Читать книгу Sage - Wendy Anne - Страница 22

XIV

Eternal Slumber

February 14, and the weather is expected to reach a whopping ten degrees today with chances of black ice. How romantic. I can already sense my drive to work is going to drag ass without a sufficient amount of caffeine coursing through my veins, so I search for the largest thermos coffee cup I can find and fill it with syrupy black coffee. As soon as I step outside, I can feel my pores contract and shrink, causing my face to stiffen. It’s early, and the heat hasn’t reached its ten-degree peak yet. The weather report suggests that it feels like five below when one considers the windchill factor. I feel cold-blooded, with just enough garments and body mass to prevent me from actually freezing to death.

I hope Bruce and Cheyanne are dressed warmly; they left long before I got up to shower and get ready. I hardly heard them today, just the opening and shutting of doors, and the engine of Bruce’s car working to warm itself. There is evidence of them being here and having a productive morning; the countertops are full of hot chocolate mess, the sink is full of breakfast dishes, and the smell of Bruce’s cologne is permeating the air.

I wish I could have spent a little time with them this morning, but it is probably best I didn’t, considering the sad excuse for sleep I got last night.

When I arrive at my office, a variety of Valentine’s gifts are stacked on my desk and ready to greet me. The early scares this month must have had an impact on my employees; they seem a little more giving this particular Valentine’s Day. There is quite the spread of candy and stuffed animals this year. I nearly feel guilty for arriving empty-handed, but I gave them a decent Christmas bonus. Despite the dreary skies and bitter chill, everyone seems to wear a positive attitude that I appreciate much more than the chocolates and stuffed animals. I step out of my office to thank everyone for the gifts and commend them for a great month while singling each employee, telling them how they’ve contributed and how that contribution adds to the team effort of our success. There are thirty faculty members here today, which covers everyone except for the cleaning lady, though she’s a private contractor and not a full-time employee. “So does this mean we get the day off? I want to slip into some pajamas and watch a good chick flick,” Rose asks while giggling in a soft, teasing voice. All eyes dart to her and then to me, but no laughter is directed at her sense of humor for good measure. Between her squeaky voice and her lack of comedic timing, her jokes rarely go over well. Poor Rose. This time I’ll give her a break and honor her efforts. “Actually…yes.” Now all the eyes in the room are trained on me. “You guys have nothing to do but sit around all day. Go spend some time with your special someone, or on your couch with a good chick flick.” Why not let them go home and do things with their loves.

“Really. Go on and get out before I find something for you to do.” The floor empties soon after, with heartfelt smiles and plenty of thank-yous.

I’m so relieved once the office is empty because I am not sure how many rations I’ve stored in the cheerful place of my mind to contribute to the office. I rummage through the candy and pick out a few of my favorite morsels to much on and enhance the flavor of my now cold black coffee. Watching the screensaver dance across the monitor of the office computer, my mind veers back to the thoughts I’d put back regarding last night, and making my skin crawl. Images of Fran and the demons come back to me at once, and the sound of my neighbor’s stress-induced voice takes me over. My throat, once wet with coffee, becomes tight with anxiety thinking about last night’s dream turned nightmare. Cocking my head, I narrow my eyes on the purse under my desk. I pull out Fran’s crumpled business card and fumble with it in my hand. A chill rolls down my neck, ending at the base of my spine in a painful shrill as I sit staring at the card in silent contemplation. I feel compelled to call, worried that somehow my dream echoed into reality. Once I confirm she’s okay, and I am relieved of the images from my nightmare, an inquiry about Marcus would make an interesting conversation. After several rings, her wiry voice greets me from an answering machine. I am reluctant to leave a message; I’m not sure exactly what to say or how to identify myself. So rather than leaving a message, I call a few more times with hopes that she’ll answer to silence my annoying persistence. My mind is flittering from one place to another as each unanswered ring stabs at my stomach. I want to reassure myself that it was just a dream, but when I can’t reach her on the phone, memories of her mangled face and my body pressed tightly against her bloody corpse plays over in my mind. I try to rebel against the stupidity of blaming a dream for Fran’s not answering, trying to rationalize by considering the countless amounts of reasons that make a hell of a lot more sense, but it’s futile.

