by Dana Donovan
“Man, that’s sad,” said Carlos. “He’s really an upstanding guy, your dad. Isn’t he?”
“I think so.”
It’s funny. I’m usually better with details than most. It’s a gift I’ve been able to hone through years of police work, gathering clues and conducting interviews. So it took me by surprise when Spinelli was able to jump on a few of the obvious inconstancies in my story that I totally missed.
“It was ‘43’,” he said, almost inaudibly. Carlos and I looked at him strangely.
“What’s that?”
“The movie, To Whom the Bell Tolls. It came out in ‘43’.”
“So?”
“You were born in 42, weren’t you?”
“I’m not following.”
“You said that your mom and dad related their adventures to Bergman and Cooper, but that’s impossible. If she left him after you were born, then they couldn’t have known about the movie because it wasn’t out yet.”
“So, dad was confused. He’s an old man. Maybe he meant another movie.”
“What about the war?”
“What about it?”
“You said he left you to go fight in Europe. By the time you were five, World War II had been over nearly two years.”
“Wait,” I said, retreating in a shell of denial. “Maybe my dad’s medications had him confused about some things.”
“Yeah, I bet that’s it,” said Carlos, and when he shot his young partner the look, Spinelli hopped aboard.
“Of course, that’s probably it. An old man on morphine will ramble on if you let him.”
Left with that, I could have let myself off the hook and not heard another word about it. But Carlos knew me better, and I suppose Spinelli did too. As much as I wanted to believe the crap about the drugs, I couldn’t. Pops was lucid and direct the entire time we spoke. He didn’t mix words about his past, and his memories, though distant, were not forged in morphine. I smiled at Spinelli and Carlos and thanked them for their support. “You guys are all right,” I said, adding, “but you suck at being detectives.”
“What do you mean?” Carlos asked. “You’re the one that missed all the obvious flaws in Pops’ story.”
“Yes, and you were willing to overlook them just to spare my feelings. You can’t do that.”
“Fine. We’ll go down to the hospice center right now and bring that old coot in for questioning. How’s that?”
“No, Carlos. You can’t do that.”
He turned to Spinelli for backup, but the rookie detective waved him off with a subtle headshake. It made me glad to think that Carlos would be the next one retiring.
“So what would you have us do?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Look, even if Pops knows something, he’s obviously not the killer. He’s been bedridden for weeks. Why don’t we work on finding your mystery witness? We can start by infiltrating some transient camps.”
“I can stop by the Goodwill and pick up some ratty clothes,” Spinelli volunteered. “That will help us fit in.”
“Great. Do that.”
“And I’ll get my harmonica,” said Carlos.
I looked at him as though he might be joking. “Why?”
“To help us fit in.”
I stood up and headed for the door. “We’ll meet outside in the parking lot tomorrow morning. Don’t either of you shave.” I turned and looked back over my shoulder. “And Carlos?”
He snapped to attention. “Yes?”
“Forget the harmonica.”
Six
Before heading back to the apartment, I decided to swing out of my way to see a dear friend. Leona Diaz had known Lilith Adams for years. The two worked closely together in Doctor Lieberman’s psychic workshops, and I felt that Leona was one of the few people I could talk to about my feelings for Lilith without prejudice. Her ability to bilocate, or project her metaphysical being across dimensions, qualified her for inclusion in the Lieberman project, though I made no assumptions regarding her otherwise innocuous connections with others in the group; Lilith Adams, especially. Paranormal attributes notwithstanding, except for their age and exceptional beauty, the two women shared little else in common. If I were smart or averse to self-torment, I would probably have done better to fall in love with Leona instead of Lilith.
Obviously I am neither.
Leona lived across town in a small apartment on the second floor of a building that probably should have been razed years ago. Though it wasn’t much to look at, I guess it proved idyllic for the understated needs of a shy Mestizos girl from Honduras.
I walked up the stairs and knocked on her door, keeping in mind that she would not recognize me since my return to prime. Although she had witnessed many truly amazing examples of supernatural occurrences in her studies at the institute, I doubted if she had ever seen an individual miraculously shed forty years off his age. To break it to her gently, I decided to introduce myself as her new neighbor. Then, after easing her into her comfort zone, I would explain the truth and hope she might understand.
I took a half step back as she opened the door; disappointed to see that she did not leave the safety chain latched as I had taught her.
“A`low?” she said, in that charming accent that endears her to me so.
“Hi there,” I said. “You don’t know me, but I just moved in next door and I—”
“Detective Marcella?”
“What?”
“¡Por Dios! Detective, it is you!”
“How did you…”
“Come.” She grabbed my hand and yanked me inside. “Sit, please, here on my sofa.” She patted the seat cushion and dragged me down onto the sofa beside her. “Oh, you must tell me how you look so good? You have been working out, no?”
“No, I mean, yes, I do now, but that’s not how I…Wait, how did you recognize me so quickly?”
She pointed at her eyes, though tightly squeezed by the enormous smile on her face, and then at mine. “I see you in there,” she said. “You cannot hide from me.”
“I wasn’t trying to hide. Did Carlos tip you off about me?”
