Corbin swatted at the mosquitoes, now making a meal of his arms. "Tell him I said yes. I prefer if he makes them go away." The houngan was disfigured to an extent Corbin could have never imagined in even his wildest nightmares. Glistening in sweat, his face looked as if it had been severely burned, long flaps of skin dangling from his cheeks and brow like strips of uncooked bacon. His nose was horribly misshapen, full and potato-like with pinholes for nostrils. And then his eyes, one orb gazing out from where his left eyebrow should have been, the other lower, in the cheek area. Only when Corbin managed to tear his sights away from his face did he realize that the man wore little more than a loin-cloth to hide his privates.
Corbin nearly pulled Roberta out of the room but the houngan howled like a wolf and waved his arms about in an odd tribal dance. The intimidating ritual lasted fifteen seconds, freezing Corbin, and then he backed away.
"Are you ready?" Namor asked the four of them. All but Corbin nodded. He burped gin again and noticed a crowd of robe-clad people gathering by a table set up at the opposite end of the room. Namor led the four of them to the center of the room, Corbin taking a moment to brush a few dead mosquitoes from his shirt.
Two perspiring men draped in white covered the table with a black tablecloth. They arranged eight candles in a circular pattern, lit them, then placed a bottle filled with liquid and four glasses in the center. Namor pulled Camille Heller aside for a brief discussion in Creole, then disappeared into the growing crowd of perhaps twenty people.
"What's going on?" Corbin asked Roberta. "I'm hot and queasy and I want to leave."
Camille leaned over. "There's a bit of a problem."
"Does this mean we can leave?"
Roberta nudged her husband. "Behave," she whispered.
"The ritual is about to begin," Camille revealed. "Namor said the houngan is not all that comfortable with our presence. He feels we might be a risk to his service."
"Great," Corbin muttered.
"Then we really must be on our best behavior," Roberta added, eying her husband.
"Didn't he know we were coming?" Darren asked.
"Yes, but he is still ill-at-ease. Namor couldn't be specific as to why."
Corbin leaned forward and said in a low voice, "So let's just leave then."
All three of them shook their heads. "We can't," Roberta said. "It would be a great insult to withdraw our invitation at this stage, and the houngan would take great offense regardless of how he feels about our presence. This service has been arranged exclusively for us. Just be careful what you say or do, and everything will be fine.
"We really wouldn't want to insult him," Darren added. There was a tremor of discomfort in his voice.
A strange odor filled the room. A shuffling ensued and Corbin saw four men carrying in a huge vat of steaming liquid.
"What's that?"
"Oil," Darren said. "It is boiled to help summon..." He turned towards his wife. "Camille, I wasn't expecting this—"
"I wasn't either."
Corbin wore an uncomfortable grin. "What? What is it?"
Camille looked concerned. "This is more than just a voodoo ceremony. By the looks of it I'd say we're about to witness a black magic ritual. The Devil's toil."
Camille added, "Which also means that man is not just a houngan. He's a high-priest."
"Oh, you can't be serious," Corbin said. His stomach turned and the gin came up in his throat, forming a hot acidic ball. He swiped the sweat from his forehead. He didn't like this one bit.
Camille leaned in close to everybody. "Listen, these people take this initiation quite seriously. I might add that what we're about to see could be quite shocking, so please, just sit back and do what they say. Understand?"
"Understood," Corbin said, quite apprehensively.
The Water's Call
"Sure hit close to home," Bob Haley offered. It was weak effort, but what more could Spencer Lockley ask for during such tragic times?
Spencer gave his next door neighbor a weak grin. He couldn't stop thinking that he'd been able see his house from the memorial service. It seemed almost as frightening as the aftermath of the plane crash itself. "The good Lord came to take Elisabeth's soul away." He wiped a tear from his eye, and looked Bob in the face. "My only question is why? Why did this have to happen?"
