by Sandy DeLuca
My father turned to her and spoke gruffly. “Anne, keep your cool for the sake of your health. You know what’s happening. It wasn’t God that did this. Now it’s best we make plans.” He touched my cheek. “I’m sorry. I should have paid more attention.” He rose from his chair and went to the window.
My mother sat there, head bowed, mouthing something about the neighbors and the dishonor I’d caused the family.
My father spoke slowly, deliberately as he stared into night’s landscape. “He’s out there somewhere in the dark, moving along just like nothing happened, like he hasn’t caused any hurt.”
“You shut up. Don’t try to blame this on superstition. On things we did a long time ago.” My mother snapped at him.
My father turned. Tears streaked his face. “In the beginning I thought those things would help my family, but he’s a damn trickster.”
“You’re upset, Barry,” my mother told him in a robotic voice.
“Let’s go,” he said as he whisked by my bed. “We’ll be back when it’s light.”
My mother rose and followed him, head bent, tears spattering on the worn tile floor.
Alone in the dimly lit room I thought about things my father prayed to when I was a child and about the handshake he’d once made in the dark.
I drifted to sleep. Dreams of Ken driving in darkness emerged. Screams echoed from the trailer. Blackbirds circled above him.
My father’s voice erupted through the eerie sounds of night, “... he’s a damn trickster.”
* * *
The operation was short and painless. The growth was a benign polyp.
My parents ushered me out of the hospital two days later.
My father had everything planned right down to the last detail. He even went to the diner and talked to Luke about giving me a leave of absence. “Got to keep your job secure. Lord knows how long it’ll take you to find something else once this is over.”
I was taken off the diner’s schedule until June. I wondered if the other waitresses, the cooks and customers whispered about me in hushed tones.
Beth went on a ski trip to Canada for Christmas. Jen and her family drove up to Buffalo to celebrate with Jack’s parents. Dad would have normally argued with my sisters, insisted they belonged here with us, but he just wished them well. Then he told my mother it was best we didn’t celebrate Christmas at all.
He arranged for my stay at the Amelia Leech Home. I heard him talking soft and low on the phone to someone there. His hands shook after he hung up and I swear he looked as though something scared the hell out of him. He didn’t speak much until we arrived on a cold day when snow and sleet came down in torrents.
I felt the darkness as soon as I stepped inside.
We were ushered into Marsha Walker’s office. She didn’t smile. She motioned for us to take seats in front of her desk. Always the stoic one; dark hair in an upswept, dark suit. Heavy pancake makeup. The shades were drawn. Her desk was empty but for a photograph of a little girl. I guessed it was her daughter. The child had expressionless eyes and limp blonde hair hung past her shoulders.
“Your room will be on the second floor. House rules are you’re present at specified mealtimes. Curfew is before sundown or we send people looking for you.”
I imagined a squad of zombies searching the streets for wayward girls. Marsha in the lead, holding a butcher knife in one hand and a chainsaw in the other.
She looked at me. There was no hint of compassion in her eyes. “You’re legal age, Meg. We’d probably let it go.”
“She won’t be leaving unless I pick her up. Those are my rules,” my father said.
“You might think she murdered someone, Mr. Fiano.”
“If she had we might all be better off,” he snapped back.
“Well, she’s over eighteen. Neither you or I can stop her from taking a walk to the corner drugstore, or going to the cathedral down the street. She even has the right to leave if she doesn’t want to stay.”
“She can’t leave and you know it,” my father said absently, his eyes filling with tears.
Marsha nodded at him and then looked my way. “I’d like to show you your room, Meg. Mr. Fiano males aren’t allowed past the first floor. Can you wait here?”
My father folded his arms. “Fine. Let’s get her settled quick.”
Marsha rose from her desk. “Come along then.”
She waited for me to join her at the door. She took my elbow, led me into the hall and then leaned over to shut her office door. She didn’t say a word as we moved up the stairs.
