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MICHIGAN STATE UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES

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This is to certify that the

thesis entitled
LUNATICS AND LOVE

presented by

James Andrew Davis

has been accepted towards fulfillment
of the requirements for

MaSIL-LRL degree in _E_11gl_iih_

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PLACE IN RETURN BOX to remove this checkout from your record.
TO AVOID FINES return on or before date due.

DATE DUE DATE DUE DATE DUE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MSU Is An Affirmative Action/Equal Opportunity Institution
c:\cIrc\dstedm.pm3-p.1

 

LUNATICS AND LOVE

By

James Andrew Davis

A Thesis
Submitted to
Michigan State University
in partial Fulfillment of the requirements
for the degree of

MASTER OF ARTS

Department of English

1990

 

 

c}?

m

8

I.‘

@415 -

ABSTRACT
LUNATICS AND LOVE
By

James Andrew Davis

In these six short stories, the main characters are
maladjusted, isolated and have poor self—esteem: an angry
abused child, a self-righteous street preacher, a psychotic
custodian, a mystic who can see demons, a lonely senior
citizen and a confused teenager who becomes involved in a
cult.

Their mental states vary from depressed to psychotic.
As a result, they attract extraordinary conflicts in their
relationships. When they encounter people who are willing
to give time and attention, they respond to kindness, empathy
and love and are changed from a negative focus on life to
a positive one.

The main characters gain feelings of self—worth and
realize that their state of happiness or sorrow is a choice
they make. But choosing to live life in a positive attitude

is difficult without significant relationships with other

people.

 

 

 

Copyright by
JAMES ANDREW DAVIS

1990

Dedicated to
my parents,
Robert and Corinne Davis,
for a lifetime of

love and encouragement

 

 

iv

LOVE ALWAYS PROTECTS
NO LONGER THE ENEMY
LUCKY NIGHT
DEMON STEAM
THE HEALING

THE DWANA CULT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

18
26
49
75
92

 

 

LOVE ALWAYS PROTECTS

The screaming had finally stopped.

Ronnie Cummings released his grip on the pillow he had
pressed against his ears. Silence. Opening his eyes, he
rolled over and sat up. No lights appeared from below the
bedroom door. He knew the living room was now dark, empty
and safe. Throwing the covers back, he slid off the bed.
The room's blackness fascinated Ronnie who knew every stain,
hole and paint chip. He could see the room in his imagination
as easily as with his eyes open and the lights on. He
silently walked to the lamp and turned the switch. On an
end table next to his chair sat his school books. Reading
was on top, then math, with spelling on the bottom. His
homework had diverted his mind for only an hour this Friday

evening.

 

But the screaming had stopped. Some days it would
last all night. Now he could dream about Monday in Mrs.
Williams' classroom. Ronnie had been afraid that third
grade would be too hard. He felt silly now. He loved school.
Mrs. Williams, young, pretty, always saying, "This will be
fun," Mr. Johns, the janitor, who let some of his favorites
help push the sawdust around the gym floor with those big
moppy brooms, Miss Levins, the office lady who always smiled,
and, of course, Ronnie's friends. Even the girls, running
and playing. Safe. Ronnie knew that was it. School was
safe. He was safe. And if his mom would go to school with
him, she would be safe, too.

He had thought she might get a job working with the
library lady and had suggested it once. His mom had only
smiled and said, "I don't think so."

Listening again, he knew they were sleeping. He walked
to the door, turned the knob, and eased it open. His room
light poured out, and Ronnie saw the coffee table covered
with beer cans. An ash tray stuffed with cigarette butts
sat near the edge. Their old couch and chair were still
where they belonged. Their fight hadn't been so bad, Ronnie
thought.

He scanned the floor for broken glass. None. He
tiptoed across the flat carpeting into the kitchen. The
usual dirty dishes had been washed and put away. Ronnie
knew this because the sink was empty. He pulled the kitchen
window curtains open letting in dim light from the street

lamps. On the back of one chair next to the table hung a

 

3
leather jacket. Ronnie slid his hand into a side pocket.
He found a cigarette lighter and an empty Ziploc bag which
after examining for a moment, he returned.

Slipping his fingers into the other pocket, he heard
change touching edges. To Ronnie, it sounded like church
bells in the distance. Fingers searching, he grasped the
coins and pulled them out. Opening his hand, he began
counting when suddenly the living room light burst on.

