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 mission, 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."