Top took Neal back to the house, and the next day Neal returned to the duplex in Pittsburg where he lived with an alcoholic woman who worked in social services. Before leaving the cabin that night Top told me not to bother locking up but to be sure to remember to crack open the windows to air the place out.
He said that an Undertaker had contacted him and requested that I be the Roadent who accepted the challenge. It was Redbone, Neal's step-son, currently staying in Ogden, Utah. To request a particular opponent was against the rules of the game, but seeing as how this was Neal's step-son, and in appreciation of Neal's cooperation in the seance, Top would let the infraction slide, if I was up for it. I said I could use the money.
We spoke as if nothing unusual had happened, and for Top nothing had. Well, it had been a little different from his usual dramas, his usual experiments with the human mind and the Reality it controls, but in the end it had been just another game that he convinced himself he had won. I don't know what sort of victory he gave himself, except that his plan had gone as he had expected: Roberta exposed as a person in denial who had shifted the blame from her husband to Moira.
Edgar had felt a sexual attraction to his little boy. Apparently he was okay with the idea of incest but not the homosexual variety, and so he had insidiously manipulated Moira to help him transform Joe into Josie. Children tend to do what is expected of them, anything to get parental approval and affection. Joe turned to his mother as a defensive mechanism, as a buffer against his father, but Roberta refused to see what Edgar was up to. She saw it as an evil whim of Moira's. She noted how upset Edgar would appear to be whenever Joe acted out the Josie persona; but that was a deception, one that she did not want to recognize as such. No, in her mind the fault lay with the girl next door.
Moira liked Edgar's attention. It was compensation for the lack of attention from her father and the dominance of her mother. She had a difficult time trying to sort all this out and to explain it that night in the attic bedroom. I didn't push it. It was all water under the bridge and I was glad for what light had been shed on the curiosity that was Moira.
She spent an hour on the phone with Marcia, or 'Marcie,' and the upshot of it was that Marcia's mom agreed with her daughter that Moira should spend some time with them in Memphis, however much time it took to get her head screwed on tight. Moira was relieved. She had a place to go. She wanted me to see Memphis as my starting and ending point; to come back to her after every little odyssey. At the time I was fine with that. I loved her, but it was not the kind of love that tied me down and suffocated itself. And so the next day I opened all the windows and we left for Tennessee.
At Marcia's we did not take a shower together. I supposed that was a good sign but it depressed me all the same. On the morning I left for Utah she was cheerful and talked about getting a position at the place Marcia worked. It was like we were a married couple, with me, the husband, going on a business trip. That situation lasted until our separate circumstances put a gulf between us that could no longer be spanned by a mere agreement; the agreement of seeing Memphis as the hub from which my spokes extended...ever further in length.
If love has a dark side, it has shades that go from the lightest to the darkest. Somewhere in the lighter shade of that dark side we said goodbye. I like to think that when we parted for the last time and would not see each other again, that we each found the shade growing lighter, on her end and on mine. I don't know. A road does not discriminate between the light and the dark. Neither should love.
Maybe love is the longest road. It should not have an end, and maybe it never really does. It just goes off through the shades, until it seems to die sometimes, but keeps flowing, dead like a river.
Monday, January 5, 2015
Sunday, January 4, 2015
(46) Dead Like A River
Her arm was up off the table and she was trying to break Top's grip on her hand; yet still she stared at me. For my part I held her other hand firmly, her fingers digging their nails into my palm.
I saw Top's face then. It surprised me. It was not unlike the demonic visage that had briefly loomed over him. A splash of water-- And Moira coughed, spluttering in amazement, as I swiveled around to see who had dumped the bucket of water on her, but... no one was there, just the darkness with its glinting bits of candlelight. Now a cry of outrage from Roberta. I turned back around.
Roberta wanted to wipe the streaming water from her face, but neither Neal nor her son would release their hold on her struggling hands. Nobody commented on the inexplicable dousings. "Please not yet," Joe pleaded with her.
Neal was watching him, toting up what he was seeing, what he was feeling. His lips were working as though tasting what he was about to say. Maybe it was Top, but I knew what Neal would say before he said it. It was: "Wait until you're comfortable with it, Josie."
The bedraggled Roberta looked at Neal with an irritable, puzzled look. But I knew, suddenly, what he meant. The disembodied spirit-head may have looked like a man, like Edgar, to us, but not to Joe. To him it was something like Alicia. The boy's expression was of a sorrow that I felt was strangely satisfying to him, like a bittersweet goodbye. There was a sad smile on his face and a sheen to his reddened eyes as he stared back at Neal. His mother saw it but didn't understand it, or didn't want to. She turned her attention again to Moira.
When I too looked at Moira I felt something like a physical blow to my chest. I felt it and heard the impact, but I knew it was entirely a spiritual thing. Her cold blue eyes seemed to be boring into my skull. 'He's a boy not a girl,' I heard Roberta say; but not there at the table, but years ago, in the shadowy bathroom. 'He's a boy--' It echoed through my head like a drumbeat, like the psychic force that had struck my chest.
"Let him see it," Top said to Roberta. She looked defeated, but not submissive. "I hate you," she said, weeping, "I hate you, how dare you..."
Moira whispered to me, "I remember."
And I saw it, in black and grey, Roberta jerking the small eleven-year-old boy to his feet, exposing his genitals; the dark water sloshing up against the child Moira's budding breasts. 'He is not a girl! He's a boy who can do--this!' It was an explosion of rage, of an exasperation that had reached its limit.
I didn't see it happen in the fading vision, but I could sense it, even feel it. I heard the hissing gasp of pain, then the frightened crying, the taste of blood in the bathwater. Then "GET OUT!" so real that it startled me. I could see the pale washed-out image of Roberta, her contorted face, directing her wrath at her husband. I felt him step back out and shut the door, sensing it as if I were the door that was being closed, striking the doorframe, so real that a phantom pain afflicted my forehead.
"It's real enough," Top said.
But he wasn't speaking to me. He was looking across the table at Joe. But I should say Josie. I paid him no attention other than to recognize that he sat there with his hands in his lap, his face set in a poignant sort of contentment. I was looking at Roberta, her hands to her face, her head bowed, sobbing. Defeated. Resigned to it. Hating her loss.
