She leaned forward. “Mr. White, would it be possible for such a rite to be performed now... in the present day?”
Ben spoke up, “Phyllis, I don’t think...”
Mr. White removed his cigar. “There’s nothing the matter with a question like that at all. In fact, exorcism has always fascinated me. The last case I remember reading about occurred... let me see...”
Phyllis interrupted, “But could it be practiced now? Could you... could any clergyman perform it?”
His eyes behind the silver-rimmed glasses grew very thoughtful. “A great deal of evidence must be presented to prove that such an act should be performed. It is a very serious step. There are certain dangers involved.”
She said clearly, “But exorcism is possible.”
“In very rare instances, yes.”
It could have been the very stillness that made Phyllis certain that Letty had heard and understood.
After Ben had left the following morning, Kate lingered at the table, slowly eating the last crumbs of a blueberry muffin. With her eyes still on the plate, she said to her mother, “What’s exorcism?”
Phyllis’s instant reaction was, “How did you happen to ask that?”
The child lifted her face. She went on in the same carefully controlled tone of voice, “If you exorcise somebody, does it hurt?”
Her mother stooped and held her close. “Of course not, darling. It’s just a ceremony, a very serious one that has to do with driving away... something harmful. Who told you...”
Kate interrupted, looking directly into her eyes, “And they’d never come back? The person you make go away?”
Phyllis nodded. “We hope so.”
Kate was silent a moment and then she said matter-of-factly, “But you don’t have to worry about Letty any more. She’s already gone away.”
Without further explanation, Kate reached for another muffin and went into the living room to watch the nine o’clock cartoon show. Dumbfounded, Phyllis arose from beside the chair, and crossed the room to the doorway. For a time she stood there, watching Kate’s profile. But the child was absorbed in the program, nothing else.
A few days before school began, Mrs. Warren dropped by with a little girl. She called into the kitchen, “Anybody home? I brought somebody for you to meet.” She put an arm around both Kate and the other child. “This here’s Judy Davis. She’s the daughter of my new dairyman. I been telling her all about you, and how you’ll be taking the school bus together.”
The two children sized each other up, and then Kate said, “Want me to show you some of my dolls?”
That evening as Ben was helping her with the dishes, Phyllis glanced through the window to the grape arbor where Kate and her new friend were engrossed in coloring books. She handed Ben a plate. “Kate’s room is a shambles, but I couldn’t care less. They’ve had such a marvelous time all afternoon.”
Judy put down a crayon and blew a wisp of blonde hair away from her eyes. “Wasn’t this a good idea? I wish we’d thought of it sooner.”
Kate agreed, “Mm-mmm.”
The other child deliberated over a picture. Then she said, “I think I’ll color her breeches green, dark green.”
Kate popped her bubble gum in disgust. “Listen, if I can remember to call you Judy, you’d just better learn to say slacks. You want to get me in trouble again?”
Rich — or Dead
by David A. Heller
Clay Felton, twenty, American student tourist, clad in leather sandals, khaki shorts, and a dusty, sweat-stained brown sport shirt, walked the narrow Oude Zijds Voorburgwal of Amsterdam in discouragement. He had hoped to find in the Zeedjik district a cheap pension for the night, but the tourist season was in full swing in Amsterdam, and anything he could afford — certainly no more than eight guilders, about two dollars and a quarter — was filled. For nearly three months, Clay had knocked around Europe on a very inadequate budget, traveling in third class coaches, cycling, staying in youth hostels, sometimes sleeping in the haystack of an agreeable farmer. Still, his money had not stretched quite far enough. He had less than ten dollars in his pocket, with three and a half days before his ship, Groot Vreeling, the last student ship of the season, sailed from Amsterdam for New York. Yet it had been a good trip. Next year it was graduation from college, and then probably the army for him. Clay was glad he had been able to spend a summer in Europe on what he had been able to scrape together.
Clay philosophically shrugged. Something would turn up. It always had. He was hungry, for he had not eaten since lunch, and then only coffee and two broodies, the small, open-faced sandwiches that are offered everywhere in Dutch cafes and food shops. He had decided to skip eating an evening meal to save money. By the most stringent economy, he would barely be able to hold out until his boat sailed for America.
Clay turned off the Oude Zijds Voorburgwal onto a dimly lighted side street. The narrow thoroughfare was dank with the dampness that comes late at night from Amsterdam’s canals, and evil-smelling. Prices ought to be cheaper here. Perhaps he could find an upstairs place where he could afford to get a room for the evening. Otherwise, it would be sitting up all night in the railroad station for him. His luggage was checked at the railway station so he could search for a room unencumbered. Clay shrugged his broad shoulders and ran a hand through pale blond hair. In spite of his natural optimism, he was discouraged. The prospect of spending a night in any of the dives he had seen, even though he had been turned down because they were full, was not something to anticipate. Anything he might find would be worse.
Clay paused by the darkened door of a cheap rooming house. Abruptly, a hand suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled him inside. His first reaction was that he was being robbed, and he struggled free. Then he saw that the hand that had grabbed him belonged to a woman, a woman of the Zeedjik, dressed in a flimsy red kimono.
The woman hissed to him in English, “Do you want someone to see you? Come in. The police could be just around the corner.”
If Clay had been thinking clearly he would have resisted, but he was startled, and his native Tennessee courtesy did not permit him to strike a woman. Before he quite realized what was happening, she had pulled him inside but paid no attention to him until she had locked the door. The window shade was drawn.
Then her manner abruptly changed. She turned to inspect him critically. “Your disguise is good, Eric. Very good. You do look like a down-at-the-heels American student traveler.”
Clay fought back the involuntary smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I do my best to look authentic,” he said.
“You have done well. Klaas will be pleased. I shall tell him how good your disguise is. Wait, I will bring your package and your money.” Then the woman in the red kimono vanished into another room.
Dazed, Clay sat down on the edge of the bed. Slowly, his mind began to work. It occurred to him that he had accidentally blundered into a dangerous situation. It was obviously a case of mistaken identity, and the terror at being observed by the police puzzled him. The police do not bother the women of the Zeedjik — or their customers. No, this must be something much more than that. Clay was sorely tempted to get out but, before he could escape, the woman returned.