by Jeffrey Ford
He removed the flute slowly from his lips, but didn't turn his head to take me in. Instead, his eyes merely shifted while he remained facing the snake. He laid down the flute and rose in one fluid motion. As he stood, the snake descended back into the basket.
"Follow me," he said with a distinct Indian accent, parting the curtain and leading me down a hall to a large dressing room. Once we were inside, he turned and looked me straight in the eyes with a penetrating stare that made me uneasy. He pursed his lips and breathed out, and as the air left him he changed. Before he inhaled again, it became obvious to me, as it hadn't been at all before, that he was definitely not Indian but a white man with some kind of dark makeup applied to his skin. Suddenly, he smiled.
"So," he said, "how's those two knuckleheads you live with?"
In my surprise, all I could do was nod.
"Tommy wants me to make you a swami? No sweat, kid, we got it covered."
ACE OF HEARTS
The next evening, Antony, Schell, and I drove to Flatbush for the wake. Upon entering the viewing parlor at the funeral home, shouts of "Tommy" and "Henry" went up. In my time with Morty, I'd gotten the idea that Schell was something of a celebrity among the show folk at Coney and with magicians and con artists from around the city. A lot of the old-timers still called Antony "Henry," which was his real name, Henry Bruhl. Antony Cleopatra had been his stage name, taken more than twenty years earlier from a Broadway marquee announcing a play about the famous ancient lovers. He didn't care what they called him but smiled and hugged them all anyway. I was introduced as the kid, or Diego, or Ondoo, my perceived identity shifting madly from one to the other.
I knew some of the crowd-Sal Coots, a magician who went by the moniker Saldonica the Wizard; the dog man, Hal Izzle, who had been born with a rare disease, the effects of which had left him hairy from head to foot; Marge Templeton, the fat lady; Peewee Dunnit, a two-bit con man who ran shell games and card scams all over the five boroughs; Miss Belinda, a female magician whose act involved twenty pigeons; and Jack Bunting, the legless spider boy, who walked on his hands and could bite a silver dollar in half. There were others, too: Captain Pierce, the retired, doddering knife thrower, and Hap Jackland, part-time geek, part-time traveling shoe salesman.
The place was packed. Morty was laid out in a coffin amid bouquets and floral arrangements at the front of the room, but the mood was less than somber. The constant rolling sound of conversation was occasionally interrupted by outbursts of raucous laughter. Every now and then, one of the mourners would wander up to the coffin, spend a few moments, and then drift away, drying his eyes.
After the initial introductions, Schell whispered to me, "First things first," and nodded toward the coffin. We approached it together, and as we drew near, I felt a tightening in my stomach. I had seen death before, when I was younger, living with my brother on the streets. I found the prospect of its finality frightening, and no manner of study, no intellectual ideal, could offset that response. Schell must have sensed the difficulty I had standing there so close to it, and he put his arm lightly around my shoulders.
Morty was frowning as he never had in life. Even in the guise of Chandra, when a serious demeanor was an integral part of his role, he worked to never let that solemnity slip into negativity. As he once told me, "Look, kid, nobody's paying to come here and see me sniff shit for a dime. A swami isn't usually gonna be cutting up, telling jokes, but you gotta be careful that your look never slides into the sad or the angry, 'cause then your audience is gonna think you're judging them. You're supposed to be a metaphysical conundrum, not God almighty, get it?"
He was dressed in a brown suit and was wearing his eyeglasses. His sparse hair was neatly combed over his balding head. Whenever I'd seen him without the turban, that hair was in a twist or a whirl, but never combed. I shook my head to see how death puts its own disguise on a person. Coiled up next to the pillow on which his head rested was Wilma, his close companion and best friend. Who would have thought that a man and a snake could be so close, but they were. The snake had even answered to verbal commands. Morty told me that a lot of times all he had to do was think something and Wilma would do it. The cobra carried the name of a girl who'd once broken his heart.
Schell took his arm from around my shoulders and reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, retrieving a playing card. From his pocket to the coffin, he rolled it from finger to finger, turning it over and over, and I saw that it was the ace of hearts. Just before he laid it facedown on the satin, he snapped it, and said, "Okay, Morty." He forced a smile, although I could see sadness on his face (Schell never cried), and then turned away.
