by Dana Donovan
“Huh. Don’t know why I would have said that.”
“Me neither. Are you sure there isn’t something you want to tell me?”
She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose in a classic gesture of denial. “No. Hey, do you want some lasagna? I made it myself.”
“I don’t think I…wait. You made lasagna?”
“Yup.”
“You don’t cook.”
“I cook.” She made her way to the oven, removed a gorgeous looking tray of deep-dish lasagna and set it on the table. Then she brought over a plate, a fork and a knife and she shoveled out a piece the size of a brick.
“Sit,” she said, leading me to the table by the hand. I knew that the lasagna was her attempt to change the subject away from the jeans question, but I didn’t much care. With my stomach growling and my resistance worn, I felt reasonably sure that lasagna was about the only thing that Lilith would be putting out anytime soon.
She sat across from me and watched as I ate, smiling suspiciously all the while. I had almost begun to believe that her domestic talents were broadening, when I noticed the oven-safe plastic pan the lasagna came in.
“So, you cooked this, did you?” I pointed at the leftovers.
“Yes,” she answered proudly.
“All by yourself?”
“All by myself.”
I nodded, shoveling the last forkful into my mouth. “It came frozen, didn’t it?”
Without hesitation, guilt or remorse, she answered, “Ah-huh.”
I knew then that she was not trying to pull anything over on me. Her pride for a job well done came with genuine satisfaction. I even believed to a large degree that my approval or disapproval would shape the tone of our relationship for the foreseeable future. So, after swallowing the last bite, I looked up at her, smiled and said, “Lilith. That was the best damn lasagna I’ve ever tasted.”
In a way, I had not lied. It was good lasagna—maybe not as good as some I’ve had up in Boston’s north end—but having been cooked and served to me with heart by the woman I loved, I can remember none tasting better. Lilith’s eyes sparkled when I told her that, and for a belated second, I almost considered blowing off the jungle recon and staying home with her in hopes of us serving up something steamy for dessert. But all that went out the window when she expressed her plans for the evening, which included her needing the car.
“To go where?” I asked.
“That’s none of your business, is it?”
“I just want to know you’ll be safe.”
She folded her arms to her chest. “Tony. I’ve been taking care of myself for over a hundred and seventy years. I think I know how to keep myself safe.”
“Is this a witch thing?”
“What?”
“Are you going to witch it tonight?”
“Witch what?”
“Whatever it is you’re planning.”
“I’m not planning anything.”
“Then why do you need to go out? You know you really should—”
“Tony. Stop!” My heart skipped a measurable beat. “You need not presume what I should and should not do—please. When I suppose what is best for you, then I will validate your presumptions. Until then, spare me your inquisitions.”
“Fine,” I said, and I pushed my empty plate away. “Don’t let me in. Keep your precious distance. I don’t know what you’re afraid of, though. I won’t bite. Hell, even if I do, you might like it if you give me a chance. I mean, really, would it kill you to open up just a little bit?”
She took my plate, crossed the room and pitched it into the sink almost hard enough to break it. “I am opening up,” she said. “You don’t see it because you really don’t know me. But you need to be patient. Whatever is supposed to come will come. Just let it happen naturally.”
“Will it?” I asked. “Will it come in my lifetime?”
She must have sensed the despair in my voice, or seen the desperation in my eyes. As she came back to me, I fully expected her to slap me on the face as hard as she could. I raised my chin stiffly, closed my eyes and held my breath. She stopped only inches from me. Then she cupped her hands below my jaw and planted the sweetest, most delicate kiss upon my lips. It took me by surprise and left me utterly speechless. Our lips parted like falling petals. When I opened my eyes, I found her face so close to mine that I could still feel the warmth of her breath on my chin. She blinked back a starry gaze and then peered deep into my eyes.
“Yes, Tony, it will,” she said, softly. “And when it does, it will be worth it. Trust me.”
