“If johnny says you must come now, you have got to trust him. He knows things. He wants you to come to his apartment.”
“You mean—we.”
“No, I mean—you.”
I scowled. “Well, why can’t you come?”
“Because johnny wants you to come alone.”
I jumped up from the sofa. “Well . . . well . . . does johnny always get what johnny wants!”
“Usually,” she said. Her eyes rolled sideways, and she added quietly, “Somehow he does.”
“There is something suspicious about this man. What possible reason could he have for not wanting you to accompany me?”
“The reason is irrelevant. He will help you. He knows what he’s doing, and he wants you alone.”
“Randa, I’m the gullible one, remember? You’re the assertive one. Why must things be on his terms? Why can’t you put them on your terms like you always do?”
She stared at me, friend to friend. “This is different.”
My face fell. “I can’t go to that part of town—alone, especially on a Friday evening. I might get stuck there after nightfall.”
“It will be fine, Jenséa. The sun sets late this time of year.”
“But I can barely handle Fifth Avenue . . . much less Avenue D.” Flashes. Memories. My shoulders sank. I blinked back tears. “You know how I feel about New York City.”
My defiance had faded into a painful recollection of a news clipping, French actor Robert Renlé and his wife, American playwright Carole Renlé‚ were mugged and brutally slain late last night in Times Square after exiting the Broadway Production, ‘Phantom of the Opera.’ Surviving them is three-year-old daughter Jenséa.
Randa’s voice softened, “Jenséa, I know New York City holds bad memories for you; I know it does, but johnny will watch over you. He’s kind of psychic, so if you are in trouble, or if trouble is coming, he will know, I promise. He always ensures the safety of his clients.”
I shook my head silently, realizing better than anyone how violent New York City streets can be. I could still see my Grandma’s hand reaching down to mine as she told me that I was going to go live with her in Arizona because mommy and daddy went to heaven.
“You must deal with your current problem, Jenséa.”
“I won’t make it in that part of town by myself. I’m a predator magnet. Surviving at home in the country is a trial. Surviving here is a feat.”
“I always watch out for you,” Randa said.
“You won’t be if you send me off alone.”
“I’m putting you in capable hands.”
“In that part of town, there are no hands capable of protecting me. I’m not normal.”
“Neither is johnny.”
“Randa, you know that discretion is my only defense. I rarely leave home, because alone, for me, is dangerous. I’m here because you are. And now you want to send me off without you to a part of town I can’t survive.”
She landed her hands warmly on my shoulders. “johnny will protect you.”
I wiped my finger over an escaped tear. “He’d need an army to protect me.”
Randa shook her head. “johnny will solve your problem, and you need your problem solved.” She grabbed a tissue from the box on the end table and dabbed the moisture from the corners of my eyes. “I would never steer you wrong. You are family to me.”
Maternal nurturing. Works every time. Growing up with no mother made me putty when I was mothered, and I always felt like Randa’s child. She’s the type that would never have kids or puppies, so I guess, in some weird fashion—I was it. I scrunched my face, toddler style, swallowing sour surrender. “Okay, I’ll go—alone.”
She smiled. “You won’t be sorry.”
She scribbled something on a white sheet of notepaper and stuffed it in her pocket. johnny’s address, I presumed. I guess she didn’t want my little eyes stewing over my destination.
She guided me into her mauve-colored bedroom where my new wardrobe, bought by her, hung meticulously in her immense walk-in closet. She loved dressing me for art shows. However, I distinctly felt that she was now going to dress me for johnny. She stripped me out of my mint green sundress into a provocative little number that just wasn’t me—a black slinky gown that revealed every curve I had. Wonderful. Nothing like enticing every predator from here to Timbuktu.
I told her, ‘no way’ and we compromised on an indigo cotton crop top, tight white jeans, indigo belt, and short-heeled pumps to match.
“Indigo brings out your eyes,” she said. She fiddled with my hair for a while, deciding at last that it was so straight and fine, not much could be done with it.
