by Sandy DeLuca
I hold the receiver close to my ear and remember his scent, the way his hands clutched the steering wheel, the way his lips tasted when we said goodbye.
I want to hang up, but I can’t. His memory—his very essence is my salvation—and I shiver when he tells me it’s time to face the past.
* * *
Before Sammy, I was seeing a guy from the nearby town of Pawtucket named Gerry O’Bannon. We’d usually get together on Saturday nights then once during the week, and though we sometimes casually discussed marriage, I never really saw him in that kind of serious context. We kissed and touched each other a lot, but that was the extent of it. I told him I was afraid of getting pregnant, but he assured me he would take pre-cautions to prevent that.
“It’s gonna hurt the first time we do it,” he’d tell me, “but when the time comes I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
I used to laugh when my mother went on one of her tangents about how she was a virgin until her wedding night, and despite her lectures on how only bad girls allowed men to have sex with them before marriage, I wanted to try it. But I wanted it to mean something, I wanted it to be special, somet-hing I could look back on and remember fondly.
“Can we go to New York? Get a room on Times Square? I’ll tell my parents that I’m going away for the weekend with one of my girlfriends. They said okay when I wanted to go to Boston overnight last year; just as long as I called.”
“Sure, sure. In a month or so. I just need to work a bit of overtime to save up the money.”
“Can we go to The Modern and the Metropolitan Museum of Art?”
“Yeah, we’ll do that.”
Gerry worked in a mill in Pawtucket, and I knew he’d never have the money—or interest—in taking me to the places I wanted to go. But it was a nice fantasy.
When I wasn’t hanging out with Gerry, Paul and I frequented Xavier’s and most of the other popular clubs down-own. I began to notice more changes in my brother, and they worried me. He was agitated a lot, and at times seemed just plain mean. I knew he’d been through a lot, seen a lot of horrible things, and couldn’t ever be the same, but his personality was changing more and more every day.
One night we were outside Xavier’s, snorting some shit that Kim had brought along. I didn’t know what it was but when I sniffed it I got a severe head rush that lasted about thirty seconds. Paul had been drinking tequila on top of it for hours and was totally out of it. I’d seen my brother party before, but I’d never seen him so wasted.
Sammy was working the door that night, checking IDs and looking cool with his long dark hair, biceps decorated with tattoos and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He caught me looking at him and gave me a quick wink. I melted, completely flattered, but Paul had warned me that Sammy was someone to stay clear of. He had a reputation for taking girls out to his car and then coming back and telling everyone what he’d done to them in detail.
Still, he fascinated me.
When Paul noticed us looking at each other, he grew more and more agitated. “You’re nothing but a loser, Julia. And you’ll be a bigger one if you leave with that pig.”
“Paul, you’re starting to sound like Ma and Dad,” I said. “What’s up with you?”
Sammy had apparently heard us arguing and left his duties at the door long enough to saunter closer. “Hey, man,” he said to Paul, “I know the whores from the good girls. I got nothing but respect for your pretty little sister.”
Without warning or even a single word, Paul punched him full in the face.
My brother was a veteran. He had seen combat, lots of it, and knew how to handle himself. He had been trained to hurt people, to kill them if necessary, and even in his condition that night, the punch he’d thrown would have dropped most men twice his size.
But Sammy looked as though he hadn’t felt a thing. At first he smiled, as if amused, but then anger spread across his face and he pulled a switchblade from the back of his belt.
I held my breath.
His dark eyes shifted to me, and his anger seemed to dissipate. “Look, man,” he said, finally looking back at Paul, “I’m going to let this go. You’re in no condition to be fucking with me.”
Paul stared at him but said nothing. He knew Sammy was right.
“You’re sick, man. Get yourself some help.” Sammy fingered the switchblade thoughtfully and then he held his hand out to me. “Come on Julia, my time is up here, I’ll drive you home.”
Paul grabbed my arm so hard it bruised the next day. I gave him a look that let him know I was all right, and he let me go and turned away wearily.
Then Sammy did something odd. Quickly but nonchalantly, he walked up behind my brother and slit a small piece of his shirt. Paul was so stoned he never noticed.
Sammy drove around the city for a while. Then he turned down a side road on the outskirts of the city. It lead to a popular parking area, one which Gerry and I frequented. I started to get nervous, remembering what Paul had told me about Sammy’s reputation with girls. But he never made a move, just talked to me.
“Your brother has been hanging with some fucked up people, messing around and saying shit he shouldn’t say. He’s sick.” He took a pull from his cigarette. “I know sick. I know it well. I’ve seen it happen to a lot of guys who’ve come back from ‘Nam. I’ve seen it happen to people who had fucked-up lives as kids. I’m lucky. Some good people took me under their wing, taught me things. I’ve been okay—so far.” He laughed. “Your brother. What’s his doctor doing for him?”
“He says they’re helping.”
I watched two pairs of rosary beads—one silver; the other crystal—dangle and sway from his rear view mirror.
“Bullshit they are.” He was quiet for a while then said, “So, you got a boyfriend?”
“Sort of.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I see this guy Gerry. We talk about getting married sometimes.”
