William H. Hallahan - (11 page)

Brendan, the banana, should be caged.

And in his mind another great door slammed next to the one marked
MALACHI DAVITT, PRIVATE. This door said, R.C.C MASSES SUNDAY
6:15,7,8,9,10:30 AND 12:15. ALL WELCOME.
Bang
went the carved
oak portal.

Now there was no one he could talk to. He was worse off than
before, more completely isolated than ever.

A seething anger began to grow. Somehow he would find a way to
fight this demon his nightmares. And he would hack it to pieces. His
fantasies were becoming obsessive visions of himself butchering a
horned devil. Over and over. He would conquer it and marry Anne.
Somehow.
 
 

Brendan was taking a laboratory course in psychology. The
instructor discussed the anatomy of the human brain and the body, and
the various theories of human mind, genes, personality and character.

He brought in a strange-looking camera one day. Kirlian
photography, he called it. To take photographs of the human auras.
"We all have auras," he said, "and the Russians claim
they can read character in the colors." He took photographs of
the fourteen students with the Kirlian camera.

"Irascible," he said, looking at one student's aura. The
rest of the class laughed.

"You don't need a camera to find that out," a girl said.

"Placid," the instructor said, holding up another photo.
And for another; "Nervous." And "Competitive. And this
one is very warm and loving." The class applauded the girl and
she took a blushing bow.

"Fanatical," the instructor went on. "And this
one--hmmmm." He looked at Brendan. "Never saw anything like
this one before. It's shot with purple. See? Wide streaks of purple.
Mind if I keep this?"

Brendan shook his head. Purple. His father had said that. Purple.
So had the monk on horseback.
 
 

The hawk rode the air currents of early winter down through the
mountains of New England, its hills and ski slopes already deep in
snow, then down the Connecticut River with its many frozen
tributaries and on to New York City.

And, as always, she circled over the city a number of times,
conscious of the unusual faint emanation. More than once her shadow
had passed directly over Brendan's house. And this time she felt that
the emanations were stronger than ever. Possibly the next time. .
.She wheeled off southwestward to pick up the convection currents
over Pennsylvania.
 
 

Brendan had begun to set his mind along a forbidden path. If there
was no help for him from his family or his church, was there help
from the occult world?

More than once he'd heard Aunt Maeve's friends in her kitchen of
an evening talking about Mrs. Dunning. Roberta Dunning. They said
that she'd held seances for years in her home, a little row house off
Grace Court Alley, with her husband and an old woman named Mrs.
Tinsman. They called Mrs. Tinsman Miss Mouse, she was so small and
frail and had such wee little hands just like a mouse's paw.

Aunt Maeve's good friend Grace-Smiley lived not two doors away
from the Dunnings, and she never tired of telling about the night
that Mr. Dunning disappeared.

"Such shouting and bumping and crashes and broken glass you
never heard," she was wont to say. And each time she told the
tale, the others would question her meticulously with fresh awe.

"Séances," she would say. "Demon worship, it was a
whatchamecallit--a coven. A proper witch's coven. They said that
Dunning woman had crossed over, whatever that means." And the
others would quickly explain again to each other that crossing over
was supposed to mean going into the spirit world. Through mirrors,
they all believed.

Whatever it really meant, Mr. Dunning disappeared the night of the
great rumpus in his house and never came back. One of those
halfhearted police investigations came to nothing.

"If you ask me, she killed him and buried him in the cellar,"
Mrs. Smiley would opine, and clap her teacup into her saucer with the
finality of a door closing.

At first, Brendan simply strolled past the Dunning house on his
various errands to eye it speculatively. Several times he stood in a
doorway across the way and studied the building. It stood in an old
cobbled lane barely wide enough for an automobile. A small structure,
three stories high, it was a brick house with white marble
windowsills and steps but it was neatly cared for with freshly
pointed bricks. There were brass fittings on the black-patent door
and brass finials on the wrought-iron step railing. The windows had
crisp curtains, Queen Anne or Colonial checks, and hanging plants.
There was certainly nothing sinister about its appearance.

