Come Closer

by Sara Gran

  Without interest I noticed the woman on the corner. As I got closer she turned toward me and smiled. At first I thought she was Tracy Berkowitz. But no, I remembered, Tracy, unwed, had moved to the city months ago with her cop boyfriend. The move was a minor scandal on the block and there was no forgetting it.

  The woman on the corner was looking right at me now. She had a mess of black hair and a pink pretty smile. I remember her skin, perfectly bisque with a soft translucent glow, like an airbrushed photo from a magazine.

  It was Pansy

  My heart beat like a hummingbird in my chest. I went into a kind of panic, thoughts falling on top of each other with no order. It couldn’t be her. But it was.

  When I reached the corner she stepped in front of me, and I stopped. She bent down, leaning her hands on her thighs. The sun shone directly on her face, but she didn’t blink or squint.

  “Hi Amanda,” she said. Her voice had a clear, sweet tone like a violin. All my fears dissipated when I heard that voice.

  “Can you see me, Amanda?” she asked.

  Just then a growling Firebird sped by the cross street, honking its horn. Instinctively I blinked and turned towards it, for a half second or less. When I turned back, she was gone.

  I was old enough to know that this was impossible, what had just happened, and that only crazy people believed in impossible events. I buried the memory so deeply it didn’t resurface until the dreams began.

  Incidentally, my father and Noreen died while I was in my second year of college. They were scuba diving off the coast of Jamaica and got caught in a coral reef and drowned.

  I TOLD Edward the whole story, about the woman I had seen as a child and the dreams I had had.

  “So you saw a woman, when you were a girl, who looked like your imaginary friend, and last night you had a dream about her.” Ed had a certain tone of voice, skeptical and a little condescending, which made him could sound like a father whose daughter was late coming home from the prom. It wasn’t one of his more attractive qualities.

  “But who was that woman? Why did she know my name?”

  “It was probably that Stacy woman.”

  “Tracy. But it wasn’t Tracy It was Pansy.”

  Ed sighed. “So it was Pansy,” he said.

  “Oh, forget it.”

  Edward put the paper down and reached across the table for my hand, which I reluctantly gave to him.

  “Alex and Sophia said we could use their beach house the last weekend in September. You want to go?”

  “Sure.”

  Alex and Sophia were old friends of Ed’s. A few times a year they gave us the keys to their beach house outside the city.

  “We both need to relax,” Ed said.

  There was no more talk of Pansy or nightmares for the rest of the morning. Maybe Ed was right, I thought: Pansy never had pointy teeth, and I never saw her naked. Naamah had bigger eyes. Pansy was shorter. But as the day went on and their faces came in and out of my mind I was sure the two women were one and the same. Naamah could have been Pansy, only a few years older. Pansy could have been Naamah, dressed and made up for a costume party.

  And besides, I was pleased with the dream, in a way. To see Pansy again was like a visit from an old friend. I was irked with Edward but I quickly got over it. He was right, after all. I was stressed, and we did need to relax. Somehow that explained away the strange dreams—stress. As for what I had seen on the street that day when I was nine, I told myself Ed was right. It must have been Tracy after all.

  WE COULD devote our lives to making sense of the odd, the inexplicable, the coincidental. But most of us don’t, and I didn’t either.

  ON THE WHOLE, ED and I were happy—with each other, with the loft, with our careers. He worked in the financial department of a large women’s wear corporation, I was an architect at a small firm, and we did quite well. We didn’t lack anything. We loved each other, and it wasn’t yet clear that the phase of fighting we were in had become a trend.