She pulled away, leaving me feeling stranded and strangely alone. I could no longer connect with the insecurities and anxieties of wondering where I stood with her. I could only sit back and hold on to the emptiness that somehow I knew she would one day fill. ‘It will come’ she said, a promise as vague as life itself. It will come; she will come. I knew that now, but for the remaining emotions: desire, frustration, anticipation; I just didn’t know if I could wait.
I watched her turn and walk away, a haunting image for a shipwrecked psyche such as mine. Her departure struck me as symbolic of my dilemma. The promise of her return meant that she held complete and utter control over the durance of my soul. No longer did I hold the key to my own destiny, but then, since meeting Lilith on that cold March night at Doctor Lieberman’s workshop, I suppose I never did.
Later, after taking her shower, which did not include me looking in on her, double standards being what they are, Lilith came to me with a puzzle of sorts. It consisted of a small jar of dried beans and a snippet of hair. She said she wanted to see if my witching abilities were noticeable enough to measure.
“How do you find that out?” I asked.
“Simple,” she said. “I’m going to test your scrying powers.”
“What, like fortune telling?”
She seemed to weigh the question. “Well, same skills, different application. Here.” She handed me the jar and then piled the hair clippings onto the table. “This is what you do. Open the jar and dump the beans out on top of the clippings. Then, from the pattern of the beans, I want you to tell me where the other snippets of hair just like these are hiding.”
I looked at her like she might be daft. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No! You can do this. Come on. I have faith.”
“But how am I supposed—”
“Just try it. What have you got to lose?”
“I don’t know, my dignity?”
That made her laugh. “Tony, any dignity you had when you walked through that door, you lost this afternoon, stepping into the shower.”
“Yes. Thanks to you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, spill the beans.”
At the risk of falling victim again to one of her pranks, to which I assumed there’d be many, I opened the jar and dumped the beans out onto the table. They staggered as they bounced, dancing in nervous step to the rhythm of their own chatter. After settling, what I had left was a scattering of dried beans, some shinny hair clippings and a witch, whose face told me that I had my answer, only, I had no idea what that answer was. I looked up at Lilith, hoping for a clue. She pointed eagerly at the beans.
“Excellent drop! I think you’re a natural.”
“Natural what? Idiot?”
“Come on!” She pointed. “You don’t see it?”
“See what?”
“The answer. Look, it’s staring you in the face.”
I looked again at the beans, thinking that maybe I just wasn’t trying hard enough. “It would help if I knew what I was looking for,” I said. “Is it like a message? An arrow? What?”
“Yes and no.”
“Lilith.”
“I mean, it’s none of those things and all of those things. The answer isn’t in the beans; it’s in your head. The beans only provide a pattern to which you assimilate and interpret for the purpose of navigating sub-psychic peripherals in the brain.”
“What?”
/> “Listen. These peripherals run parallel with cosmic energies surrounding all of us. If you learn to harness that, then you can know things that others may never dream.”
I concentrated on the beans again. “How will I know when I see it?”
She reached across the table to pat my hand. “Don’t worry. You’ll know.”
I imagined that part of making it happen was my believing I could make it happen. Only a year before I had seen incredible things; examples of phenomenal supernatural events that unfolded before my very eyes. Things I would have thought impossible, even ridiculous, had manifested themselves in spectacular ways through nothing more than simple spells, chants and will of mind. And should I fail to mention that I too, am a product of the supernatural? Had I witnessed nothing at all so astonishing in the past, I would still have to confess my convictions since I now breathe through the lungs of a man forty years younger.
So, I sharpened my focus on the pattern the beads made and concentrated hard on allowing my sub-psychic mind to assimilate the cosmic energies that Lilith spoke of.
Soon, a clear image came to me: a lock of hair and a leather pouch sitting on an open shelf. I saw a bookcase by a bed and a silver ring with the devil on it. The devil’s eyes glowed crimson red and two big horns protruded from his forehead. I looked up at Lilith. She seemed poised with anticipation.
