by Anne Rice
Inside, as I gingerly first-footed, I was incredulous to see that everything was indeed as I had imagined it. The dowdy carpet. The tasteless furniture. And the clinking teacups, the set square sandwiches, the dusty lace, the lugubrious clock. The silent signs of people. Even the lump of black snot pulsing and clucking in one of the wing armchairs.
Then, with a shock, realization dawned that all the tawdry department store paintings depicted images of myself in various stages of abstraction. You could not fool me: I had not been staring into the long wardrobe mirror for years on end for nothing. As I peered at these questionable works of art, I could well recognize the way my own saliva drooled from each corner of the lips. Then, the gathered guests (or hosts) raised their heads from slurping the tepid tea spilt in the saucers, and they all winked in recognition. I winked back, since they all were myself at various ages. I was indeed relieved to discover that I was not obsessed with the front room, since the front room was surely obsessed with me!
I sat on a vacant stool and sipped at the tea, not even wondering who had passed me a cup. A goods train with its voice breaking trundled by outside. A distant factory hooter sounded its spectral foghorn. I looked at all the others looking at me: zombies of myself at various points along the spectrum of ennui and stifled passion. I shuddered from bone to bone, wrapped in the seedy loose covers of my own flesh. I shivered. I thought I must have a cold coming—or a mind going….
THE SILENT MAJORITY
ROBERT WEINBERG
APE Largo grunted in surprise. The door to the huge old ware-house he called home stood wide open. Light from inside spilled onto the dark sidewalk. Immediately, he suspected something was wrong.
Papa Benjamin, his mentor and owner of the building, always kept the front door closed, though never locked. Visitors were always welcome to the largest oum’phor in Chicago. A voodoo temple remained open around the clock. However, Papa Benjamin, its houn’-gan, strictly enforced certain rules of behavior. Number one on that short list was that the door of the temple remained shut at all times. The gaping portal warned Ape that uninvited and unwanted guests lurked within. Huge muscles in his shoulders and arms tensed, bulging like steel bands beneath his shirt. When Ape grew angry, he was not pleasant.
Moving without making a sound, Ape crept closer to the door. A monster of a man, standing little more than five feet high and with shoulders nearly as wide as he was tall, he possessed a huge barrel chest and long arms that stretched almost to the ground. He resembled a grotesque cross between man and gorilla. A misshapen bullet head and flat, brutal features gave no indication of his true intelligence. Raised in a circus and educated on the street, Ape Largo possessed both brains and brawn. He was a very dangerous man.
A high-pitched, shrill voice, raised in anger, drifted out into the street. Ape frowned, trying to place it. “If you ain’t standin’ with me, Uncle Tom,” the stranger was saying, “then you’re standin’ against me.”
“Cinder-Block Simmons,” Ape whispered to himself. The knowledge did nothing to reassure him. Simmons was a notorious Chicago thug who thrived on violence and intimidation. For years, he had been involved in the loan-shark business. The “Cinder-Block” nickname came from his practice of crushing the hands of delinquent clients with slabs of cement.
Recently, street talk centered on Simmons’s entry into the drug field. Though competition for the lucrative crack cocaine market was intense, Cinder-Block had the muscle and ruthlessness to make his mark. What the creep wanted with Papa Benjamin, Ape had no idea. But he intended to find out right away.
Like a whisper of wind, Ape slid into the huge old building. It had served as Papa Benjamin’s temple for more than thirty years. The voodoo priest had transformed the inside of the former warehouse into a voodoo temple much like those in his native Haiti.
A thin layer of earth covered the wooden floor. A model of a ship hung from the ceiling, the symbol of Agoué, the great voodoo god of the sea. Thumbtacked to the rear wall was a photo of the president of the United States. Next to it stood an American flag.
In the exact middle of the room rested the center post of the temple, the poteau-mitan. A square-cut post set in a circular pedestal of masonry known as the socle, it stretched from floor to ceiling. Covering it was a complex spiral design that represented the twin serpent gods of voodoo—Danballah Wedo and Aida Wedo.
Ape knew quite a lot about the Invisibles, the name given to the many voodoo deities. For the past two years he had been studying their secrets with Papa Benjamin. Someday, when his teacher retired or died, Ape would become houn’gan of this temple. It was not a burden he was prepared to assume for quite some time.
Ape’s eyes narrowed as he took in the scene. Things were not as bad as he had suspected. Three men faced one at the base of the center post. Fortunately, two of the three were cheap street hooligans, hired muscle working for Cinder-Block Simmons. Their kind never worried Ape.
Only their leader, a big, burly man over six feet tall, massively built with the features of a pit bull, presented a problem. Cinder-Block had a reputation as a killer. Dealing unarmed with the thug and his two assistants all at once might be difficult.
“Only a fool threatens those more powerful than himself,” Papa Benjamin declared solemnly. Only the barest nod of his head indicated that he saw Ape standing in the rear of the temple. In a quiet voice that somehow filled the entire room, he asked, “Dare you defy the power of the Invisibles, Mr. Simmons?”
