Sonant

by A. Sparrow

  “That music you play,” said John. “Pretty … unique.”

  Her expression went from bituminous to anthracite. “How the hell do you know what I play?”

  “That Aaron guy? I’m his neighbor. I saw your car parked there the other day.”

  She relaxed slightly. “You live there? You poor thing.”

  “Oh, it’s not that bad … at least not for me. Cindy’s the one who closes all the windows when you play.”

  “I don’t envy you having to listen to that crap. Even gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “I don’t know. I … I just started. Pays well, I guess.”

  He chuckled. “Cindy thinks you’re Satan worshipers. As if you’re scratching pentagrams on the floor or something.”

  The young woman looked at him blankly. “She might have something there.”

  John chuckled again, more nervously. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, even I think it’s some pretty damn weird stuff.”

  “You got that right.” John’s conscience gnawed at him. Should he tell her, or not? He broke. “Listen. There may be some unusual activity up at our place in the next week or so. Cindy has this idea this guy Aaron … or at least his house … is possessed … or haunted. So our church is sponsoring a visit from these people who do … basically … exorcisms. Deliverance.”

  “No kidding?”

  “So … you might ask this Aaron guy to maybe tone things down a bit. I have no idea what these guys will do, but I sure don’t want any trouble.”

  “Maybe it’s a good thing,” said the woman. “That they come.”

  “Huh?”

  “A little prayer won’t hurt anybody,” she said. “That’s what they do, right? Pray and cast out demons and all that shit?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Can’t hurt, then. By all means, go for it. Well … I’d better get going. I’m running a little late.”

  She hopped in her car and slammed the door, turned the ignition. The starter only clicked.

  “What the hell?” she said through her open window.

  John had started back to the Volvo. He stopped mid-stride. “Maybe something got wet? Shorted out?”

  “Listen. Can you give me a ride? Since you’re going my way?”

  John balked. Cindy was up in Geneva today. Her mom wouldn’t be back with the kids until dinner time. “Um … sure. Let me shuffle around some groceries.”

  She wrestled her bass out of her car’s front seat, along with a sack of what looked like bits of broken instrument parts from her trunk. John lowered the rear seats of his wagon and slid the groceries to one side. The bass fit perfectly. The sack of parts tinkled as she set it in.

  “Man, I should get me one of these cars. It’s custom made for a bass player.” She hopped into the front seat, a vision that made John’s heart jump to a quicker beat. He felt stirrings beneath his jeans.

  “Maybe you should leave a note for the cops,” said John.

  “What are they going to do, tow it? They’d be doing me a favor.”

  “More likely, they’d ticket you. You should lock it, at least.”

  A raspberry sputtered from her lips.

  John started the Volvo and pulled away from the shoulder, cutting off a lumbering tractor-trailer in his distraction. The steering wheel felt slick in his grasp. What was he so nervous about? He was only being a Good Samaritan.

  “What’s your name?” said the woman.

  “J-John. Paciorek.”

  “I’m Aerie.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  The radio played the Cure’s ‘Friday, I’m in Love.’

  “Radio wasteland,” said the girl, Aerie.

  “Huh?” John liked that song. A lot.

  “Ithaca’s a radio wasteland. I wish they had a decent jazz station in range.”

  “You play jazz?”

  “Used to,” she said. “Big time.”

  “I used to play, too,” said John. “In high school. A little in college.”

  “What instrument?”

  “Clarinet. Some flute.”

  “No shit?”

  “I listened to a lot of jazz back then. Not so much since I got married. Coltrane gives Cindy a headache.”

  “A shame,” she said. “That you stopped playing.”

  “Oh, I still play,” said John. “Cindy’s little boys love that clarinet. It puts them into hysterics. I’m talking Funny Home Videos. Makes me feel like a clown.”

  An awkward silence ensued as they passed through a tunnel of trees leading up the side of Connecticut Hill.

  “Did you ever … play out?” said John.

  “Ever hear of Hollis Brooks?”

  “The trumpet/sax guy? Mr. Double Threat?”

