Dead Sleeping Shaman (19 page)

Monday, October 19

8 days ’til the end

Dolly’s little white house
with no porch and a red door, three concrete steps up from the street, looked abandoned. Newspapers leaned against the door and a UPS sticker was stuck to the window. Her concrete planter, at the foot of the steps, held two very dead geraniums bending over each other. The planter had been her pride all summer long, with the pink geraniums blooming wildly and Dolly bragging about her secret fertilizer, about which I was afraid to ask.

Dolly’s patrol car wasn’t in the drive but that didn’t stop me from parking and going up the broken concrete walk between small patches of weedy brown lawn, then standing on the second step and pounding at her door. “Dolly!” I called again and again, knowing I was reaching no one because there was no one in there to reach.

That was it for me, I told myself. Let her do whatever dumb thing she wanted to—look like a coconut or a casaba melon if that’s what made her happy. I would be damned if I was going to get myself worked up, caring about some little runt of a woman who didn’t care about any of her friends, about her job, which she’d always said was the most important thing in her life; and was letting all of us down—especially me. I stomped down the steps to my car, leaving a string of mumbles behind me.

Who needed a billiard ball for a friend? I asked myself as I drove over to EATS to get a fried egg and a stack of pancakes and fried potatoes and white toast—throwing caution and my arteries to the wind. Who needed a person who went flying off in all directions when you most needed her to keep her feet on the ground and concentrate?

It had to be Dolly’s “family” thing, I told myself as I parked in the EATS lot. She had nobody. Her string of foster homes hadn’t been warm and fuzzy. I heard about a couple of abusive boyfriends she’d had to put in the hospital, and then there was her husband, Chet Wakowski, who didn’t stay around long enough to let the ink on the marriage license dry. She’d already spent money to bury the unfaithful Chet, after he was found dead, his bones floating out in Sandy Lake. She’d looked on his uncaring family as her own, until they stiffed her on the funeral, and left town early. Now she’d found a group that, like all cults, reached out and sucked her in with smiles and pats on the back and talk of being together, right up to the end of all time. Which wasn’t long now. Maybe she’d already given them money; maybe signed the deed to her house over to the reverend. If the world was going to end, what good were any of those things to the cult leaders? I had no doubt that the Reverend Fritch was no different from others who came before him, all greed and power-lust and ego under the guise of religion. If God ever got into smiting again, I would happily provide him with a list of smite-ees.

I found a booth in one corner of the restaurant and sat on the side facing away from everybody. I didn’t want to be bothered. What I needed was to be left alone to nurse my steaming anger and take in enough calories to blow up my rear end to a size I could blame on Dolly. Gloria came over fast. I think my narrow eyes, hunched back, and fast walk warned everyone else away. She looked down at me nervously as I told her what I wanted and added that I didn’t want the eggs hard—as Eugenia usually cooked them; and I didn’t want my toast burned; and I didn’t want the potatoes floating in lard.

Gloria got the idea, wrote out my long order, and turned on her toe to get away.

“Has Dolly been in yet?” I think I growled, catching her mid-turn. Whatever I did, Gloria’s eyes got huge. She blinked a few times then looked around for reinforcements, in case I attacked.

“Did you hear?” She dared to take a step closer. “She joined those pilgrims out to the campground.”

“Pilgrims?”

“You know, those folks who’re waiting for the world to end. Shaved her head and everything. Eugenia saw her yesterday at the service.”

“What’s Eugenia doing out there at a service?” Now I was truly tripping through Never Never Land.

“She doesn’t believe in any of it. Not Eugenia. She only goes to see what’s happening. Cheap theatre, she calls it. Wants to keep count of who’s the most gullible in Leetsville. I’ll tell you, Dolly really surprised her.”

“Yeah, me too. But that’s her choice. Anybody that dumb …”

I didn’t want to get into a rant before breakfast so I smiled and sent Gloria on her way.

I settled back against the booth, ran my hand over the red Formica table, picking at hardened egg someone left behind as a souvenir. I glanced around the restaurant to see who I’d snubbed in my snit and who would be mad at me for a week or two.