Ronnie released the curtain and ducked behind the table
sliding into the corner. The man he hated stepped from his
mother's bedroom. Ronnie knew him too well. Ronnie could
smell his foot odor and heard those clomping bare feet on
the carpet sounding like someone was walking a horse around.
How can skin on carpet make such a clatter? Ronnie wondered.
Holding his breath, Ronnie heard the man muttering, talking

I

to himself. "Dumb bitch, goddamn....' A cigarette lighter
clicked. Ronnie held perfectly still.

The light snapped off, and his mom's boyfriend, Russ,
creaked his body back into bed. Ronnie exhaled. He'd heard
the jerk say, ”Dumb bitch" a lot. Ronnie had even looked
it up in the old dictionary in the school library: "bitch:

a female dog” it read. That made no sense at all!

A couple other times, he had heard the jerk say, "Goddamn
slut" in an angry voice. Ronnie'd tried looking that up,
too, but it wasn't in the dictionary. He'd thought of asking
Mrs. Williams what it meant but decided against it. He had

an idea: real bad, or maybe worse than rotten, smelly,

ugly and real bad.

 

Slut wasn't a good word.

Ronnie listened and heard no creaking bed or voices,
so he crept to his bedroom. His open door plainly showed
Ronnie's light and empty bed, but the jerk had been too
dumb to notice. Ronnie strode in and eased the door shut.
Opening his palm, he counted ninety—seven cents: three
quarters, two dimes, and two pennies. Gently, he placed
each coin on top of his reading book, smiled, flicked off

the light and slid back into bed.

Ronnie sat right in front of the television. Watching
Saturday morning cartoons alone for five hours was great.
Nobody nagged. No one screamed. For a while, the living
room was safe. At eleven—thirty, his mom, wearing jeans and
a Los Angeles Lakers T—shirt, pushed through the door into
the apartment's living room. Ronnie watched her. She slunk
as if ashamed or trying to hide. Her head tilted forward
flopping brown hair over her face. Slowly, she lumbered
into the kitchen. The faucet burst on and off. Ronnie knew
she was swallowing aspirin.

"Hi, Mom,' Ronnie said while staring at the cartoon.
He heard the glass clunk against the sink.

"You want breakfast?" she said.

Ronnie shook his head no. He'd already eaten a bag
of the jerk's potato chips during "Pound Puppies." When
some ads came on, Ronnie glanced toward the kitchen. She

filled a glass carafe with water, and when she whirled around

to pour it into the coffee maker, her hair flipped up, and

 

Ronnie saw the black and purple stain on her face. Startled,
he jumped to his feet and rushed toward her. She looked
down and turned her back on him.

"What happened?” Ronnie said.

"I fell and hit the door," she answered. The coffee
brewing smell.and gurgling began. Ronnie watched her. "It'll
be okay in a few days."

Stepping right next to her, Ronnie could see the bruise
surrounding her left eye. It reminded him of Jeff Lawson's
eye when a baseball had hit him. "You hit a door? How?"

"Well, I fell. I was tired and I fell."

Ronnie knew she was lying. Sad and angry, he wished
it were Monday. "This would never happen to Mrs. Williams,"
he blurted. She began to say something, but he ignored her.
He knew the truth. She and the jerk had been screaming
early in the morning and now she had a black eye. He had
done this. "You know, Mom, you look real ugly,” Ronnie said.
"I hate both of you." He marched to the television knowing
she already felt bad, and he was making it worse. He loved

her but all this was so evil. And it was her fault.

A little after noon, Russ Denbow, rubbing both hands
through his greasy hair, stepped into the living room wearing
only gray boxer shorts. He stunk of smoke and sweat. Ronnie
tried not to look at him but did anyway. The jerk was hung
over.

" Russ muttered. Ronnie heard a

"I smelled coffee,

kiss smack and then coffee pouring. "Uh, I'm sorry, uh,

 

..__. —;L,147u_b_'k.c%igi,i ,, L i, no ,7- ,: , , Ci, 7 ., \_

I was drunk, you know."

Turning his whole body, Ronnie watched his mother slide
both hands around the jerk's shoulders. He touched her, too,
and they hugged. Slamming his eyes shut, Ronnie looked away.
The living room filled with hatred. Standing, Ronnie punched
the television button off, rushed into his bedroom and closed
the door.

About an hour later, Ronnie heard the jerk talking
and the front door snap. He was probably going somewhere
to drink beer and watch football on television. A light
hand tapped on Ronnie's door. "Ronnie? Come on out."

He thought about it and being bored playing alone,
got up from the floor as she pushed the door open. "Come
on out. You don't want to stay in there all day, do you?"