Neal was rubbing his palms as though to warm them. "He should've been here by now," he remarked. Top was gazing at the gingham curtains of the window next to the door. "He's here," he said confidently. "He's getting out of his rental. I didn't want him barging in on us. Indeed."
I guessed who they meant. It couldn't have been anyone else.
Moira pulled her hand free of mine. I saw then that Top had let her go. She scooted back her chair, her eyes on the door. I wondered if they were still hard like marbles.
When she stood up I looked at Top. I had an urge to accompany Moira outside, and suspected it was Top's idea. It didn't matter. I would do it regardless. It bothered me that Moira didn't ask me to go with her. And when I did, reaching the door first and opening it, she did not look at me or say anything to me. She just went out into the night like she belonged to it. And I followed, feeling like a stranger.
She stepped down off the cement porch and stood with her arms at her sides, looking at the curve in the drive and waiting. I didn't know what to say.
Roberta was striding past us, up the drive with a fury; then Josie following, with a glance back at Moira that seemed pure pathos. She said nothing. Moments later we heard Roberta and a man arguing briefly, then silence as Josie turned the corner, vanishing behind the black moon-etched trees.
A murmur of angry, anxious voices floated back to us. "They're leaving," I said, "all three of them. Top doesn't want them coming back. He's done his thing. It's over with."
Moira turned to me, her head down. In a tired voice she said, "He didn't stop her heart."
Strangely, I had forgotten about that little angle. "Did you really want him to?" I noticed then that her hair was dry. Her face and sweatshirt, dry. She looked up at me. "I wouldn't have cared. I don't know about Josie."
"I think he got what he wanted. How do you feel?"
"Did you see it?" she asked, and smiled. The smile had me uncertain as to what she meant. She saw my confused look and said, "Nightie, I mean. The cat. Roberta's cat. Didn't you see it jump up from my lap and run out the door?"
I considered that, and said, "No, and I think no one else did either. Just you. So, how do you feel?"
After a soundless laugh that had no trace of mirth in it, she leaned against me and whispered, "I have some explaining to do, don't I?"
I saw Top's face then. It surprised me. It was not unlike the demonic visage that had briefly loomed over him. A splash of water-- And Moira coughed, spluttering in amazement, as I swiveled around to see who had dumped the bucket of water on her, but... no one was there, just the darkness with its glinting bits of candlelight. Now a cry of outrage from Roberta. I turned back around.
Roberta wanted to wipe the streaming water from her face, but neither Neal nor her son would release their hold on her struggling hands. Nobody commented on the inexplicable dousings. "Please not yet," Joe pleaded with her.
Neal was watching him, toting up what he was seeing, what he was feeling. His lips were working as though tasting what he was about to say. Maybe it was Top, but I knew what Neal would say before he said it. It was: "Wait until you're comfortable with it, Josie."
The bedraggled Roberta looked at Neal with an irritable, puzzled look. But I knew, suddenly, what he meant. The disembodied spirit-head may have looked like a man, like Edgar, to us, but not to Joe. To him it was something like Alicia. The boy's expression was of a sorrow that I felt was strangely satisfying to him, like a bittersweet goodbye. There was a sad smile on his face and a sheen to his reddened eyes as he stared back at Neal. His mother saw it but didn't understand it, or didn't want to. She turned her attention again to Moira.
When I too looked at Moira I felt something like a physical blow to my chest. I felt it and heard the impact, but I knew it was entirely a spiritual thing. Her cold blue eyes seemed to be boring into my skull. 'He's a boy not a girl,' I heard Roberta say; but not there at the table, but years ago, in the shadowy bathroom. 'He's a boy--' It echoed through my head like a drumbeat, like the psychic force that had struck my chest.
"Let him see it," Top said to Roberta. She looked defeated, but not submissive. "I hate you," she said, weeping, "I hate you, how dare you..."
Moira whispered to me, "I remember."
And I saw it, in black and grey, Roberta jerking the small eleven-year-old boy to his feet, exposing his genitals; the dark water sloshing up against the child Moira's budding breasts. 'He is not a girl! He's a boy who can do--this!' It was an explosion of rage, of an exasperation that had reached its limit.
I didn't see it happen in the fading vision, but I could sense it, even feel it. I heard the hissing gasp of pain, then the frightened crying, the taste of blood in the bathwater. Then "GET OUT!" so real that it startled me. I could see the pale washed-out image of Roberta, her contorted face, directing her wrath at her husband. I felt him step back out and shut the door, sensing it as if I were the door that was being closed, striking the doorframe, so real that a phantom pain afflicted my forehead.
"It's real enough," Top said.
But he wasn't speaking to me. He was looking across the table at Joe. But I should say Josie. I paid him no attention other than to recognize that he sat there with his hands in his lap, his face set in a poignant sort of contentment. I was looking at Roberta, her hands to her face, her head bowed, sobbing. Defeated. Resigned to it. Hating her loss.
Neal was rubbing his palms as though to warm them. "He should've been here by now," he remarked. Top was gazing at the gingham curtains of the window next to the door. "He's here," he said confidently. "He's getting out of his rental. I didn't want him barging in on us. Indeed."
I guessed who they meant. It couldn't have been anyone else.
Moira pulled her hand free of mine. I saw then that Top had let her go. She scooted back her chair, her eyes on the door. I wondered if they were still hard like marbles.
When she stood up I looked at Top. I had an urge to accompany Moira outside, and suspected it was Top's idea. It didn't matter. I would do it regardless. It bothered me that Moira didn't ask me to go with her. And when I did, reaching the door first and opening it, she did not look at me or say anything to me. She just went out into the night like she belonged to it. And I followed, feeling like a stranger.
She stepped down off the cement porch and stood with her arms at her sides, looking at the curve in the drive and waiting. I didn't know what to say.
Roberta was striding past us, up the drive with a fury; then Josie following, with a glance back at Moira that seemed pure pathos. She said nothing. Moments later we heard Roberta and a man arguing briefly, then silence as Josie turned the corner, vanishing behind the black moon-etched trees.