Well, it simply did, and besides the immediate well-being of Carrie and Ashley, it was all that really mattered in Spencer's life right now. Flight 922 departing from JFK International en route to Los Angeles mysteriously shed a wing as it banked over Long Island. The 747 took 346 passengers into the murky depths of the East River, torturing the early morning silence and bringing nearly 4000 tri-state residents to their windows as bright flames trickled from the sky.
Spencer's wife Elisabeth had been one of those passengers.
Bob Haley's wife Deb, a heavy-set woman with warm brown eyes sighed, "There were thousands at the memorial service. There was much suffering today. Spencer, try to be strong. Your misery had company today, and will always be shared by those who lost loved ones."
Spencer nodded. "During the service, I looked out over the East River and I could see my house from where I stood on the heliport. I realized at that moment that I would never be able to leave this tragedy behind, that I will always have memories of the crash with me for as long as I live in that house...
The explosion rocked the house, its entire foundation vibrating. Pictures fell from the walls, the lights blinking as Spencer ran from the bedroom to the window. He recalled Elisabeth leaving two hours earlier, kissing him on the cheek, his skin tingling as he stirred slightly, then fell back asleep. For a moment he thought that the powerful blast had been part of a dream, but then Carrie and Ashley started screaming about a fire in the water and then he saw from the second story window the fractured tail of the plane sinking into the river not a half-mile away, debris falling all over like a wicked shower, in the water, on the beach directly in front of his house; shreds of fiery wreckage falling on the roofs of some of the waterfront homes, causing fires that sent many from their beds.
He leaned forward on the couch and lit a cigarette, looking out the window. The beach was cold and empty now—not unusual in the fall—the darkening skies securing its terrible menace. It had been utterly deserted since the crash, not a jogger or dog-walker allowed beyond the Coast Guard barricades erected at the public entrances. They're gonna come every fall, Deb had said, and she was right. In this world so encumbered with change, the cool season would carry with it the promise of somber tradition, one that would be naturally preserved by a predictably enduring pattern. Crying families, flowers, pictures, it would make him sick with grief.
Spencer and Elisabeth Lockley were a quiet, reserved couple from Virginia who came to New York when Elisabeth found employment with the Cullen & Shafski law firm. The pay she'd been offered had been too much to decline and the family made the move with enthusiasm. The waterfront property had been Spencer's dream of a lifetime, and once they moved in he was easily able to relocate his marine parts business. The city life also proved to be endlessly alluring to Carrie and Ashley, and more than satisfying once they started high school. They felt like pilgrims in search of a new, more spirited land.
It was getting late. Spencer did his best to usher thoughts of Elisabeth from his mind. He put out his cigarette and paced to the window. Rain began the tap the glass, and the waves picked up on the river.
"I need to see my girls."
"Are they back in school?" Bob asked.
"Not yet." He turned away from the window. "I'm not sure it would do them any good right now."
Spencer said his thanks, hugging both the Haleys for support, then left. When he looked back at the house from the windy beach, the lights had been extinguished, and with this darkness brought quietude and the gentle churn of waters fraught with the murmurs of those lost far down in its depths.
It was still raining when Spencer Lockley woke. A violent thunderstorm had inter
rupted his sleep in the night, but had now tapered off to a gentle, steady drizzle. Looking out at the beach he saw his youngest daughter Carrie walking cheerlessly beneath the protection of a black umbrella. She wore her gray raincoat and black knee-high boots, looking vaguely like a runaway from some 1940s motion picture, her gait lamentable as she muddled across the shifting sands. It was difficult to watch her like this—so crushed with sadness—when in the past her times on the beach had always been so much more fun-loving and gamesome.
Spencer turned away from the window and went to the kitchen to fix breakfast. As he fried eggs and buttered toast, the sounds of rock music exploded from Ashley's room, announcing that his eldest daughter had awakened from her slumber. And perhaps, had finally accepted her mother's death.
Ashley hadn't slept alone last night. "Dad, this is Dennis."