He smiled a sad smile. “Well, if you ever decide Gerry ain’t man enough for you, just call Sammy.”
“Okay,” I laughed self-consciously.
Then he did another strange thing. He took the piece of Michael’s shirt from his pocket and wrapped one of the rosaries around it. “Protection for your brother,” he said evenly. “Santeria.”
“I—my aunt—does stuff like that sometimes,” I stammered. “Strega, some people call it, but my aunt says she’s got her own variations of it mixed with some Catholic stuff.”
“All the same—it boils down to faith—maybe a hint of magic—that’s all.”
He kissed me, ran his fingers through my hair, coming away with a few strands between his fingers. “Time to get you home. I can tell your parents are strict. You’re a nice girl. Different from most girls I meet.”
I never asked, but I’ve always wondered what he did with those strands of hair.
Later that night the sound of footsteps awakened me, followed by a series of loud thumping noises. While trying to negotiate the hallway in the dark and in his condition, Paul’s legs had become tangled in a rug Ma had braided the previous winter, and he’d tripped and tumbled to the bottom of the stairs.
I rushed from bed and found him collapsed there, his nose bleeding and tears streaming down his face.
* * *
I hang up the phone, peer down the stairs and watch two of the kittens wrestling on Ma’s old braided rug. There’s a faint spot of blood there, one that never washed away. The kittens sniff at it and scurry across the room.
Mother cat is now at the foot of the stairs. She arches her back, stretches and then lies down. Her ears twitch as the radiators hiss and clank.
Wind rattles the windows.
It’s cold even though I have the heat turned up high, and it seems strange without Ma here. Calmer.
I pull an old book from the shelf, open it and find a letter from my brother inside.
Even before I begin to read I realize my hands are trembling uncontrollably. The newfound silence is no longer c
omforting.
CHAPTER 8
I’d forgotten how awful Paul’s handwriting was, and how he’d print his letters to the family so we could understand them. I stare at his neat, carefully printed words and hear him speak to me from the past.
Hi, Kiddo:
I know you’ll keep this letter to yourself. I had to write to you. The nurse at the desk promised to get a stamp and that she’d mail this off to you.
I’ve got a confession to make, and once you hear it you’ll probably think I belong here, that I’m crazy just like everyone else does. But I trust you, and know you trust me, so I’m going to tell you what I don’t dare tell anyone else.
I used to have nightmares about ugly, vile creatures but then the nightmares stopped. I thought they were gone, but they’re not, not really. The nightmares ended, but the bastards learned how to escape my dreams and now they come to me at night when I’m lying in bed.
I’ve learned to deal with it as best I can. I used to just turn on the light and they’d go away—at least they used to. But lately they keep getting stronger and now they’ve learned how to manifest during the day—even in the light. They don’t give a shit if anyone else is around anymore. They’re always here, and before long, they’re going to kill me. I’m afraid, Julia. Not for me, I know I can’t escape them. But I’m afraid they’ll come after you next. Please say a prayer and tell Aunty I don’t think she’s so crazy anymore. Tell her to burn candles, cast spells, to do whatever the hell it takes to make them go away. Please believe me Julia. I’m not crazy.
Paul
I hold my brother’s letter to my chest and try to contain my emotion.
I’m afraid they’ll come after you next.
The same darkness that devoured him has been slowly eating away at me for years, because what I know now, that I did not know then, is that my brother was telling the truth.
* * *
I blamed myself for what happened to Paul that night. I told myself that I shouldn’t have allowed him to get so high. I should never have left with Sammy.
Lying at the foot of those stairs, Ma’s rug still twisted near his feet, Paul continued to cry and writhe about. My father, awakened by the ruckus, came from his room, knelt on the floor and held Paul in his arms. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”
Blood trickled from Paul’s mouth, and his eyes were large and wide, as if seeing things no one else could. I’d never seen anyone so terrified.
“The Devil,” he cried, “he’s coming to get me.” He waved his hands like a mad man. “See, see his demons are here! He called them tonight—he called them—” He looked up at me suddenly. “He’ll get you too—I told you not to—He’s gonna take you down to Hell.”
“Julia, call an ambulance,” my father said. “Then bring your mother to her sister’s. She’ll sleep. She always does after I put whiskey in her coffee. Don’t wake her up until after we’re gone. And don’t say nothing until you hear from me. I’ll ride with Paul to the hospital. I’ll let you all know what’s going on later—understand?”
“Yes,” I said.
Paul looked up at me again. “They’ve got plans for you, too. He’ll do things to you—he’ll fucking kill you.”
I was trembling as I dialed the phone. Tears streamed onto my nightgown.
Paul’s eyes bore into mine and all I could say was, “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you there. I’m so sorry.”
Paul was at the hospital for a few days. His doctor—Doctor Richard Albert—a man in his mid-thirties with shoulder-length hair and a tattoo of Christ on his wrist was optimistic.
“He was having combat flashbacks,” he told us. “I see it a lot. I was over there myself. We all saw a lot of shit. It’d fuck up anybody’s head. Paul just needs to sort things out, and that takes time. In his case, I think it’s also going to take medication.”