  “Don’t let him fool you, he’s a sax man. The trumpet thing is just a gimmick. Anyhow, I used to play in his quartet.”

  “Get out!”

  “Really.”

  “Where? Manhattan?”

  “Out west mainly, and then … Japan. But we did have a three night stand at the Village Vanguard once.”

  “Really?” he said, with amazement in his voice.

  “We bombed, but it was glorious.”

  John glanced over. Her face had transformed into something ethereal and beaming, teeth revealed like rare pearls; eyes shining.

  She caught him looking. Her countenance slammed shut like a clam shell.

  “So … what are you all rehearsing for?” he asked, reaching the top of the ridge. “Do you have a gig coming up?”

  “Not exactly,” said Aerie. “These guys … as far as I can tell … never gig.”

  “How strange.”

  “Yeah, it is,” she said. “Don’t know why exactly. I’m still feeling my way around with them.”

  “Well, if you do play out ….”

  “Yeah. We’ll let you know. We’ll poster your neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, right.” He smirked at the thought of Cindy ripping down posters.

  John turned onto the road and pulled into the driveway of the hell house. The situation made him feel odd, as if he were consorting with the enemy.

  “Well, thanks for the ride and the help. Sorry, if I was a cool with you. You never know what weirdoes are out and about.”

  “Not a problem,” said John. He got out and tried to help. She nudged him away when he went to help her with the bass.

  “I can handle it.”

  As he removed the sack of parts, his eyes drifted across the yard and through the trees to the subdivision. His heart jumped as if stung by a defibrillator. Cindy’s Camry was parked in the driveway and she was outside, kneeling next to the front flower beds.

  “Oh Christ,” he mumbled.

  “What’s wrong?” said Aerie, wobbling towards the door. Stray squeaks and bleats emanated from the house. “Are you alright?” She crinkled the bridge of her nose.

  “I’d better get going.” He saw Cindy peer over her shoulder at the hell house. There was no way she could have missed seeing his car. He considered and rejected driving back to Ithaca, pretending some other blue Volvo that had dropped by the hell house and disgorged a bass and its player. That would have been futile. The icthys appliqué and canary yellow “Jesus Saves” sticker were dead giveaways.

  “Bye,” said Aerie, as he got back in the car, insides churning, and roared out of Aaron’s driveway, pulling into the cul de sac, swinging wide into the driveway.

  Cindy stood wide-eyed, disbelieving. “I thought that was you. What were you doing—?”

  “I g-g-gave them a warning,” said John. “Told them we’re not taking any more of this crap.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “They told me … they told me to go fuck myself.”

  “How rude. But what do you expect from a bunch of Satanists? You didn’t tell them … about the deliverance, did you?”

  “Nah,” said John.

  “Don’t go near that place, o
kay? I don’t even drive past it anymore. I go the long way around. Let’s let Reverend Beasley handle it when he comes.”

  “What are you doing home? I thought you were gonna be in Geneva all day?”

  “The closing fell through. Again. The couple couldn’t come up with the financing. So I came home. Thought, I’d surprise you.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” he said.

  She tossed another glance towards the hell house. The walls were starting to throb. “Let’s get inside. They’re doing their thing again. Glad the kids aren’t here, at least.”

  “I got groceries.”

  “I’ll help you with ‘em later.” She winked, leaned up and kissed him on the lips. John let the kiss linger for a moment, then pulled away and made for the trunk.

  “Later,” said Cindy. She took his hand and led him towards the front door, something predatory in her eyes.

  “But … there’s ice cream.”

  “Let it melt,” said Cindy. “I need you inside.”

  Chapter 11: Road Trip

  It was four am. The eastern sky gave no hint that the dawn would ever come. He stood under a street lamp at the corner of North and Willow waiting for his ride. He had a briefcase in one hand, a valise at his feet packed with five pairs of slacks, ten shirts and as many sets of socks and tightie-whities as he could stuff into the side pockets.

  Donnie could feel that there were spirits in the air. They were always about at this hour of night on the fringe of the old warehouse district of Athens.