A young man exited the room with her and sat at the table, eager to eat. He was handsome, with blonde hair and an empty expression that could have been awakened with a quick slap across the cheek, something Spencer held back doing. Dennis looked up and said how pleased he was to meet "Mr. Lockley," holding out his hand and shaking Spencer's with forced enthusiasm.
"We met at the Memorial," Ashley revealed with enthusiasm, as if that made it okay for them to sleep together. "He lost his mother in the crash."
Ashley had always been the more contentious of the two, always at odds at the way the world presented its guidelines. But something like this? He'd never expected it from her.
"I can't believe how quiet everything is. When's the world gonna start turning again dad? This must be what it's like to live in some faraway country, like Turkey. It sucks."
"Spencer could only frown and watch his daughter drink coffee. She wore faded blue sweats. Her brown hair was pulled back in a clip, tangled from the damp weather and the incessant probe of restless fingers. She looks terrible, Spencer thought. Just terrible.
That night Spencer tried to read a book, but thoughts of the crash haunted him, of his wife laying in pieces at the muddied bottom of the East River. Of her personal belongings, never to be seen again. When he pulled his mind's eye from these terrible images, he became angry at Ashley and her decision to bring a man into their home, to have him violate his sanctity and his daughter's innocence and then feast on the food that had been paid for by monies earned through Elisabeth's efforts to support the family—the same cause that had killed her.
Get a grip, Spencer. You're roaming. Please...
He got up from his chair and readied himself for bed, brushing his teeth and washing his face. The house was terribly still, quiet, the faint crashing of the waves audible through the walls. He called for his daughters—Carrie first, then Ashley—but no reply came. With no reason in mind, Spencer felt suddenly lured toward the front window. He put the outside light on then stared out at the beach. The rain had stopped, but the blackened clouds in the distant insinuated that it was just a reprieve.
A short way down the beach, Spencer saw Carrie.
She was wearing the same raincoat and boots from this morning, but held no umbrella. She stood at the water's edge, rigid, impassive, staring out over the river as if desperately waiting for something to emerge from the waves. Spencer gazed out across the water and found no division between the river and the clouds, as if everything had become a great wall of black water. The sight gave Spencer a scare. It seemed so vast, so big, so cold and desolate and dark, like a living breathing creature finally stirring from centuries of sleep, brimming with pure hunger.
The rain resumed its parade on the land, the drops heavy and effective. The rain, Spencer thought. It's been raining since the crash and now I'm starting to lose my train of thought. He rubbed his eyes and when he opened them, he looked back down the beach. Carrie had been joined by Ashley and Dennis. The three of them paced in a single line up towards the dunes, thirty yards from the house. They moved in a zombie-like fashion, soldierly and stoic, sure of their destination. They disappeared for a moment then suddenly appeared alongside the porch of the house, marching next to the rail and up the stairs, their footfalls sounding perfunctory upon the wooden steps. Spencer moved to the front door and opened it. He said "hello" but his daughters and the young man named Dennis seemed not to hear him. They paced by him, their faces pale, imperturbably self-possessed, their emotions unreadable. Yet still, the depth of concentration they displayed, it was startling, very unnerving. Spencer could feel only shock. Confounding shock.
He stared at the retreating trio, nearly tortured from the physical ache brought on by the girls' cold, unwavering stares. Their faces, so frozen, so uncivil, all the passion and zest symbolic of his daughters now absent, now rewritten. He looked down and saw their footprints. Wet, the stench of saltwater rising up to assault his nostrils.
Instead of confronting them, he went outside into the rain, down the steps of the porch and onto the beach. The river loomed, dark, forbidding, hostile. It ate my wife, this monster. I'll never look at it the same way again.
Riddling the smooth turf of sand, Spencer could make out the footprints of his daughters trailing down the beach. They disappeared along the wake of the tide, far into the distance. He set out following them, losing himself to happier times when Elisabeth had been alive, when the girls had been safe and secure. When they all felt and experienced that strange foreign emotion called happiness.