Lastly, she strapped an eloquent indigo silk fanny pack around my hips and stuffed it with the meager contents from my small white travel purse, adding the paper she had stuck in her pocket, and a key to her condo. I didn’t travel much, so my driver’s license, cash, and a comb were all I carried.
I glared at Randa. “I’m going to be mugged.”
Her hands landed on my shoulders once more. “I told you, johnny will watch over you. He will. I have gone to his place a dozen times with no problem. And I have a running account with him that has worked out fine.” She turned me toward the door and drove me across the room.
“Only the saints can watch over me—,” I said. I tossed my head back, then added half-teasing, “—and you.”
“And that’s exactly what I’m doing—watching over you.” She pushed me like ‘the little engine that couldn’t,’ out the condo, down the hall to the elevator. “Remember when I told off our history teacher, Mr. Wells, in high school when he put the moves on you?”
“Yes.”
“Remember when I told that doctor off for molesting you, and worked to get his license revoked?”
“Yes.”
“And remember that psychopath who wormed his way into your home the day he got out of prison? I got him out of your life, remember?”
“Yes.”
“So, do you honestly think I’d send you to a derelict?”
“No,” I said sheepishly.
“But this is New York City, Randa. I have to pass through it to get to johnny.”
“Wasn’t it you who wanted to go to college and major in social psychology so you could help the world? Well, view New York City as a behavioral scientist. Learn something. Make notes. Write an article!”
It was true. I had a passion for understanding how various groups and individuals affect each other. Understanding that relationship could solve problems and improve the world. Unfortunately, pursuing my dream by attending college wasn’t an option. Too many men in those places. I did get one of those ‘go through college at home’ degrees, but I didn’t tell Randa. I didn’t want her making a fuss over it. Besides, changing the world meant I had to go out in it. So . . . I painted, bestowing the only gift I could.
We arrived at the elevator. I faced her, and said in jest, “I prefer to study the inner city from a book.”
“You must go there to truly know it.”
I half-jested, “I feel like you are sending me off to hell.” Deep down, I was serious.
“I’m sending you to one who has the wisdom to master hell,” she said, guiding me inside the brassy box pressing the first floor button. The doors closed. My mind closed. “You are sending me to a hell master?” I reached for the open button. Randa grabbed my hand and down we went, my stomach dropping three floors with the elevator.
Her clutch on my arm transformed into a loving hold. “Just because he can master evil doesn’t mean he is evil.”
The elevator doors slid open. My eyes were on Randa. Would she send me to the Devil? Was I crazy for thinking so?
She splayed one hand on my back, the other on my shoulder, guiding me through tangles of hallway until we reached the street outdoors. We stood on the sidewalk curb in July’s hot humid air. Randa waved her hand for a taxi.
Horns blared. Tires hummed. Sirens sounded. People poured around us w
ith disinterest. I felt unreal. Life seemed a dream. I was as a grain of sand in the hourglass, dropping down, down, with no power to stop the fall. And we were all falling. And nobody cared. Why should I?
Every time a taxi came toward us, it stopped short and gobbled up other people. I was melting like a Popsicle in the heat of my own denial, along with the heat of July in New York. My bangs stuck to my forehead, my moist top clung to my chest, and a bead of salty sweat dripped into my eye, stinging.
Again, Randa’s arm waved. “Taxi!”
A yellow cab trimmed in black pulled up with a screeching halt. The driver was a hefty man with a pear-shaped face featuring surly eyes. Ah, panic. I looked to the heavens. I did care about falling!
Randa leaned into my pear-faced foe. “Alphabet City.” She rattled off the address, then handed him a fifty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
His fist devoured the money.
Randa smiled, levity in her eyes. “Get her there in one piece.”
A joke? I wasn’t laughing. And Randa took that seriously, forcing me into the back seat before I could rebel and become, what’s that they say? ‘Stubborn as a mule.’ The taxi pulled away. Randa stood on the curb in her blood-red clothes waving a vigorous goodbye. Ah! So, this is how children felt when mommy sent them off to camp.
