Manhattan Grimoire

by Sandy DeLuca

  I saw the demons that night, sitting up high in stadium bleachers just hours before the accident happened. Later, they hovered over the crashed car, trying to capture my father’s spirit as it spiraled from his dead body. But he was too good, too pure for them.

  I know he’s someplace safe now.

  ”I remember you telling me about the accident.” The detective’s voice, now softer, interrupts my memories, but gently. He seems to sense my sorrow. It must be more evident than I realize. “But you never mentioned your mother.”

  “She left us when we were little,” I tell him. “We could fend for ourselves by the time we lost our father.” I close my eyes and see her flailing her hands like a mad woman, telling me I’d see the demons one day. “I don’t even know if the bitch is dead or alive.”

  The detective shakes his head. His ring glistens as a light turns from red to green. “So Allie came to New York to be with you?”

  How many times has he asked me the same question? My answer is always the same. “I came here first, she followed. Whether it was to be with me, I’m not sure. That was part of it, but…” I remember Allie showing up at my door, a suitcase in one hand, a half smoked joint in the other. She told me she was running from her boyfriend Ronnie, because he had abused her. There were dark blue bruises around her eyes and her lips were cut and swollen. She looked so scared. “Her boyfriend beat her,” I said. “She came here to get away from him.”

  Harris nods. He knows the story. I’ve repeated it countless times. “The guy who did it, Ronnie Bateman, was murdered the day your sister left.”

  “I didn’t know.” He’s probably better off dead. My sister’s face flashes before me. She loved the son-of-a-bitch, hooked up with him in junior high and took his shit for years. He was good looking, wild and mean. Dad wouldn’t allow him to come to the house, but he knew how Allie felt about Ronnie. He knew he couldn’t do anything about who his daughter fell in love with. “How long have you known about Ronnie? Why didn’t—”

  He seems to be driving in circles. Didn’t we pass this block before? “I wanted to make sure Allie was in the clear. I didn’t want to lay more bad shit on you, that’s all.”

  “Allie wouldn’t kill anyone. She was irresponsible, not a murderer.” I hear my voice crack.

  “I know that, Gina.” He bites his lower lip as if in thought a moment. “But I want you to get something through your head. She’s not in that church. There’s nothing for you there.”

  “I don’t know how—”

  ”Keep away from there,” he says, waving a hand to silence me. “There are beliefs and places in this city that are incomprehensible to some—Hell—to most, and it’s best to leave them alone.” He unlocks my door. “I’ll call you if I hear anything.”

  I watch him a moment then open the door and step onto the walk without a word. Snow stings my eyes, and I swing the door closed.

  The detective drives away. Shadows waver around his vehicle, and faces leer from the back window. I know Harris can’t see them; even in a crowd, they only haunt the lonely.

  There are beliefs and places in this city that are incomprehensible to some—Hell—to most, and it’s best to leave them alone.

  I wonder if Harris is a good lover. I could have asked him if he wanted to come up, if he needed a hot drink, but he’s probably got a wife and kids. I’ve been with married men before, and after a while you want more, you want to walk out in the open. You want to tell people how good they are in bed, but you keep the secret in your gut until you can’t take it anymore. Then you end it before it destroys you.

  I remove keys from my pocket and make my way to the door, my mind working various scenarios. If Tony’s home, I could tell him to leave, but I should wait until the storm is over. He’d end up sleeping in the park or in an alley. People die in weather like this.

  I’ll give him warmth, save him from all that…for now.

  6

  The super, a middle-aged man named Frankie Madero, stands in the hallway, shovel in hand. His eyes are watery and his beefy face is redder than usual. He’s gained weight, and his massive belly hangs over his belt. His jacket is fastened with a series of safety pins because he can no longer close the snaps comfortably over his massive torso. I wonder if he was once handsome, if some time long ago he had passion for something or for someone unobtainable. I wonder if he gave up on his dreams, or if he ever had any at all. I think everyone starts out with dreams, but people tell themselves there’s no time, not enough money, it’s too difficult, they’re too old, or it’s not meant to be. People murder their dreams without even bothering to give them proper burials. People laugh when they remember things they once believed they could have, and call themselves fools for ever believing they could. Do you go to Hell because you’ve given up on your dreams? Or does life on Earth become the hell?

