Читать книгу Claiming Her - Marilyn "Mattie" Brahen - Страница 14

CHAPTER 11

An image of Terence, anxiously staring at me, awoke me.

—You’re back,— I thought. His disappearance had markedly paralleled Bael’s arrival in my life.

—You’ve got the devil himself shadowing your steps.—

—Bael?—

—Baelzebub. —

—No, not the same,— I shot back. —A fantasy god created hundreds of years ago by uneducated mortals. By human ignorance.—

Daniel whimpered. I stretched, loosening my muscles.

Ginnie’s alarm clock buzzed. My sister moaned, tightened the covers about her, and tried to ignore the clock’s whine.

I got out of bed, bracing myself against the chill in the room. I walked over to Ginnie’s dresser and pushed in the alarm switch. “You’d better get up, Gin. School day.”

Daniel was also awake. I picked him up and carried him back to my bed, slipping my legs back under the covers and pulling the edge of the blanket around him.

“What time is it?” Ginnie mumbled.

“Seven.”

“Mmn.” In one continuous motion, Ginnie flung off her blankets and scurried to the bathroom down the hall, making chilly noises on the way. Daniel had begun to nod off again, lulled by the extra warmth of my blanket and my body heat.

I didn’t disturb him. I savored the quiet, the renewed warmth.

Terence approached me again. In my mind’s eye, I could see him clearly: moderate height, shoulder-length dark blond hair, watery blue eyes, stolid proletarian curves in his Anglo-Saxon face. A solid Englishman . . . yet not quite as proper a Brit as he’d wish to appear.

I had “met” him in New York’s Central Park in January, 1969, about two months after his death. He had played a trick on me when we met, but I caught him at it. He hadn’t expected me to, as he bent down to softly kiss my lips and lightly brush his hand across my shoulder and breast. He was new to the afterlife and, up till then, no other mortal had paid the slightest attention to his ethereal presence. He hadn’t known I was psychic. His curiosity made him follow me home to my Manhattan apartment where I lived in 1968 and 1969, enjoying my first taste of adult freedom, working as a typist and dating Richard. Terence promptly made himself at home in my apartment and kept humming a haunting strain of classical music, piquing my own curiosity when he claimed the musical passage was from his own composition. I finally tracked down the debut album of Terence’s work, which also became his only recorded work. His music had been beautiful, produced by a major label. The album blurb praised him as an emerging talent. But he, as a classical composer, while he welcomed the money, felt his success was a fluke. The critics had been scathing, and opportunities to perform his work live, the proper venue for classical music, evaporated. His compositions had contained descriptive fantasy elements, a sort of program music made popular in the 19th Century. He later found out that the record company had classified his compositions as instrumental pop music, which horrified him. He knew his work was not well-regarded by the classical community.

The scant articles I found on him agreed. Terence Dearborn’s brilliance, properly nurtured, might have developed into genius. But due to “a romantic temperament,” Terence had floundered on his first steps to success, insisting that the style of the 19th Century romantic composers was equally valid as a modern compositional form, but turning down other modern opportunities to prove it. A film company approached him with an offer to compose the background music for an upcoming fantasy movie. He refused the offer, again believing that the world trivialized his musical vision. He soon wore out the help and compassion of colleagues and friends trying to save him from himself.

One blustery night, late in the Autumn of 1968, having wandered away from a friend’s party and drunk on booze, pills and self-indulgence, he drowned in the sea off Blackpool. The authorities ruled his death a suicide. Terence said that it wasn’t.

He didn’t seem to regret dying at the tender age of twenty-nine. The afterlife suited him, no more worries over material sustenance and shelter. He continued composing on the upper planes and shared his love of music with me by helping me when I played my guitar, developing my talent.

But lately his constant advice on my personal life had become irksome. He was, after all, only my secondary guide, and inexperienced. My major guide was an older man named Emmett, tall and thin, always clothed in a brown robe.

Brown robe! The reenactment of my immortal Naming Day flooded back into my mind. A brown robe! Both Quatama and Gabriel had worn such robes. Michael—the man I now knew to be my immortal father—had been dressed in simple white. His face now came strongly to mind. Although identical to his brother Gabriel, both with cropped brown hair and quiet brown eyes, both with thin but strong jawed faces, I knew that Michael was also the major spirit guide who called himself Emmett. Like Michael, Emmett was quiet, shy, and wise enough to point me, not push me, as a guide.

But why the deception? Why the false name?

—Because you weren’t ready,— Terence broke into my thoughts. —To remember, love. And I know Quatama, too. He’s also my spirit master. He’s also Patrick’s. You remember Patrick, love, my poet friend.— Patrick was an older man with a mane of silver white hair, craggy features, and a barrel chest in an otherwise slim physique. He wrote lovely poems but apparently had never published them on Earth. He said he had been a doctor, but I hadn’t been able to verify his mortal identity. Now, however, he appeared to be a poet and only a poet. Heaven’s reward.