The bag lady was there, watching. She was a vision, in all her finery. Today it was a torn designer skirt and her down-at-the-heels Gucci shoes. A rhinestone butterfly was pinned at the very top of her white pouf of hair. Every time I’d come in lately there she’d been, sitting with a cup of tea or coffee or a mostly uneaten plate of food in front of her. If she wasn’t a relative of Eugenia’s, I couldn’t imagine why she let her kill so much time, taking up a seat or a stool and lingering for hours. Eugenia had claimed not to know the woman. Said she thought she was famous. Maybe infamous, I thought, wondering again if this was one of Eugenia’s outlaw relatives come to life.

The woman stared at me. I was in too belligerent a mood to be stared down. I frowned but didn’t nod or acknowledge her. Let’s see who gives up staring first, I told myself, and settled my elbows on the table, chin in my hands.

The woman rose slowly from her table at the center of the restaurant. It took a little time for her to rearrange the green scarves she wore around her neck, then to pull her skirt down over her terribly uncomfortable-looking shoes. She never took her eyes from mine as she straightened her rhinestone butterfly, wings standing straight up at the top of her hair. With shoulders settled back, she took step after step toward me. No smile. No expression at all. Just this little old lady coming around tables and chairs with me clearly in her sights.

I moved back into the corner of the booth, hoping she would make a right turn toward the bathrooms. She stopped beside me, gave me a long, hard look, then slid into the booth without being invited.

“You are Emily Kincaid,” she said in a surprisingly strong voice.

I couldn’t disagree. “And you are …?”

“Call me Cate. That’s what I’m known as.”

“I’ve seen you in here a lot lately. Did you recently move to town?”

She shook her head, the butterfly dancing.

“Are you related to Eugenia?”

Again she shook her head then looked over toward where Eugenia stood at her counter, keeping an eye on us.

I watched the old woman from the sides of my eyes, suspicious. Maybe I was in for a sales pitch, or about to be hit up for a loan. There’d once been another old lady, with red cherries on her hat, who accosted me in Grand Central Station in New York City. She’d pleaded that her purse had been stolen and could I lend her enough money to get home. It turned out the trip would cost her twenty dollars and I couldn’t resist an old lady asking for money. She wrote down my address, to send my money to me. I never got it. Not again, I told myself. Not this time. I wasn’t a kid anymore. Nobody could fool me.

“I want to tell you a story,” Cate said, sighed, and gathered her wrinkled hands together before her on the table.

Gloria brought my platter of food and set it in front of me. She filled my tin tea pot with hot water, brushed crumbs from the table, then—finding no other reason to hang around—attended to the crumbs on the table next to ours.

Cate waited while Gloria tidied every table around us then brought a broom to pick up the crumbs she’d dropped to the linoleum. I ate the fried eggs, poured syrup on the pancakes and ate them, then nibbled at a piece of toast while the woman sat across from me in silence.

“Can I get you tea or coffee?” I’d already been less than hospitable. Tea or coffee wouldn’t cost me much. Cate shook her head and turned to smile at Eugenia, who nodded slightly and went out to the kitchen.

I finished my toast and pushed the empty platter away. I wiped my fingers on a paper napkin from the holder on the table, finding I was stickier than I’d thought. I tipped the water glass over my fingers, got another napkin, and cleaned up as Cate watched me. When I was finally finished with all my ablutions, she leaned forward.

“A story,” she said again and cleared her throat. “Once upon a time I had a daughter …”

Never Never Land. . .

“She grew up to do destructive things to herself. I thought I had the power to stop her, but I never could. She ran away with a man and had a baby. The man left her … such an old, sad story … and she gave her baby away. When I asked about the child, she told me she’d found a loving home for the girl and it was all for the best. After that she found a group of people she said were helping her to straighten out her life; they were treating her like family and she was seeing the error of her previous ways. I was happy for her.”

Cate drew a deep breath.

“The next thing I knew, her group didn’t want her coming home again. They moved to a village in France. I tried to tell her it wasn’t right, what they were asking of her. All I could think of were terrible stories I’d heard of cults and how they stole the minds of their followers. She said she’d be fine, she was happy with her friends, and she would write to me. I was disgusted and swore I’d never ever have a thing to do with her again as long as I lived.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Who are you?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Let me finish.”