But there never seemed to be anyone at home during the day.
Brendan wondered if Mrs. Dunning worked. And usually most evenings
there were no lights at all.

The first time he saw her was on a Saturday morning. Mrs. Dunning
came swinging down the street with a heavy shopping bag stuffed with
parcels. She took inordinately long strides and held her head high as
a goose. But what made her noteworthy was her dress: She wore
black--black cape, black stockings and shoes, black pleated wool
skirt and a black hat. The hat was almost a bonnet. The only
variation was her gloves. They were white.

Brendan watched her enter her house. He couldn't speak to her: He
couldn't blurt out nonsense. "Would you help me fight a demon?"
Terrific. How about "There's this demon after me--"?
Indeed, he wasn't sure he wanted to speak to her at all. Maybe she
was one of Them. On reflection, he usually decided that he was best
off just leaving her alone with her murdered husband's corpse in the
cellar and a houseful of baleful spirits.

But then Anne would change his mind again. When he was near her,
he yearned for a normal life--a career, a home, a wedding, children.

Anne said she was fat.

"I like you just the way you are," he said.

"Now, Brendan, a model I'm not. Too big in the bust, too wide
in the hips, built for breeding, and ample in the flesh. I'm just an
everyday girl. I'm going to have to make it on brains and dieting.
You know what's the worst thing about dieting?"

"Yes." Brendan said. "The worst thing about dieting
is discovering you don't need it."

"Dieting is like fighting the sands of the desert. All
victories are temporary and there's never any cessation of
hostilities."

He wanted to say more, that he thought she had a wonderful figure
with long beautiful legs, that he didn't want to hug a skeleton, that
he could shut his eyes and see every detail of her merry face. Then
he'd realize anew he couldn't He had no claims on her and it was only
by an effort of will that he kept himself from taking her in his arms
and kissing her.

One evening in her home he spent the whole time in her darkroom,
helping her develop photographs for a photography school project.
They stood side by side, transferring the prints from one stage to
another. She often touched his hand, they often bumped their hips,
they often bent over almost cheek to cheek and he felt her soft hair
touching his face. It was too much. He left early and on the subway
home composed a farewell letter to her. When he got home, he wrote it
out.

As if to confirm his decision he had another premonition. His
visions were occurring more frequently now. And this one was
particularly frightening.

He was on a raft with no rudder, no sweep or oar. And the raft was
caught in a rapid current, floating into great darkness. From the
water rose a towering goat figure with a black goat's face and mad,
burning green eyes. It waited for the raft to float up to it So huge
was the demon, it would be able to crush Brendan and the raft in one
hand. In his dream Brendan searched for a weapon. But there was none.
Then the demon bellowed--a terrible deafening shout--as it reached
for the raft. Brendan woke soaked with sweat.

He lay staring at his ceiling in misery. He could not go on living
like this.

With a prospect like that who could consider love, marriage,
babies? He brooded that whole day on finding a way to fight this
looming demon. He was filled with anger, eager to kill the thing. And
frightened by it too. In some way, the whole confrontation was
predicated in the word purple. That is what his father had said as he
had clambered into the carriage. Purple. He could see his father
mouthing the word. Purple. Purple what?

In the morning--it was a Saturday--he wrote another draft. But he
threw it away. The thought of not seeing her anymore filled him with
such sadness, he couldn't bring himself to write the letter. He went
for a walk along the docks. If only he could get shut of this demon
business, what a wonderful life he could have with Anne.

He found himself walking by the Dunning house. The weather was
thickening. The forecast was for snow. And under a grim black sky, a
harbor breeze was sliding through the streets, chilling his ankles.

He saw Mrs. Dunning coming down the street with the same
purposeful, ground-gainer's stride, head high in the breeze, all in
black, flashing her white gloves as she carried a few parcels in her
shopping bag. Could she help him?

If there was no help for him in the mortal world, was there help
in the spirit world? Was there some shade or wraith or ghost who
could tell him how to fight this demon who tormented his dreams?
Could Mrs. Dunning help him cross over into the spirit world? He was
becoming more sure every day that the attack from the demon was not
far off. He felt he had to do something soon.