A murmur of angry, anxious voices floated back to us. "They're leaving," I said, "all three of them. Top doesn't want them coming back. He's done his thing. It's over with."
Moira turned to me, her head down. In a tired voice she said, "He didn't stop her heart."
Strangely, I had forgotten about that little angle. "Did you really want him to?" I noticed then that her hair was dry. Her face and sweatshirt, dry. She looked up at me. "I wouldn't have cared. I don't know about Josie."
"I think he got what he wanted. How do you feel?"
"Did you see it?" she asked, and smiled. The smile had me uncertain as to what she meant. She saw my confused look and said, "Nightie, I mean. The cat. Roberta's cat. Didn't you see it jump up from my lap and run out the door?"
I considered that, and said, "No, and I think no one else did either. Just you. So, how do you feel?"
After a soundless laugh that had no trace of mirth in it, she leaned against me and whispered, "I have some explaining to do, don't I?"
Saturday, January 3, 2015
(45) Dead Like A River
The apparition vanished, but we all felt its continuing presence.
We were watching what we couldn't see, sensing its movement away from Top and toward the flaring embers in the fireplace, where it paused for only a moment, just long enough for Moira to sit up straight with a determined expression, her hand strong but strangely calm in mine; Roberta, aware that Moira was now staring at her, making a move as though to get up, but thinking that Joe and Neal were not going to let her leave. I saw this realization in Roberta's face, that she must just sit there and let this violation play out.
She was looking at It, at what was not there at the fireplace, and yet was. The breaking apart of a log, a spurt of flame and a little cloud of ash, momentarily took our attention away from a sudden invisible movement. It was coming back to the table, passing Neal, and slowly, as with an awakening intention, stopping behind Roberta.
She pressed Joe's hand down on the table and said to him in a shaky voice, "You know I've protected you from your father." But he was looking at me and saying in a secretive manner, "Moira."
I was at a loss. "What?" I said stupidly, while I could feel Moira squirming because she wanted to say something but couldn't get the words out.
Then instinctively I knew what Joe meant, and what Roberta, I'm sure, had sensed the moment the spirit came up behind her. I glanced at Top and Neal. They were looking at each other indecisively. So I gazed up at the face of the apparition as its features were forming. That clear glassy face lasted only a second or two, but there was no mistaking the identity of it. The spirit was Moira's.
For some reason Joe kept looking from his mother to me.
Roberta had lost her last vestige of composure. In its ruins was a rising panic and its opposite: a depressing anger. Glaring at Moira she said: "What are you trying to prove? You little rotten bitch." Top leaned forward, like a bloodhound pointing, and said to her: "There is a little girl and a boy sitting in your bathtub."
I said to him, "Let me see it!"
He smiled at me, jovially, and his deep-set eyes glimmered as they always did when he was to share a revelation.
I had an instantaneous vision in black-and-white. The child Moira sat in a dark half-filled tub, her legs stretched out over the child Joe's legs and touching his hips with her ankles. Not Joe, really, but Josie. His brownish blond hair hung wetly to his shoulders. He wore one of his mother's bras. Just as the vision was losing coherence I sensed a man opening the bathroom door and looking in at the children. The face of the apparition was a featureless grey now, but more expressive of its evil than when it had appeared behind Top in demonic form.
Roberta seemed no longer afraid; rather she was profoundly agitated. She sat there grimacing and shaking her head, not at anyone in particular, unless she was thinking of her husband.
Neal lifted her hand, squeezing it. "Edgar has a peculiar fondness for his son. Or, he did, seven years ago, was it?"
"Shut up! It's of no concern of yours."
"Alicia disagrees," he said with that pompous air.
I knew then, and Top helped me to know, that it was not Alicia, the ill-starred young woman, whom Neal was referring to, but that which he had acquired and to some extent controlled: a dark side of the feminine, of sex and of love and of life itself, but quintessentially feminine. Down through history men have always regarded the female as morally inferior, but, perhaps because of it, powerful and deadlier than the male; the mistress of the life force; Life, which must destroy to construct, must kill to survive; life eating life; good and evil as a single orange in the right hand and in the left; life and death mirroring each other; the dark birthing the light; the feminine giving rise to the male and loving him to death.
Joe's hand was such that I turned my head to look at him. He was drenched in sweat. "Let me have her," he said to Neal in a hoarse voice. What he meant was, 'Let me BE her.' It was obvious what he was thinking. The ghostly face of his father was drifting down toward him like the benediction of a rogue priest. The sense of presence was so strong that we were leaning back in our seats, watching not the disembodied spirit-head of Edgar, but Joe's anguished face.
Roberta, maddened, broke into tears. "I did everything I could for you, Joe," she sobbed, "but you wouldn't listen to me. You clung to me but wouldn't hear a word I said." Then turning in her chair she gave Moira a look of deep loathing. "You're as bad as his father! Rotten! You did whatever Edgar told you to do, you vile, vile, disgusting bitch!"
Top and Neal leaned in close to each other, whispering like two naughty schoolboys enjoying a joke on the teacher. I caught this in the briefest glance and thought no more of it.
I was staring straight into the hard cold blue marbled eyes of Moira.
We were watching what we couldn't see, sensing its movement away from Top and toward the flaring embers in the fireplace, where it paused for only a moment, just long enough for Moira to sit up straight with a determined expression, her hand strong but strangely calm in mine; Roberta, aware that Moira was now staring at her, making a move as though to get up, but thinking that Joe and Neal were not going to let her leave. I saw this realization in Roberta's face, that she must just sit there and let this violation play out.
She was looking at It, at what was not there at the fireplace, and yet was. The breaking apart of a log, a spurt of flame and a little cloud of ash, momentarily took our attention away from a sudden invisible movement. It was coming back to the table, passing Neal, and slowly, as with an awakening intention, stopping behind Roberta.
She pressed Joe's hand down on the table and said to him in a shaky voice, "You know I've protected you from your father." But he was looking at me and saying in a secretive manner, "Moira."
I was at a loss. "What?" I said stupidly, while I could feel Moira squirming because she wanted to say something but couldn't get the words out.
