flashlight and the spill from the hallway showed a large reception room—upscale furniture and magazines, doors all around.
She went into the room and turned, facing the elevators. Stood palming her forehead, trying to recall the ninth-floor layout from the day of the taping, over two weeks ago, and a meeting in one of the conference rooms a day or two after.
The conference rooms overlooked the park, which meant that the amphitheater was behind the elevators. Yes, they had gone out and back, around a curving wall; the rear of the stage ran parallel to the building’s Broadway side. Which meant that the spiral stairs in the passageway between the dressing rooms and bathrooms— would be there—off somewhere beyond the northwest corner of the reception room, almost all the way back.
She followed her fluid disc of light through a door to the right, and down forest-green vinyl between walls of office doors numbered in the low 800’s. At a fork, she went left; followed more forest-green vinyl past higher-numbered doors. Just about where she thought it would be, she found, in an alcove on her right, a black iron spiral to the floor above.
She mounted its wedge steps slowly, holding the handrail, pausing to listen—silence—keeping the light down, coming up into forest-green passageway, floor and walls carpeted. On the right, two doors a few yards apart, a pay phone on the curving wall between; on the left, two doors side by side, symboled bathroom doors, dark at the bottom. Light underlined the dressing-room doors; the nearer, the door to the women’s, was open a crack, light from inside glazing its forest-green enamel. Coming out of the spiral, standing in the carpeted passageway, Rosemary sniffed.
Sniffed again.
Tannis, anybody?
She peeped into the dressing room. No movement, no sound.
She opened the door farther. The booths, facing each other three and three, were open, curtains gathered at the sides. In the booth at her right, Diane’s five hundred dead minks hung on a wall hanger alongside one of her velvet tents. Her jeweled watch and rings lay on a shelf, her black leather drawstring bag on the bench, black boots below. At the other end of the bench, black panty hose, tangled, stretched...
Craig’s deep voice spoke in the green room; the door to it, beyond the empty chairs at the makeup tables, was only partway closed. He sounded as if he was asking questions. She leaned into the dressing room, a hand on the knob, a hand on the jamb, straining to hear. Couldn’t make out what he was saying or an answer but caught a click from the hallway; stepped in, closing the door at her side as the men’s dressing room door opened. She backed into Diane’s booth, stood with her heart thumping.
Got a good breath.
In the booth opposite, a flouncy aqua suit, dead beavers, brown boots, a Gucci sack. Polly. Leopard-printed undies . . .
Silence now from the green room.
She waited.
Sniffed. The tannis tang seemed stronger, weaving through a jungle of perfumery—or maybe the pill, whatever it was, had sharpened her sense of smell. Colors too looked clearer.
Leaning around, she checked the booth alongside. Vanessa—electric-blue duffel coat, jeans, fuchsia sweater, brown hiking boots, black panties.
She leaned farther out; the booth next to Polly’s was Sandy’s—dead coyotes, white leather boots, a pistachio dress. No undies.
She could leave right now. Did it make any difference whether Andy was there or not? They hadn’t stripped to discuss GC’s public-health programs for the year 2000— never mind at least two of the men being there. And the tannis smell was tannis, definitely, no mistaking it.
She took a good deep breath, to be sure.
Definitely tannis . . .
Silence still from the green room.
She stepped out and checked the last two booths; an empty beside Sandy’s, another empty past Vanessa’s— except for a long rust-colored robe hanging against the side wall she’d passed.
She stopped, stepped into the booth, studied the richly dyed robe. Raw silk, nubbly—supple between her fingertips. She drew a wide sleeve toward her; a cowl hung in back, a rust rope belt.
A monkish robe, lightweight, good lines, hems double stitched. She worked the label clear of the hanger’s neck, squinted: MME. DELPHINE—THEATRICAL COSTUMIER.
She pinched a hair from the label, pulled it all the way free.
Held it up, seeing with her fresh, ultra-clear eyes the sleekness of the foot-long black filament...
She draped the hair over the shoulder of the robe.
She went between the chairs and the makeup tables with their bulbed mirrors to the partly closed door; moved behind it, and holding the knob, peeped through the hinge crack.<
br />
About fifteen feet away, almost directly in front of her, a little to the left, Sandy sat in the middle of a sofa, in a rust robe of her own, studying cards on an antique wardrobe trunk—tarot cards, for sure. She moved one, studied the pattern, sighed. Bad news from the beyond.