I stood there uneasily, unable to reach that place in my mind where I could hold a mental discussion with the dead. Behind me the conversation swelled and ebbed, and at one point I heard someone say, "How's the kid doing?" and Antony answered, "I swear to Christ, the kid's a damn genius." From another quarter, I heard someone say, "I'm developing a trick where I pull a pig out of a hat. A big pig. Anybody can pull a rabbit out, I'm pulling a pig as big as a dachshund." In answer, I heard Sally say, "You couldn't pull your dick out of your pants." There was a burst of laughter, and then the conversation turned somber as it moved onto the topic of Coney and how it was failing. "Morty's in better shape than that joint," said Peewee. Someone recounted the story of Electro's demise. "Dreadful," said Marge. "I was there. His eyeballs caught fire and smoke came out of his ears." "Sounds like my ex," said the dog man, and then he howled.
I was about to turn back to the group, when in the back of my mind I felt the stirrings of a memory. Concentrating on it, it slowly blossomed into a full-blown recollection. It was from the last day of my weeks of instruction with Morty. We sat at the counter at Nathan's, eating hot dogs. It was midsummer, overcast, in the middle of the week. The crowds had stayed away in droves, and the park was almost deserted. There was a breeze rolling in off the ocean, and rain was imminent. Morty, still dressed in his swami getup, turban and diaper, fingered a pile of sauerkraut to his mouth and wiped his hands on a napkin.
"I gave you the books, right?" he asked. He'd lent me his Hindu texts, translations of holy books I was to scour for incomprehensible phrases that would dazzle Western minds.
I nodded.
"You got the turban?"
I nodded.
"You're working on the voice? Let me hear something," he said.
"May Shiva dance like a flame in your heart," I said, in the rigid-tongued, singsong method that he'd taught me.
He smiled. "You're a swami's swami."
I laughed.
"Okay, kid, here's the last thing I'm gonna tell you. Maybe it's the most important." He reached over and gave me a gentle slap on the cheek, something he did often when teaching me. At first I'd been angry at these intrusions on my personal space, but over time they'd become for me like pats on the back. "I hope all of this nonsense helps you out, but you've gotta promise me one thing. Never forget who you really are. What we're doing here is actually an abomination. We're not swamis, we're the swamis of peoples' imaginations, swami knockoffs out for a buck. For us, the turban's a job, you see? Always remember that." He laid three quarters on the counter and hopped off his stool. I stood up next to him.
"Thanks for everything," I told him.
He reached up and swatted me again across the cheek, but this time harder than usual, so that it stung. "Adios, Diego," he said. As he walked away there was a crack of thunder, and it instantly started to pour. I glanced up at the sky, and when I looked back, he'd vanished.
"Thanks, Morty," I whispered to the corpse and then leaned over and lightly petted Wilma's hood. I turned away from the coffin and went to sit with a dozen people discussing some intricate con Schell had worked when he was younger. It involved a hansom cab, a cop, and a red balloon filled with helium, but I wasn't able to piece it together. Every once in a while, one of them would call back to Schell, who sat by himself in the last row of chairs, "What was the take on that little missi
on, three grand?" or, "The bull was McLaren, wasn't it?" and I'd see him force a smile and nod. In another small group, Antony was regaling three women with his exploits in the traveling carnival trade, specifically his act in which he stopped a cannonball with his gut.
I slipped away and went to join Schell. Neither of us spoke for a few minutes. Finally, I asked him how long he'd known Morty.
"Long time," he said. "When I was a kid and my father would be gone for days on end, Morty let me come and stay at his place. I'd sleep on his couch, and he'd have Wilma do tricks for me. Sometimes he'd read me a book."
"He was good," I said.
"They're all good," he said, nodding at the assembled mourners.
Time passed and people started heading out. Antony approached and leaned over us. "Boss," he said. "Do you mind driving home? I think I'm gonna stick around and spend some time with Vonda over there."