He watched her enter her house. With sudden resolution he went up
the three steps, and ignoring the heavy brass knocker, rapped on the
door with his knuckle. The door opened a few inches. "Hello,"
he called through the crack. He knocked again and the door swung
almost completely open.

It was like a bandbox inside. Aunt Maeve would have loved it. A
striking Oriental rug on the floor ran the length of the hall. Beside
it a carved walnut staircase rose to the upper floor. At the back he
could see a kitchen filled with plants. A handsome grandfather clock
stood against the wall.

"Hello," he called again. "Anybody home?" He
stood by the newel-post. Then the hallway went dark as the door shut
behind him. Mrs. Dunning stood with her back to it, her eyes fixed
severely on him. She had very thick dark eyebrows and fierce eyes.

"Now. Young man. Explain yourself."

It rolled off her in waves: a bottomless sea of loneliness. And
there was mixed with it a crosscurrent of rage.

"I've seen you looking at my house for days," she
insisted. "What do you want?"

"That was very foolish of you to shut that door,"
Brendan said.

"Are you trying to frighten me, young man? Maybe you're the
one who should be frightened."

"I came to talk to you."

"What about?"

"Crossing over."

She stepped closer and peered at his face. "I think you'd
better explain that."

She kept him standing in the hallway, letting him talk, while she
continued to block the door. Unlike Father Breen, she showed not the
slightest trace of skepticism. She believed every word and in fact
writhed with pain as he explained his plight.

"Oh, I can't help you, Brendan Davitt." She pulled her
front door open. "No one can help you. You'll have to fight it
out by yourself. Please go quickly."

He nodded in acquiescence and stepped past her. "Maybe you
have some suggestions."

"No, no. I can't help." She was watching his feet,
waiting to shut the door.

"Your loneliness is very painful," he said.

"Oh, please." She pushed his shoulder. "I no longer
have the strength to do what it would take to help you. Forgive me."

He was getting the waves of emotion sorted out. The great
loneliness was coming directly from her, but the anger--blood-red
anger, a homicidal fury--was coming from the house itself. As though
the walls were running with blood.

"If you think of anything--" he said, and stepped
through the doorway. He heard the door shut firmly behind him.
 
 

He was three blocks away from her house when he heard quick
footsteps behind him. Mrs. Dunning hurried up. "Maybe I can help
you. Will you come back and let me talk to you a bit?"

He walked beside her, fearful of getting his hopes up. She had
said "might." And she'd said she didn't have the strength.
And he wasn't sure he felt very comfortable around her. The murderous
fury of her home was unsettling. How could she go on staying there?
Was living in the house some sort of penance for her?

He looked down at her to study her face. She was taller than
average; her head came well above his shoulder with blond hair faded
almost white. Probably in her late forties, she had a flat spare
frame, and all her movements suggested considerable strength and
great will.

Impulsively he took her hand. Now he understood. Her loneliness
was laden with guilt. She was a tormented solitary creature. And when
he felt her eyes on his, he knew that she knew he'd read her
feelings. And she'd read his. She tried to smile at him. "Am I
helping you or are you helping me?"

"Maybe it's a little of both. You should move out of that
house."

She unlocked the door and led him in. He felt the house's anger on
his face like tropical heat. Her secret was in there somewhere.

She had a maid, Kitty, a young Irish girl, who made them a pot of
coffee. Then Brendan sat with Mrs. Dunning at her kitchen table, amid
all the plants and the copper-bottomed pots that hung on an overhead
rack. She was very thoughtful, with her hands clenched in her lap.

"Well, Brendan Davitt," she said after a while. "You've
got a fearful problem. The figure in your dreams is undoubtedly Satan
himself. I don't know what the word purple means. It's traditionally
associated with royalty and benevolence. But it's quite clear to me
that Satan is searching for you; and he means to do you terrible
harm." Then she questioned him further, extracting the minutest
details from his dreams. She often shook her head with dismay.