  Frankie smiles when he sees me. “I’m surprised you were out in this. Ain’t no day for farting around in the city.” He moves toward the door. “I’ll shovel what’s out there. Better to do a bit now. If I wait ‘til the storm’s done then it’ll be too high, too heavy.”

  He’s not wearing gloves and his clothing is thin. His jacket is worn at the elbows and the pockets are torn. Is his paycheck so small that simple needs go unfulfilled? “Be careful, Frankie, it’s freezing out there.”

  “Yep.” He lifts the shovel. Thick dark liquid trickles from the edges. I notice the same rusty red stains on his jeans.

  I watch him disappear into swirling clouds of white and wonder if he gave up another identity to live in his little shoebox dwelling, if he once killed someone in another state, perhaps another borough. Perhaps he’s eluded police with his disguise. Maybe he still has the murder weapon and brings it out when it storms. He knows no one will see him through all the ice and snow.

  Imagination can be a demon. It can terrify, make you want to bolt your doors on a clear sunny day when others are enjoying life, loving each other without apology or compromise. A painted devil, it torments and drives lovers and friends away. Uncontrolled, it can make you insane.

  The super isn’t bright or clever enough to elude the police. He’s a simple man living a simple life. For some reason, this makes me smile. If I didn’t know better I might even envy him.

  The door to his small room just off the front hall is open. Something inside smells good, so I take a quick peek. His companion, a younger woman named Lilly, thin with wild eyes and brittle hair, is stirring something in a large pot on the stove. Smoke curls around her as she hums and taps her foot. She sinks her fingers into a small copper bowl to her right, sprinkles ingredients into the bubbling pot then looks up and sees me standing here. She gives a wide smile. “I put love potion in Frankie’s stew, keeps him from straying. Got to do what you need to, ya know?” She begins to stir quickly, laughing at a joke only she understands.

  At least Frankie has someone to love. Love can get you through at lot of shit, and maybe true love is all he ever wanted, all he ever dreamed of.

  I wish I had real love.

  I climb the stairs, dreading the emptiness waiting for me inside my apartment. A dull ache emerges from my heart as I think of Tony. Again, I find myself wondering where he is and why he’s been lying to me. I approach my door, fumble for my keys in my purse and absently touch the knob. The door is open, but Tony isn’t here. If he was, his boots would be drying in the hall and his portable easel would be leaned against the banister. Did I forget to lock up? Or has someone broken in? Maybe a madman is sitting on my living room couch, drinking my wine and waiting for me. He could strangle me with his bare hands, or with the belt from my robe.

  Someone abducted my sister and killed her. Officer Harris said he may have been watching her, tracking her every move. I figured he’d come for me sooner or later.

  I step gingerly inside the apartment and quickly flick on the light.

  The couch is empty but for a pair of Tony’s sweats and some bread crumbs scattered haphazardly across it.
/>
  I slip a can of pepper spray out of my purse, clip it to my belt and then lower my purse to the floor.

  I walk to the bedroom. Everything is as I left it. The bed is unmade, shades are drawn and the rug still needs to be vacuumed. Tony’s abstract paintings hang above the bed and bureau. I throw open the closet door. It smells of mothballs. Fake furs and sequined clothes are draped over paint-splattered denim. Our jeans, sweaters and cotton shirts are mixed together. It’s a tangled mess. I should straighten it out soon. I look to the floor. An assortment of sneakers, boots and summer sandals are there. I gaze at a beaded black satin pump. Its mate is missing, has been for months. I wonder if the killer broke in here and stole it, if he holds it, strokes it like a lover and thinks about a day when he’ll kill me. I loved that fucking pair of shoes. How dare a maniac deprive me of such a simple pleasure? I carefully part clothing, hold my breath in anticipation of an ax murderer leaping out at me. But no one is there. Maybe I’ve watched too many cop shows on TV, read way too much noir and am simply overreacting. I wonder if my sister thought the same things before she was killed.