She took me to the first floor landing and then gently pushed me out of view. “I had to get you alone. Now, we’ll take care of everything. Your father doesn’t understand the way things work.”
“I know. It’s always been that way.”
“Well, he’s got a lot to learn.” Her makeup cracked a bit when she smiled for the first time.
“It’s best I stay. I’m not ready to battle him now. I’m tired. I need to think is all.” I patted my stomach.
She nodded. “The battle will come later.” Her voice was ominous.
Marsha’s words were odd, but the world had become insane and I needed time.
I allowed Marsha to lead me back down the stairs. I thought I saw dark things out of the corner of my eye and weeping when we passed photos hanging on the walls. Young girls. Pale with empty dark eyes.
“Who are they?” I asked.
“Amelia Leech’s request they be hung, never taken down. No one asked Amelia questions.” She turned to look at me. “Money. Rather eccentric.”
I stared into the eyes of a girl a little younger than myself. She held a white lily as though she held a child. A tiny tear had formed in her right eye when the photographer snapped the photo. A sense of loss and mourning filled me.
Marsha turned and continued her downward climb. The storm grew more intense. The house grew darker and seemed to swallow me with its sadness.
* * *
Adhering to a rotating schedule, Maureen Dugan drives me, and others, to a women’s clinic on the East Side for prenatal care. We don’t share a waiting area with married patients. We are seated in the basement. The place has a medicinal smell. It’s clean and well kept, but there’s an icy, uncaring essence about it.
This morning I wait my turn to be examined. Marcy Long sits across me, arms folded and legs crossed. Maureen Dugan sits close by her side. Gone is the defiant look in Marcy’s eyes. Her long black hair is dull and greasy. Her face is pale.
Lacey Wright and Linda Sinelli are already in examination rooms. Nurses stand in doorways, sneak glances my way and they whisper. I shrug it off. To hell with them. Life is a journey of mistakes. Some of them more tragic than others.
I pick up a magazine from a wobbly wooden table. I thumb through pages, gazing at pretty clothes I can’t wear, let alone afford. There are articles on upcoming art shows. In photos, artists stand by large abstract canvases.
I sigh and turn the page. There is a layout about New Orleans, the Mardi Gras coming up in March and a list of available hotels with descriptions and prices. I flip a page. Here’s photo of one of the historical graveyards. There’s an article, too. It explains: The above-ground tombs in the cemeteries of New Orleans are called cities of the dead. Enter the moss covered gates and you will be greeted by decorative, rusty ironwork, and sun-bleached tombs. Crosses and statues on tomb tops are old and cracked, yet they retain mysterious and eerie beauty.
There’s more photos of random tombs. One where a politician is buried, another a jazz singer who died of a drug overdose and the last is a large marble tomb emblazed with the words Magic Man of the Garden District. There are coins, votive candles and flowers on the tomb. I look closer at words carved into the moss covered stone.
Kenneth Rogers Aster, Born 1901 Died 1930.
I think it might one of Ken’s relatives. His father? It’s a common name. Isn’t it?
I read the caption beneath the photograph.
Kenneth Rogers Aster was a carpenter who made sturdy furniture and hauled his wares cross country to merchants. He worked with local dressmakers to distribute their clothing. Aster was said to practice dark magic. He was linked to the disappearances of several children throughout the country. Scant evidence and iron clad alibis worked in Aster’s favor. Suspicion mounted, but he was never convicted. Some said he hauled the bodies of his victims to the underworld.
Aster was murdered in 1930. Killer unknown. Body cut and bleeding inside his trailer.
“What are you reading?” Maureen Dugan is standing over me, hands on hips. Marcy is next to her.
“About New Orleans. I’d like to go there.”
She smirks. “Sure. Come on. Doctor is waiting.”
“He’s coming to get our babies.” Marcy’s voice is soft. She’s got a faraway look in her eyes.
“Don’t be taunting other girls. Stay in your seat until they’re ready for you,” Maureen snaps at her.
I watch Marcy move slowly back to her seat. So docile. I guess they’re still giving her sedatives.