“It’s in your room,” I said.
“Is it?”
I nodded toward the hall. “Let’s go see.”
She followed me from the kitchen to her bedroom. I went inside and stopped at a bookcase by her bed. “It’s here,” I said, pointing. I reached down and grabbed the leather pouch off the bottom shelf and tossed it to her. She pulled the drawstrings open and peered inside as I stood confidently by, sure that I had just scried my way into witchcraft history.
“Ooh! My ring!” she exclaimed. “I wondered what happened to that.” She reached into the pouch and pulled out a silver ring with a devil’s head on it, complete with horns and crimson red eyes.
“What else is in there?” I asked.
She stole another peek. “Nothing.”
“What?” I crossed the room and snatched the pouch from her hands. “There’s no snippets of hair?” I looked in the pouch myself, ran my fingers into its corners and even turned it inside out. “I don’t get it. Where’s the snippets of hair.”
“There not there,” she said.
“But I saw the pouch. I saw the bookcase and the ring.”
“Yes. Thank you. I didn’t realize it was in there.”
The irony of it made me laugh. “You didn’t know the ring was in there?”
“Uh-uh. It’s been lost for ages.”
“Then why didn’t you scry for it?”
She smacked me flat-handed on the chest. “Pah—leeese. I’m so absentminded, if I went around scrying for everything I ever misplaced, I would need a hill of beans a mile high.”
“So, is this typical? Do you often find something other than what you are scrying for.”
“What, me?”
“Yes.”
That made her laugh even more. “Oh, dear God, no. Aren’t you cute?” She started off down the hall, polishing the ring on her shirtsleeve. “But thanks for finding my ring, anyway.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon spilling dried beans out on the table in hopes for finding the missing lock of hair. I wanted to prove to Lilith and to myself that I could do it. Partly because I wanted to show her that, as a witch, I was worthy. The other reason stemmed from what Leona said about me completing the cycle. I considered that maybe the scrying test was Lilith’s way of getting me to do that without tipping me off as to the true purpose of the test. I reasoned that anything I could do to complete the cycle was worth the try. Unfortunately, by early evening, the mystery remained unresolved.
Nine
Carlos and Spinelli picked me up at the apartment in an unmarked sedan about an hour after sunset. I hopped into the back seat and we headed off down Monroe toward Minor’s Point.
For the recon mission I dressed in layers, starting with a black tee shirt under a dark flannel long sleeve and topped with an army green fatigue jacket. Lilith helped me distress my blue jeans to look like they’ve been through hell and back by tearing holes in the knees and back pockets. Then, for more visual stress, she shredded the cuffs and popped out a couple of the belt loops. On my way out the door she cautioned me to be careful not to ruin the jeans. I laughed at that, but after shutting the door I realized she meant it.
Carlos had taken my advice and dressed similarly in layers. The only difference was his new smell, which reminded me of garbage.
“That’s what it is,” he said, after I questioned him about it.
“Garbage?”
“He went Dumpster diving,” said Spinelli. “He wanted to get the authenticity right.”
“Was that your idea?”
Carlos piped in, “No, it was mine.” I believed he felt a certain amount of pride for his quick-thinking ingenuity. I rolled my window down and asked Spinelli to step on the gas.
“So, I thought you guys were supposed to be here right at sunset,” I said. “What happened?”
Spinelli answered, “We had to stop for supplies,”
“Like what?”
Carlos produced an unlabeled bottle from a paper bag between his knees. “Moonshine.”
“Moonshine?”
“Yeah.”
“Where did you find that?”
“The liquor store.”
“The liquor store sells moonshine?”
Spinelli said, “It’s not real moonshine. It’s tequila. He thought it would look more hobo-like if he removed the label.”
“You’re kidding.”
Carlos looked a bit put out by my questioning the idea. “No,” he said, “hobos love their moonshine. Besides, if we try going into the jungle without some booze we might get stabbed.”