I fidgeted for almost twenty minutes, hoping to survive the jolting stop-and-go cab ride during rush hour traffic. The seatbelt was stuck and I couldn’t use it, and I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by scooting to the middle to the next seatbelt over. The abrupt accelerations and decelerations creamed my stomach, not to mention my neck. And turning corners . . . well, I know what seat belts were really made for. The driver stopped suddenly. I almost banged my head on the front seat.
He said, “Get out!”
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. “Have we arrived?”
The driver’s irritable eyes glared at me in the reflection of the rear view mirror. “Almost.”
I felt like a two-year old. “Well, why can’t you take me all the way there?”
His wide face turned toward me. “Because I got another customer.”
“But . . . I was here first.”
“Ever hear of Catbone Jammer—hottest jazz musician around. Well that’s him right there by your door, waiting for you to get out. Beat it.”
“But I don’t know where I’m going.”
“Take Avenue C to 6th St. Then go to Avenue D.”
“But I can’t be on these streets alone.”
I wanted to be mad at him. However, I could never be mad at strangers—only intimidated.
He sprung out of the cab and yanked open my door, snatched my arm, pulled me out, and ushered the skinny longhaired musician all cool and special in his wild orange and brown paisley shirt, into my vacated seat. I felt like an old piece of gum that was spit out on the sidewalk—thrown over for a snazzier flavor.
The taxi sped away. I watched it forlornly until it appeared as small as a matchbox toy. I’d been abandoned in a slum. And I was alone.
Chapter Two
I looked frantically for another taxi, this way and that. None. A police officer would do. I scanned the populated sidewalks featuring busy shops, bars, and street corner businesses. None.
A frantic voltage charged my body. The Indy 500 racecar drivers would lose the race my heart was in. A kindly face . . . I gulped. A kindly face would do. But I was left with the same disheartening conclusion. None. The faces here held an energy: kind of raw, kind of wild, sort of desperate, with a touch of something like experimental enthusiasm—a little like the old wild west, where adventure was high, and security low.
I pulled out the piece of paper Randa had stuffed in my fanny pack and studied the address. E.6th St. and Ave D, SE corner, Apt. 666. 666? Mark of the Beast. Was this a joke? Randa, I cried silently, I really hope you’re right about johnny. I had such reservations about him. Oh, why did I give in to her?
And then I knew why. I had no place else to turn.
I couldn’t believe I had to walk these streets—alone. I’d never make it, not me. I caught a sob that nearly burst from my throat. I swallowed it. Geez, that hurt. Good thing I caught it though. It was a monster-size boo-hoo and it would have attracted much attention. And attention . . . I did not need.
I looked up at the street sign nearest me, trying to subdue my distraught expression. Appearing vulnerable—not good. The sign read, Ave C. The cross sign read, E 10th St. Okay, I was on Avenue C, but which way to East 6th Street? Me and my bad sense of direction never did get along. I could get turned around coming out of a grocery store. That monster-size boo-hoo shot up my throat again. I forced it down.
I looked both ways along Avenue C. Street energy thickened the air, swallowing me. My shoulders caved, my eyes closed, and sweat slipped down my temples. I felt imaginary in a non-fiction world. Saint Jude, I prayed, help me. I wanted to run. I wanted to hide. But there was no place to hide but at johnny’s apartment. And there was no one to run to but johnny.
I darted my eyes about the streets like a frightened schoolgirl, biting my nails. Should I ask someone for directions and risk being mugged? Should I brave it alone and risk going the wrong way? Should I dodge into the nearest place, search for a phone, and call another taxi? Or should I call Randa? Randa always said I should have a cell phone. Why didn’t I listen to her? The unanswered ‘shoulds’ ripped at me, but nothing like the one unequivocal shouldn’t screaming in my brain. I shouldn’t have come here!
A hotdog wrapper blew against my ankle. Looking down, I saw a chunk of squashed catsup-covered hotdog smothered with ants. I stepped back. That was going to be me soon, dead meat if I didn’t act fast. Yet, I couldn’t seem to move, and I wouldn’t last long in the underbelly of a street-life community. Randa said that johnny had psychic powers, that he could foresee trouble, and that he would protect me. But I knew I was really on my own.