Now I follow Maureen to a small examination room where I’m told to strip from the waist down and then lay on an examination table.
I do as I’m told and close my eyes. A vision of Ken lifting bloody bundles fills my head. He stops for a moment, looks my way and smiles slowly.
“Coming back for you. Won’t be long.”
I hear a metallic sound and a man clears his throat. “Everything is normal,” says a young doctor as he tosses metal clamps on the table.
I shiver when he smiles the same way Ken did in my vision.
* * *
The first night I spent at Amelia Leech’s I dreamed of the girl with the teardrop in her eye. I sat on the stairs. The storm sounded outside and someone—a woman—was chanting, or singing in another room. The photographs lining the stairs were as large as life; like massive works of art hanging in modern galleries.
I heard a sigh and turned to see the weeping girl lean forward, toss her hair and then climb over the photo’s frame. She clutched her lily. Now dead, brown and smelling fowl.
She wept as I approached her.
“What’s wrong?” I asked her.
“They wouldn’t let me see my baby. Her father came. Took her away in his old truck. Tucked her in between furniture and clothes.”
“Who is her father?”
“The Magic Man. He wants me to make another like her. He’s coming back. Even though he died it doesn’t stop him. It never stops.”
“What?”
Suddenly she was gone. The sound of chanting intensified and the sound of beating drums filled my head.
The girl’s words rung in my ears when I awoke.
“Even though he died it doesn’t stop him.”
7
I’ve been looking through Paradise Lost tonight. Lots of it scares me. Pieces of it tie in to my dreams, to what I read in that article and to things I know about Ken.
The painting flanking Ken’s truck is here.
The Flight of Moloch
As for John Milton’s words, I’ve read this part over and over:
“First MOLOCH, horrid King besmear’d with blood
Of human sacrifice, and parents tears,
Though for the noyse of Drums and Timbrels loud
Their childrens cries unheard...
My parents can’t hear my sobs or feel my pain. I’m hidden in this awful place. Silenced by deeds dark and unforgivable.
* * *
I’ve never slept well. Always waking at the slightest noise. Always having bad dreams. Once I awoke from a nightmare, shivering and tearful. My father stood over me. His face flush from the cold.
“Quiet, Meg, you’ll wake your mother and sisters,” he whispered. I smelled liquor and cigarette smoke on him.
I sobbed when he walked away.
He stopped and said. “Oh, Meg, I wish I could do better for you. Think your crying now? Just wait...”
* * *
Flora’s knocking on my door.
“Meg.”
I close my book, rise and then let Flora in.
“I heard crying down the hall. It’s Linda Sinelli. She’s lying on floor. Blood everywhere.”
My heart beats quickly, like drums I hear in the distance. I don’t say a word as I open the door and make my way down the hall with Flora at my heels.
Linda lies on the carpet. Her nightgown is soaked with blood and a crimson ring is forming on the rug. She looks up at me with unfocused eyes. I kneel down and touch her face. She’s so cold.
She reaches for my hand. “Please help.” Her voice is weak.
I turn to Flora. “Run downstairs. Get help.”
Confusion spreads across Flora’s face and then she spins on her heels. She moves down the corridor and then the stairs. I hear someone whisper and then muffled laughter.
Linda sobs. “I’m going to die. It hurts so bad.”
“You’re not going to die.”
We sit for what seems like an eternity. The crimson ring grows larger and now Linda seems to have floated away. Her legs and hands twitch.
Suddenly she’s still. I press my head to her chest. I hear her heart beat. Weak and slow. I hear the old Grandfather clock tick in the hall. I hear voices and footsteps on the stair. Linda lets out a tiny gasp.
Now Irene, Davika and Maureen approach me. Flora walks somberly behind them and Marsha rushes past her. She’s suddenly beside Linda and me.
Irene bends down. “Too late to get her to the hospital. We’ll have to deliver the baby here. Girls, go to your rooms.”