“That’s crazy.”
“No, he’s right,” said Spinelli. “Transients can get fiercely territorial. It’s bad etiquette to join a group at a campfire without an invite or a bottle or both.”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“I read up on it.”
“Really?” I settled into my seat, comfortable with that, but suddenly feeling very inadequate about my dress, specifically my lack of hardware. I knew that Carlos was carrying a weapon, most likely his Glock 17, snuggled nicely in his shoulder holster along with a back up piece, a smaller 5-shot 38 around his ankle. But those would do me no good if he went and got himself stabbed right in front of me. When I hatched the idea of infiltrating the hobo community to gather Intel, I hadn’t considered it an especially risky operation. As we got closer to the drop off point, though, I began to reconsider.
“Dominic,” I uttered, almost as a question. “I know I don’t have authority to carry, but—”
“Say no more, sir.” He passed a semi-auto 9mm with custom rubber grips over his shoulder. “Here.”
I took the weapon and tucked into the backside of my jeans. “Thanks. I’ll give it back to you after tonight.”
“Don’t bother,” he said, and I watched him and Carlos exchange glances and smiles. “It’s yours. It’s from both of us.”
“What? No. I couldn’t.”
“Uh-uh, not another word. It’s the least we can do to show our appreciation.”
I swear those two never cease to amaze me. “All right. Thanks,” I said, and left it at that.
As we neared the drop off point, I saw Spinelli’s expression in the rear view mirror change. He made a face like Carlos sometimes does while trying to calculate the percentage of a waitress’ tip. I asked him what the problem was. “It’s your monikers,” he said.
“What monikers”
“That’s just it. You don’t have one.”
“Do we need one?”
He laughed. “If you want anyone to take you seriously you do.”
“I like Boxcar Wil
lie,” said Carlos. “It sounds railroad-ish.”
Spinelli scoffed. “It sounds like a made-up name from some kid’s TV show. You’re better off with Dickweed.”
I could see Carlos thinking. “Dickweed, huh?”
“He’s joking,” I said. “Dominic, come up with something else.”
He gave it just a little thought before coming back with a couple of winners. “How `bout Bulldog and Havana Joe?”
I looked at Carlos. He seemed every bit as satisfied as I with the choices. “Sure. What do you think, Carlos?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I get to be Havana Joe, right?”
Somehow, I expected that. “Yes, Carlos, seeing you’re the only one of us that speaks Spanish.”
Ten minutes later we were standing at the drop off corner near Minor’s Point, waving Spinelli goodbye. I gave Carlos a final once over to see how he looked, and I have to say, he did well. After getting him to pull his shirttail out and messing up his hair some, he looked like quite the respectable bum. We turned our collars up to the evening chill and then stepped off into the woods on a thin trail matted out by countless footsteps before us.
The first hundred yards or so differed from the rest of the path. That’s where clues of adolescent drinking and promiscuous teenage relations appeared more evident. Empty beer bottles with labels too trendy for a hobo’s liking lay strewn in the grass among used condoms and discarded women’s panties.
Further along, as the woods thickened and the grasses shortened, hints of such pedestrian activities diminished. From there, things got a bit scarier. My sense of direction became slightly disoriented, as the path twisted and wound like a serpent towards the sounds of raspy voices with occasional spikes of laughter. Before long, we spotted a distant campfire flickering through a stand of trees like fireflies in a cornfield. Beyond that, the faint glow of another fire loomed. I tapped Carlos on the shoulder and asked him if he felt ready. He nodded confidently and told me he was.
“Great,” I said, and I held out my hand. “Now let me see the tequila.” He gave me the bottle without asking why. I opened it, took a swig, swished it around in my mouth and then spat it out onto the ground. I handed the bottle back, wiping my mouth on my coat sleeve. “Thanks.” I pointed to the bottle. “Now, you do it.”
