Dorothy Allison - A Psychic Story
Page 1
Dorothy Allison A Psychic Story
By
Dorothy Allison and Scott Jacobson
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Contents:
Book Cover (Front) (Back)
Scan / Edit Notes
Chapter - [1]
Chapter - [2]
Chapter - [3]
Chapter - [4]
Chapter - [5]
Chapter - [6]
Chapter - [7]
Chapter - [8]
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Scan / Edit Notes
Versions available and duly posted:
Format: v1.0 (Text)
Format: v1.0 (PDB - open format)
Format: v1.5 (HTML)
Format: v1.5 (PDF - no security)
Format: v1.5 (PRC - for MobiPocket Reader - pictures included)
Genera: Psychic / Biographical
Extra's: Pictures Included (for all versions)
Copyright: 1980
First Scanned: 2002
Posted to: alt.binaries.e-book
Note:
1. The Html, Text and Pdb versions are bundled together in one zip file.
2. The Pdf and Prc files are sent as single zips (and naturally don't have the file structure below)
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Structure: (Folder and Sub Folders)
{Main Folder} - HTML Files
|
|- {Nav} - Navigation Files
|
|- {PDB}
|
|- {Pic} - Graphic files
|
|- {Text} - Text File
-Salmun
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Chapter 1
"How's your momma?" Mrs. Costa asked Dorothy as the girl's eyes bounced from pastry to pastry displayed in the glass case.
"She's okay," Dorothy replied, not letting her attention be diverted from the promise of a fresh pastry.
Mrs. Costa, a large Italian woman with silver-black hair wrapped firmly around her head, counted out rolls and placed them one by one into a white paper bag. She moved slowly under the oppressive heat of the July day. Not only was there little respite from the sun, but the baking ovens generated intense heat, and she had to blot her forehead and chin with a red cloth all day.
"Oh, santa mia," the robust woman exclaimed. "Did you hear all the noise yesterday? Too much for me," she said, running the cloth under her chin. "This is no way to celebrate such an important holiday. No good for my heart." She pounded her large breast with her fist.
"Did you see the wonderful rockets in the sky?" Dorothy's eyes lit up. "I love to see fireworks."
"Did you go by the water?" the woman inquired.
The girl nodded her head. "Taddo took us down. He says New York City has the best fireworks in the world."
The woman mumbled something in Italian about New York City being the devil across the way.
"Your poppa, is he better?" Mrs. Costa asked.
"I don't know. He only has a bad cough, but the doctor wanted to test Mm at the hospital."
Mrs. Costa rubbed her hand over the cabinets behind the counter. "These beautiful cabinets and counters were made by your father's hands. He is a good man." She turned to Dorothy. "Your poor momma is cooking for all those children and going to the hospital in this heat. Carissimo! I do not know how she does it. God must be close to her."
Mrs. Costa wagged a finger at Dorothy. "You better run home with this bread so she doesn't worry."
Dorothy stretched her short arms over the counter top and received the large bag.
"Wait," Mrs. Costa said. "I'll be right back." She lumbered into the back area and disappeared. Dorothy stood before the glass counter and gazed at her reflection. At fourteen Dorothy was as high as the rim of the counter. Her brown hair fell below her shoulders. Her large, llama-like eyes had soft brown rings around them, giving her strong brow a gentle prominence and her complexion a deep richness.
She looked into the glass and stared into her eyes. Something was strange. As she looked through the glass at the displayed breads, images began to appear that caused her to rub her eyes, thinking her vision was blurred.
The face of a man appeared, suspended in air. The images of the bread, her reflection, and the face moved one over the other. The girl stood transfixed for a moment, gliding between worlds of consciousness, her eyes staring directly into their own reflection. Dorothy saw the outlines of the man's face. She could not make out the features, but the face moved back and forth, teasing her line of focus.
"Here you go," Mrs. Costa's voice sang out. "Here's a fresh cannoli for you." The woman walked around the counter and handed Dorothy the pastry wrapped in waxed paper.
"You help your poor momma and tell her I'm praying for your poppa." She pinched the girl's cheek so hard it smarted.
Dorothy walked out of the bakery and stood on the glaring sidewalk. The streets of Jersey City were hot and dusty on July 5, 1939. The sun baked the streets that sprawled endlessly from the Hudson River through the neighborhoods that rolled out under the shadow of burgeoning New York City. Nibbling her pastry, Dorothy walked down Westside Avenue, the main thoroughfare linking Jersey City to Bayonne, Hoboken, and other Hudson River towns. She walked, however, without seeing the world. Something was happening that she could not explain. The reflection in the bakery shop haunted her.