Then instinctively I knew what Joe meant, and what Roberta, I'm sure, had sensed the moment the spirit came up behind her. I glanced at Top and Neal. They were looking at each other indecisively. So I gazed up at the face of the apparition as its features were forming. That clear glassy face lasted only a second or two, but there was no mistaking the identity of it. The spirit was Moira's.
For some reason Joe kept looking from his mother to me.
Roberta had lost her last vestige of composure. In its ruins was a rising panic and its opposite: a depressing anger. Glaring at Moira she said: "What are you trying to prove? You little rotten bitch." Top leaned forward, like a bloodhound pointing, and said to her: "There is a little girl and a boy sitting in your bathtub."
I said to him, "Let me see it!"
He smiled at me, jovially, and his deep-set eyes glimmered as they always did when he was to share a revelation.
I had an instantaneous vision in black-and-white. The child Moira sat in a dark half-filled tub, her legs stretched out over the child Joe's legs and touching his hips with her ankles. Not Joe, really, but Josie. His brownish blond hair hung wetly to his shoulders. He wore one of his mother's bras. Just as the vision was losing coherence I sensed a man opening the bathroom door and looking in at the children. The face of the apparition was a featureless grey now, but more expressive of its evil than when it had appeared behind Top in demonic form.
Roberta seemed no longer afraid; rather she was profoundly agitated. She sat there grimacing and shaking her head, not at anyone in particular, unless she was thinking of her husband.
Neal lifted her hand, squeezing it. "Edgar has a peculiar fondness for his son. Or, he did, seven years ago, was it?"
"Shut up! It's of no concern of yours."
"Alicia disagrees," he said with that pompous air.
I knew then, and Top helped me to know, that it was not Alicia, the ill-starred young woman, whom Neal was referring to, but that which he had acquired and to some extent controlled: a dark side of the feminine, of sex and of love and of life itself, but quintessentially feminine. Down through history men have always regarded the female as morally inferior, but, perhaps because of it, powerful and deadlier than the male; the mistress of the life force; Life, which must destroy to construct, must kill to survive; life eating life; good and evil as a single orange in the right hand and in the left; life and death mirroring each other; the dark birthing the light; the feminine giving rise to the male and loving him to death.
Joe's hand was such that I turned my head to look at him. He was drenched in sweat. "Let me have her," he said to Neal in a hoarse voice. What he meant was, 'Let me BE her.' It was obvious what he was thinking. The ghostly face of his father was drifting down toward him like the benediction of a rogue priest. The sense of presence was so strong that we were leaning back in our seats, watching not the disembodied spirit-head of Edgar, but Joe's anguished face.
Roberta, maddened, broke into tears. "I did everything I could for you, Joe," she sobbed, "but you wouldn't listen to me. You clung to me but wouldn't hear a word I said." Then turning in her chair she gave Moira a look of deep loathing. "You're as bad as his father! Rotten! You did whatever Edgar told you to do, you vile, vile, disgusting bitch!"
Top and Neal leaned in close to each other, whispering like two naughty schoolboys enjoying a joke on the teacher. I caught this in the briefest glance and thought no more of it.
I was staring straight into the hard cold blue marbled eyes of Moira.
(44) Dead Like A River
We were seated at the table, holding hands.
Top sat at the head of the table, his back to the fireplace. He held the hand of Moira, on his right, and the hand of Neal, on his left. I sat directly across from Neal. On my left was Moira; on my right, at the end of the table opposite Top, was Joe, whose hot damp hand I held gingerly, reluctantly. Moira's was squeezing mine, but Joe's was like a trapped bird too frightened to move.
Next to Neal sat Roberta, holding his hand and her son's with the thrilled look of a chorus-line dancer. Everyone else had either a tense or a bemused expression, excepting Top, but Roberta seemed completely out of touch with what the rest of us were feeling. She was enjoying this. She gave no sign of concern over what sort of upheavals might transpire, as though she had no expectations of anything out of the ordinary run of seances. Top, as usual, exuded a serene confidence.
It was Neal who looked bemused, maybe because of my wary expression, a mix of tenseness and a positive skepticism; not doubting the likely arrival of an apparition, but of what Top intended for it.
Joe was staring at Top with something akin to adoration. In his view, I supposed, Top was a possible savior, his one best hope of bringing out what was struggling to expose itself outside of him. He was sweating. I suspected that Top had communicated with him through a call or a text, unbeknown to us, but my suspicion didn't carry much weight. Top had other and more effective ways of communicating.
I recalled the telegnosis he had used on Moira, Neal, and me, influencing our line of thought. He could have done the same with Joe, and likely did. But Roberta, I felt, by the look of her, had not been touched by either Top or Neal. I was thinking that Top wanted her mind to be innocent of all motives, to be at ease and receptive.
I would look occasionally at Moira out of the corner of my eye. For the most part she stared at the table, its surface softly colored by the candlelight, but would flick glances at each of us; mostly at Roberta. I never once saw Roberta look at her, but she frequently smiled at Joe, apparently unconcerned about her son's fragile hold on a turmoil of emotions.
Top began by intoning "Alicia Grimes," in a lilting repetition, gazing at Neal as he did so. This seemed to irritate Neal. He shifted his shoulders and said to Top, "She fears me. She isn't coming."
I presumed this to be a case of reverse psychology; taunting the spirit as a means of drawing it out into the open.
Though Roberta's smile remained, her eyes were puzzled, but pleasantly. She leaned a little away from Neal and looked at him, awaiting an explanation.
But it was Top who spoke. "Alicia is here, and we will all see her in a moment. Fear you? No she hates you."
"We fear what we hate," Neal said, "and hate what we fear. She is here, but will not manifest. All of her residual energy is being expressed through fear. Or hate, if you wish."
Top leaned back and suppressed a chuckle. "Do you feel the temperature in the room beginning to drop? She is drawing on the energy in the air. Like that candle flame consuming oxygen, she is breathing into her essence that mysterious thing that we do not know the nature of. Energy. Or should I say mind? There is no difference between the two, they are the same. But what is it, besides the names we have given it?"
I was not surprised by Top's philosophical lecture. He never lost an opportunity to philosophize.