Tannis wafted through the crack; they were probably burning it as incense, in there or on the stage. Another rust robe passed close before her, left to right. “It’s way past ten-thirty! I asked him specifically to start on time.” Polly. “I hate staying up till the wee small hours; my internal clocks get all jangled.”
Sandy gathered her cards, quick-shuffled, began laying them down again. Polly came back, sitting on the arm of the sofa, nibbling a cookie. She crossed bare legs out of her robe, good ones for her age, wiggled red toenails. Leaned her blond ringlets toward the trunk, bit her lip. Tsk-tsked.
Sandy sighed. “Always chaos, meaningless chaos...”
Enter third witch, left. “Has anyone seen Andy? He was here, now he’s gone.”
“It’s way past ten-thirty,” Polly said.
“I know,” Diane said, coming to Sandy’s other side. “The boys are getting antsy.” Her robe was violet, dyed no doubt to match her eyes. She watched Sandy shift cards. Said, “What’s ‘lousetrasm’?”
“Nothing,” Sandy said. “Chaos. It’s a puzzle Judy gave me.”
“Alice, you mean,” Polly said.
“I still can’t believe it,” Sandy said, shifting her cards.
Diane, coming away from them, said, “Word games bore the shit out of me.” She migrated rightward.
Rosemary drew from the crack, wide-eyed. Sandy hooked too? She turned. Andy held a finger to his lips: “Shhhh.” She gaped; he covered her open mouth with his fingers. Whispered, “I was beginning to think you weren’t putting me on.” Grinned at her, gave her a kiss on the nose.
He took his fingers from her mouth, kept the hand raised for silence, winked at her as he opened the door tighter against her, easing out. “Ladies, would you mind? I need the room to myself for a few minutes.”
“What for?” Diane, off right.
“Heavy meditation, okay? Out. Thank you all.” A black robe for him, the same design as the others, from behind anyway, the cowl hanging down, the rope belt. The Sulka robe, downstairs in its giftwrap, would be sort of redundant; all the more reason not to give it to him, the cocky lying son of a—Satan.
“What were you doing in there?” Sandy asked, gathering her cards.
“Trying on boots. Polly...”
“You said we would start—”
“Start without me. I mean it, go ahead. Yo, Kevin! Go sound! Tell him.”
He was closing the door to the stage when she went into the green room—ducking, glancing up at herself glancing down at her.
A theater or TV green room that’s actually green is a rarity. One that’s all green, forest green, in an all-forest-green theater—is a visual oxymoron. Or something. The low mirrored ceiling doubled the room’s odd flavor. The offstage space had been decked; the control room for the light and audio systems was close overhead—along with everybody’s upside-down reflection walking and sitting and schmoozing, or doing whatever they were doing in the forest-green green room.
Rosemary chose a chair by the sofa; sat straight in it, her elbows on its arms, her hands folded before her, fingers meshed, black-slacked legs together, black flats together on the carpeted floor.
Andy walked across the room—his reflection walking close above him, pulling the black robes tight, cinching the rope belts—to the coffee and tea and the giant red Coke machine. “You want coffee?”
She stayed silent a moment. Said, “Black, please.”
He poured coffee, poked the machine; a can clunked.
He brought her a GC mug of black coffee, with a spoon and a packet of sweetener; sat at the end of the sofa near her, popped the red can. Sipped from it.
She stirred the mug on the trunktop, eyeing Sandy’s “cards,” slips of three-by-five memo paper under a rounded silver paperweight. “You want the answer to it?”
She looked at him. “To Roast Mules?” she asked.
He nodded, smiling. “I got it in a week or so.”
“Don’t you dare tell me!” she said. “I’ll find it myself!”
He chuckled. “Oh boy,” he said, “do I have a hold over you. Watch out or I’ll say it.”
She put the spoon down, sat straight with the mug in both hands; drew a breath and sipped, looking ahead.
He put the can on the carpet, away from his bare foot; leaned closer to her. “I shouldn’t tease,” he said. “I know you’re worried. Don’t be. I only lied a little. I’m sorry. I was afraid I might scare you away again, after you’d been gone so long. Mom, look at me. Please.”
She turned her head, looked at him.