  Every sort of death that could happen had happened here: Sherman’s March, union busters, thugs with knives, suicides. Most folks would not have noticed anything unusual, but Donnie was attuned to the world of specters and sprites, like a dog to a whistle. There was a stir to the air that told him that the night crawled with Satan’s minions.

  Something rustled in the darkness, clawed feet against metal. He whirled defensively and reached for the Glock in his shoulder holster.

  Coos spilled down from the gutters of the warehouse behind him. Pigeons.

  He took a deep breath and waited for his heart beat to wind back down to a more sustainable rate.

  If he was a little bit jumpier than usual he could blame it on the MP3 file that Mac Hargrove had emailed him earlier that day. Mac had captured a snippet of the recording that Cindy Swain had made of the so-called ‘hell house.’ The sounds that came off that tape had burned his eardrums. He had his IT people scour that sound clip, purifying the hard drive through prayer and incineration. The world didn’t need any more demonic verses going viral on YouTube.

  He had faced formidable adversaries before, none more daunting than that thirteen year old girl in Decatur. No, her head didn’t spin and she didn’t vomit in his face but she had the wit and logic of twelve centuries of atheist intellectuals packed into that little head, challenging every notion of his faith.

  What was worse, she had Richard Dawkins’ sense of humor. She had obviously read his books. She kept bringing up “Flying Spaghetti Monsters” and equating Donnie with those who worshipped them.

  Such a shame. She had such God-fearing parents. Her case was one of the few absolute failures he had ever experienced in the deliverance profession. She had given him the distinct impression that he was tussling with Satan himself.

  God help that family. They had gotten a full refund.

  Once he had calmed, Donnie prayed out loud to the pigeons that had spooked him, his voice rebounding among the warehouses: “Jesus, Oh Lord. You who hold all creation in Your hands, caring for the birds in the air and the lilies in the field. Watch over and protect us in all things. Frustrate the intentions of the evil ones who would harm us. Grant safety to us as we travel. Bless our efforts to increase our security. Teach us to place the safety of ourselves and our loved ones into Your hands, confident that in Your wisdom You will work all things for our good. May we return to our loved ones unharmed. Should we be harmed, may our wounds heal. Should we perish in the struggle, may You embrace us and find for us a place in Your Kingdom, Oh Lord Jesus Christ, Amen.”

  When Jerry still hadn’t arrived with the truck, he kept praying under his breath, as was his habit when someone or something was running late. He had found that doing so had a way of conjuring the tardy, like a spell.

  Donnie had considered flying up to New York with Jerry and letting the interns drive the truck, but air travel left him too vulnerable to whatever force might want to put a leak in the fuel tank or jam the landing gear.

  Not that he was scared of flying, no. If he was in any other business but deliverance, he’d be a frequent flyer. But he had cast out too many demons in his day for them not to hold a grudge.

  Jerry for his part was thrilled to be driving. He loved the open road and probably would insist on taking the wheel the entire way, the whole twelve to fifteen hours it would take to get to Ithaca. Google maps said fifteen, but Google didn’t know Jerry the way Donnie did.

  Like a charm, as his lips evoked in silence the words of Psalm 23, a white extended cab Ford F150 roared around the corner, pulling a twenty inch Horizon Smokers Grill-N-Wagon, complete with stovepipe and red enameled wood carrier.

  Jerry was alone in front, wearing cammie Carhartt canvas and a black ball cap embroidered with the word ‘Ranger’ in a yellow arc. The two interns, Tammie and Rand sat in back, looking a bit sleepy, though Rand sprang out the door and unlatched the back hatch of the pickup. The bed was crammed with monitoring equipment, but they had left room for Donnie’s suitcase.

  The distinct smell of roasting meat wafted up as Donnie made his way around the smoker.

  “He didn’t,” Donnie muttered to himself, swinging open the barrel of the smoker to reveal a whole suckling pig lashed to the rack with wire and slowly beginning to roast.

  “Jerry, really? Did you have to?”

  “We gotta eat, don’t we?” said Jerry, stepping out of the cab. Rand skipped out behind him to stow Don’s suitcase. “Besides. If we get stopped, we got a better story for taking a smoker on the road.”