Ape shook his head in silent admiration. No one intimidated Papa Benjamin. The voodoo priest dominated the others by the sheer force of his personality. Short and slender, he wore neatly pressed white pants and a starched white shirt. His skin was the color of dark chocolate. High cheekbones and a sharp nose gave his face a look of quiet dignity. Deep brown eyes contained a wisdom beyond that of most men.
“I don’t believe in none of that religious crap,” said Simmons, not sounding particularly convincing. “Besides,” he added, glancing from side to side, “I don’t see no gods comin’ to your rescue so fast, old man.”
“Maybe you should search a little harder,” said Ape from the rear of the room. He picked up a two-by-four that had been leaning against the wall. It looked like a twig in his massive hands.
Standing there, legs spread wide apart, Ape slapped the two-by-four into his other palm. The sound of wood smacking flesh echoed through the suddenly silent temple. “The voodoo gods believe in protecting their own.”
“I ain’t afraid of you, Largo,” Cinder-Block said. His huge fingers curled into fists. “You can’t be as tough as they say.”
“Wanna find out?” asked Ape, smiling.
More than one man had wilted before that grin. Incredibly ugly under normal circumstances, Ape’s face transformed into a gargoyle’s mask when he smiled. There was little human in that twisted visage of wrinkled skin, piglike eyes, and mouthful of yellowed teeth. Again, Ape slapped the two-by-four into his palm.
“Let’s get the hell outta here,” said Simmons, the slightest trace of fear in his voice. “This ain’t the time or the place for a fight. I don’t want no trouble before the election.”
His stooges clustered about him, the big gangster headed straight for the door. He hesitated there for an instant. Summoning up his courage, he turned and faced Papa Benjamin. “You’ll be sorry for turning me down. Real sorry.”
“I doubt it,” said Papa Benjamin, but the thug and his men were already gone.
Still holding the two-by-four, Ape rambled over to the door and slammed it shut. “Want to tell me what that was all about?” he asked. “Simmons said something about an election?”
“You heard correctly,” said Papa Benjamin over one shoulder. He was heading for the stairway leading to their living quarters on the second floor. “We can discuss it tomorrow. Jay Leno will be on in just a few minutes.”
Grumbling to himself about TV fanatics, Ape followed. He knew better than to ask questions while Papa Benjamin watched The
Tonight Show.
2.
“Mr. Simmons is running for the vacant position on the local school board,” declared Papa Benjamin the next morning at the breakfast table. The voodoo priest swallowed a spoonful of cornflakes and milk. “He wants me to support his election bid.”
Ape, making his way through his third stack of pancakes, was properly impressed. “That stupid son-of-a-bitch campaigning for the school council?” he repeated incredulously. “That’s like putting Dracula in charge of the local blood bank.”
“Exactly,” said Papa Benjamin, not sounding the least bit amused. “Especially with the school reforms that have been enacted during the past few years.”
In an effort to restructure the antiquated Chicago public school system, control of neighborhood schools had been switched from a central school board to local community councils. This action was designed to make schools more responsive to the special needs of the individual neighborhoods.
These local boards had absolute power over the schools in their district. The council made all the decisions not affected by state rules. School policies, from dress code to student discipline, were set by their decrees. They allocated funds for salaries, school supplies, and security. And the council had the final say on all hirings and firings in the buildings, from the school principal down to the janitor.
The reform act gave a great deal of power to a very small group of people. In most cases, they acted in the best interests of the children. However, the possibility for abuse did exist—as Ape now realized.
“Simmons wants to run the schools to his liking,” said Ape, frowning. “He’ll cut down the security force. Probably eliminate the drug education programs. Let his runners carry beepers to class. And who knows what else? That guy’s a slimeball.”
“Indeed,” said Papa Benjamin. “Which is why he so desperately wanted my support. With my backing, he would easily win the post.”
Papa Benjamin wasn’t exaggerating his own worth. He was highly regarded throughout Chicago’s south side. He possessed a reputation for honesty and integrity unmatched throughout the city, a quality that no local politician could claim. If he endorsed Cinder-Block Simmons, the loan shark’s victory in the election would be guaranteed.
“But you turned him down,” said Ape.
“Of course.” Papa Benjamin’s eyes narrowed and his voice grew sharp. “A houn’gan does not deal with snakes. Especially poisonous snakes that prey on children.”
“I can’t understand Cinder-Block’s reasoning,” said Ape, rising to his feet. “Everyone in this neighborhood knows his avocation. No way they’re going to vote for him. Why is he bothering to run?”
“Why indeed?” asked Papa Benjamin. He sounded suspicious—and annoyed. “Perhaps you can find out?”
Ape stood and headed for the door of the apartment. “I intend to. Cinder-Block has too big a mouth to keep anything secret. I’m gonna do a little scouting around and see if I can’t turn up some answers.”
3.
The news was not good.
“The son-of-a-bitch is conducting a voter registration drive,” said Ape, a scowl of annoyance twisting his already contorted features. “Aimed specifically at his kind of people.”
“Meaning what?” asked Papa Benjamin.