I suppose that I shouldn’t do it, but locating Fran and meeting her in person may be the only way to feel at peace right now. At least then I’ll know if she’s okay, and there’s a high probability that she’s fine. When we do meet, we can have the craziest conversation I’ve ever had with a virtual stranger. If I don’t look for her, I’ll wonder about her, the dream, and her curious words. God knows I will end up having an exhausted mind and body because I’ll starve to death with worry and curiosity. I make out the address on her card again, only this time I examine it with more purpose, and realize it’s only a few blocks from where I grew up, which isn’t on the friendliness side of town. What an old woman would be doing on that side of town, I wonder, as my mind ventures farther into that neighborhood. She’d have to be tough or crazy to manage in those parts, especially at her age. I believe everyone’s crazy; it’s just a matter of what brand, though tough is a bit different. The TV might personify tough as carrying a gun, leading a gang, or having a street name, but that is a common misconception. Death comes in the shape of violence, all versions of poison, accidents, or illness; and one has to be tough and smart to survive those things. So it helps not to get involved with the wrong people, mind your own business (unless it’s to protect the innocent), stay honest, stay sober, and keep it real. Tough is about survival, inner strength, and overcoming the darkness in the craziest of places. People in those “barbaric neighborhoods” sometimes have a better grip on life than an elitist who, turning their nose up, does the proper thing instead of the right thing. Take away a rich man’s money and overpriced education, and they would have a much harder time surviving the ghetto than an urban city kid.

A senior woman like Fran wouldn’t have lived in a neighborhood like that for very long if she didn’t have common sense; only extremely rich people who live in safe neighborhoods thrive without commonsense and lead a long life in a crazy place like Worcester, Massachusetts. Every time I visit, I feel the crazy and the sad Native American story, and some believe they can feel the curse bestowed upon them by the native’s pain.

I think the heart of the Commonwealth has an extraordinarily dark side to it, and for so many reasons. Moreover, Worcester has more angry people per square mile compared to any American city I’ve visited in this country, and I have been to many.

Before the city grew into its European connection, there was a Native American tribe that thrived off of the land called the Nipmuck. The Nipmuck are descendants of the Algonquian peoples, and their tribe was first encountered in 1630.

Once the white man arrived, pathogens such as smallpox were introduced as well as poisons we have made legal today such as alcohol. Settlers ruined a good portion of their healthy existence. Next, religious takeovers and European laws oppressed them. As they were weeded out, many of the Nipmuck joined Metacomet’s revolt in 1675. This was unsuccessful and resulted terribly for them. Many of the Nipmuck who survived alcoholism, smallpox, and this rebellion were either executed or sold.

Worcester was built on these very same grounds, and the curse does not end there!

Worcester also had a decent population full of accused insane people. Insane asylums in that area were a lucrative business that created uneasy energy in my opinion.

Once known as the Worcester Lunatic Asylum and the Bloomingdale Asylum, the hospital dates back to the 1830s. On January 12, 1833, the Worcester Insane Asylum opened. It was the first of its kind in the state. Admissions to the Worcester County Asylum between the years 1854 and 1900 were screened to identify children aged sixteen and under. An item sheet was used to record details of the admission.

Roughly two hundred children were admitted, and there was an inexcusable death rate.

In 1901, a satellite facility that became the Grafton State Hospital was opened in nearby Grafton, Massachusetts, to allow nonviolent patients to engage in “therapeutic work” in a rural environment. Overcrowding soon became a problem, and Merrick Bemis, the superintendent at the time, called for the construction of a new asylum. This was an enormous structure located on Belmont Street. I went to counseling right next door to the building, and I was told that there were bodies without proper burials buried in the hills extending to the road from “Youth Guidance.” I’d often make my rounds to inspect the asylum because of the fascinating spectacle it was. The brick and flagstone building stood an amazing four stories, with a beautiful clock tower. The asylum looked like an enchanting Italianate Victorian and a prison integrated with an immense clock tower.