  “Who’s gonna stop us, the barbecue police? What worries me is all that fat is gonna make the fire burn too hot. We’re gonna use up all our fuel before we get there.”

  “So? It ain’t like there’s no trees between here and Ithaca.”

  “Fine.” Donnie sighed and hauled himself up into the cab. “Long as you packed extra sauce and rolls.”

  Jerry winked and ducked his head into the back of the cab. “Whattaya say little girl? Ready to kick some demonic butt?”

  “Uh-huh,” said Tammie, meekly.

  “What? You’re not scared now, are you?”

  “Just don’t know what to expect,” said Tammie. “But I got no reason to be afraid. I’m in the company of experts, right?”

  “Just listen to us, you’ll be fine,” said Jerry.

  Donnie was already in the passenger seat, buckling up. He opened his briefcase and removed his Thinkpad and plugged a 4G dongle into the USB port. He had operations in three states to track.

  “Jerry! Quit your flirting and let’s roll.”

  Rand squeezed in behind Donnie.

  “Flirtin’? I ain’t flirtin,’” said Jerry. “Just being sociable. You want to see flirtin’—?”

  “Get your ass in here and drive! We got twelve hours on the road ahead of us!”

  “Well gosh Donny, just say so.” Jerry hopped in and threw the truck into gear, heading north for Route 85. His shoulder strap dangled, unbuckled.

  Jerry shut the windows as the truck picked up speed and the cab slowly filled with musky emanations from his coveralls. Donnie sniffed and crinkled his nose.

  “You got something burning in your pocket?”

  Jerry grinned and slipped out a charcoal-fueled hand warmer, its chromed shell peeking out of a red flannel cover.

  “Like you always say, Donnie, redundancy is the key to keeping the Holy fires burning.”

  Donnie nodded, trying not to frown, and powered down th
e window just a crack. Next time, if there ever was a next time, demons be damned, he would fly.

  Chapter 12: Pills

  Aerie lugged her bass through the unlocked door, zippers scraping against the frame. The others were in the music room going through the preliminaries, playing scraps and shreds – lizard chirps, frog croaks, snaky rattles—while Sari plumbed the depths of her vocal range.

  Aaron burst out into the hall, fiddle tucked under his arm. His mouth dropped at the sight of Aerie.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said. “My car broke down.”

  “Well, you’re here now. That’s all that matters,” said Aaron. “Come on in.”

  She struggled to meet his gaze, her glances rebounding off his stare like hail hitting the side of a barn. He said not a word about the phone calls and messages she had ignored, as if afraid to press his luck. He just took her by the hand and led her to a bare space in the music room where he wanted her to set up her bass.

  “Whoa,” said Ron. “Looks like I owe you, Mal.”

  “Dang it, Aerie,” said Mal. “I was getting worried.”

  Aerie shrugged as she slid a cake of rosin down her bow. “I left early. But my car blew up on Route 13.”

  “Blew up?” said Mal.

  “Okay people,” said Aaron. “Let’s get back into it. You join in when you’re ready, Aerie.” He made the rounds from person to person, coaching them up. When he got to Aerie, he patted her shoulder.

  “Whatever you did last time. Do it again. That was perfect.”

  He started the proceedings with same reference tone that began the last jam –a note slightly sharper than a Bb. Aerie could adjust easily with a shift in her fingering, but it made her wonder how Ron and Eleni managed with their fretted instruments, though Ron, for his part, didn’t seem to bother to conform to any formal tuning.

  They played for a solid hour, Aaron prancing from instrument to instrument, conducting their efforts in crude pantomime. Mal kept switching from winds to percussion back to winds while Ron stayed glued to his guitar. Eleni kept her mandolin in its case, while she wrestled with a bloated accordion with legs.

  Sari’s singing was restrained. She seemed to have a catch in her throat, as if she were coming down with a cold. Aaron ran into the other room and came back with something fizzy for her to drink.

  Aerie picked her way through the chaos, filling lacunae, following wherever she heard paths being worn, stepping up to blaze the way through featureless morasses, busting through the tangles of repetitive loops.