Ronnie glanced at her. She'd tried putting make up
over the bruise which looked like pink frosting stuck around
her eye. He wanted to scrape it off. Instead, he looked
at the floor. "There's football on TV," she said. "I'll
make some lunch."

He didn't want her to feel happy. She should be
punished for letting the jerk live with them. He slowly
walked past her and flicked on the television. Flopping
on the couch, trying to look bored and disgusted, Ronnie
stared at her.

"You must be hungry," she said while walking toward the
kitchen. Lunch and television didn't make it all right.

This was all wrong. Ronnie watched her moving around the

kitchen, opening the refrigerator, taking dishes, moving a

 

knife, pouring milk.

II

"I'm goin', he said as he stood.

"But lunch...."

He marched for the door, shoved it open, and ran across
the yard. Lifting his bicycle, he swung his leg over it,
and pumped his legs as hard as he could. He zoomed onto the
driveway and down the street.

Ronnie wanted her to chase after him, but when he glanced
back at the end of the block, she was not in sight. He
knew she had just closed the door. She would have chased
after the jerk. He was sure of that.

While riding around the neighborhood, he didn't know
where to go. The jerk's ugly face and smelly feet kept
appearing in Ronnie's mind. Heart pounding, his sweaty
palms gripped the handlebars tighter and anger pulsed through
him. He pedaled faster and soared past a stop sign. Rows
of houses blurred together. His eyes stared straight ahead.
Suddenly, Russ Denbow's face disappeared from Ronnie's mind.
He slowed his pedaling and tried to picture that hideous face.
It was gone, and he couldn't remember what the jerk looked
like.

The bike coasted up a slight hill and finally stopped
next to a leaf pile at the curb. While pressing his feet
into the crinkling leaves, the sun beamed and a red Camaro
cruised past.

"I hate the jerk,” Ronnie said but didn't feel it
anymore. "I hate him. He's a...." It didn't work. The

jerk wasn't the real problem. He thought a moment. It

 

8

must be his mom. She was supposed to be in charge yet she
had invited this jerk to live with them. 'He should hate
his mother, so he tried. Images of her sad face and bruised
eye filled his mind. She looked weak and tired. Ronnie
decided, she wouldn't get rid of Russ by herself. Could
Ronnie make him leave? No. Who could help? Mrs. Williams?
No.

He kicked some sticks and then rolled his bicycle
forward. His dad lived a few blocks from here. Ronnie
saw him every other weekend usually for an hour or so at
lunch or dinner. He was a big man with strong hands and
a scruffy face. His trailer was not far. Ronnie rushed

down the street.

Joe Cummings raked leaves into a large pile on the
edge of his lot. Taking a pack of matches from his pocket,
he lit one and ignited the dry leaves. He stepped back and
took a deep breath.

"Hi, Dad."

Joe leaned against the rake and glanced to his side.

His son stood next to his pickup truck holding a stingray

bicycle. Joe was surprised and a little concerned. This
was not his weekend. "Uh, well, what are you doin' here,
boy?"

He watched Ronnie lay the bike on the ground and step
toward the smoldering fire which suddenly exploded into
flames. "Don't get too close." The child wore no jacket,

only sneakers, jeans and a red sweatshirt. The fifty degree

 

9
temperature and whispering breeze chilled Joe as he worked
wearing a wool jacket and gloves. This was just like the
boy's mother, he thought. "Where's your coat? Aren't you
cold? This is no day to be riding around with no coat."

Ronnie shrugged and opened his palms toward the fire.

"Your mom know you're here?"

Ronnie looked down and shook his head no. "I came on
my own."

Oh no, Joe thought. Great. The kid's here illegally.
That's all he needed was his ex—old lady reporting him to
the court. "You're not supposed to be here. This isn't
our weekend. You'll get me in trouble. Your mom is supposed
to know when you're going to visit me. You better go back
home." He raked some leaves into the fire as he worked his
way around the pile.

"Dad, uh, I was wondering. How come I can't live with
you?"

Joe stopped raking and looked at the boy. "The court
decided. You know, the judge. It was just part of the
divorce. Anyways, I'm always working and don't have time
to babysit. You're better off with her." Joe didn't like
this conversation. He felt free now and didn't want or need
this kid burdening him.

"But, Dad, Russ lives with us now. He moved in last
week and...."
"Ch, Russ is the latest? Russ Denbow? He's such a
n

jerk.

Ronnie nodded. "Well, Mom's got a black eye today.