Davika reaches into her pocket and removes a small container. She pops open the cork and sprinkles salt around Linda. “We can stop this.”
Irene waves her hand in dismissal at Davika. “You know as well as I that some things are fated.”
Davika shakes her head and sobs. “Got to try to keep the insanity away.” She moves away, singing softly and sprinkling salt on the floor. Now I hear Mr. Greely’s voice. I think he’s on the stairwell. He’s singing along with Davika.
I let go of Linda’s hand and stand. “We could call an ambulance.”
“It’s too late.” Marsha’s words are filled with anger. Irene and Maureen both look towards me. Hatred burns in their eyes.
I put my hands on my hips. “I won’t let you. I know what you do here. I figured it all out.”
“You know nothing.” Marsha shakes her head and then kneels beside Linda.
Irene nudges Maureen, “Did he make a mistake? Did he chose the wrong one?”
“What the hell are you talking about. Who is he?” I scream.
Patrick Lamont is here now. He looks my way and then puts a finger to his lips, “Go now. We have a job to do.”
Other girls are coming towards us, talking in whispers.
“All of you. To your rooms.” Marsha touches Linda’s belly. “Damn you all, go.”
I’m the last to go, standing defiant as wicked eyes peer into mine. I see horrible things in those dark orbs; a child ripped from an open womb, screaming as a dark God laughs with glee. I see myself kneeling before the same God. He reaches out and strokes my stomach as tiny flutters beat against my skin.
Marsha’s eyes are now orange flames where child cries blend with heat and pain. Fear overtakes me and I hate myself for leaving Linda alone. I don’t like that I run away, that I’ve allowed those women to win.
* * *
I was seven—maybe eight—when I awakened from a nightmare of lost children wandering down a path that twisted and turned. An endless labyrinth that always brought the poor souls back to where they began. Back to the arms of an angel with black wings and pointed teeth.
I shivered as I nestled my head against my pillow. I strained my ears for signs of others who might be awake in the house.
I heard my mother’s voice, soft and sweet. I longed for her to comfort me. So I made my way down the stairs and towards the dining room, w
here she often battled insomnia. But she was not alone on that night. Nor was she rocking in a chair by the window.
My parents sat at the dining room table with three older women. They wore long dark dresses. Wispy white hair hung like spider webs down their backs. I thought they might be sisters because they had similar bulbous noses. The youngest might have been in her early sixties, the second perhaps around seventy and the oldest looked ancient.
I peered at them from behind a fake rubber plant. At first they seemed to be praying in a strange language. Candles flickered and smoke spiraled upward. The ugliest and oldest spoke when the incantations ended.
“All join hands. This is a call to the beyond. A petition to the dark side.”
Bells from silver bracelets jingled and clothing rustled as everyone shifted in their seats offering hands to each other. My mother winched when my father took her right hand and one of the women squeezed her left.
The oldest woman spoke again. “The spirits are here and they want to know what we have to offer.”
My mother’s voice erupted, tinged with fear, “It doesn’t have to be that way.”
“Yes, it does. Only sacrifice will help now.” The old woman lowered her head and a deeper, creepier voice escaped from her lips. “I wait for him in this house. In the dark. In the cold. Blood from the sacrificed pools around me and the drums beat so that the children’s cries are muffled.”
My father’s face was pale in the candlelight. His hand shook after he loosened the grip of the old hag beside him.
Fear surged through me when dark shapes began to hover above my parents and candles ceased to burn. All three women looked my way and their eyes mocked me. Too frightened to linger any longer, I ran away.
I heard my mother call me. A silvery song in the midst of darkness, but nothing could make me go back, not even my mother’s embrace.
Once in my room, I crawled back into bed and shivered beneath blankets. Sounds echoed from downstairs; howling, mocking laughter and muffled cries.
I heard footsteps in the hall and a creak outside my door. I thought the women were coming for me. I squeezed my eyes shut and thought about angels. A warm feeling overtook me. The next thing I knew the sun was pouring through my window and the smell of bacon and coffee drifted from below.