Aside from the intrigue of the building was the torture and unfair treatment so many people had to endure as patients there. I have heard so many things that send uneasy chills those horror movies couldn’t replicate unless they too were based on truth, and even if this was possible, a movie cannot emulate the same chilling vigor a building that harbors the story could!

During 1991, Worcester State Hospital closed, leaving the energy and some of its people as a permanent scar.

I love the good type of crazy Worcester manages to be, and though my hometown has a dark history, I am content there, and I love the people. There is such a heterogeneous atmosphere via all of the colleges and coffee shops, intertwined with the intriguing history, and crazy inner parts.

Most of the girls can fight, and all of the associates or friends I have from there take no shit.

There are seven hills in Worcester, just as there are seven layers of hell in Dante’s depiction.

Worcester is diverse, with a dark history, obscure energy, and is undeniably crazy, but I have an eerie connection with her, whereby I keep crawling back with some kind of strange incentive. This time it’s Mistress Fran, and last time it was a house party hosted with the lure of spicy food and spiritual talk.

I grab a heavy winter coat, throw my expensive jewelry in the desk safe, and call a taxi, because my rims wouldn’t last an hour parked in those neighborhoods, especially considering I haven’t been by there in so long and nobody would recognize my car. The taxi driver arrives within minutes of my call and snakes his car in and around the city without introduction or small talk until I’ve reached the neighborhood where I experienced my best and worst childhood memories. It smells the same as I recall the scent of rubber tar, with just a hint of soul. Small, dilapidated businesses are fancily decorated with bars on their windows and doors. Narrow streets overlay cobblestone roads once suitable for horse and carriage, flanked by old buildings that barricade the constricted streets with barely enough room for one lane, let alone two. It’s like a jigsaw mousetrap that seems as if it were purposely set to slow your vehicle if you make a wrong turn. How strange it is to be in this focal point of my childhood, a harsh reminder of where I would have stayed if not for my success. Though it is also a wonderful reminder of a time I could be as crazy as I wanted, without the harsh judgment experienced where I reside now. I spent most of my life bouncing between urban neighborhoods in cities such as Boston, Worcester, and Lynn (Lynn, Lynn, the city of sin, you never come out the way you came in). They’re virtually identical neighborhoods in terms of politics and demographics, but each has a distinct feel and smell. Even though Massachusetts harbors many wealthy neighborhoods, and is fruitful in regards to history, culture, and expensive schools, it does have its rough areas, and I’ve lived in them all. As small children, my friends and I would break into abandoned homes and vacant factories, play marbles on the street corners, and try to stay away from more serious mischief. Not many of us succeeded in that effort, which is sad, as a lot of my friends ended up in prison or dead by twenty-five. The few that are still around and not sleeping on the corner steps of the local liquor stores have moved away or are running the streets, perpetuating the cycle of poverty street smarts.

The address reveals an apartment complex that’s not much more than a rooming house. It is a large five-story brick building poorly insulated, as evidenced by the large dripping icicles that look like three-foot daggers ready to fall on some innocent bypasser. There are no markings outside suggesting that “Mistress Fran” lives in the building, and the card doesn’t include a clear apartment number.

Nevertheless, I find her apartment with ease and help from one of her friendly neighbors. This is not typical for me, but my inbuilt compass decided to work for once. Number 204, the first door in view when I hit the top of the stairs on the second floor. Even though the door is not completely closed, I knock loud enough for the sound to drown out the blasting TV set she left on. No wonder she couldn’t hear the phone ring. I am shocked the neighbors do not complain, but again, silence is probably an unexpected presence around these parts. No answer, and so I knock again, only harder, forcing the door open just a bit and unwillingly allowing a smothering fetid stench through that about knocks me on my ass. A mix of cat piss and rotten food intertwined with the overpowering odor of stale cigarettes burns my nostrils and taste buds something fierce enough to lose my strong stomach reflexes and give way to vomit. I can almost taste my stomach acids, as I swallow them back with discipline. Despite the smell, I force my way inside.