We were attuned to the room's temperature, anxious to detect a cooling trend. I heard Roberta gasp "Ah," and saw that her face was in a zone that was neither a smile nor a look of anxiety, but of a dawning confusion that took all the enjoyment out of her. Moira's hand trembled. Joe's was almost burning with a slimy heat. Behind Top's chair a vague white blur was forming. Neal stared at it steadily, his bemused look hardening into one of uncertainty and intense curiosity. Top had his eyes closed. He was smiling grimly.
I could tell that Moira, Joe, and Roberta were sensing something that I could not; the identity of the gradually manifesting spirit. There remained for me the question of cause, as to whether this was a ghost of some type or an extension of Top's consciousness. In either case the identity of the apparition was a true one. This was a spirit of a person whom Top knew, and it didn't much matter whether it was a ghost of the dead or of a living memory, or evaluation, in Top's mind.
As its facial features came into an adequate clarity, transparent and colorless, I thought at first that this was an image of Alicia. Then I noticed that Roberta was truly frightened. Moira, like Top, had her eyes closed, but unlike him she was hunkered against me and shivering. Joe's hand was pulling away from mine, but I gripped it tightly, knowing that it would not be in his best interests, nor Moira's, to let him break the circle. I glanced at Neal's grimness that matched Top's, then up at the apparition.
The face had changed to that of a man's, unfamiliar to me. It was clearly staring at Roberta.
She started to say something, her lips trembling, but the face changed again as Moira groaned at me, "Edgar," and it became utterly demonic. I knew then that the key to understanding all this was not Moira and Roberta, but Roberta and her husband.
Top sat at the head of the table, his back to the fireplace. He held the hand of Moira, on his right, and the hand of Neal, on his left. I sat directly across from Neal. On my left was Moira; on my right, at the end of the table opposite Top, was Joe, whose hot damp hand I held gingerly, reluctantly. Moira's was squeezing mine, but Joe's was like a trapped bird too frightened to move.
Next to Neal sat Roberta, holding his hand and her son's with the thrilled look of a chorus-line dancer. Everyone else had either a tense or a bemused expression, excepting Top, but Roberta seemed completely out of touch with what the rest of us were feeling. She was enjoying this. She gave no sign of concern over what sort of upheavals might transpire, as though she had no expectations of anything out of the ordinary run of seances. Top, as usual, exuded a serene confidence.
It was Neal who looked bemused, maybe because of my wary expression, a mix of tenseness and a positive skepticism; not doubting the likely arrival of an apparition, but of what Top intended for it.
Joe was staring at Top with something akin to adoration. In his view, I supposed, Top was a possible savior, his one best hope of bringing out what was struggling to expose itself outside of him. He was sweating. I suspected that Top had communicated with him through a call or a text, unbeknown to us, but my suspicion didn't carry much weight. Top had other and more effective ways of communicating.
I recalled the telegnosis he had used on Moira, Neal, and me, influencing our line of thought. He could have done the same with Joe, and likely did. But Roberta, I felt, by the look of her, had not been touched by either Top or Neal. I was thinking that Top wanted her mind to be innocent of all motives, to be at ease and receptive.
I would look occasionally at Moira out of the corner of my eye. For the most part she stared at the table, its surface softly colored by the candlelight, but would flick glances at each of us; mostly at Roberta. I never once saw Roberta look at her, but she frequently smiled at Joe, apparently unconcerned about her son's fragile hold on a turmoil of emotions.
Top began by intoning "Alicia Grimes," in a lilting repetition, gazing at Neal as he did so. This seemed to irritate Neal. He shifted his shoulders and said to Top, "She fears me. She isn't coming."
I presumed this to be a case of reverse psychology; taunting the spirit as a means of drawing it out into the open.
Though Roberta's smile remained, her eyes were puzzled, but pleasantly. She leaned a little away from Neal and looked at him, awaiting an explanation.
But it was Top who spoke. "Alicia is here, and we will all see her in a moment. Fear you? No she hates you."
"We fear what we hate," Neal said, "and hate what we fear. She is here, but will not manifest. All of her residual energy is being expressed through fear. Or hate, if you wish."
Top leaned back and suppressed a chuckle. "Do you feel the temperature in the room beginning to drop? She is drawing on the energy in the air. Like that candle flame consuming oxygen, she is breathing into her essence that mysterious thing that we do not know the nature of. Energy. Or should I say mind? There is no difference between the two, they are the same. But what is it, besides the names we have given it?"
I was not surprised by Top's philosophical lecture. He never lost an opportunity to philosophize.
We were attuned to the room's temperature, anxious to detect a cooling trend. I heard Roberta gasp "Ah," and saw that her face was in a zone that was neither a smile nor a look of anxiety, but of a dawning confusion that took all the enjoyment out of her. Moira's hand trembled. Joe's was almost burning with a slimy heat. Behind Top's chair a vague white blur was forming. Neal stared at it steadily, his bemused look hardening into one of uncertainty and intense curiosity. Top had his eyes closed. He was smiling grimly.
I could tell that Moira, Joe, and Roberta were sensing something that I could not; the identity of the gradually manifesting spirit. There remained for me the question of cause, as to whether this was a ghost of some type or an extension of Top's consciousness. In either case the identity of the apparition was a true one. This was a spirit of a person whom Top knew, and it didn't much matter whether it was a ghost of the dead or of a living memory, or evaluation, in Top's mind.
As its facial features came into an adequate clarity, transparent and colorless, I thought at first that this was an image of Alicia. Then I noticed that Roberta was truly frightened. Moira, like Top, had her eyes closed, but unlike him she was hunkered against me and shivering. Joe's hand was pulling away from mine, but I gripped it tightly, knowing that it would not be in his best interests, nor Moira's, to let him break the circle. I glanced at Neal's grimness that matched Top's, then up at the apparition.
The face had changed to that of a man's, unfamiliar to me. It was clearly staring at Roberta.
She started to say something, her lips trembling, but the face changed again as Moira groaned at me, "Edgar," and it became utterly demonic. I knew then that the key to understanding all this was not Moira and Roberta, but Roberta and her husband.