“Do you want I should make some tea?” She stood and started across the room. “I have some from my home country. I think you will like it.”
“No, Leona, thank you, maybe later. Please, sit down. I need your help with something important.”
She came around the end of the sofa and reclaimed her seat beside me. “Of course, Detective. How I may help you?”
“It’s Lilith,” I said.
“Oh? Is she not so fine?”
“No, I mean, yes, she’s fine. That is, she’s very fine. She is the finest, most perfect thing I’ve ever known.”
“I do not understand.”
“It’s complicated. As you can see, thanks to Lilith I am now forty years younger.”
“Sí, you are muy handsome.”
“Thank you, but that’s not the problem. See, now that I am much closer to Lilith’s age I…that is, she and I…or rather, we—”
“You are in love with her, no?”
“Yes!” I said, feeling a great weight lift from my shoulders. “God, yes. Leona, the things she does to me. I haven’t felt this way since, well, before you were born. She’s all I think about, night and day. I’ve been wrestling with these feelings for over a year now, but ever since she included me in her rite of passage ceremony I—”
“Wait. It is how you became young again?”
“Yes. That’s what the passage does. It returns you to your prime.” She smiled, her pressed lips dimpling her cheeks ever slightly. “What?” I said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“The rite of passage is a most sacred and personal ceremony for a witch. For her to include you means that she has emotionally bonded with you.”
“If that’s so, then why doesn’t she show it? She’s had plenty of opportunity. But each time I think she’s about to open up to me, she backs away.”
“Maybe because you have not consumma
ted.”
“I know! That’s what I’ve been trying to do with her. But she won’t let me.”
This made Leona laugh, though timidly. She covered her lips and turned away in a blush.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
She returned to me on a shy glance. “Forgive me, Detective. I have embarrassment for me. What I mean to tell you is that you must complete the cycle. Witchcraft relies on returning energy. You cannot take and then not give back.”
“So, what do I do?”
“You must find a way to give back.”
“Give what?”
She raised her shoulders slightly and dropped them. “I am sorry. I do not know.”
“Then, why doesn’t Lilith tell me this?”
“She may be in denial about her feelings for you. A strong witch will not so easily admit her fragelly.”
“You mean, fragility?”
“Sí,” she said, and she giggled between splayed fingers. “My English, it is sometimes—”
“No-no, your English is wonderful. Trust me. And I appreciate what you are saying, but I do not consider Lilith fragile in the least—frigid maybe, flirtatious and frisky, sometimes; freakish, frumpy, frosty and fastidious on a good day, you bet—but fragile, definitely not.”
My assessment of Lilith made Leona laugh once again, but I noticed how she tactfully avoided agreeing with me.
“It is not my place to speak of Lilith directly, Detective,” she said after composing herself. “But I will tell you that all women have a fragile side, if not so easy to see, and Lilith is no exception.”
I smiled at her and shook my head in wonder. “How is it that your wisdom is so advanced for someone of such slim years?”
She smiled back. “I believe I am an old soul.”
“Yes,” I said, “and a beautiful one at that.”
She blushed brightly and turned away. “Detective, your words are too kind.”
“Not at all.” I stood up and started to show myself out. “And by the way, you can call me Tony. I’m not a detective anymore.”
She got up and followed me to the door. There, she took my hand and squeezed it tightly. “You will always be Detective,” she said. “It is who you are.” Then she rocked up on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek.
I thanked her, not knowing what else to do, and then let myself out. Much later, I learned that we were not alone in the apartment, and that Leona did have the chain on the door moments before I arrived. After I left, her visitor stepped out from the bedroom. Leona latched the safety chain on the door and peered back over her shoulder.
“Did I do well?” she asked.
“Yes. You did very well. Thank you.”
“I do not believe he suspected you were here.”
“No, of course he didn’t.”
Leona turned and pressed her back to the door. “You know, I do not like making lies to Detective Marcella. I wish for you to not ask me again.”
What her visitor said next was not important, but seeing that Lilith always gets her way, I didn’t bank much on Leona’s wishes coming true anytime soon.
When I got home, I half expected to find my stuff either tossed out onto the curb or in the community trash bin. It’s not that Lilith is particularly vindictive, but she is deliberate and matter of fact about things like that. If my declaration of love for her made her the least bit uncomfortable, then I knew she would have no problem dealing with it in the most absolute and efficient way possible. To my surprise, though, my personal effects were all present and accounted for. Lilith, however, was not.
I checked the bedroom first; noting that her previously made bed now looked slept in. I had only been gone a couple of hours, which made me think I had just missed her. So, I checked the laundry baskets next. If our clothes were missing, I knew it meant that she likely stepped out to the launderette. If only hers were missing, well, you get the idea. But a quick peek in the closet squelched both those possibilities. That left just one other: that she had gone for a walk to clear her head, maybe reconsider her feelings for me. I welcomed that notion as my best hope for resolution in the matter, concluding that if she didn’t come around, or at least think that we had a chance together, then my only wish would be that I never took part in her damn rite of passage ceremony to begin with.