The footprints suddenly ended. No, not ended, but trailed up into the dunes. He followed them over a high embankment into a dark area where a recess eroded away. Within the recess Spencer could barely make out a circle of seaweed, still wet from the rain. Amidst its ragged circumference lay a multitude of small objects. Upon closer inspection he could make out some small keepsakes, a piece of a necklace, a tattered wallet, a shred of clothing, a few coins. Amidst the contents were a few small fish, some mussels and jellyfish. Many of the creatures were dead, but a few still held on, flicking and twitching about.
He stood up and paced back to the beach. The rain started falling harder, and with this Spencer again felt greatly uncomfortable. As if the river had eyes, and was watching him.
For nearly twenty-four hours it rained, drearily and consistently, and for all this time Spencer saw Carrie only once. As for Ashley and Dennis, they had disappeared altogether. Spencer stayed indoors, worrying about his eldest daughter and taking only brief moments out for eating and sleeping.
The air had grown colder the next day, when Carrie, Ashley, and Dennis reappeared on the beach. He watched them as they paced forlornly, their frames dark and shadowed like a pair of lurking ravens. Not once had they looked back at the house as they trekked along the shoreline.
Spencer moved away from the window, torn to shreds at the sudden dissolution of his once perfect family. He climbed the stairs and found himself in Carrie's room. The air smelled strongly of the sea: salty, briny, afoul. Eyes scanning the room, he saw small shreds of seaweed and scattered clumpings of wet sand littering the floor. And then he could see it in her bed, the white sheets soiled with dirty shades of brown and mucky green. He poked at a trail of sand on the bed. It was wet.
He left the room feeling utter revulsion, that his daughter had suddenly become something she wasn't, a poor person suffering so much that personal hygiene and self-worth had seemingly perished alongside her tragic loss.
The smell was strong here in the hallway, and Spencer knew that if had he had entered Ashley's room, he would have found a similar degree of neglect. He went to the bathroom and scrubbed his hands and face, trying to wash away the feelings of impurity he picked up while in Carrie's room.
Afterwards he tried to read, and in ten minutes he fell asleep on the couch, only to be awakened by a thumping on the porch. Spencer peered out the window and saw a figure standing there, one too bulky to be one or both of his daughters. When he opened the door, a strong wind blew a sheet of cold rain in, and he had to shield himself before realizing that a policeman had come to his house.
"May I come i
n?" he asked.
"Of course."
The policeman's dark brown eyes rolled towards the floor, and Spencer knew this forced look. It was the one that began the same tale every man of the law dreaded telling. It was the same look the FTA agent gave him when he asked if his wife's name was on the roster of passengers for Flight 922.
"What's happened?" he asked, voice cracking, fear racing like an engine through his body.
"There's been an accident..."
Carrie had drowned. A local resident found the body washed up by the dunes. She'd been fully dressed, lying face down with her eyes and mouth open. She had seventeen dollars and her school I.D. in her front pocket.
Dennis and Ashley were a different story. Dennis had been presumed drowned although his body hadn't turned up yet. When Spencer questioned the possibility of foul play, the policeman explained that Ashley, who was in the hospital, had revealed that the three of them had gone swimming.
"Ashley?"
"She's fine. Recovering. But fine."
Spencer staggered back and collapsed on the couch. The ensuing silence carried with it a massive swelling of grief that he could not maintain.
"Mr. Lockley, we need you to come down and identify the body. We normally wouldn't ask...but there's no one else."
Spencer rubbed his eyes, rubbed his aching chest. "I understand. Let's go."
Spencer stared, longer than he wanted to, but the horrible sight that was his daughter's body would not let go. His daughter, the same girl that a month ago was happier than he could have ever asked, now torn up and deteriorated as if the waters had teeth.
"No more," he said and turned away.
"It's her?"
"Yes." He paused, then said, "I'd like to see Ashley."
"Of course."
Spencer spent the night at Ashley's bedside. She lay quietly, stirring only to ward off the demons of her dreams. She had been dressed in standard hospital garb, a sheet folded neatly above her chest. An IV snaked away from her left arm.
Dregs of Society Page 17