I didn’t do well on my own. Never had. I was candy for villain and vagrant. Bad men always pursued me, hurt me. And bad men came in all shapes, roles, and walks of life: teachers, doctors, and so-called friends of the family. I’d been sexually pursued and molested since puberty. Something about me attracted predators, and in the subject of self-defense, I always got F’s. You know, F, for failure. Guess my parents did too. Maybe it ran in the family.
I was weak in worldly matters, but I was strong spiritually, and wonderful at forgiving, loving, and nurturing. However, predators didn’t care about those things, so I decided to pray. Praying—I was good at that. I clasped my hands over the tiny gold crucifix that hung in the hollow of my neck. I closed my eyes. Oh Saint Jude, show me the way. If you do, I vow to burn my horrific paintings and destroy the weapons I’ve collected.
My shoulder was tapped from behind. A shockwave electrified my body. My eyes flashed open. I swung around, face to shoulder with a man. I stepped back inadvertently and raised my eyes. The unkempt man had a red-haired crew cut and a two-day beard. Sweat streams left clean streaks on his dirty face.
He narrowed his hard blue eyes. “Need help, miss?”
I said, “I am looking for—”
He coughed violently for over a minute, hacking up phlegm and spitting it on the street. His ragged tan shirt and soiled khaki pants were caked with grime. He smelled like mucus and alcohol. My lungs felt coated with goo, and I too wanted to cough. Sickening things flashed in my mind. I was experiencing this man’s reality. Poor guy.
He was stooped over in the middle of coughing when his eyes struck me with a ruttish stare. Or . . . poor me. I glanced about, scraping the streets once more for help.
“Are you lost?” he said, calling my attention back to him. The coughing jag was over; his good citizenship mask was back in place. And, I . . . I was back in my usual pickle.
I barely nodded, stiff-necked with terror. My hands trembled when I showed him the paper with johnny’s address. “I . . . I . . . I’m trying to find this . . . this place.”
/> He smiled, showing yellow teeth. “I’ll take you there.”
He reeked of dirty mischief. Oh Saint Leonard, I prayed, hear my cry!
“I can make it there myself,” I said, stuffing the paper in my hip pocket, “if only you can point me in the right direction.”
Then, as if sensing my repulsion, he pointed his finger. “That way.”
“Thank you, sir.” I walked away, feigning casual, attempting to veil my terror. Criminals are attracted to fear, so they say. And so I believed because the coughing man followed me. He whom I’d labeled—Red Hair. I passed various buildings and shops that didn’t look so bad. I passed bars beginning to fill, and food establishments that looked pretty full already. On my left, I passed what appeared to be a community garden. Maybe all this danger was in my head—maybe.
I came to an intersection, E. 9th St. I wiped the sweat from my forehead. I needed a hanky, a hat, or something. “Crosswalk signal turn green,” I whispered. And then it did. Thank you, God. I crossed the street, aware of Red Hair behind me, his cough—the dead giveaway. I shouldn’t say dead, not now.
I pretended that I was strolling through Zeke’s Meadow, near Phillipsburg, Montana. Zeke’s Meadow was my most favorite place in the whole world—untamed and beautiful, forest and field brimming with wildlife, fish, and flowers. There, I’d dream of angels and fairies, unicorns and winged horses, fantasizing all day.
Pretending is great. The problem—reality. I saw flowers, but those I passed, saw me. A couple of rough looking teen-age boys were leaning against a building, smoking. They eyed me as I passed them. I had to fight a wave of dizziness. Their realities were so—harsh. Then a man passed me with an immoral eye. It was happening. I was being noticed, not just by Red Hair, but others. This is the way it always went down for me, even in safer places. I wanted to back into a dark corner and cry, but something inside told me to stay cool and keep walking. I could walk, but how could I stay cool? Especially here.
The Mark of Chaos Page 2