Light was dawning. This was going to be a Dolly thing. Everyone in town must know how mad I was at Dolly and were using this poor soul as a way to tug at my heart strings, this woman with a daughter who’d given away her kid, like Dolly’s mother had. It wasn’t going to work.

“I went to France to find her. I searched everywhere. For a while, I stayed in Paris and put ads in all the newspapers, asking her to contact me. I never heard. I should have acted sooner. Anger didn’t help either one of us. Maybe I could have rescued her …”

I sat back and smiled. “Eugenia sent you over to tell me this story, right?”

The woman nodded. “She thought you should know because you’re so mad at your friend. Like my daughter, she needs your help. Don’t wait …”

Her words deflated me. Like a balloon, curling down flat, I sank into myself. “It’s her choice.” I sounded like a miserable little kid.

“Maybe not. Maybe there’s more we don’t know.”

I raised one hand. “Excuse me … eh … Cate, but what are you doing here? Who the hell are you? And what’s this all about?”

“I overheard people talking and I thought I could help.”

“But …”

She moved to get up.

“Do you go from town to town, righting wrongs and battling evil-doers?”

Cate’s look was withering, and I deserved it. “I’m not staying in Leetsville long. I have a few weeks left, until this End Time thing is finished. Then I’ll be gone. I’ve followed cults before. Something I’m compelled to do. Often, when the disappointment sets in, people need help, someone to talk to, a way to get back to their real lives.”

“Sorry,” I said, and meant it. “But what can I do? I mean, about my friend, Deputy Dolly?”

“Go out there and find her. Talk to her. Let her know how worried you are and then offer her an easy way back to her real life. She may be sorry already, about what she’s done. You could be a lifeline.”

She reached over the table and put one of her knobby hands in tough black lace on mine. “You could be a friend.”

Still 8 days to the end

I left the restaurant
with my jeans tight and my mind in tatters. Walking in circles around my car while I tried to decide where to go next didn’t help. Nor did I feel better when Crystalline, Felicia, and Sonia drove up and parked beside me.

They waved, getting out of their car, all dressed in wild colors or basic black. If it hadn’t been for the reverend and his followers, Leetsvillians would have been titillated. Women like these three didn’t come along very often.

“We’re going to pass out business cards,” Felicia said, putting one in my hand. “Might as well do some healings and some readings while we’re staying here. Crystalline said we should fill our time, and help with the expenses.”

I looked at the card. Tarot Readings. Psychic Healings. Past Life Regressions.

“If you’re interested,” Sonia moved up next to me, “I’ll give you a discount.”

I shook my head. “A little busy …”

“The motel owner gave us Marjory’s things,” Crystalline said as she eyed an older couple going into the restaurant.

“Is he allowed to do that?”

“He said Deputy Dolly went through everything already. He guessed that if he was supposed to keep them she would have said.”

News to me. I hadn’t heard a thing about Dolly going through Marjory’s effects. “I wonder if she found anything,” I said.

“As far as he knows, she took nothing. Wouldn’t she have had to give him a receipt or something?”

I nodded.

“I’m glad we’ve got Marjory’s books, and her notes. She was looking into effecting world peace through joint visualization. People everywhere creating mind pictures of a world without war.” Crystalline looked away, off over the ridge of hills to the east.

“Will you keep up her research?” I asked.

“We’d like to,” Felicia said. “There’s a bigger group, out of Boston. They’ve asked to see the notes Marjory left behind. This is a worldwide project …”

“I needed her Tarot cards anyway,” Crystalline turned back to me. “I left mine at home. Such a big hurry to get up here. You know, Emily, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to read the Tarot for you. Your question could be who did this to Marjory.”

“Maybe later. Right now I’ve got so much on my plate …”

“Be a good idea if you came out and looked through what we’ve got. I’d hate to think we missed something important.”

“I can’t right now. I want to get back to that campground. What Dolly’s done is really bothering me.”