“Simmons has put out the word. All the lowlights of the street scene—pimps, prostitutes, druggies, and pushers—are making like good citizens and signing up to vote. The new registration laws make it simple. As long as they can show proof of residence in the neighborhood, they’re eligible. And you can bet on election day, they’ll vote the way Cinder-Block wants.” Ape grimaced. “Meanwhile, Simmons and his goons have the decent citizens of the district terrified with thinly disguised threats of violence aimed at anyone who supports his opponents. If he frightens enough people into staying home on election day, he’ll win by a landslide.”
“Even though the silent majority of the voters despise him and everything he represents,” said Papa Benjamin. His dark eyes flashed in anger. “We cannot let this terrible thing take place.”
Ape laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. “Not much we can do to stop him. Simmons ain’t doing nothing illegal. Not at least by Chicago standards. Remember, this is the place where Kennedy beat Nixon with the help of the cemetery vote.” Ape shook his head. “The Silent Majority. I haven’t heard that line in years.” He grinned, recalling a remark long forgotten. “According to Gore Vidal, Nixon and Agnew weren’t the first to use the term. The ancient Greek playwrights used it in their dramas. However, to them the Silent Majority weren’t the living, but the dead.”
“What an interesting notion,” said Papa Benjamin. His voice sounded odd, very odd.
Ape shivered. While he loved and respected his mentor, there were times the little old man frightened him. Especially when he used that tone of voice. He suddenly felt very sorry for Cinder-Block Simmons.
“Remember those whips made of sticks of bois congo in the rear of the storeroom?” Papa Benjamin asked, his features brightening. “Get them for me.”
Baron Samedi’s whips. Ape knew their name—and their purpose. The blood drained from his face. “Anything else?” he whispered, knowing the answer.
“A shovel,” replied Papa Benjamin. “A strong shovel. And a Bible. That is all we need.” The little priest rose to his feet. “Put everything in the car. I will meet you downstairs in a few minutes. I have to change my clothes and make a few preparations.”
“Sure,” said Ape, small beads of sweat forming on his forehead. There was no avoiding the next question. “Where we going?”
“To the cemetery, of course,” said Papa Benjamin calmly. “To consult with the Silent Majority.”
4.
Mrs. Myra Guinn ran the voter registration drive held every Saturday in the high school cafeteria. A big black woman of indeterminate age and fierce will, she reminded Ape of his worst grade school teacher. Myra Guinn reminded everyone of their worst teacher. Strong men turned weak in her presence and spoke only in timid whispers. Streetwise hoodlums said “please” and “thank you” to Mrs. Guinn without any prompting. Her presence demanded nothing less.
Ape arrived at the cafeteria a few minutes after nine in the morning. While strict city ordinances prohibited campaigning in the general elections, no such rules governed school board voting. Along with Mrs. Guinn and her three assistants, several candidates for office were present in the cafeteria, making themselves known to potential supporters.
Cinder-Block Simmons, resplendent in a pinstripe suit and loud tie, attracted the most attention. Despite constant admonitions from Mrs. Guinn, he insisted on shaking each new voter’s hand and announcing loudly his extravagant plans for the school system. No element of doubt clouded Cinder-Block’s vision. He made it quite clear to one and all that he considered the upcoming election a sure thing. Ape, slouched down in a chair at the rear of the room, smiled, and waited.
The first few rainclouds on Cinder-Block’s parade arrived at eleven A.M. The damp, musty smell of wet earth and decay preceded them into the cafeteria.
Mrs. Guinn, never one for niceties, wrinkled up her nose in disgust. “What the hell is making that stink?” she asked, her loud, shrill tones drowning out all other conversation.
As if in answer, three grisly figures shuffled into the room. They were tall, gaunt, incredibly emaciated scarecrow-men with sallow, sunken features and skin the color and texture of old parchment. Their eyes were wide open, staring ahead with a fixed, unblinking gaze.
Their clothing, ripped and torn, hung in tatters on their skeletal frames. Bits of black earth and grass clung to them. None of them seemed to notice. Shambling forward at a slow, deliberate pace, they headed directly for the registration table.
The silence of the grave blanketed the room like a shroud as the first of the trio reached his destination. In a rasping, hollow voice that echoed eerily through the entire cafeteria, the monstrous figure declared, “I’m here to register.”
For the first time in anyone’s memory, Myra Guinn was speechless. “I also have come to register,” said the second member of the group.
“Me too,” said the third. A large black spider crawled out of his mouth and down into his shirt pocket. He didn’t seem to notice or care. “Where are the forms?”
Myra Guinn rolled her eyes and fainted. A second worker turned green and ran from the room. A third, braver than her fellows, shuffled through a stack of papers heroically. “Do you reside in the neighborhood?” she asked, her voice trembling, keeping her gaze firmly fixed on the documents. “You can’t register without a permanent address.”
“Twenty-seventh and Michigan,” said the first of the three, evidently the leader of the trio.
“The same,” replied the second.
The final member of the group just nodded.
“That’s the old cemetery,” someone muttered from the crowd. No one seemed surprised.
“What’s all this crap about?” said Cinder-Block Simmons, pushing his way forward to the registration table. His features were blood red with anger. “Nobody lives by that churchyard. It’s been abandoned for years.”