"Who's Vonda?" asked Schell.
"You know," Antony said, pointing backward with his thumb, "the Rubber Lady. We're gonna go and get a few cocktails."
"The Rubber Lady?" asked Schell.
"Hey, she's got a friend," said Antony. "You should join us. We can put the kid on a train, and he can catch a cab from the station."
"Thanks, but I think I'll pass," said Schell.
Antony leaned even closer to Schell and I heard him whisper, "I hear she's a sword swallower."
Schell begged off, and soon after, he and I said our good-byes and left. On the long drive home, he said nothing. Later that night, as I lay in bed nodding off to sleep, I heard the strains of melancholic music drifting down the hall from Schell's room.
I was awakened the next morning by the sound of Antony's voice, yelling, "Come off it," and realized Schell must have just informed him that he would be playing Ma Parks. I got dressed and went out to the kitchen.
"This was your doing, you little piss nob," said Antony as I entered the kitchen.
"What?" I said but couldn't hold a straight face.
"Old lady Parks," he said.
"Typecasting," said Schell, who looked as if he hadn't slept all night.
"I heard you yesterday, Antony," I said. "You said I was a genius."
"I take it back," he said and got up to get himself a cup of coffee.
"How was the Rubber Lady?" asked Schell.
Antony poured cream and stirred. "My little pretzel? I told her about how I used to let cars run over my head, and she was swept away with me."
"A true romantic," said Schell.
"I spent three hours waiting for the first train out here this morning. Didn't catch a wink. I'm gonna hit it for a while."
"I'll call you at one," said Schell. "We have to go to the Salvation Army and see if we can find a nice dress for you."
"You two are just jealous," he said, leaving the kitchen.
"I have a new makeup for you to try," said Schell. "It glows in the dark."
From down the hall, we heard, "I hate being dead people."
MANY DOORS ARE OPENED
Pathetic" might just have been an apt description of Parks's existence, for the night of the sйance, when we arrived, he informed us that he could find no one among his acquaintances or family who would participate in it with him. It was to be only Schell and Parks and myself. This then, as it looked from the outset, promised to be the equivalent of shooting fish in a barrel. All the better, as I was somewhat distracted, hoping for another glimpse of Isabel, whom I hadn't been able to get off my mind since we'd been there a week earlier.
We met the tycoon in the same room his butler had led us to on our initial visit. After the normal pleasantries, Schell described the rules of engagement for calling forth the dead: breathe deeply and regularly so as not to hyperventilate; do not shout (it might scare the spirits away); keep your distance from any visual or physical manifestation that might coalesce (to make contact with it could possibly be fatal); be solicitous of the dead (humor them); do not leave your seat unless otherwise instructed. Parks nodded eagerly, obviously anxious to get through the preliminaries and on with it. His voice had gone up an octave or two, and he swung his legs back and forth while sitting in his throne.
We moved to the room that Schell and I had reconnoitered on our last visit, a small drawing room on the eastern side of the mansion. It was at ground level and had a pair of wide glass doors that gave a view of a landscaped terrace with faux Greek statuary and a series of waist-high hedges. The room itself was comfortable, not quite as large as we liked but with a nice round wooden table and rafters over which we could toss a line in order to levitate an object.
Before we began, as Schell lit the candle at the center of the table, Parks made a request. "I don't know if this is possible or warranted," he said, "but, please, Mr. Schell, if my wife tries to…come through, please do everything in your power to prevent it."
"I understand," said Schell. "Her death is too close to you right now."
"Something like that," said Parks.
Schell nodded to me, an indication that I should turn off the lights. This I did while he assumed the mediumistic state. When he went under, so to speak, it was a sight to behold. His entire body trembled, eventually giving way to what appeared to be a kind of living rigor mortis. The eyes turned upward so that the pupils were hidden beneath lowered lids, and his mouth opened wide in a grimace. Parks was entranced by the performance, giving me the opportunity to toss a length of near-invisible thread, a small washer attached to the end to give it weight, up over a rafter. Just as it cleared the beam and began its descent, I took my seat and let loose a string of incomprehensible gibberish. Parks's attention now swung to me, and as it did, Schell caught the end of the line and pulled it down next to him, where it couldn't be detected in the dim candlelight. When Parks turned back to look at Schell, he was again wrapped in his rictus of spirituality.