He said, his eyes clear hazel, “What’s going on here isn’t Satanism. I don’t worship him, believe me. To know him is to hate him; he lives up to his reputation. This is—trimmings, things I grew up with and like, that’s all. Those were the only parties and holidays I knew. This isn’t even witchcraft, we don’t do spells or anything. It’s no more Minnie and Roman’s old-time religion than—than an office Christmas party is Rob Patterson’s. Listen to that...” He nodded across the room.
Chanting had begun—coming from a speaker in the forest-green carpet between the tops of the dressing-room doors—an undulant chanting twined with odd, quivering overtones. “Do you recognize it?” he asked.
She cocked an ear toward the speaker.
“Did you ever—take part in any—”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I heard though. Through the walls, and the closet. You know.”
He nodded, smiled.
She said, “This is different...”
“It’s one of the old chants,” he said, “but Hank’s done things with it electronically—that’s his hobby, electronic music. That’s exactly what I mean—taped chants, electronically enhanced.” He smiled. “Play them backwards, you hear the Lord’s Prayer.”
She smiled, sipped from the mug. Glanced at him as he picked up the can and drank, his Adam’s apple moving. She put the mug on the trunk, sat back with her hands on the chair arms, looked ahead. Crossed her legs. Sniffed. Fanned a hand before her face.
“It really is an office Christmas party,” he said, setting the can back down. “Done the way Andy likes it. They accept it as an interesting, not so exceptional kink in someone who has to present a full-time public image of conventional goodness—a kink that Andy somehow intuited each of them could go along with, for his or her own reason. It connects in a way with those professional types coming down out of Dominique’s Dungeon Monday night. At least according to Vanessa; she wrote her thesis on the subject.”
He leaned closer to her. “These are talented people who do a world of good,” he said, “and they ease the stress and let off steam with some unconventional behavior. They’re no more Satanists than you are; half of them are regular churchgoers. Jay’s an officer of his synagogue.” He put his hand on hers on the chair arm. “And they’re not murderers, Mom,” he said. “And I didn’t tell them to murder. That’s what you’re most worried about, isn’t it.”
Looking at him, she nodded. “Yes,” she said.
He sat back, shook his head, raked his tawny hair. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why? I suppose you could say Judy meant to betray me last summer, but she didn’t. We had absolutely no idea who she really was.”
“She came to tell me something,” she said, “not for a game of Scrabble.”
He looked away, shook his head, sighed. Looked back at her. “Probably that she was ending our relationship,” he said. “Things fell apart in Dublin. Guess which night.” He picked up the can, drank.
“She’d already told me that,” she said, watching him. “I think she was going to tell me about this.”
“Mom, it’s nothing,” he said. “See for yourself, watch for a few minut
es. Her robe is in there; put it on, pull the cowl all the way down, nobody’ll know it’s you. They’ll think I brought someone, I used to before. You’ll see, it’s just a party with some druid chants and old dances and good eats. Black candles instead of red and green, tannis instead of holly—big deal.”
She looked at him. Said, “Thanks but no thanks.”
“Nobody would pressure you to do anything,” he said.
“I said no,” she said. “Even if it’s as innocent as you—”
“I didn’t say innocent,” he said. Smiled. “I said not Satanism, and no pressure. Chances are William will grope you, but if you slap his hand he won’t do it again. Muhammed’s more persistent.”
“And if Judy had gone to the media with just that?” she asked. “Just ‘druidic office parties at GCNY’?”
He sat a moment, and got up and walked toward the dressing-room doors, draining the can under his upside-down reflection sucking at his.
He crumpled the can, tossed it into a wastebasket, turned and faced her. “It would have been an embarrassment, yes,” he said. “But believe me, Mom, I never would have hurt her little finger to stop her. I really loved her—even after Thanksgiving.”
She looked away. A drumbeat joined the chanting, slow and steady . . .
“And I don’t believe she’d have done it,” he said, going back to her. “She enjoyed everything as much as anyone. She gave us Yoga ideas we’ve made part of things.” He crouched by her chair. “Come on,” he said, his hand squeezing hers on the chair arm. “Just for a few minutes. For us, you and me. How can we go on having fun together, like today, with you thinking maybe I’m still lying and they’re out there chopping heads off chickens?”
She sighed. “I wasn’t thinking that.”
“What were you thinking?” he asked.
She looked at him, blinked, shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “A ‘Black Mass,’ I guess. I don’t really know...”
“What are you,” he asked, smiling at her, “a cardinal who condemns movies he hasn’t seen? Books he hasn’t read?”