—Quatama is your spirit master?!— Terence and Quatama seemed an incredulous combination.

—Oh, ho! You thought he was exclusively your own, did you? He’s spirit master to many people. Don’t you know who he is? You’re a bit ignorant of other religions, love. I’ll have to guide you to a certain book, just to lay a clue before you, inexperienced as I am . . . or maybe I’ll just tell you, blow your mind a bit, though it may. He’s . . .—

Ginnie came back into the room, grabbing her school clothes from the closet. “Hey, Leigh Ann. How about going downstairs and starting some breakfast for us, so I can get out on time.”

I yawned, wondering what Terence had been pompously driving at. —Later,— I mentally told him, but received no response. “Sure, Gin.” Daniel stirred at the sound of my voice, let out his own tiny yawn, and opened his eyes. “Good morning again, pumpkin,” I greeted him. The baby giggled as I checked his diaper: dry and clean. “Come on, Danny boy. Let’s get some grub started.” I hefted him against my shoulder and got up. “See you downstairs,” I called as Ginnie slapped on her student nurse’s uniform, racing against the cold.

“Mom really ought to raise the thermometer,” she said.

* * * *

I put Daniel in his baby swing as I heated his bottle and perked the coffee. The kitchen thermometer read 69 degrees, but the air in the house still carried a nip. “Hard to believe it’s nearly Spring,” I told Daniel as I tested his bottle. The trickle of milk ran warmly down my wrist. I filled the toaster for Ginnie, lifted Daniel from the swing and cradled him in my arms, feeding him.

—I’ve been told not to tell you Quatama’s true ID,— Terence suddenly intruded.

—Back again?— I still resented his calling Bael a devil. I almost suspected Terence of jealousy.

—Well, I’m not, and he is,— he caught my train of thought. —Now, at any rate. It’s all well and good to say human ignorance created the job title, but you might remember you’re human as well, quite mortal, and in possession of a soul that might be a premium purchase.—

Resentment slowly metamorphosed into a deep desire to slug him. —I didn’t take you for the fanatical religious type.—

—I’m not. But I know the scent of eau de brimstone when it wafts under my nostrils.—

—These are beliefs created by a humanity terrified by the unknown. Heaven and Hell aren’t places of reward and punishment. They don’t exist that way except in the minds of the fearful. The only thing that really exists are levels, based on the soul’s advancement.—

—Or downfall into indescribable depths,— he persisted. —Look, I admit I didn’t believe in these things when I died. But there are demarcations, love. I can’t believe Quatama is allowing that bloody downsider within a five foot radius of you. Quatama must mean to pull you out of it, and ship him back to the pit.—

— He has a name!—

—I’d rather not say it aloud. Might attract bad karma, you know.—

—His name is Bael, and he doesn’t rule flies.—

—No, he rules the damned. Take care you don’t fall within that boundary.—

—Bastard!—

I felt him redden, a slow anger pulsating from him.

—What did you call me, Leigh Ann?—

I took a deep breath. —I’m sorry. Just please don’t prejudge Bael.—

—He’s already been judged, love. That’s what I can’t get through your thick head.— Disgust ringed his words.

—Then I may just open up the case. Now be quiet. Ginnie’s here!— “Toast is ready, Gin. So’s the coffee.”

“Thanks, Leigh Ann. Want me to pour you a cup?”

“Please. Danny’s taking forever to drink his bottle.”

Ginnie brought butter, milk and the sugar bowl over to the table. She poured two cups of coffee and carried them over, then placed her toast on a plate and got cutlery from the drawer. She plunked herself down opposite me, sliding a spoon to me. “So when are we going mall shopping?”

I propped Daniel’s bottle under my chin to hold it and added sugar and milk to my coffee, pulling a napkin from its holder on the table. “When I get a job and some money.”

“Oh, come on, Leigh. You don’t have to buy anything. Just come along. I need a new pair of dress jeans, and we can check out the spring clothes together. We can go this Saturday.”

“Oh, all right. Danny will probably like an outing.”

Our mother came into the kitchen, followed by Dad and Fred, the kitchen suddenly crowded.

“Good morning, moppets,” Dad said, unfolding the morning paper. “Did one of you make the coffee?”

“Leigh Ann did.”

“Good. Saves your mother time. Now you can get to work on an order of eggs and toast, Miriam.”

Mom had already taken the frying pan out. She held it menacingly. “Do you want anything else?”

“I’ll take a glass of juice, fresh squeezed, of course.” His eyes twinkled; he winked at me.