  I was twenty-eight when I met Edward. I felt lucky to have found him. He was a man you could trust, a big-boned healthy blond. No skeletons in his closet. A large family of not-too-observant Catholics. All of his obvious and possibly problematic neuroses (mostly descended from growing up as a middle child, I thought, never receiving enough attention) were channeled into a desire for success, which I found appealing. He didn’t like sports or late night television, two big pluses. He had a good mind for details, a good memory, and a determination to follow through on his word: If he said he was going to call at three, he called at three. No surprises. That pretty much summed up Ed—no surprises. So when, after going out for two years, Ed said he wanted us to move in together, and if all went well, marry a year or two after that, I knew he meant what he said. I had been living in a little one bedroom downtown for three years. My apartment was cute and had its own charm, but it wasn’t big enough for two. So I moved into Ed’s place, a one bedroom in a modern apartment building near my office. Ed’s place was a bit sterile, it had terrible cream-colored wall-to-wall carpeting and too much laminated furniture, but if all went well we planned to buy our own place within a few years.

  Two years after we’d moved in together, we got married in a small private ceremony at city hall. It was either that or a huge blowout, which we both thought was a little tacky—Edward had five brothers and sisters and dozens of cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews, plus there were our friends, business associates, on and on. Rather than inviting them all, we invited no one. We went to city hall in the morning, got married, and went out to lunch at our favorite dim sum house with some friends afterwards. Soon after that we started looking for a home to buy, and found the loft.

  OF COURSE, our life together wasn’t always perfect. All couples argue and we were no different. There were a few things about Ed, small things, that drove me crazy. For instance he was almost compulsively neat—a scrap of paper on the coffee table for longer than a day or two would upset him. He was also given to a rigidity that could be slightly repulsive, like an elderly English bachelor—if there was no thin-sliced white bread for toast in the morning he could be thrown into a mood for hours. And he didn’t take any deviation from a plan well—he wasn’t one for getting lost in the countryside, or for long, aimless walks around the city. And the fact that when Ed chewed gum he would swallow it instead of spitting it out... for some indefinable reason that revolted me no end. And the toast, and the toothpaste cap that absolutely must be replaced immediately, and the shirts that had to be folded just so, and all the other little routines that had to be followed every day. Over six years, though, I had become accustomed to a certain amount of irritation, as I’m sure all spouses do, and these were small arguments and disappointments that didn’t interrupt the steady flow of our marriage. When we started to argue a bit more than usual, when Ed’s habits and rituals began to irritate me a bit more often, I was sure that it would pass.

  SHE WAS subtle at first. It wasn’t like everything went wrong all at once. Suppose you’re looking at a bottle of whiskey. And one part of you says, Gee, I’d really like a sip of that whiskey.

  Then another part pipes in and says, Well, you shouldn’t, you have to drive home, and you know whiskey’s very fattening. And then a third part says, Just drink it. This mental voice is new, it’s a sound you’re not accustomed to hearing in your own head, but it’s not that different either, it’s done a good job of imitating your own silent voice and you like what it’s saying. Come on. Don’t stop. Don’t think. It’ll be fun. Just drink it. Now.

  You wouldn’t guess that the third part wasn’t you. You’d probably just drink the whiskey.

  IN MARCH I started smoking again, which gave us more to fight about. I had quit when I first moved in with Ed. He said he was allergic to smoke. I thought he just never learned to appreciate the sharp bitter smell, like a smouldering fireplace, of a burning cigarette. But I knew it was for the best, and privately I was a little ashamed of myself for violati
ng my body day in and day out. So I quit. Living in the new apartment helped. No ashtrays. No Formica kitchen table where I would sit and talk on the phone, cigarette in hand. A new apartment, a new life, new habits. I had a few sessions with an acupuncturist and it wasn’t too hard, just sad, like an old friend moving out of town.