Friday, January 2, 2015
(43) Dead Like A River
As soon as we were all together in the front room we were friends, by tacit agreement. There was an air of professionalism, as at a seminar. We were there to experience a particular thing and without having to be told in any pointed fashion we knew that Top was the facilitator.
Neal had not changed his clothes but Top wore the grey robe and turban. Neal stood back from the rest of us, watching Top with a sly smile and staring intently at Roberta whenever she asked a question or made a statement.
Top regarded her with polite interest. He said nothing to Joe but he smiled and nodded at him frequently, as a means of including him in the circle of participants. I felt like an outsider who happened to stumble into this situation and would go along with it just to be sociable. Moira was controlling her excitement by hugging herself and bumping Joe playfully with her hip, her eyes alive and absorbant, glancing around at the shades of darkness. The big candle on the mantelpiece painted gold outlines of her animated features. The logs in the fireplace glowed hellishly with a pungent ashen smell hardly masked by the fragrance of the incense sticks in three ceramic turtle shells arranged on the lampstand between the two couches. The dining table was bare. Six chairs surrounded it.
Ricardo had taken the two servants back to the house. On the counter near the sinks was their handiwork: a bowl of punch and a tray of crackers topped with devilled meats and cheese.
I stood with an elbow on the mantle thinking about the secrets in the five minds. I wondered what Roberta and Joe might know of the mystic confrontation, the game of nerves, between Top and Neal. Moira had told Joe that the seance was about raising the ghost of a girl whose lover had murdered her. Moira had said little more about it, since she herself was confused over the strange psychological elements of the case. She had not mentioned Neal as the suspected killer because it was all tangled up in a subject she knew virtually nothing about, although she was aware that her own intuitive sense had something in common with the events of the murder.
I could not really believe that Top and Neal had deadly intentions toward each other, despite their apparent sincerity to carry them out. There was something deeper to this seriously enigmatic game, this dark amusement, that Top had planned and to which Neal had agreed. Certainly it concerned the bizarre death of Alicia, an act of cruelty that Neal readily confessed to, but which might have been an 'act' after the fact. Frankly, I didn't think Neal was responsible for Alicia's suicide. It was a twisted bravado that prompted him to hint to Top of his involvement in Alicia's gruesome fate. But of course I couldn't be positive. Maybe Top was right and Neal was indeed guilty. It was the unlikely strangeness of it all that made this whole thing hard to swallow.
What I was confident in knowing was Moira's hope that the seance would somehow fix things for her; that the ghost, if there was to be anything like a ghost, would be her own spirit of the past, here to change that past into something tolerable, a healing presence. As for what Joe hoped to achieve, I could only assume that it was concerned with his need to manifest himself as herself. But his reversion back to a male attitude puzzled me. I didn't know what to make of it. I thought it might've been his mother's influence. She wanted to keep her child a son and not see him morph into a daughter.
I didn't much care what happened with Joe. I was looking at Moira and Roberta, noting their covert glances at each other. I was disturbed by the dilemma Roberta had raised in her account of the bathtub experience that I had been led to believe was the cause of Moira's neurotic behavior, her odd psychopathy. If Roberta was innocent, as she claimed, then what was the true cause of Moira's oddness? What was she hiding from me? Why had she told Joe on the phone that first morning in the Topeka motel room that Roberta deserved what Moira had done to her by drowning her cat? 'I would do it ten times over,' she had said angrily. 'She deserves it!' If Roberta was not responsible for Moira's punctured maidenhood, then what had Joe's mother done that so angered her? And whatever it might have been, was it the cause of her 'issues,' or simply her chosen excuse for them? I didn't know who, or what, to believe.
I do believe in apparitions. I have the sort of mind that either conjures them or attracts them. So I was quite sure I'd see one that night. I wondered if I would be 'paralyzed' by its appearance or have full muscle tone and be free to move. I had experienced both types.
My theory was that a loss of voluntary motor activity was due to one of two causes: a wakeful dream state, or fear on the part of the ghostly entity that it would be assaulted by the percipient if this person were able to move. Regarding this fear, it is not the physical attack that the entity fears, but the altered state of consciousness that provides the attack with a psychic force that could harm the entity in a spiritual sense. When the percipient has full muscle tone in the presence of an apparition, then this indicates that the entity has a benign attitude and does not expect the percipient to hate and attack it.
In my experience, the friendly apparition in whose presence I could move freely and interact with was a particular female adult, quite beautiful in appearance, but with a nature I regarded as morally evil. I didn't trust her, but although a little disturbed by her presence I had no fear of her. She expressed a desire for sex with me and for marriage. I have no clue as to whether this entity is a living person in bilocation (a well-documented psychic phenomenon), or the ghost of a woman who lived in the Victorian Age (judging by her frequent style of dress).
While I was mulling these things over, Top passed around the refreshments, Moira assisting him. There was some inconsequential small talk, and then Top said, "Shall we get started? I do feel that the time has come."
Neal had not changed his clothes but Top wore the grey robe and turban. Neal stood back from the rest of us, watching Top with a sly smile and staring intently at Roberta whenever she asked a question or made a statement.
Top regarded her with polite interest. He said nothing to Joe but he smiled and nodded at him frequently, as a means of including him in the circle of participants. I felt like an outsider who happened to stumble into this situation and would go along with it just to be sociable. Moira was controlling her excitement by hugging herself and bumping Joe playfully with her hip, her eyes alive and absorbant, glancing around at the shades of darkness. The big candle on the mantelpiece painted gold outlines of her animated features. The logs in the fireplace glowed hellishly with a pungent ashen smell hardly masked by the fragrance of the incense sticks in three ceramic turtle shells arranged on the lampstand between the two couches. The dining table was bare. Six chairs surrounded it.
Ricardo had taken the two servants back to the house. On the counter near the sinks was their handiwork: a bowl of punch and a tray of crackers topped with devilled meats and cheese.
I stood with an elbow on the mantle thinking about the secrets in the five minds. I wondered what Roberta and Joe might know of the mystic confrontation, the game of nerves, between Top and Neal. Moira had told Joe that the seance was about raising the ghost of a girl whose lover had murdered her. Moira had said little more about it, since she herself was confused over the strange psychological elements of the case. She had not mentioned Neal as the suspected killer because it was all tangled up in a subject she knew virtually nothing about, although she was aware that her own intuitive sense had something in common with the events of the murder.