“Don’t blame you,” Sonia said, pushing her dark hair out of her eyes. “She looked like a turnip with that bald head.”

“How about later? When I get to town? Will you be there, at the motel?”

“What time?” Felicia asked. “We might get readings.”

“Twelve-thirty? I can’t imagine taking longer than that. I just want to sit down and have her explain what she’s doing.”

We agreed to meet at the Green Trees Motel and go through everything Marjory left behind. What we were looking for, I had no clue. If Dolly found anything, she sure hadn’t shared the information. What I felt was like being on a slick branch hanging over a furious waterfall and feeling my fingers sliding off, one by one.

There weren’t many people around the campers and pickups parked in and among the trees at the spiritualist campsite. I saw almost no one and, of the few I came upon, I recognized no one. I didn’t have a clue how to find Dolly. Especially not with her in that robe. She could be any one of the anonymous men and women who looked alike and walked alike. I had an empty, lonely feeling, as if she’d been swallowed by a whale. I went back around to the reverend’s RV, where I knocked. No one answered. All I could do was sit at one of the picnic tables where the men had been sitting yesterday and wait until someone came along who would help me.

The bench was cold. A damp wind came through the pines behind me, slurring the branches, making a ghostly sound. A few robed people passed by but didn’t look my way. No one stopped to help. I tried to get one woman’s attention, hurrying over to her only to be elbowed abruptly aside. I went back to the table to wait some more, sitting hunched in my corduroy jacket over a black turtleneck, as fingers of cold worked up and down my spine. If I’d been invisible I couldn’t have been more ignored. I figured they knew who I was by now and, like people in Leetsville, sensed when there was danger among them, someone come to upset the order of things.

Despite the breakfast I’d eaten—and there’d been more than I’d admitted to—I was getting hungry. Or, I was finding an excuse to get up and leave. Watching people take wide circles in order to avoid me did nothing for my self-esteem. I was about to go when one of the robed figures, hood far down over his face, came to where I waited. He worked his long, skinny legs over the bench, then pulled his robe around his body, and said nothing. Finally he turned and lifted his head. Brother Righteous, the man who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, speak; the one who had roused the crowd the other night simply with his sounds. The pale gray eyes I looked into were a sensory shock. There were things there I would never be able to name. Questions shot out at me, and pity, and gentleness, and a form of life I’d never seen before. There was light, as if Godly light inhabited him. The man, this close, was an assault to my system. I pulled back. He looked at me wordlessly, in a language I had no key to. There was, in me, a feeling of being inadequate, that I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, understand what he was trying to say. After a few minutes he moved his lips, but not into words I could make out. When he saw there was no communication between us, he held his mouth still. He looked directly into my eyes, until mine watered and I turned away. I was moved, and so sorry I was letting him down. He shook his head sadly. He laid one of his thin hands on top of mine and left it there, cool and encompassing.

“Do you know where she is?” I whispered toward him, hoping to get through, to make him understand that Dolly wasn’t really like the rest of them. What she wanted was to have a family, not a religion, not a mission to end all life on earth. Dolly needed people who cared if she lived or died.

He nodded slowly, removed his hand from mine, and got up. Without a sign or a gesture to follow, he walked off, the tall, bent, thin man, turning only once to make sure I wasn’t behind him.

I watched him go, wondering if I was supposed to have been reassured, warned, invited—there was no knowing. What I was left with was embarrassment. I looked around to see who had been watching. No one. I got up, clumsily lifting my legs back over the bench, and went out to my car.

While on my way back through Leetsville, I stopped to see Lucky. I told him about Dolly taking a look through Marjory’s things at the motel.

“Didn’t know she’d been out there.” He shook his head as if these were facts about his officer he wished he didn’t have to know. I didn’t own up to going out to the campsite to talk to her. For all I knew, he’d been out there too. I couldn’t see him turning his back on her, nor Eugenia, nor Gloria, nor anyone else in Leetsville. She might make herself unpopular with her speed traps at either end of town but when it came to caring for their own, Leetsville people had their priorities straight.

