Ira Levin (19 page)

    He put the can on the carpet, away from his bare foot; leaned closer to her. "I shouldn't tease," he said. "I know you're worried. Don't be. I only lied a little. I'm sorry. I was afraid I might scare you away again, after you'd been gone so long. Mom, look at me. Please."

    She turned her head, looked at him.

    He said, his eyes clear hazel, "What's going on here isn't Satanism. I don't worship him, believe me. To know him is to hate him,- he lives up to his reputation. This is-trimmings, things I grew up withand like, that's all. Those were the only parties and holidays I knew. This isn't even witchcraft, we don't do spells or anything. It's no more Minnie and Roman's old-time religion than-than an office Christmas party is Rob Pat- terson's. Listen to that…" He nodded across the room.

    Chanting had begun-coming from a speaker in the forest-green carpet between the tops of the dressing- room doors-an undulant chanting twined with odd, quivering overtones. "Do you recognize it?" he asked.

    She cocked an ear toward the speaker.

    "Did you ever-take part in any-was

    She shook her head. "No," she said. "I heard though. Through the walls, and the closet. You know."

    He nodded, smiled.

    She said, "This is different…"

    "It's one of the old chants," he said, "but Hank's done things with it electronically-that's his hobby, elec tronic music. That's exactly what I mean-taped chants, electronically enhanced." He smiled. "Play them backwards, you hear the Lord's Prayer."

    She smiled, sipped from the mug. Glanced at him as he picked up the can and drank, his Adam's apple moving. She put the mug on the trunk, sat back with her hands on the chair arms, looked ahead. Crossed her legs. Sniffed. Fanned a hand before her face.

    "It really is an office Christmas party," he said, setting the can back down. "Done the way Andy likes it. They accept it as an interesting, not so exceptional kink in someone who has to present a full-time public image of conventional goodness-a kink that Andy somehow intuited each of them could go along with, for his or her own reason. It connects in a way with those professional types coming down out of Dominique's Dungeon Monday night. At least according to Vanessa; she wrote her thesis on the subject."

    He leaned closer to her. "These are talented people who do a world of good," he said, "and they ease the stress and let off steam with some unconventional behavior. They're no more Satanists than you are; half of them are regular churchgoers. Jay's an officer of his synagogue." He put his hand on hers on the chair arm. "And they're not murderers, Mom," he said. "And I didn't tell them to murder. That's what you're most worried about, isn't it."

    Looking at him, she nodded. "Yes," she said.

    He sat back, shook his head, raked his tawny hair. "I don't understand," he said. "Why? I suppose you could say Judy meant to betray me last summer, but she didn't. We had absolutely no idea who she really was."

    "She came to tell me something," she said, "not for a game of Scrabble."

    He looked away, shook his headst sighed. Looked back at her. "Probably that she was ending our relationship," he said. "Things fell apart in Dublin. Guess which night." He picked up the can, drank.

    "She'd already told me that," she said, watching him. "I think she was going to tell me about this."

    "Mom, it's nothing," he said. "See for yourself, watch for a few minutes. Her robe is in there; put it on, pull the cowl all the way down, nobody'll know it's you. They'll think I brought someone, I used to before. You'll see, it's just a party with some druid chants and old dances and good eats. Black candles instead of red and green, tannis instead of holly-big deal."

    She looked at him. Said, "Thanks but no thanks."

    "Nobody would pressure you to do anything," he said.

    "I said no," she said. "Even if it's as innocent as you-was

    "I didn't say innocent," he said. Smiled. "I said not Satanism, and no pressure. Chances are William will grope you, but if you slap his hand he won't do it again. Muhammed's more persistent."

    "And if Judy had gone to the media with just that?" she asked. "Just 'druidic

    office parties at GCNY"?"

    He sat a moment, and got up and walked toward the dressing-room doors, draining the can under his upside- down reflection sucking at his.

    He crumpled the can, tossed it into a wastebasket, turned and faced her. "It would have been an embarrassment, yes," he said, "but believe me, Mom, I never would have hurt her little finger to stop her. I really loved her-even after Thanksgiving."

    She looked away. A drumbeat joined the chanting, slow and steady…

    "And I don't believe she'd have done x/" he said, going back to her. "She enjoyed everything as much as anyone. She gave us Yoga ideas we've made part of things." He crouched by her chair. "Come on," he said, his hand squeezing hers on the chair arm. "Just for a few minutes. For us, you and me. How can we go on having fun together, like today, with you thinking maybe I'm still lying and they're out there chopping heads off chickens?"

    She sighed. "I wasn't thinking that." "What were you thinking?" he asked.

    She looked at him, blinked, shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "A 'Black Massst I guess. I don't really know…"

    "What are you," he asked, smiling at her, "a cardinal who condemns movies he hasn't seen? Books he hasn't read?"

    "Oh God, Andy," she said, "all right, you win." She got up from the chair as he stood up straight, smiling, taking her by the shoulders with both hands. "I'm glad it worked out this way," he said. "It's like you showing me things in Ireland. These are my roots, sort of, some of them. I never thought I'd be able to let you see." He kissed her cheek; she kissed his, where his beard began.

    "I'm only going to stay two minutes," she said. "It's been a long day and I'm very tired."

       He watched her, smiling, straightening his robe, cinching his belt, as she went to the women's dressing room, her reflection walking upside down above her, in sync with the beating drum. she stood hand in hand with him by the wall at the side of the stage, her eyes seeing farther into the dark, into the dusk of candle flames, pastel spotlights, dimmed red exit signs. A dozen feet away, cowled robes, sleeve to sleeve, sidestepped slowly back and forth, a circle wheeling counterclockwise. Voices trailed the airborne voices" undulant chanting, the drum leading, a fife or flute piping along, all entwined in reverberent echoes. Rust robes, brown robes, darkly the same in the forest shade, swaying, sidestepping comonly the violet robe's wearer known for sure.