I could not really believe that Top and Neal had deadly intentions toward each other, despite their apparent sincerity to carry them out. There was something deeper to this seriously enigmatic game, this dark amusement, that Top had planned and to which Neal had agreed. Certainly it concerned the bizarre death of Alicia, an act of cruelty that Neal readily confessed to, but which might have been an 'act' after the fact. Frankly, I didn't think Neal was responsible for Alicia's suicide. It was a twisted bravado that prompted him to hint to Top of his involvement in Alicia's gruesome fate. But of course I couldn't be positive. Maybe Top was right and Neal was indeed guilty. It was the unlikely strangeness of it all that made this whole thing hard to swallow.
What I was confident in knowing was Moira's hope that the seance would somehow fix things for her; that the ghost, if there was to be anything like a ghost, would be her own spirit of the past, here to change that past into something tolerable, a healing presence. As for what Joe hoped to achieve, I could only assume that it was concerned with his need to manifest himself as herself. But his reversion back to a male attitude puzzled me. I didn't know what to make of it. I thought it might've been his mother's influence. She wanted to keep her child a son and not see him morph into a daughter.
I didn't much care what happened with Joe. I was looking at Moira and Roberta, noting their covert glances at each other. I was disturbed by the dilemma Roberta had raised in her account of the bathtub experience that I had been led to believe was the cause of Moira's neurotic behavior, her odd psychopathy. If Roberta was innocent, as she claimed, then what was the true cause of Moira's oddness? What was she hiding from me? Why had she told Joe on the phone that first morning in the Topeka motel room that Roberta deserved what Moira had done to her by drowning her cat? 'I would do it ten times over,' she had said angrily. 'She deserves it!' If Roberta was not responsible for Moira's punctured maidenhood, then what had Joe's mother done that so angered her? And whatever it might have been, was it the cause of her 'issues,' or simply her chosen excuse for them? I didn't know who, or what, to believe.
I do believe in apparitions. I have the sort of mind that either conjures them or attracts them. So I was quite sure I'd see one that night. I wondered if I would be 'paralyzed' by its appearance or have full muscle tone and be free to move. I had experienced both types.
My theory was that a loss of voluntary motor activity was due to one of two causes: a wakeful dream state, or fear on the part of the ghostly entity that it would be assaulted by the percipient if this person were able to move. Regarding this fear, it is not the physical attack that the entity fears, but the altered state of consciousness that provides the attack with a psychic force that could harm the entity in a spiritual sense. When the percipient has full muscle tone in the presence of an apparition, then this indicates that the entity has a benign attitude and does not expect the percipient to hate and attack it.
In my experience, the friendly apparition in whose presence I could move freely and interact with was a particular female adult, quite beautiful in appearance, but with a nature I regarded as morally evil. I didn't trust her, but although a little disturbed by her presence I had no fear of her. She expressed a desire for sex with me and for marriage. I have no clue as to whether this entity is a living person in bilocation (a well-documented psychic phenomenon), or the ghost of a woman who lived in the Victorian Age (judging by her frequent style of dress).
While I was mulling these things over, Top passed around the refreshments, Moira assisting him. There was some inconsequential small talk, and then Top said, "Shall we get started? I do feel that the time has come."
(42) Dead Like A River
The rat stood in a bright circle of light from the diner's sign. As I settled myself in the saddle, Moira looked up from her phone and said excitedly, "They're on their way. Joe and his mom."
She swung herself up behind me and for once she leaned back on the sissy seat's padded backrest. She wanted to keep texting Joe. I made a point of alerting her when we were coming up on a turn, so she could grip the seat handle for balance. I went with the flow of the traffic, in no hurry to get back. Moira kept me informed as to exactly where Roberta's Buick Skylark was in relation to us as the line of annoying headlights passed us like herds of celestial bisons.
On Cheat Road, nearing the private turn-off, Moira said, "They're there!" And when I saw the tree stump mailbox I could smell the mix of dust and exhaust fumes that confirmed her announcement.
I slowed to a crawl. My headlight picked out a shiny rear bumper and a short skinny youth standing in front of it, a hazy phantom until I was close enough to read the lettering on his t-shirt: 'Eat, Drink, and be Mary.' I revved up passing him and we crossed the bridge in thudding echoes, on to the foot of the slope where I parked between squares of silver light on the ground cast by the cabin windows.
We waited by the slab of cement. Moira put her phone to sleep and slipped it into her belt case. I could see she was nervous. Her breathing was labored, as though she had run back from the diner. "I just don't want her to touch me," she whispered. "Stand between me and her."
"To hell with that, just go inside. I'll bring them in. Tell Top they've arrived."
She was gone before I finished speaking. I heard her say as she opened the rusty-hinged door: "Hello? Hi! They're coming!"
The door creaked shut. I saw two dark figures coming around the trees at the turn of the drive, shoes on gravel. For some reason, whenever I thought of Roberta I pictured her as looking like a nextdoor neighbor of mine when I was Moira's age. But she looked nothing like the peculiar Mrs Gordon.
She was only slightly shorter than Joe, thin from the waist up, but with broad hips and thick legs. Her hair was bleached blond; short bangs and a long ponytail. She had high skullish cheekbones, a longish nose with a cleft at the end between pinched nostrils, severe lips and a pointed chin. She wore a black turtleneck sweater and beige slacks. Her feet, in pink tennies, seemed incredibly small. She walked swinging her arms, like Top. I took all this in with a glance, then focused on Joe.
The closer he came the more masculine he looked. He had cut his hair short and brushed it straight back. He walked with a pronounced belligerence, like a young man intent on impressing his fellows with his toughness.
Then the light of the three-quarter moon left them to the meager starshine and once again they were dark phantoms.
"You're William no doubt. I'm Roberta Walcott."
She extended her hand. It was cold and strong.
She and I looked expectantly at Joe. He said, "Moira's inside I guess," and made a show of studying the outlines of the cabin. "Cool."