As expected, clutter and waste block the door from fully opening. A TV assaults my ears, and the smell is overpowering. All I can make out in the middle of her small living space that wasn’t covered in trash is a card table heaping with witchery books, scattered papers, and odd collections of crystals and stones.

“Fran?” I call out as if she had been expecting me. No answer, and to make myself heard over the television, I would have had to take a deep breath of the foul air, so I quietly make my way around her one-room apartment instead. It reminds me of a hole-in-the-wall shop you might find in Salem; only someone broke in during the off-season, ransacked the place, and used all the candles for some ritual. Lifelike porcelain dolls sit on the bottom of the large, dusty windowpanes. The dim room—with pagan and tribal ornaments filling the windows, along with the chaos of mess and smell—is a lot to take in. Her spirituality seems too confused to pinpoint because her room is full of religious brands, so I’d assume a witch or eclectic spiritualist (which is often the same thing).

The only true piece of furniture in the entire room besides the card table and TV is a vinyl reclining chair with its back to me, stained and ripped and probably light blue once. I am sure this would be where she sleeps, reads, watches TV; and by the telephone on the floor next to the right arm of the chair, I would assume she does pretty much everything there. I inch my way towards the chair uncomfortably, trying to make my way through the piles of junk. As I approach, I can see a bit of her straggly white hair hanging over the throne of her recycling chair, while her wrists dangle slightly over its arms. Thank god she’s here, I think. What a waste of time and energy this would have been otherwise?

“Fran, I am sorry to intrude,” I begin as she gives no attention to me being there. I politely grab her hand to wake her and startlingly notice how cold she is, her feeble body stiff in its place. An overwhelming sickness greets me once again. The smell of urine should have given a little insight as to what I may have stumbled into. Perhaps I inadvertently came to deny my instincts to lessen the effects of shock. Is she dead! Did I embark upon her radical path of transformation before getting to know her? Things get too final and intimate at once. How could I have predicted this unless I made a habit of foreshadowing death’s clock? Denials sets in, but only long enough for my mind to make a weak attempt at convincing me that I am hallucinating and last night was leaking into my reality. Again, this brief gleeful ignorance is crushed by the death in her face.

She must have died in her sleep. My first instinct would be to leave, but what if someone had seen me come in? After all, I spoke with one of her neighbors. I hold my breath and reach for her right side frantically to grab the phone and call 9-1-1. As I reach, I brush across her, and a shock of fear comes over me. I imagine the demonic entities from last night’s dream ravaging her spirit until her body could take no more.

I snap myself out of this and get the phone.

I let the dispatcher know, in a shaken voice, that I came to her home invited and found her dead in her chair. The dispatcher asked me to stay until the officers arrive so I could fill out a police report. Frustration becomes me because I know that it would probably take them a few minutes to get here, but who knows how long to fill out the paperwork and explain my crazy reasoning for being here. I have no idea what I expected when I arrived, but this certainly wasn’t it.

In the next instant, my mind is flooded with bloody images from last night’s horrific dream. Gruesome visions of her half-eaten corpse came to me in shock waves as I sat by her actual deceased body. And that smell, the smell of death from my dream, began to mingle with the all too real stench in the room. My heart begins to tighten as anxiety breaches the boundary of rationality. Trying to calm my nerves, I assure myself that her death was not the torturous one she had suffered in my vicious dream or the recent vision. The coincidence of finding her dead the very next day was just that: a coincidence. Nothing more. I look at her again to try to dispel the images from my nightmare, noticing a famished-looking calico cat at her feet. It stares up at me helplessly with beautiful kaleidoscope-blue eyes. I reach for the poor thing, but it hisses and cowers away. My heart breaks for the animal and Fran as I pray under my breath for them both. Just as I began to swear at myself under my breath for coming here in the first place, I notice a book open in Fran’s lap. I’m curious about what her last thoughts in this world may have been, and if she had written them in her book.