Lucky told me that Sergeant Winston would be at the station Wednesday and wanted to talk to me and Lucky together. I promised I’d show up, mentally planning to get my ghost story for Bill done by then. Lucky let me use his phone to call the nursing home in Bellaire to see if I could visit Cecily Otis any time soon. The nurse thought her cold might be about over by the next day, if that would be all right with my schedule. She asked for my name but I hung up after mumbling something like Apple Tart. I didn’t want my name preceding me, nor any other reason for Cecily Otis to refuse to see me.

On the way out to the Green Trees Motel, I came up with excuses to get out of having Crystalline read the Tarot for me. I was too superstitious to allow anyone to tell me what my future was. What if that made it happen, by saying it aloud? Dumb. Irrational. I just didn’t want to sit down and pretend to take a Tarot reading seriously.

Sonia opened the door and invited me in. The room was a typical up-north motel room—generic bedspreads and drapes and fake mahogany headboards and suspicious-looking indoor carpeting. They’d spread Marjory’s thing out on one of the double beds—mostly a pile of long skirts and a couple of bright sweaters. There was a stack of underwear, which we all ignored because there is something so sad about old underwear, something so raggedy looking. Her black purse was on the bed beside the other things.

Crystalline upended the purse on top of a pair of paisley print pajamas. “I’ve been through everything,” she said, separating the tampons from the Kleenex and a rubber-banded stack of business cards with one finger. I went through Marjory’s wallet—the usual: driver’s license, money, Sears and Citibank credit cards. There was a Toledo library card, car insurance, and registration. There were a couple of folded utility bills she had probably meant to take care of while she was gone, and the usual round brush, lipstick—bright red—and blush.

There were a couple pairs of shoes on the floor beside the bed and a pair of not-too-clean white slippers. From a beige bag with the word HOPE emblazoned on one side and the name of a bookstore on the other, Crystalline pulled a pack of Tarot cards and several pink quartz stones. There was a package of stick incense—lavender. There were three books on shamanism. I picked up one after the other and ruffled the pages while holding them upside down. Nothing fell out.

There was a notebook, but Crystalline said there were only notes of expenses, appointments—business things. There was a card folder filled with business cards from other shamans and psychics and readers, as well as cards from customers. Marjory had quite an upscale clientele: lawyers and doctors and one Episcopalian priest. She must have been good at what she did. I sighed, sticking the cards back into their folder and thinking how I could certainly use Marjory’s psychic talents in the mess I was currently in.

As I looked through things, Sonia put her hand on mine, stopping me. “I have to tell you something, Emily.” Something important was caught in the hush of her voice.

The other two women shot glances at me and then at each other. The room went still.

“It’s about that reverend.”

I waited, wondering what was coming at me now.

“His aura’s white.”

I waited for more. “I … don’t know what that means.”

Sonia looked at the others, then back to me. “Death,” she said, shaking her head with a soft tinkle of her earrings, like far-off wind chimes. “Bright white. It means he’s going to die, and soon. The man’s not kidding, Emily. He might be right. The world could end.”

I took a deep breath. Insanity was growing all around me. If only I knew the words to stop it. Even in this nondescript room I could feel the fear—a child’s fear of the unknown.

I looked at Crystalline as she held the pack of Marjory’s Tarot cards in her taut hands, turning it between her fingers, averting her eyes. I didn’t know what I could say to challenge something I knew nothing about: white aura. Probably as good as misreading Scripture to frighten the masses.

After a few silent moments, Crystalline opened the Tarot pack and let the cards slide out into her right hand. For a minute she simply held them, then fingered them, running one of her long, bright nails across the back of the top card. She felt the card again, then flipped the deck so it lay face up in her hand. On top now was a piece of white paper. It looked as if it had been torn from a book of lined notepaper.

Crystalline looked at me, then set the deck on the bed, taking up the torn paper and opening it. She read:

Marjory—I am a friend of your brother. He is in terrible danger and afraid of what might happen. Please come to Leetsville. Everything began here. He will know when you get to town, or someone will contact him. Above all, he says he is very sorry … but he needs your help. There are things that happened in this town. They have to be exposed. He needs you now as he’s never needed you before.