Treat yourself to a taxi, okay?’
'Okay,' she said. She stopped at his chair, knelt, put her hands on his cheeks and looked into his eyes. 'What's the matter, Jim?’
'Nothing.’
'Yes. Something is.’
'Nothing I can't handle.’
'Is it something. . . about your brother?’
A draught of terror blew over him, as if an inner door had been opened. 'Why do you say that?’
'You were moaning his name in your sleep last night. Wayne, Wayne, you were saying. Run, Wayne.’
'It's nothing.’
But it wasn't. They both knew it. He watched her go. Mr Nell called quarter past eight. 'You don't have to worry about those guys,' he said. 'They're all dead.’
'Is that so?' He was holding his place in Raising Demons with his index finger as he talked.
'Car smash. Six months after your brother was killed. A cop was chasing them.
Frank Simon was the cop, as a matter of fact. He works out at Sikorsky now.
Probably makes a lot more money.’
'And they crashed.’
'The car left the road at more than a hundred miles an hour and hit a main power pole. When they finally got the power shut off and scraped them out, they were cooked medium rare.’
Jim closed his eyes. 'You saw the report?’
'Looked at it myself.’
'Anything on the car?’
'It was a hot rod.’
'Any description?’
'Black 1954 Ford sedan with "Snake Eyes" written on the side. Fitting enough.
They really crapped out.’
'They had a sidekick, Mr Nell. I don't know his name, but his nickname was Bleach.’
'That would be Charlie Sponder,' Mr Nell said without hesitation. 'He bleached his hair with Clorox one time. I remember that. It went streaky-white, and he tried todye it back. The streaks went orange.’
'Do you know what he's doing now?’
'Career army man. Joined up in fifty-eight or nine, after he got a local girl pregnant.’
'Could I get in touch with him?’
'His mother lives in Stratford. She'd know.’
'Can you giye me her address?’
'I won't, Jimmy. Not until you tell me what's eating you.' 'I can't, Mr Nell.
You'd think I was crazy.'.
'Try me.’
'I can't.’
'All right, son.’
'Will you -' But the line was dead.
'You bastard,' Jim said, and put the phone in the cradle. It rang under his hand and he jerked away from it as if it had suddenly burned him. He looked at it, breathing heavily. It rang three times, four. He picked it up. Listened. Closed his eyes.
A cop pulled him over on his way to the hospital, then went ahead of him, siren screaming. There was a young doctor with a toothbrush moustache in the emergency room. He looked at Jim with dark, emotionless eyes.
'Excuse me, I'm James Norman and -’
'I'm sorry, Mr Norman. She died at 9.04p.m.’
He was going to faint. The world went far away and swimmy, and there was a high buzzing in his ears. His eyes wandered without purpose, seeing green tiled walls, a wheeled stretcher glittering under the overhead fluorescents, a nurse with her cap on crooked. Time to freshen up, honey. An orderly was leaning against the wall outside Emergency Room No.1. Wearing dirty whites with a few drops of drying blood splattered across the front. Cleaning his fingernails with a knife. The orderly looked up and grinned into Jim's eyes. The orderly was David Garcia.
Jim fainted.
Funeral. Like a dance in three acts. The house. The funeral parlour. The graveyard. Faces coming out of nowhere, whirling close, whirling off into the darkness again. Sally's mother, her eyes streaming tears behind a black veil.
Her father, looking shocked and old. Simmons. Others. They introduced themselves and shook his hand. He nodded, not remembering their names. Some of the women brought food, and one lady brought an apple pie and someone ate a piece and when he went out in the kitchen he saw it sitting on the counter, cut wide open and drooling juice into the pie plate like amber blood and he thought: Should have a big scoop of vanilla ice cream right on top.
He felt his hands and legs trembling, wanting to go across to the counter and throw the pie against the wall.
And then they were going and he was watching himself, the way you watch yourself in a home movie, as he shook hands and nodded and said: Thank you. . . Yes, I will.
Thank you. . . I'm sure she is. . . Thank you .
When they were gone, the house was his again. He went over to the mantel. It was cluttered with souvenirs of their marriage. A stuffed dog with jewelled eyes that she had won at Coney Island on their honeymoon. Two leather folders - his diploma from B.U. and hers from U. Mass. A giant pair of styrofoam dice she had given him as a gag after he had dropped sixteen dollars in Pinky Silverstein's poker game a year or so before. A thin china cup she had bought in a Cleveland junk shop last year. In the middle of the mantel, their wedding picture. He turned it over and then sat down in his chair and looked at the blank TV set. An idea began to form behind his eyes.
An hour later the phone rang, jolting him out of a light doze. He groped for it.
'You're next, Norm.’
'Vinnie?’
'Man, she was like one of those clay pigeons in a shooting gallery. Wham and splatter.’
'I'll be at the school tonight, Vinnie. Room 33. I'll leave the lights off.
It'll be just like the overpass that day. I think I can even provide the train.’
'Just want to end it all, is that right?’
'That's right,' Jim said. 'You be there.’
'Maybe.’
'You'll be there,' Jim said, and hung up.
It was almost dark when he got to the school. He parked in his usual slot, opened the back door with his pass-key, and went first to the English Department office on the second floor. He let himself in, opened the record cabinet, and began to flip through the records. He paused about halfway through the stack and took out one called Hi-Fi Sound Effects. He turned it over. The third cut on the A side was 'Freight Train: 3.04'. He put the album on top of the department's portable stereo and took Raising Demons out of his overcoat pocket. He turned to a marked passage, read something, and nodded. He turned out the lights.
Room 33.
He set up the stereo system, stretching the speakers to their widest separation, and then put on the freight-train cut. The sound came swelling up out of nothing until it filled the whole room with the harsh clash of diesel engines and steel on steel.
With his eyes closed, he could almost believe he was under the Broad Street trestle, driven to his knees, watching as the savage little drama worked to its inevitable conclusion .
He opened his eyes, rejected the record, then reset it. He sat behind his desk and opened Raising Demons to a chapter entitled 'Malefic Spirits and How to Call Them'. His lips moved as he read, and he paused at intervals to take objects out of his pocket and lay them on his desk.
First, an old and creased Kodak of him and his brother, standing on the lawn in front of the Broad Street apartment house where they had lived. They both had identical crew cuts, and both of them were smiling shyly into the camera.
Second, a small bottle of blood. He had caught astray alley cat and slit its throat with his pocketknife. Third, the pocketknife itself. Last, a sweatband ripped from the lining of an old Little League baseball cap. Wayne's cap. Jim had kept it in secret hopes that some day he and Sally would have a son to wear it.
He got up, went to the window, looked out. The parking lot was empty.
He began to push the school desks towards the walls, leaving a Tough circle in the middle of the room. When that was done he got chalk from his desk drawer and, following the diagram in the book exactly and using a yardstick, he drew a pentagram on the floor.
His breath was coming harder now. He turned off the lights, gathered his objects in one hand, and began to recite.
'Dark Father, hear me for my soul's sake. I am one who promises sacrifice. I am one who begs a dark boon for sacrifice. I am one who seeks vengeance of the left hand. I bring blood in promise of sacrifice.’