  I started smoking again on a gray, drizzling Monday. I was on my lunch hour, eating a sandwich at a little coffee shop near my office. I had a newspaper open in front of me but I wasn’t reading. Instead, I eavesdropped on the couple next to me. She was about my age, maybe a little younger, and had blonde hair pulled back into a knot. He was much older and looked out of place, more accustomed to the kind of restaurant that had a wine list and a maitre d’. They talked about a trip to the Caribbean. When I stood up to leave my eyes caught hers. She gave me a sly little smile, almost a wink, and then lit a cigarette. The smoke rolled over the few inches to my table, and when the smell hit me I became weak. I watched the woman, her attention turned back to her partner, inhale deeply and then exhale, sending more of the woodsy smoke in my direction. She was clearly a longtime smoker; the cigarette fit into her hand, as natural and practical as a sixth digit. Like a starving woman looking at a steak, I wanted that cigarette. I imagined how easy it would be: Excuse me, do you have another smoke? I’m sorry, can I bother you for a cigarette? Can I bum one of those? Do you have an extra? Give me one. Give it to me.

  I left the café, planning to distract myself with the change in scenery. But outside, where the rain came down in a thin, steady drizzle, it seemed every person I passed had a cigarette in their hand, either lighting one or smoking one or putting one out. And the smokers looked so happy, so healthy so satisfied with their smoking. How is it, I asked myself, that all this time I’ve thought smoking was dirty and toxic? Look at these people—they’re glowing! The cigarette mottoes ran through my head. A thin woman in a black trenchcoat inhaled deeply from a long Waverly—The Smoker’s Choice. A fit, middle-aged man in a three-piece suit lit a Texas straight—The Tasteful Smoke. I tried the breathing exercises the acupuncturist had taught me but with each inhalation I brought in the crisp taste of burning tobacco. I walked back to the cobblestone block where my office was, hoping for relief. It was even worse. In each doorway a person lingered with a cigarette, embers glowing in each direction. Kensington—The Mild Cigarette. Fairfax—The Refreshing Taste. Embassy Means Smoking Enjoyment. Lowes Mean More Smoking Pleasure. I was almost at the office, and I knew that once inside the purified air I would be fine—but I had one more hurdle to jump. In the doorway of the building was a small, pale woman with long black hair in a tight black dress. She was smoking a Midwood Medium, my favorite. The Satisfying Smoke.

  I stood in front of the woman with the black hair. It would be so easy to ask—but no, I wouldn’t. I opened my mouth to say Excuse me, so I could press my way into the safety of my office. But when I opened my mouth and set my lips and tongue into motion, I found they were not my own at all. In my mind I made the x of excuse me at the top of my throat, but my the tip of my tongue instead reached to the bony part of my upper palate to say, “Do you have another smoke?”

  “Sure,” said the woman with a smile. She reached into her purse for the pack and a book of matches, shook out a cigarette and held it out to me.

  And so I started smoking again. I tried to convince myself with a circle of assumptions; I had asked for a cigarette, so I must have wanted a cigarette. Lack of willpower. My subconscious desires had overridden my superego. I circled around and around for a week before I just accepted the fact I was smoking again, and I would have to live with it or go through another long withdrawal. And Edward would have to live with it, too.

  It took him a while to see that. When he first found a pack of cigarettes in my purse he was pure disappointment. It was my health, he said, he was so worried about my health. When that didn’t work, it was the allergies, which I had long ago learned didn’t need quite as much coddling as Ed led one to believe. His arguments fell on deaf ears. I was enjoying smoking again. I felt more like myself. I thought I might keep smoking for the rest of my life. Next his campaign picked up a little cruelty; I smelled bad, my teeth were turning yellow, smoking was filthy, low class. These weren’t attributes that particularly bothered me, and I noticed they didn’t bother most of the men I met, either. He pleaded, he yelled, finally, he gave up.

  I felt wonderful, like my old friend was back in town. Sort of like seeing Pansy again, after all those years.

  THERE WAS THE TAPPING, and the fighting, and the smoking, and the dreams, and I never would have thought to link them if it hadn’t been for a mistake, or what seemed like a mistake at the time. I had ordered a book from a small publisher out of state—Design Issues Past and Present—that I was hoping would inspire me a bit with a project at work. I came home to the loft one rainy April night pleased to find a package waiting by the door. But when I got upstairs and opened the box I saw they had sent the wrong book—Demon Possession Past and Present—instead. A disappointment, but nothing to cry about. I put the book on the coffee table, forgot about it, and went about making dinner.