The book binds me to its presence, as if the words she once wrote call to me from their pages and beg me to read them. This could be her book of shadows, journal, poetry, or even her dream-log! It compels me in every way, and mostly because the content within may be the only way I get my answers if I get them at all.

Without any further thought, I swiftly reach down and take the book off Fran’s lap, and the cat cringes and darts behind the chair. At that moment, I’m startled by a police officer announcing his arrival with a brisk knock on the door I’d left half ajar. I quickly shove the book in my purse. A young officer appears with an older partner following behind him, and they start making their way through the trash towards me.

What a handsome young stallion, I think, trying not to stare too obviously at the younger officer’s build—a welcomed and handsome distraction from the situation. Much too young for my taste, but no less than 6'4", clean-cut like any good rookie, his buzzed black hair contrasts nicely with his olive complexion. I’ve never strayed from Bruce, but I sure do appreciate a man in uniform. The older officer stood there foolishly gazing at my cleavage, scratching at a mole at the very edge of his receding hairline. Clearing his throat, he forces his eyes up to meet mine. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am, but if you could just answer a couple questions for us and fill out this form.”

“Oh, she—I mean, I’m not family or anything. I only met her recently.” I felt ridiculous trying to justify my presence in the squalid little apartment.

The older officer grumbles, “All right then, well, if you could just answer a couple questions for us and fill out some paperwork, we’ll have you on your way as soon as possible.” Then, addressing his partner, he barks, “Harrison, contact animal control. We’re going to have to get rid of all of these rodents in here. God only knows how many of the filthy beasts the old woman had living in this mess.”

“Wait,” I said, searching for the skinny little calico. It was under the chair, its tail poking out next to Fran’s foot. “I’ll take this one.” I try coaxing the little cat out from under the chair, but it shoots out the other side, where Officer Harrison deftly scoops it up.

“Well then,” the older officer said, rolling his eyes in disgust, “the cat is your problem.” What an arrogant prick! Both of them noticed my growing discomfort and impatience. So did the cat as it starts squirming around in his arms, but not enough to get loose.

“I would be frisky too,” he says, smiling at me flirtatiously while grappling with the cat in his hands. He pulls the struggling calico to his chest and moves towards me. We have to stand close together to make the transfer, and I enjoy the brief thrill of contact as he hands the cat to me. As he withdraws his hands, they brush against my chest, but it’s incidental—and I have to admit, not entirely unwelcome.

As soon as the cat is in my arms, it becomes completely calm. Either it is more comfortable with a woman or it is worn-out from exertion. Looking down at it, I notice my blouse had become slightly disheveled in the transfer. The officers, it seems, noticed first. Men’s animal instincts are so obvious when confronted with anything physical. Even the most disciplined of men can convert into drooling slobs when a pair of breasts are on display. I adjust my clothing and ask with a waning smile if we can please get on with the process.

A short time later, with a cat in hand, and a much more occupied mind and purse, I leave the scene, completely aware of the rookie cop’s eyes lingering on me. But he’s no longer useful as a distraction to me; my mind is like a computer with no more memory space, running slow and full of nonsense.

On my taxi ride home, I pick up a collar, food, litter box, and other necessities for the cat, who cowers in the back seat. Luckily, I still have enough time to get her groomed and checked over by a vet before I need to get home. Along the way, trying to figure out how to explain the cat’s arrival, I decide she’ll make a wonderful Valentine’s Day gift for Cheyanne.