Before long, there came from out of the darkness a low murmuring, the candle flickered as if caught in a breeze, and sounds of weeping filled the air. Schell, far more expert at projecting his voice than I, covered the murmuring, and I was responsible for the weeping. Parks looked everywhere, up and down, wide-eyed. When I rapped my toe against the bottom of the table, he nearly jumped out of his seat.
Schell lifted his arms in the air and said in a low, croaking voice, filled with urgency, "The gates to the other side open," and a dozen pine whites suddenly appeared between his hands. They swarmed in a chaos of pale, fluttering wings above the table and then made for Parks, who'd already been marked with sugar water. The millionaire panicked and began swatting the air in front of him. Schell then had a chance to slip from beneath his jacket and attach to the end of the line a toy bear we'd picked up at the Salvation Army.
"Georgie, Georgie," came a voice from above. "It's me, your mother."
"Mother?" said Parks. "I can hear you." He raked his fingers through his hair, and within seconds his eyes glistened with tears. "Mother," he called, looking around the room feverishly.
As Parks looked behind him, Schell blew a few grains of flash powder into the candle flame and there was a tiny, bright explosion in the middle of the table. Parks covered his eyes and when he looked again, the bear hovered in the air five feet above our heads.
"I've brought your bear, darling," said the ghostly female voice.
Parks began to stand, as if to grab for the toy, but I cautioned him, "Remain seated, sir. To touch this apparition could mean your life."
He sat back down, but his hands remained thrust upward, the perfect image of a child begging to be carried.
"George, I've been watching you."
"Yes, Mother," he said.
"You've not been on your best behavior."
"I have, Mother. I have."
"No you haven't. If you lie to me I'll go away."
"I'm sorry," cried Parks, "please don't leave."
"Caroline is here with me, George."
Parks groaned.
"She said you were unkind to her."
&n
bsp; "I wasn't," he said.
"Good-bye," said the voice.
"All right, yes, I didn't like her. She was too…forceful. I'm sorry."
"That's better, dear. To make up for it, I want you to be kinder to others. Treat the young woman Isabel nicely. She works so hard."
"I'll raise her salary," said Parks.
"That's an excellent start. Be kinder to everyone, George. That way Death will treat you kindly when it's time for you to make the voyage."
"Yes," he said, his voice and body trembling.
"I'm on the terrace, dear. Come to the glass and I will let you see me, but you mustn't open the doors."
Parks looked over at me. I nodded. He got out of his chair, and Schell and I also stood. We moved toward the glass doors, I in front of Parks, and Schell bringing up the rear.
"Behold, sir, your mother's ectoplasmic form," I said.
He stepped up next to me and pressed his face against the glass. Outside the wind was blowing through the giant oaks that bordered the property. There was a half moon that night, its pale light shining through a very light mist. Standing behind one of the hedges, so that she was visible from the waist up, was the glowing form of Ma Parks, a good deal larger in death than life. She wore a wide-brimmed hat as she did in three of the photos in Parks's parlor, and stared directly at us. Through the glass, we could hear her repeating the name "Georgie."
Parks lost control and started fumbling with the knobs on the doors. I put my hand upon his shoulder and cautioned him not to open them. He paid no attention to me, and I tried to restrain him long enough so that Schell could get a hand on him. But Schell just stood there, staring at the glass, a strange look on his face, completely immobile. Then Parks rammed me with his elbow and sent me tripping backward onto my rear end.
From where I lay on the floor, I expected to see Schell jump to action, but he didn't. Parks got the doors open and slipped out onto the terrace. He ran toward the apparition, screaming, "Mother!"
I scrambled to my feet just in time to see him reach the hedge behind which the ghost stood. Schell finally came to and lunged forward out the door after him. As Parks reached out for the object of his affection, his mother's spirit feinted to the side and threw a right cross. The punch caught him on the jaw and dropped him, unconscious, onto the grass.