  After dinner was made I sat on the sofa. Ed was late again. Out of boredom I picked up the accidental book, Demon Possession Past and Present.

  On the first page there was a little quiz:

  Are YOU Possessed by a Demon?

  1. I hear strange noises in my home, especially at night, which family members tell me only occur when I am present.

  2. I have new activities and pastimes that seem “out of character,” and I do things that I did not intend and do not understand.

  3. I’m short and ill-tempered with my friends and loved ones.

  4. I can understand languages I’ve never studied, and have the ability to know things I couldn’t know through ordinary means.

  5. I have blackouts not caused by drugs, alcohol, or a preexisting health condition.

  6. I have unusual new thoughts, or hear voices in my head.

  7. I’ve had visions or dreams of personalities who may be demons.

  8. A psychic, minister, or other spiritualist has told me I’m possessed.

  9. I have urges to hurt or kill animals and other people.

  10. I have hurt or killed animals or people.

  On the next page was an analysis of the quiz results. I had scored a four out of ten; there was the noise in our apartment, I had started smoking again, I had been fighting with Ed, and I had been having strange dreams.

  0-3: You are probably not possessed. See a doctor or mental health professional for an evaluation. 3-6: You may be haunted, or in the early stages of possession. Do not be alarmed. Seek a spiritual counselor for assistance. 6-10: You are possessed. Consult with your spiritual counselor immediately. You may be a threat to the safety of yourself and your family

  Possession usually begins with a preliminary stage called “obsession”—the obsession of the demon with the victim. In this stage the victim is still alone in his body but all five senses, and in addition the memory and mind, can be manipulated and disturbed by the Entity. The victim may feel lust, envy, greed, or urges towards any of the sins with stronger force than ever before. It is common for the victim to hear the demon in the form of rapping, tapping, or scratching that seems to follow them around; also common is for the victim to have their dreams infiltrated by the Possessing Entity.

  I put the book down and picked up a fat biography of Frank Lloyd Wright I had been meaning to read for months. But just a few pages in, as quiet as a mouse and loud as a gunshot, there it was again.

  Tap-tap.

  That same annoying noise. But it was clearer tonight. Now that I listened to it carefully I was sure it wasn’t the pipes at all. And it was far too loud for a mouse.

  Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

  I was beginning to get uneasy. I stood up and walked around the apartment. Nothing. It was just like before; the sound was always close, but never exactly where I was looking. If I was in the kit
chen, it was in the bedroom. If I went to the bedroom, it seemed to be coming from the bathroom. I gave up and went back to the sofa. I picked up a magazine from the coffee table. Miniskirts were coming back into style.

  Tap-tap.

  I was more and more uneasy. It had never been this loud before. The rain outside blew against the windows and I tried to tell myself the sound was just the rain, tapping on the glass. Or the pipes. Or a faucet.

  Tap-tap. Tap-tap.

  Alone in the quiet apartment, I now heard that it wasn’t a tapping at all. More like a pitter-patter. It continued with a steady tattoo around and around the apartment. It sounded like footsteps, scratching steps like a dog or a cat running quickly over a wood floor, claws scraping on the wood.

  Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

  Of course it wasn’t footsteps. No one lived above us and there was obviously no one in the apartment with me. The sound got louder, closer. It couldn’t be footsteps. As much as it sounded like footsteps there was no way, it was absolutely impossible, I shouldn’t even let it cross my mind that the sound could be footsteps. I stared at the magazine. Slingbacks were the shoes to wear with the new miniskirts.

  Pitter-patter, pitter-patter.

  The sound that wasn’t footsteps came closer. It circled around and around the sofa. I stopped pretending to read the magazine. It was in front of me, pacing back and forth in front of the sofa.