Under the shadowed network of branches, Dorothy approached her home slowly. Her family lived in the upper floor of a two-story gray shingled house. Dorothy shared a bedroom with four sisters, while five brothers slept in the next room. Dorothy's oldest sister, Mary, had recently entered a convent. Dorothy had been pleased when she left, because she disliked her sister's fanatacism. Mary reminded her too much of the nuns at Dorothy's school, Our Lady of Victory, who often beat her for her disobedience. Dorothy sat on the steps of her home, wondering what she was experiencing. It was not uncommon for her to see something in her dreams that she had never seen in real life. Countless hours had been spent in half-consciousness, staring at the ceiling as an endless parade of humanity passed in review. Dorothy passively watched the parade, wondering what significance the dreams might have. Her soft eyes were powerless to control the visions; they came and went without provocation, and only when she relaxed into sleep.
From the steps Dorothy watched a train of ants cross the gnarled oak roots that made up the little yard, and suddenly her vision blurred. In the graying shadow of the afternoon the lines of the man's face reappeared. The vague outlines of a jaw came together over the roots and earth.
She rubbed her eyes: in the dark behind her closed eyelids, the face became clearer. She opened her eyes, the ants once again in focus, the lines of the face as real as the hundreds of creatures marching in the dirt. A long narrow jawline, and two long, drooping ears fleshed out before her.
The gossamer-like apparition disappeared quickly. She turned around to see if her mother or sisters were watching from above. No one else had seen what she had witnessed. Is it real? she asked herself.
Looking at the screen door, Dorothy began to see a new image, this tune much clearer and more detailed. Crisp, white flowers adorned the door. They were long white lilies dressed in green leaves.
"Hi, Dot," the voice of a girl called out from down the block.
Dorothy turned from her vision and looked down the sidewalk. Her friend Vicky waved at her from two houses away.
"Hiya, Vicky," Dorothy said to her, coming out of the trance.
Vicky, one of Dorothy's schoolmates at Our Lady of Victory, stood before her on the stoop, her thin legs dropping like matchsticks out of her plaid skirt.
"Where's your brother?" Dorothy asked the dark-haired girl.
"Why do you
want my brother?" Vicky squealed. A smile spread across her face as she considered the prospects. "I know why you want my brother. You think he's in love with you."
Dorothy reddened. "No, I don't, you idiot. He owes me a dime and I want it now." She stamped her foot in front of Vicky's feet.
"How come he owes you money?" Vicky inquired.
"I bet him I could beat him out of church and I did, by a hundred miles," she announced proudly. Escaping from church was Dorothy's favorite sport.
"Can you come bowling with us tomorrow night?" Vicky asked.
"I don't know," Dorothy replied, her mood changing quickly. She looked at her friend and then, as if instinctively, she turned around and looked again at the front door.
"I can't go bowling tomorrow night," she said, turning back to Vicky. This time her voice was serious. She pointed to the door, where she saw the white crepe affixed, and two velvet ribbons dangling to the ground. "There's a white crepe on the door," Dorothy said, her voice sounding hollow, insubstantial.
"What crepe on the door, Dot? What are you talking about?" Vicky shrugged her shoulders.
Dorothy looked at the earth: the outline of the man's face again floated defiantly, clearer than before, but not clear enough for her to recognize the face.
The mental alchemy of images and thoughts tossing in her mind began to coalesce. Dorothy was beginning to understand. White flowers. Lilies. She thought of Easter, Christ, death.
Without further consideration, she turned to Vicky and said, "My father will be dead tomorrow night, and I won't be able to go bowling. That's why there's white crepe on the door."
"There's nothing on the door, Dot," Vicky insisted. "He has a bad cough and they're checking it out," she said to her friend. "No one said he's going to die. I just see it. I saw it at the bakery in the glass. Mrs. Costa didn't see it, either." She stopped short, realizing the import of her words.
The screen door opened and Appolonia, Dorothy's mother, stood behind her. A strong woman of medium height, Appolonia moved with an air of certainty and purpose, her maternal instincts always alert.
"Dorothy," her mother said. "I've got to go to the hospital. Give me the bread and finish your other chores."
"I've got to go now, anyway," Vicky said uncomfortably. "See you at the park, Dot, unless you change your mind about bowling."
Appolonia took the bakery bag but did not go back into the house. Dorothy, still sitting on the steps, looked down. She was aware of her mother's presence behind her, lingering as if in afterthought. For a moment the two were in a silent orbit all their own. Dorothy sat with her fear and stared at the tree roots. Appolonia sighed and closed the door behind her as she made her way up the stairs.
Dorothy relaxed when she knew her mother was gone.
She wanted to tell her about her vision, but she feared the repercussions of revealing such horrors. More than anything else, she did not want to hurt her mother.
The crisp, white chalkiness of the lilies glowed before her as if she could hold out her hand and feel their soft textures. The lilies of death, as her mother called them, had an eerie beauty that held Dorothy's round gaze. Death, not her own, would influence her life greatly. One day Dorothy would wake up and see death at work, but many dreams and years would pass before that night.
At this moment all Dorothy wanted was to be held by her mother and told that nothing unusual was happening. Fear kept her silent, however. Fear of having told Vicky of her father's death; of having accepted the lilies as real; of having seen the face in the bakery reflection; of not dreaming, but seeing.