  Pushing those thoughts aside, I crouch down, peek beneath the bed. Nothing but dust balls and several mismatched socks.

  I walk down the small hallway, peer into Tony’s small studio but find only canvases and easels. Off to the side is my darkroom. A killer hides there. I know it. I push open the door. Smells of photographic chemicals greet me. Photographs are pinned to wire across the small room. I open cabinets beneath the sink, above my enlarger. No one hides. Only basins and supplies are there. I cross the hallway and enter the kitchen. Dishes are still in the sink and the table is cluttered with books and newspapers. I enter the bathroom and pull open the shower curtain to reveal white porcelain and a shampoo bottle.

  I simply must have forgotten to lock the door…but where the fuck is my black satin shoe?

  I walk back to the living room.

  Exhausted, I strip off my clothes and lay on the couch. My muscles ache and my hands and knees sting from the fall. I’ll sleep, I promise myself, and wait for Tony’s return. Snow sticks to the windows as the wind beyond them howls. I hear Frankie and his girlfriend laughing downstairs. I can’t make out precisely what they’re saying, but I hear a word now and then. “Sister…Allie…dead.” There’s another voice, somber, low. It sounds like Detective Harris, but that’s unlikely.

  All the voices join in a lulling chorus. “Suspicious…can’t be sure…watching.”

  Afraid the dreams may be starting again, I open my eyes, resist sleep. It won’t be long until Tony gets back from wherever the fuck he is—I’ll sleep then.

  A neighbor’s cat cries, and I think of an old cat I had as a child. Her name was Martha, and she used to cuddle close to me at night. I’d wake up if she wandered away to a windowsill or to a comfortable chair, and I’d be afraid because then the voices would come and shadows would spiral from beneath the closet door. I’d call her back to bed and she’d come, leap up next to me and nuzzle close like a protective mother.

  “Sister.”

  It’s not Allie’s voice…it’s no one’s voice I know. It’s evil and shrill.

  “Martha,” I say softly. Something soft and warm is near and despite it all my eyes close and I feel myself drifting off to sleep as snow covers the city.

  I dream of an old bookstore where Shakespeare’s manuscripts are for sale along with my photographic stories of Manhattan. There’s a vintage clothing store next door. As I scan racks of clothing a woman and child approach me. The woman says, “You’re ancient, but you look young. Reminds me of vampirism.”

  I get a creepy feeling, but smirk at her and say, “Yeah, great. Thanks.”

  Next I dream Tony and I are laughing, making love, and I tell him I want to make it work. He says he’ll change and I believe him. I tell him we should never give up on our dreams. He tells me I’m ancient, that the blood I need is at the church in Harlem. We hug, and we’re happy despite the eerie feeling in my gut.

  “We’ve got to make it work,” I say as my eyes slowly open. “This dream won’t die.”

  The wind howls louder, and I drift back to sleep, thinking about things I need to tell Tony when he gets back.

  7

  The dead of night, everything’s still and covered with the fog of sleep. Tony’s tattered army jacket is gone from its spot where it hangs next to the door, and I don’t sense him in the bedroom. I always feel his presence when he’s near. I shouldn’t care where he is or who he’s with, yet I long for him, want him back. Instead, I’m all alone. Not even the dark things are with me tonight. They must be haunting others.

  The apartment is cold, but we can’t afford to keep the heat up high. Oil heat is too expensive and the electric heaters we used last month just spiked our electric bill. Money’s tight, even with me working. I got in over my head with some credit cards, paying for Tony’s art supplies and spending at downtown shops like there’s no tomorrow. Then there’s my addiction to eBay and my inability to resist rare occult books bound in leather. My bookshelves are crammed with volumes about mysticism, time travel and devil worship. I haven’t read any of them, I just admire the way they look stacked against each other. I dust them daily, savor their old smells and dream about the secrets within their pages. Maybe one day I’ll learn them. My only usable credit card went over its limit with my last purchase; a publication documenting voodoo rituals using human sacrifice. I think of the old church in Harlem. The dead were given to strange and obscure Gods in exchange for power, money or twisted love.