Mom put the pan down and grabbed a stack of small plastic tumblers from the upper cabinet. She pulled a pitcher of orange juice from the fridge and plopped tumblers and beverage on the table. “Processed. You want fresh squeezed, get up early and squeeze them yourself, Bill.”

“Hey, but that’s what I have a wife for.” He grabbed the prepared juice and poured himself a glassful.

“Mmn. What do you want for breakfast, Fred?”

“Just some cereal, juice and toast. I’ll make the toast for Dad and me.”

The family ate hectically, Ginnie and Fred finishing and rushing off to their respective schools. Dad lingered over coffee. Mom finally sat down with her own cereal and coffee.

“So, Leigh Ann,” my father said, “have you made any decisions since the weekend?”

“Find a good day care for Danny. Find a job for me.”

He glanced at his grandchild. “I hope he doesn’t turn out like his father.”

“Dad . . .”

“I mean it. I’m almost tempted to tell you not to work, to stay here and raise him properly. But we really can’t afford to keep you both. You’ll have to make your own way. If you’re going to live here, you have to contribute your share of the household expense. Ginnie’s going to discover that, too, after she graduates nursing school.”

“I intend to. But first Danny needs day care.”

“I agree. Miriam?”

My mother held her cup thoughtfully, quietly. “Your father and I have decided to let Danny stay here when you find a job. I’ll babysit him until he’s old enough for preschool, or unless you and Richard patch up your marriage and he finds decent employment to support his family. Considering how shaky that prospect is, it can’t hurt for you to learn self-sufficiency. You may need to rely on yourself alone, Leigh Ann, in the long run.”

I sat very still for a minute. “I don’t expect the marriage to work out. Not after everything that’s happened.”

“Your father and I figured as much. We just wanted to be certain. Well, a divorce in your case will be cheap enough. No property or other finances to fight over.”

“I just want my freedom.”

“Freedom,” my father mused. “Nothing in life is free, Leigh Ann. Just make sure you don’t barter away the things you value and the things that make life valuable on another useless, self-centered mistake.” He rose from his chair. “I’ve got to get going. Pete and Jerry are picking up the new water heater we’re installing at Smokey’s Bar on Walnut Street. They’re meeting me downtown.” He tapped his newspaper. “Start looking for a job, kiddo. Don’t wait for Richard to magically transform. You’ll be lucky to get child support from that guy. Depend on yourself.” He kissed Mom and gave me a quick pat on my shoulder. “See you girls tonight.” He headed out the side door.

Daniel finished his bottle, making air bubble sounds through the nipple. I pulled it from his mouth. “My, you’re hungry today.”

He let out a huge burp and some of his formula with it.

“Ugh.”

“It’s all over your nightgown, Leigh Ann.” Mom went to the sink to wet a dish rag.

As she handed it to me, I caught a mental burst of laughter and a glimpse of Bael’s amused expression. I carefully wiped the spit-up off the bodice of my gown, taking equal care not to acknowledge his presence and wondering if Terence was also still there.

—No. He appears to be afraid of me. Ran like a spooked puppy. What do you see in him? His music? Well, I suppose one could forgive him his faults for that. Though he screwed it up far worse this time than his last stint as a classical composer.—

I didn’t answer, using a clean section of the rag to wipe Daniel’s mouth and chin.

—You might as well not regret his loss to the world. That singular recording, talented though it be, will soon be forgotten as new stars mount the horizon. His other work will never be recovered. His last girlfriend was particularly spiteful, when she found he left no will and his family snubbed her at the funeral.—

I knew Bael was deliberately intriguing me. Terence never spoke of having unpublished, unperformed music, nor of any other lifetime as a composer.

I also wondered why Bael was chancing my mother’s notice, blabbing on this way.

I heard another stabbing laugh from him as I put Daniel back into his swing. Mom squeezed the rerinsed dish rag out and draped it over the faucet to dry. “Now, I don’t want you to feel pressured,” she said, sitting down again. “Find a job you think you’ll like, possibly one with extra benefit perks like tuition reimbursement if the course relates to the job.”

I picked the paper up gingerly, turning to the help wanted pages. “A job, huh? Let’s see. I’m a high school grad, no college, but I type well, was always good at English and have about two years of experience as a typist. I suppose I’d qualify for a secretarial job. Here’s one. High school grad, typing, filing and receptionist duties. Willing to train. Girl Friday.”

Mom smirked. “I’ve never liked that title. Is it full-time?”

“Doesn’t say. I’ll have to ask them. Mom?” I decided to test her awareness of Bael’s presence. “Do you sense anything?”