I get home only a little later than usual, greeted by the looks of absolute shock from both my husband and my daughter. “Look what the cat dragged in!” Still a little out of sorts from the day’s events, I must sound a little strange but come across believably jubilant. The calico, though a bit underweight, is now beautiful after her grooming. She was no doubt an expensive purchase at one time, and probably the shining star in Fran’s life.

Cheyanne screeches in excitement. The question on Bruce’s face goes unspoken, so I mouth “later, honey” at him as he shrugs. Cheyanne pays no attention to the silent conversation taking place. With the cat cradled in her arms, she waltzes off to her wing.

Alone in the kitchen, I tell Bruce almost everything, starting with the nightmare (although leaving out the part about my mysterious male partner) and ending with an explanation as to how we’re now cat owners. The irony of my bizarre dream has him in disbelief. “That crazy old neighbor of ours wasn’t bullshitting you about a woman named Fran, huh? Wow, Sage, you have been through a lot these past few months. I mean, maybe some vacation time is in order,” he jokes. He has no idea how much I’ve truly experienced, and I find myself grateful for that fact.

“A good night’s rest and possibly a morning bike ride in the brisk cold would do me good.” I wink at Bruce in an attempt to demonstrate that nothing’s gotten to me. He is no sucker for my tough girl act, but aware that when I put it on, he will surely feel the wrath of me defending it. He pretends to agree, and I walk away leaving him satisfied with half an understanding and no digression into that which I’d rather not explain. I don’t even have an explanation for myself, let alone one for anyone else. I’m grateful that the dynamics of our relationship allow for such freedom. But I’ve never needed the freedom to hide something from him. I dismiss this thought quickly; I’ve done nothing wrong by deciding not to reveal my dreams to Bruce. As for the dreams themselves, it’s not like I’ve cheated on him. No one has control over the content of their dreams unless they are lucid dreams. Still, I feel guilty.

Bruce is very selfless, but he’s certainly no fool and doesn’t allow leverage to be walked on. He is secure in himself for the most part and does not need to compensate in selfish ways to better his self-image. He allows himself just enough insecurity to work out and improve in a constructive manner. This always keeps his body in shape and his demeanor strong. The truth is, a man like Bruce distinguishes by the way he views himself rather than the way others view him. He is a natural leader. It is his power as an employer and his overwhelming mental hold on people that turns me on most. His innate assertiveness has been one of the major attractions since we first met. And on that thought, I let go of the last twenty-four hours and playfully throw myself on top of him. Diligently I lick the bottom of his earlobes while teasingly pulling on the pants straps of his Levi’s, pulling tighter at his erection. He loves it when I’m playful. Perhaps it’s the “in high spirits” attitude I project. I’m sure that the memory of me during my playful formative years pleases him most when I am in a lighthearted mood. This is not because Bruce prefers younger women, but I believe that he misses the side of me that didn’t take life by the balls, and let things be. In all actuality, Bruce likes cougars. Hollywood sells the idea of youth, and innocence of untouched skin, but Bruce prefers his women, women. I dressed in a schoolgirl outfit once, and he was hardly impressed. He didn’t become fully aroused until I took most of it off (not that it covered much). It is a comfortable sentiment while having a daughter and knowing I will one day become a withered flower. Bruce’s dominant side loves it when I get on my knees and submit to him, but it wouldn’t be enticing if I were easily submissive. As he massages my skull with his fingers parting locks of hair, he guides me to his manhood still covered with his slightly unzippered jeans, bringing my face closer. His eyes shut faintly, with my nose brushing on his showing parts. I yank his jeans open. I wet my parched lips as I swallowed my husband whole, caressing him with my tongue boastfully. It isn’t long before he rubs my lips dry, even with the saliva and precum dripping out of the corners of my mouth. Pulling away, I decide to rip his pants off and, seconds later, my own, bending over the love seat, gesturing him to mount me. Grabbing my slender waist and working his way down to my hard petite curves, he does exactly that. He holds me effortlessly and works my hips into a rotation, causing us to come in unison.