  The CD player comes on and Billie Holiday’s sultry voice fills the apartment. Her man left her. I hear Tony singing along. Did he come in while my thoughts drifted, as sleep came and went? I notice his coat hanging in its usual spot now, where it should be, the edges dripping with water, making little circular puddles on the floor. He always sings when he’s drunk. I rise, rub my eyes and make my way to the music, to Tony, but he’s not here. The room is empty.

  “What the fuck?” I mutter aloud, my voice hoarse.

  The ancient elevator creaks. Did Frankie fix it? Footsteps sound.

  I run to the door and throw it open, but no one’s there. The scent of lemon perfume hangs in the air, reminding me of Allie.

  “Sis?” Allie’s voice echoes from the stairwell, from darkness, from places where the dead exist.

  “Not tonight,” I tell the darkness, certain this must be a nightmare. “I can’t—I can’t handle this tonight.” I’m so fucking cold. I gaze into the empty hallway.

  A woman moans in the next apartment, but no one lives there. Liquor bottles are piled against a forsaken coat rack in the hallway.

  Footsteps sound on the stairs. A figure shrouded in shadow trudges upward, hunched over, hands elongated, torso unnatural.

  It must be the way the moonlight slices through storm clouds, casting odd shadows on the stairwell, because Tony appears in the hallway, face flushed, hair wet, coat dripping with newly fallen snow.

  He doesn’t say a word, just pushes past me, makes his way into the apartment and collapses on the bed. His eyes are watery, and he’s shivering. “Shit, it’s colder in here than it is out there.”

  “Money’s tight, you know that.” I shrug. I don’t care. I miss him, need him. “I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

  “Come lay down beside me, babe, warm me up.” His eyes are glassed over and he smells of old sweat. His hair shimmers with snow droplets.

  I glance out the window. The world is dark, nothing visible but for a ghostly light from an apartment across the way and the moon making odd patterns on the walls and floor. When did it get so bad out?

  Finally, I lay down beside him. “Missed you.” His voice is husky, sleepy.

  The volume on the stereo suddenly rises, blasting Billie’s voice, deep and sad, through the apartment.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Tony sits up.

  “The stereo’s old,” I tell him. “It’s been coming o
n and off by itself lately, or getting louder and softer. At first I thought you were back, but then I remembered the fucking thing’s haunted. Who cares? Don’t you just love her voice?” I kiss his cheek.

  “I’m in the mood for rock.” Tony turns over on his side. “I’m so tired, though.”

  “I came to see you today. You weren’t on West Broadway. They said you haven’t been there in a while.” I close my eyes, certain I don’t really want to know where he’s been and wondering even then why I’m asking.

  “I moved my stand up to the 80s, more business there—will be when the weather breaks anyway. This guy I know, Al, he lets me put my stuff under the awning of his pizza shop. He says I can attract business and we can both make out.” His voice is flat and devoid of emotion, the way it always is when he lies to me.

  “I should try harder to sell my stuff,” I say. “Maybe I should put a stand next to yours.”

  “It’s tough out there. Wait until spring.” Tony sighs, shuts off the light.

  Clouds rolling past dull the light of the moon. I can’t see him anymore.

  The door clicks shut, footsteps shuffle in the hall, and the elevator makes a grinding noise. I wonder if I’ve drifted off to sleep without realizing it and am coming to just then, because as I move my hands over the mattress I realize Tony is gone again.

  I pull myself up, get out of bed and pad to the living room. I look out the window into the alley and see him down there leaning against his van. He appears to be in deep conversation with a girl shrouded in an old fur coat, her head covered with a dark scarf.

  “Allie was dressed like that before she disappeared,” I hear myself say. “She borrowed my coat and scarf.” I feel nauseous and suddenly lightheaded. “What—what’s happening down there?”

  “What? Man, you tripping or what?” Tony’s says from somewhere behind me.

  I spin on my heels, see Tony lying on the bed, eyes brown and drowsy.