From the bedroom, I walked straight to the kitchen, remembering about that beer in the fridge that I started to get earlier. The thought of it sounded mighty good about then. But something strange happened in the time it took between opening the refrigerator door and actually drinking the beer. Actually, it was two strange things. The first was the literal time it took. I remember looking at the clock, noting that it was five after five, a respectable time to be tapping my first brew. But when I popped the tab and took a swig, the clock had miraculously jumped ahead twenty minutes.
The second phenomenon––less mechanical, more supernatural––came in the form of clean dishes. What was once a messy pile of cups, plates and glasses waiting to be washed, was now a stack of cleaned and dried dishes sparkling pretty as can be on the counter.
I thought I might be losing my mind, until it suddenly dawned on me what happened. Lilith had used the icebox as another whisper box, directing a spell that made me wash the dishes! I realized then why she ran to me so quickly to apologize for the one she unleashed on me in her bedroom. She knew I was heading to the refrigerator for a beer and she didn’t want me to find her next little surprise so soon.
But that little surprise of hers gave me an idea. Ever since my return to prime, I suspected that I inherited something more in the rite of passage than just my newfound youth. Lilith’s incantation sparked a powerful spell that consumed us both in its breath. I remember her words exactly. ‘Banish weaker mortal souls, we summons thee of witch’s role. Through hexing slight of wizard’s slant, invoke thy magick, and essence grant.’
You can’t tell me that wasn’t an order to banish my mortal soul and grant me essence of magic, or magick, as she put it. The kicker came in her closing invocation. ‘By Rite of Passage this night begun, bestow upon thy soul plus one.’
That part was for me, the plus one. I tell you, it was really something. You had to be there.
Ever since then I’ve suspected I might have come out of the ritual with something other than the obvious. I was never really sure, though, until Lilith confirmed it. ‘You’re a witch. It’s there’, she said. She could see it in my eyes. And now the time for change had come. For too long, she exploited my affections for her by practicing her witchcraft on me, knowing that I would tolerate it for the chance of winning her over—but no more. Her little whisper box in the fridge gave me an idea; that and something Leona Diaz said.
I ran back to the bedroom, grabbed her laptop and headed out to the cyber Café. From there, I rode a virtual witch’s broom all over the world, sweeping through Witchit dot com and every other witch friendly site I could find until I had what I was looking for.
I didn’t return to the apartment until after midnight. Lilith was in bed by then, sleeping soundly. A note on the fridge said, Thanks for doing the dishes, and below that, a smiley face. I laughed at that and tossed the note in the trash. My nerves were wired, my brain frazzled and my wits at their end. But I felt alive, and glad to be home where I knew that a hot shower and a cold beer would make everything all right—well, almost everything.
After my shower, I tiptoed into Lilith’s room, kissed her on the top of her head and then retired to my own bed.
I was up and out by dawn, long before Lilith awoke. It’s not that I wanted to avoid her. I didn’t. But I told Carlos and Spinelli to meet me in the parking lot of the justice center early, and that meant sunrise. So I left the coffee on warm, the newspaper on the table and a note on the fridge that read simply, You’re welcome, below that, another smiley face.
I met up with the guys in the employee parking lot of the justice center. A couple of uniforms mistook them for vagrants and had momentarily
cuffed them. As I got closer, I could see why. Carlos was dressed like a derelict whore in a rumpled knitted sweater, baggy yellow slacks with patches on the knees and a maroon kerchief around his head. Spinelli presented a less menacing threat, though with his smaller frame garbed in a heavy wool overcoat, Panama hat and sandals, he looked more like an old bag lady than he did a transient.
By the time I got there, they had just about straightened the whole thing out. One of the detectives from narcotics recognized both and vouched for their clearances.
When asked why they didn’t have their IDs with them, Carlos said simply, “We left them in the lockers with our street clothes.”
After a quick run back into the building so that the guys could retrieve their badges and wallets, we were on our way.
Because Spinelli’s car looked the rattiest, we all piled into it for the ride across town. I wasn’t going to say anything about the get-ups, but I just couldn’t resist when we got out at Minor’s Point and even the street corner bums there began laughing. Naturally, Carlos was first to take offence.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” I said. “But you two do look ridiculous. Is this your idea of working undercover?”
“Better than yours.”
I looked down at my attire: faded blue jeans with holes in the knees, a New England Patriots sweat shirt (slightly tattered, but not over the top) and work boots, well worn but watertight. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”
“Oh, it’s fine if you’re going to a pep rally.”
“A pep rally?” I looked over at Spinelli. For Carlos’ sake, he didn’t say anything, but when he shed his wool overcoat and pitched his Panama hat, I knew exactly where his allegiance lay.
We kicked our way up Dutton Street first, a curvy little road that leads to the train yard at Minor’s Point. We figured we’d see lots of transients along the way, but strangely, at every bend we saw just a glimpse of men in dark clothes slipping from our sights. The few that didn’t disappear on us were too drunk from the night before to try. Eventually we came across one old guy sitting in an alleyway between two warehouses, clutching an empty bottle, but awake enough to talk. Carlos asked him if he had a minute. The old boy took one look at us and spat on the ground.