I imagined the good doctor smoking pot and listening to The Doors when he had time off, all cool with his hippie attitude, jeans beneath his white coat, that great hair and his tattoo. He told us to be as patient and understanding with Paul as possible, and prescribed tranquilizers and anti-depressants.
But I didn’t believe Paul would okay.
The doctor thought it might be good therapy for Paul to have his own space, so my family moved him into a small apartment.
When he took the prescribed medications Paul became calm and passive, but he had a hollow look in his eyes that worried me.
A few weeks went by. Paul slept a lot, never went out, and even refused to see Kim.
My Dad invited him for Sunday dinner, and offered to pick him up, but Paul said he wasn’t feeling well.
We had dinner without him. It was a quiet and uncomfortable affair where no one spoke about Paul.
Once it was over my mother fell asleep in a wicker chair; probably from the whiskey my father had slipped into her coffee.
“Julia, bring Paul some leftover ham and turkey,” my father said rather sternly once the dishes were cleared and washed. “It’ll do him good to eat some of your mother’s food.”
I had already gone upstairs and was in the midst of preparing a canvas; paints, gesso, and brushes were laid out and ready. “Dad,” I called down, “I talked to Paul about an hour ago. He’s not well at all today. Said to come by tomorrow. He’s really not up to company.”
“Damn, you, girl, I say bring him some turkey and ham. Put that painting crap away before I throw it all in the garbage.”
I went downstairs. “But, Dad, Paul said—”
“Do what I say.”
Aunt Lil had eaten dinner with us and was curled up on the floor; my father’s tabby and angora cats snuggled up to her. “Leave the girl alone. The boy doesn’t need visitors today. Listen to her, she don’t lie.”
“With all due respect, Lil, mind your fucking business. Julia, go, or your play stuff up there gets thrown in the dump.”
Aunt Lil nodded her head. She slipped her hand into her pocket, pulled out a tiny black bag. Her Nanta bag. The place she kept her stones, herbs and God knows what else.
My father shook his head. “Retribution, Lil? For wanting my son to have a bite to eat on a Sunday afternoon? What are you going to do, give me the evil eye—The Malocchio?”
“She’s a lovely, bright girl, Charlie. What you and Ellie say to her sometimes just ain’t right.”
She turned to me. “You know, Julia, it’s just his way. You got to love him ‘cause he’s your father. But you keep up that painting. You got something special there. Don’t let anyone tell you different. And tell your brother I send him kisses.” She hooked the bag’s string on her index finger. It swayed back and forth. “I’ve got things to do. Tell Ellie dinner was great. I’ll be by tomorrow night.”
She dangled her Nanta bag in front of her as she walked to the door. My father shook his head, “Insane beliefs—maga. Crazy.”
I walked with Aunt Lil as I made my way to the car. She continued to dangle the bag in front of her.
“Didn’t he just call you a sorceress in Italian?”
“Yeah, no big deal, I’ve been called worse. Did you put together your bag yet?”
My Aunt had patiently tried to teach me magical studies over the years. When I was younger I’d been exuberant about it, wanting to spend as much time with my aunt as possible but my interest in the occult waned as I grew older.
“Well?” she said.
“No, I’ve been wrapped up with Paul since he came back. I’m still seeing Gerry. And I’ve been trying to get more paintings done—but I do the prayers to Anthony and am still coming by every full moon phase to pray with you.”
She put her hand to my face. “You young ones—always an excuse.”
“Things have been distracting for a while, Aunty.”
“I know about distractions. I’ve been around a lot longer than you, remember?”
“I’m sorry—I—”
“Remember what I’ve been telling you for years: A Nanta bag has a few purposes.
It keeps you balanced with the forces of nature—maybe if you made one you wouldn’t be subject to all those distractions.”
“I know—I know.” Sometimes I wished she’d stop with this stuff. There were too many other things going on.
She dangled the bag back and forth like a pendulum. “It’s even a portable altar, so in emergencies I can perform magic anywhere. If somebody I love is wronged, then my sad feelings for that person—the energy from those feelings—go into the bag. I hook it onto my finger. The universe takes that energy, takes all the wrong and then hands out the justice.”
“My father knows about this stuff, huh?”
“Yeah, he overhears us talking sometimes. He knows.”
I shrugged my shoulders, thought about the painting I’d wanted to work on that day.
“I had my doubts when I was your age, too. Don’t worry, a guardian angel will bring you back to your senses.”
* * *
I fold Paul’s letter, and put it inside the still open book. I don’t remember putting it here on a page where Bosch’s paintings of Paradise and Hell are displayed in vivid detail, but I must have—years ago.
Demon eyes leer at me. I slam the book shut.
I gaze into a dark corner and see those eyes again. I blink and a kitten rushes out, her paws maneuvering a tiny red ball.
She stops at my feet, gazes up at me and then scurries away.
Everlasting, love, Julia.
The phone jars me from my trance.
CHAPTER 9
The doctor says the operation went well. My mother is resting comfortably. She’ll spend a week at the hospital and then she’ll need to go to a therapy center.
He says she’s a tough old girl, he wishes me a good night and once again asks if I’m all right.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