    And the shortest robe's wearer, Jay.

    And the tallest robe's, Kevin. Oops.

    She glimpsed, beyond linked sleeves, the highlights of a dark chair. Whispered, leaning closer to Andy, "Is that Hank in the center?"

    "No," he whispered, "I sit there.ffHe's in the circle."

    She turned her head, letting go his hand, drawing the cowl farther aside to look at him.

    His bearded face wrapped in black, he nodded. "It's the only time he can stay on his feet more than a few minutes," he said. "I gave him a pep talk before." He smiled at her. "Stay till this is over, okay? Ten minutes, tops. They won't leave the circle." He kissed at her, and turned and went, his robe swirling about his bare heels, his Achilles' tendons.

    She watched dark sleeves part and lift to let the black robe through; the sleeves slid down from pale arms, a wide silver bracelet glinting on the slim arm on the left. The robe's cowl turned her way-darkness, a shadow face-as the sleeved arms linked again. The cowl faced the other cowl; that one leaned its shadow face toward her as the circle of dancers wheeled farther counterclockwise.

    Andy was sitting now, stage center, facing front, all black robe, glossed with pastel by the overhead spots- all black except the tip of his beard and his left hand on the chair arm. The violet robe lowered itself to a seat before him. Cowl facing cowl, they linked sleeves, while the chanters sidestepped to the beating drum. The cowls stayed facing, violet and black-then met, and parted. The violet robe rose, Andy's hand helping. He beckoned before him. A dark robe, brown, moved in from the circle; violet and brown changed places. The chanters sidestepped, the drum beat on.

    Rosemary swayed with the drum, her sleeved arms away from her sides so the nubbly silk could brush her skin-incredibly sensitive all over. Maybe from the pill-or could it be the tannis? Or the combo; she hoped there was no danger there.

    But she felt super, as fresh and loose as if she were in some disco with Guy, the bastard, back in the good times. Cowls turned shadow faces toward her,she smiled at them, knowing she was as faceless as they, if not more, beyond the spotlights' glow, the nearest candles yards to her side.

    Had they guessed who she was? Or did they think Andy had found a new girl already-perfectly understandable haste in someone who had to project so much conventional goodness. She swayed more freely with the chant and the drum-a foreign visitor he'd picked up in the lobby. Italian. No, Greek. Melina Mercouri. Swaying, silk brushing her skin…

    Pale fingers beckoned from two or three sleeves in the circle. She shook her cowled head, smiling, swaying. Never on Christmas…

    The dance was simple-two steps forward and one step back, with a variation on every fourth drumbeat. A slow-motion folk dance, steady, unhurried. Hardly a challenge for Ginger Rogers. She tried the step anyway, the carpet soft under the soles of her feet.

    What would Joe make of the scene? A case for the Vice Squad? Maybe… but maybe not. She could also see him looking for a robe. He had an adventurous spirit that she really liked, and lacked herself. The AlfaRomeo, for instance.

    Oh what the hell.

    She snugged the robe, cinched the belt, fixed the cowl for maximum coverage. Took a deep breath-and walked slowly, slowly, along with the drumbeat, to the circle of robed dancers, to parting sleeves, hands that took her hands warmly.

    She danced with the circle, sharing its rhythm, finding its steps, watching black-robed Andy and a rustrobed woman holding hands, talking:" She circled sidestepping past his shoulder, holding Vanessa's cocoa hand, greenish in the forest light, its usually clear nails painted black or near-black. When their arms swung, a chain bracelet rolled in and out under Vanessa's rust sleeve-large round silver links.

    The brown robe following Rosemary was tallWilliam or Craig. She kept a firm grip on his hand, in case it was William the Groper. Closing her eyes, she hummed with the chant, not caring to parrot the syllables, dancing comfortably, answering some kind of mammalian herd instinct, all her senses awake… "Pssst!" Vanessa's hand squeezed hers and let go. "Andy wants you!"

    He beckoned; she was almost in front of him, a brown robe rising.

    She went with the drumbeat to a backless black seat; gathered the robe around her, sat on flat warmth.

    Their robed knees touching, she gave him her hands, looked at him smiling at her in his black cowl. "I was hoping," he said.

    "You knew damn well, you bastard," she said.

    "My own mother? Shame…"

    She said, "What do you say when they sit here?"

    He looked at her, his smile fading. "I thank them," he said. "For everything they do for GC and for me. And I tell them how glad the rest of us are that they're part of the circle. And they say whatever they feel like-air a gripe or admit a mistake or just say "Thanks, same here." In the coven, they knelt before Roman, vowed undying loyalty to Satan and him, and he pricked his finger with a dagger and they drank a drop of his blood. You can see why it didn't grab me."

    She sat silent, holding his hands, looking at him as he smiled again. "Here we kiss each other on the lips," he said. "Chastely. The ball's in your court."

    She said, "Chastely is easy." Leaned, pecked his lips, was up, hands free, before he could help her. t caret ss caret from caret from caret Aj) caret tilde the "good eats"-laid out by the rust robes after the dance, along the amphitheater's first high curving step-were only so-so: warmed-over standards from the kitchen downstairs and icky-looking pates. There was a terrific eggnog though, with a bit of a kick and a hint of tannis, served up at center stage out of a handsome silver punch bowl-not the hotel's plated stuff but the unmistakable real thing, simple, shining, sterling-stabbed with six or seven pastel light-beams on a table draped in forest green, where Andy had sat.