That night Dorothy lay awake in the darkness of her room, her sisters sleeping around her. She felt confused. The dark, vague image of her father's face on a pillow, still and unnatural, haunted her. Then the white crepe appeared, two velvet streamers flowing down the door, swinging in the air in eerie silence. The door opened and closed silently as the feet of mourners passed quickly in quiet sadness.
As never before, Dorothy was aware of her prescience physically and emotionally. Previously, she had discounted entire dream sequences as meaningless. Now, for the first time in her life, she knew what she saw was true; she doubted nothing. The grim pallor of her father's face was as her mother last saw him. Dorothy would have to wait for time to pass for corroboration. She was alone with her vision.
Softly Dorothy slipped out of her room, moving in the darkness toward her mother's room, where candlelight still glowed into the hallway through the open doorway. She stood in the doorway of her parents' bedroom. Her mother had not yet returned from the hospital.
In half-waking, half-sleeping trance Dorothy stared at the table next to her mother's dresser. On a shiny red cloth stood two rows of statues: ceramic figures, silent and ceremonious. In the candlelight the ceramic figures radiated a pasty, unnatural color.
Dorothy thought of her father, his white smile always hiding behind his soft, faded moustache. She looked at the beautiful tall oak armoire that stood in the corner of the bedroom. Her father had lovingly crafted it for Appolonia, and Dorothy recalled how her mother cried each time she showed it to a friend.
Tears came to her own eyes as she thought of her father cooking the Sunday pasta. He always called it "Appolonia's Day of Rest" meal. His daughters delighted in spending the afternoon helping Poppa in the kitchen and then serving their parents with loving formality.
Dorothy could hear the voices of her mother's friends chanting Latin liturgy, as they did in the afternoon. She saw Appolonia holding her beads and intoning prayers before her table of statues. The women knelt on the worn bedroom carpet, allowing Appolonia to lead them. They came not only to pray, but to listen, as well, to the woman who could see the future - the woman in whom God had vested a special light; whose soft tongue spoke of future tragedies and hazards, of blessings and joys. They also came to her in the night time, when she huddled in her kitchen, praying for her family and friends, advising them. Only God could have given her the ability to see into the future. "It is a test of will and belief in God," she had told her friends.
"It is a gift with a sting," she had said to her daughter. Dorothy looked again at the religious figures. They made her feel uncomfortable. She looked at the clock beside the statues. It was 12:50.
Dorothy went to the living room and crouched in a corner of the old sofa. There she sat in the stillness of the night, vigilant in a household of sleeping children. She floated between waking and sleeping, holding herself for comfort.
After awhile she heard steps coming up the walk. She knew it was her mother. She also knew what her mother was going to tell her. Tears came to the girl's eyes.
Appolonia entered the room moments later, moving slowly, lugubriously. The two figures, mother and daughter, embraced in the darkness, sharing the grief of the father's death. But Appolonia felt more than sadness in the embrace; holding her daughter, she wept tears of fear, as well. Appolonia's dread that one of her children might share her visionary power was founded, she now realized, in fact She needed no more evidence.
"He is with God now," Appolonia whispered. "We will have much work to do, but God will help us, I know."
The young girl responded to her mother's words with another warm embrace. Her mother looked around the quiet room, as if envisioning what would follow in the next few days.
"I must have extra candles," she said, beginning a mental list. She turned to the front door.
"Tomorrow a white crepe will tell the world of our sadness. Good night, my child." She kissed Dorothy's forehead and looked into her eyes. "Do not be frightened of the world you see. You must believe in God's wisdom." She turned and walked slowly to her room.
Dorothy sat in the darkness, picturing the crepe her mother spoke of and trying to understand her feelings and thoughts. She had never believed in God as her mother and her sisters did, so she doubted whether God would be of much help to her. She did believe, however, that difficult times were ahead. She was frightened.
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Chapter 2
Their father's death was hard on all the family. Appolonia, crying and praying more often, seemed to lose some of herself. She soon made the decision to take the vows of the Third Order, vows of a widow similar to those taken by nuns, devoting her time and energies almost exclusively to the church.
To help Appolonia with the work and the management of the children's lives, Mary, Dorothy's oldest sister, returned from the convent. Dorothy wasn't pleased to see her. Mary would correct Dorothy at dinner and insist she do everything as God intended. Dorothy believed in God, and retained that faith all her life, but she didn't always like the way He delivered His messages. Nor did Dorothy receive any sympathy at home when she complained about her teacher, Sister Catherine, who sometimes meted out harsh punishments. Dorothy figured her sister, like a fellow union worker, would always be on the teacher's side.
Graduation from grammar school was an important day in Dorothy's life. Not only was she leaving Our Lady of Victory, a school that had imprisoned her restless nature, but on that same afternoon she had an adventure with three girl friends that she would remember all her life.