No wonder he was talking so strange, she thought. He must be leaping and flying.
She put the buck back into his cage and walked slowly toward the kitchen, carrying the stopper in her hand.
I’ll just play it dumb, she decided, and see what those speedballs tell him to do next.
9
The house didn’t have a basement. It had been built by Italian immigrants unused to the cold winters of the Bronx and who didn’t have sufficient money for such a luxury.
Sister Heavenly’s bedroom and the kitchen composed one half of the house. The other half was composed of a large front parlor that was kept shuttered and closed and a small back bedroom which Sister Heavenly had converted into a bathroom.
The stairway to the attic led up from the kitchen and took up part of the short front hall, which, like the parlor, was never used. The bottom of the stairway which extended into the kitchen was detachable.
When Sister Heavenly returned to the kitchen she spoke apparently to no one: “You can come out now, he’s gone.”
The bottom of the stairs moved slowly out into the kitchen, revealing an access to a dugout beneath the house.
Pinky’s head appeared first. His kinky white hair was covered with cobwebs. On his battered face, ranging in colors from violent purple to bilious yellow, was a look of indescribable stupidity. His shoulders were too large for the opening and he had to put one arm through first and perform a series of contortions. He looked like some unknown monster coming out of hibernation.
The next thing that appeared was Uncle Saint’s shotgun, which seemed to drag Uncle Saint behind it.
Pinky shoved the staircase back into place and then stood close to Uncle Saint as though for spiritual comfort.
Neither of them met Sister Heavenly’s scornful gaze.
She couldn’t restrain from taunting: “You two innocents are acting mighty strange for people with clear consciences.”
“Ain’t no need of going looking for trouble,” Uncle Saint said sheepishly.
Sister Heavenly consulted her old-fashioned locket-watch. “It’s quarter to ten. How about all us going down to the dock and seeing Gus and Ginny off?”
If she had exploded a bomb filled with ghosts, she couldn’t have gotten stranger reactions.
Uncle Saint had a sudden heart attack. His eyes rolled back in his head and three inches of tongue fell suddenly from the corner of his dirty-looking mouth. He clutched his heart with his left hand and reeled toward his bunk, taking good care to hold on to the shotgun with his right hand.
Simultaneously Pinky had an epileptic fit. He fell to the floor and had convulsions, contortions and convolutions. His muscles jumped and jerked and quivered as he thrashed about on the floor. Foam sprayed from his mouth.
Sister Heavenly backed quickly from the danger zone of flying legs and arms and took up a position behind the stove.
Pinky’s eyes were set in a fixed stare; his spine stiffened, his legs jerked spasmodically, his arms flailed the air like runaway windmills.
Sister Heavenly stared at him in admiration. “If I had known you could throw wingdings like that I could have been using you all along as a sideline to faith healing,” she said.
Seeing that Pinky was stealing the show, Uncle Saint sat up. His eyes were popping and his jaw was working in awe.
“I’d have never thunk it,” he muttered to himself.
Sister Heavenly looked at him. “How’s your heart attack?”
He avoided her gaze. “It was just a twinge,” he said sheepishly. “It’s already let up.”
He thought it was a good time to get out and let Pinky carry on. “I’ll go start the car,” he said. “We might have to take him to the doctor.”
“Go ahead,” Sister Heavenly said. “I’ll nurse him.”
Uncle Saint hastened off toward the garage, still carrying his loaded shotgun. He raised the hood and detached the distributor head, then began to work the starter.
Sister Heavenly could hear the starter above the gritting sounds of Pinky’s teeth and realized immediately that Uncle Saint had disabled the car.
She waited patiently.
Pinky’s convulsions eased and his body turned slowly rigid. Sister Heavenly stepped over and looked into his staring eyes. The pupils were so distended his eyes looked like red-hot metal balls.
Uncle Saint came in and said the car wouldn’t start.
“You stay here and look after Pinky, I’ll take a taxi to the docks,” Sister Heavenly decided.
“I’ll put some ice on his head,” Uncle Saint said and began fiddling about in the refrigerator.
Sister Heavenly didn’t answer. She picked up her black beaded bag and black-and-white striped parasol and went out of the back door.
She didn’t have a telephone. She paid for police protection and protected herself from other hazards and her business was strictly cash and carry. So she had to walk to the nearest taxi stand.
Outside she opened the parasol, went around the house by the path through the weeds, and set out walking down the middle of the hot dusty road.
Crouching like an ancient Iroquois, still carrying the loaded shotgun in his right hand, Uncle Saint skulked from corner to corner of the house, watching her. She kept straight on down the street in the direction of White Plains Road without looking back.
Satisfied that she was not coming back, he returned to the kitchen and said to the rigid epileptic on the floor, “She’s gone.”
Pinky jumped to his feet. “I got to get out of here,” he whined.
“Go ahead. What’s stopping you?”
“Looking like I am. The first cop sees me gonna stop me, and I is wanted anyway.”
“Git your clothes off,” Uncle Saint said. “I’ll fix that.”
He seemed possessed with an urgency to be alone.
Sister Heavenly kept to the road until she knew she couldn’t be seen from the house, then she turned over to the next street and doubled back.
The house nearest to hers on the same side of the street was in the next block. It was owned by an old Italian couple who lived alone. They were good friends of Sister Heavenly. The man ran a provision house and was away from home during the day.
When Sister Heavenly called, his wife was in the kitchen, straining and bottling wine.
Sister Heavenly asked permission to sit in the attic. She often did this. There was a side window in the attic which offered a clear view of her own house, and whenever she found it necessary to check up on Uncle Saint she sat there watching for an hour or two. The old couple had even provided her with a rocking-chair.
Sister Heavenly climbed the stairs to the attic and, after opening the shutters, settled into her chair.
It was hot enough in the attic to roast a goose, but that didn’t bother Sister Heavenly. She liked heat and she never perspired. She sat rocking gently back and forth, watching the front and back of her own house at the end of the adjoining block.
An hour later Uncle Saint said to Pinky, “You is dry enough, put on some clothes and git.”
Pinky didn’t have a change of clothes in the house and he was more than twice the size of Uncle Saint. The black pants and T-shirt he had taken off were bloodstained and filthy.
“Where am I gonna git some clothes?” he asked.
“Look in the souvenir trunk,” Uncle Saint said.
The souvenir trunk sat beneath a small dormer window in the attic.
“Take a chisel, it’s locked,” Uncle Saint added as Pinky started ascending the stairs.
There wasn’t any chisel in the kitchen and Uncle Saint wouldn’t go to the garage to get one. Pinky couldn’t go because he was buck naked, so he took the poker for the stove.
It was an old-fashioned steamer trunk with a domed lid and was bound with wooden hoops. Sunshine slanted on the dust-covered top and when Pinky began prying at the old rusty lock, dust motes filled the air like glittering confetti. All of the windows had been closed after the night’s performance to keep out the heat and now the sweaty odor of the dancers lingered in the blazing heat. Pinky began to sweat. Sweat drops splattered in the dust like drops of ink.