I went onto the stone porch and opened the door. Moira was there, hands clasped. She reached out and took Joe by the waist, ushering him in. Roberta had put a firm hand on my shoulder, meaning to hold me back from going in. So I said to Moira, "Introduce your buddy," and closed the door, turning to the woman whose face was briefly lit by the lamps inside and then dark again like a hard mask.
"I'm not the terrible creature she's made me out to be," she said softly but insistently.
The door started to open. I said through the crack, "Just a minute." Moira responded, "Oh," and pulled the door shut quickly.
"Why do you say that?" I asked Roberta.
"She's not always truthful. She has issues. It didn't happen the way she probably told you it did. She had ringworm on her back and I scrubbed the scab off with a washcloth, like the doctor advised. I had her sit in the bath because it was convenient. If she's said anything different then she's not telling the truth."
"Whatever the truth of the matter, she doesn't want you touching her."
"I know."
"And I know that where there's smoke there's fire."
"Well you either believe her or you believe me."
"Why are you here?"
She brightened, so that in the darkness her face seemed to slightly melt. "I belong to a Zodiac club. I've given seances at my house. Didn't Moira tell you? Her mother has sat in on a few of them. I'm interested in seeing how your friend performs them. I might learn something. Am I mistaken?"
"You'll have to decide that for yourself," I said. "Is Joe going home with you?"
"I think so, yes. And Moira, too. It would be what's best for her."
"You don't have a fucking clue what's best for her."
She breathed heavily, angrily, through her nose. "I'm sure I don't care what your opinion is, William. I think I know her better than you."
"Not in any way, Roberta. And this is not the time or the place to piss me off."
Her teeth gleamed in the dark. "I'm not at all surprised by that. I didn't expect to meet a gentleman."
"Maybe if you did you'd find one."
I opened the door, smelling incense and the odor of charred logs. I heard Top say, "There they be."
She swung herself up behind me and for once she leaned back on the sissy seat's padded backrest. She wanted to keep texting Joe. I made a point of alerting her when we were coming up on a turn, so she could grip the seat handle for balance. I went with the flow of the traffic, in no hurry to get back. Moira kept me informed as to exactly where Roberta's Buick Skylark was in relation to us as the line of annoying headlights passed us like herds of celestial bisons.
On Cheat Road, nearing the private turn-off, Moira said, "They're there!" And when I saw the tree stump mailbox I could smell the mix of dust and exhaust fumes that confirmed her announcement.
I slowed to a crawl. My headlight picked out a shiny rear bumper and a short skinny youth standing in front of it, a hazy phantom until I was close enough to read the lettering on his t-shirt: 'Eat, Drink, and be Mary.' I revved up passing him and we crossed the bridge in thudding echoes, on to the foot of the slope where I parked between squares of silver light on the ground cast by the cabin windows.
We waited by the slab of cement. Moira put her phone to sleep and slipped it into her belt case. I could see she was nervous. Her breathing was labored, as though she had run back from the diner. "I just don't want her to touch me," she whispered. "Stand between me and her."
"To hell with that, just go inside. I'll bring them in. Tell Top they've arrived."
She was gone before I finished speaking. I heard her say as she opened the rusty-hinged door: "Hello? Hi! They're coming!"
The door creaked shut. I saw two dark figures coming around the trees at the turn of the drive, shoes on gravel. For some reason, whenever I thought of Roberta I pictured her as looking like a nextdoor neighbor of mine when I was Moira's age. But she looked nothing like the peculiar Mrs Gordon.
She was only slightly shorter than Joe, thin from the waist up, but with broad hips and thick legs. Her hair was bleached blond; short bangs and a long ponytail. She had high skullish cheekbones, a longish nose with a cleft at the end between pinched nostrils, severe lips and a pointed chin. She wore a black turtleneck sweater and beige slacks. Her feet, in pink tennies, seemed incredibly small. She walked swinging her arms, like Top. I took all this in with a glance, then focused on Joe.
The closer he came the more masculine he looked. He had cut his hair short and brushed it straight back. He walked with a pronounced belligerence, like a young man intent on impressing his fellows with his toughness.
Then the light of the three-quarter moon left them to the meager starshine and once again they were dark phantoms.
"You're William no doubt. I'm Roberta Walcott."
She extended her hand. It was cold and strong.
She and I looked expectantly at Joe. He said, "Moira's inside I guess," and made a show of studying the outlines of the cabin. "Cool."
I went onto the stone porch and opened the door. Moira was there, hands clasped. She reached out and took Joe by the waist, ushering him in. Roberta had put a firm hand on my shoulder, meaning to hold me back from going in. So I said to Moira, "Introduce your buddy," and closed the door, turning to the woman whose face was briefly lit by the lamps inside and then dark again like a hard mask.
"I'm not the terrible creature she's made me out to be," she said softly but insistently.
The door started to open. I said through the crack, "Just a minute." Moira responded, "Oh," and pulled the door shut quickly.
"Why do you say that?" I asked Roberta.
"She's not always truthful. She has issues. It didn't happen the way she probably told you it did. She had ringworm on her back and I scrubbed the scab off with a washcloth, like the doctor advised. I had her sit in the bath because it was convenient. If she's said anything different then she's not telling the truth."
"Whatever the truth of the matter, she doesn't want you touching her."
"I know."
"And I know that where there's smoke there's fire."
"Well you either believe her or you believe me."
"Why are you here?"
She brightened, so that in the darkness her face seemed to slightly melt. "I belong to a Zodiac club. I've given seances at my house. Didn't Moira tell you? Her mother has sat in on a few of them. I'm interested in seeing how your friend performs them. I might learn something. Am I mistaken?"
"You'll have to decide that for yourself," I said. "Is Joe going home with you?"
"I think so, yes. And Moira, too. It would be what's best for her."
"You don't have a fucking clue what's best for her."
She breathed heavily, angrily, through her nose. "I'm sure I don't care what your opinion is, William. I think I know her better than you."
"Not in any way, Roberta. And this is not the time or the place to piss me off."
Her teeth gleamed in the dark. "I'm not at all surprised by that. I didn't expect to meet a gentleman."
"Maybe if you did you'd find one."
I opened the door, smelling incense and the odor of charred logs. I heard Top say, "There they be."
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