She seemed confused, then smiled. “Oh, you mean about this job. No, not at all. You’ll have to check it out yourself, starting with a phone call. And remember, you don’t have to rush. Your father and I want you to make a good start at a job with a future. Take your time and don’t rush into things blindly, dear. I’m going upstairs to shower and dress. Talk to you later.” She hesitated, then impulsively bussed my cheek. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

I stared pensively at my empty coffee cup and at Daniel, who stared back in an almost unsettling way. The baby’s key ring rested on the table. I gave it to him. He jiggled it happily as I called the phone number listed for the Girl Friday job.

Daniel began whimpering as soon as the receptionist put me through to the personnel supervisor, the baby’s crabbing slowly rising in volume every time I tried to ask a question or hear its answer. His bawling, randomly interspersed with high-pitched shrieks, made it impossible to hear or think. I finally shouted an apology, promised to call back and hung up the phone. “Danny! What is the matter with you?!” I glared at him.

He sniffled, hiccupped, and leaned to the side as far as his swing chair would allow. His small hand stretched toward his key rattle, which had fallen onto the linoleum. I returned it to him and took up the phone again, determined to redial the call.

Daniel studied the phone and started his fussing whine again. I hung up again, picked up Daniel, and checked him all over. He giggled at my scrutiny, apparently abandoning his renewed crying jag with no other visible problems.

I put him back into his swing. He watched me intensely, as if gauging my next move.

“Are you afraid of the phone, Danny? Look.” I picked up the receiver again. “It won’t hurt you or me.”

I started to dial the number a third time, and saw Daniel suck his mouth into a pout, his small brows furrowing. I hung up, and his face smoothed back into the picture of a patient infant. “You are really weird today,” I told him and wrinkled my own brows into a pout. “Like mother, like son.” Daniel broke into a toothless grin at the face I made, forcing me to laugh along with him.

“Oh, all right. I’m beginning to think that you’ve been put up to this, that someone doesn’t want me to try for that Girl Friday job. Is that it?” Daniel just looked at me, unnaturally still. “I guess I’d better check out those ads again for jobs that meet your approval!”

An hour later, I had marked off three other jobs to call about: two for clerk-typist, and one for junior medical secretary. The latter especially interested me. I was a good speller and felt sure I could learn the terminology on my own, using Ginnie’s medical dictionary.

I spent half an hour playing with Daniel in the living room, singing silly children’s songs and dancing him around in my arms. Mom came downstairs in the midst of I’ve Been Working On The Railroad, smiling as her daughter and grandson swirled around the room to the old folksong.

“Don’t forget to teach him Playmates,” she said, getting her coat from the dining room closet. “I’m going out to get a few groceries. See you when I get back. Did you make any calls?”

“Danny got cranky. I’m going to try again in a few minutes.”

“Good. Just keep your voice cheerful, and tell them how much you’d love to interview for the job. Answer their questions briefly, but don’t tell them your life story.”

I grinned. “You know me pretty well, don’t you? I won’t. I promise.”

“I should know you. I raised you all these years. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I carried Daniel back into the kitchen and mixed some baby cereal with strained pears. Daniel ate about half the bowl, then pushed the spoon away.

“Full? Okay, sonny boy, I’m going to put you in your swing again. Let’s see if you can stay quiet while Mommy makes some calls.”

He didn’t protest, content and full. I dialed the three new numbers. One job was already filled, but the others were still open, and I arranged interviews for both. One was for a clerk typist position at a manufacturer in the far northeast. The other was the junior medical secretary job at Hahnemann Hospital off Broad Street in the heart of downtown Philadelphia. Their personnel officer said they would train me, if I proved a good candidate in their other test requirements. I liked the idea of working in the health field.

On impulse, I decided to also call back the number for the Girl Friday position. It couldn’t hurt to have a third interview, in case the first two fell through. I snuck a wary glance at Daniel as I dialed. He was engrossed in his key rattle, ignoring me.

I intended to explain the earlier interruption to the woman supervisor I’d spoken to, or tried to speak with, before. But now the receptionist cut short my request to be transferred to the woman, explaining that they’d had too many responses to the ad, had booked enough interviews, and weren’t scheduling any more at present.

As I hung up the phone, I noticed my son’s absolute disinterest in my job search, as opposed to his early morning caterwauling. I offered him the leftover fruit and cereal mix. He gobbled it up and yawned.

“Tired, sweetie? So am I. Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”

I left my mother a note: “Got two interviews. One on Friday at Hahnemann Hospital! The other on Monday at a paper manufacturer on Bustleton Avenue. I’m upstairs, getting Daniel ready for his nap. Leigh Ann.”

Daniel gibbered and cooed on the way up, and let out infant sighs as he lay in his crib, preoccupied with a thorough study of his fingers and sleeper-clad feet.

I rested on my bed beside his crib, watching him, the house quiet, the ticking of Ginnie’s clock audible in the stillness.

I fell asleep before the baby did.