 

10
I think Russ hit her last night when he was drunk. I thought
you...."

Joe smiled and then chuckled as he raked some leaves
that had blown off back into the fire. "A shiner, huh?
What'd she do to get that?" This'll let her know just how
good she had it with me, he thought. After all, they'd had
to sell the house and now he was stuck in this rotten trailer.
Maybe there was a little justice in the world.
"I thought you...."

"Whatever happens, kid, with your mom is her business.
Don't expect me to yell and cry and go crazy just cause
she got herself punched."

When Joe quit raking, he noticed Ronnie had stepped
back and was staring at the ground. Feeling a little
uncomfortable, Joe said, "You gonna watch football today?"
Ronnie shook his head no and then shrugged as he kicked at
the burning leaves. "Careful, don't hurt yourself." The
kid strode into the ashes, and flames licked at his pantlegs.
Joe dropped the rake, rushed to the boy, and with strong
arms heaved him up into the air away from the fire. "What's
the matter with you? You trying to burn your clothes?

When I tell you to be careful, I mean it." He set the boy
down next to his bicycle.

"Dad," he whispered. "What's a goddamn slut?"

"Huh?"

"Russ said it. Goddamn slut."

"Oh? He call your ma that?" Ronnie nodded yes. "It's

not nice. It's bad. Don't you say it. It's a dirty word."

 

11

"Dad," Ronnie said a little louder. "What's a bitch?"

"Russ called her a bitch, too?" Ronnie nodded. "Well,
she's picked a real gentleman this time, hasn't she? Don't
you use that word either. It's dirty."

Ronnie serunched his eyebrows and wrinkled his forehead.
"I know it's dirty but what does slut mean?"

Suddenly, the trailer door flew open rapping against
the wall. Wearing only one of Joe's white dress shirts,
Renee stood in the doorway itching her stomach with both
hands. She squinted in Joe's direction.

"Hey, Beefcake, how's it hangin'?" Her knotted brown
hair swayed in the breeze. Joe stared at her and suddenly
felt Ronnie tugging on his fingers.

"Who's she?" Ronnie said.

"Who's that with you? I don't got my contacts in,"
she yelled.

Joe decided to answer the easy question. "This is my
boy, Ronnie."

"Oh, that's nice. You got any pizza? I'm hungry."

"Check the fridge." So he wasn't the perfect role model,
so what? He was just human like everybody else. Now he
not only had to get rid of her before tonight's poker game,

I

he also had to send the kid home. "She's Renee,’ Joe said
to Ronnie. Three drinks in a bar and ten hours later he
was still burdened with her presence. "She'll be leaving
soon."

Ronnie turned his back on the trailer and faced the fire.

"You ought to get home before your ma worries." Ronnie

 

 

12
shrugged. Pulling his wallet from his pocket, Joe tugged
a dollar out and pushed it toward the boy. "Here's a present
for you." Ronnie reached up and took the bill. "You go
buy yourself something at the store and then head on home,
okay?" Ronnie nodded and Joe felt relieved.
Just then the door slapped open and Renee hollered,

"You got anything besides this light beer?"

Rhonda Morten touched her fingertips along the edge of her
eye. The slightest pressure hurt. She wasn't even sure
how this had happened. Last night, Ronnie had been putting
on his spoiled brat routine refusing to sit in the living
room with Russ who had been watching television and drinking
beer while she washed and dried the dishes. She'd drunk
three or four glasses of Chablis as she worked. The evening
had passed quickly. She had showered and got ready for
bed. At midnight, they started watching some dumb horror
movie about nude teenage sunbathers being dismembered by
their psychotic high school counselor who wore bib overalls,
cowboy boots, a catcher's mask and carried a machete.

"Let's see what else is on," Rhonda had said.

"Naw, it's just getting to the good part,” Russ had
answered.

”Good part? In this movie, there's no good part. This
movie's retarded. Come on, change the channel."

Russ had suddenly sat up straight. "Don't you call
me names, you dumb bitch. I ain't no retard."

"I didn't say you were. I was talking about this stupid

 

13

movie."

 

"Don't you call me stupid, you goddamn slut."

Irrational. It went on like that for a few more minutes,
and then she remembered standing in the bathroom crying and
splashing cold water on her eye. She couldn't remember
getting hit. She wasn't drunk, but still she couldn't
remember. She had made him angry, so she got hit. That
was it. She'd have to make sure she didn't make him angry
again.

No man had ever hit her before. Rhonda was going to
make sure it didn't happen again.

What did she feel for Russ? Did she love him? Yes,
she thought so. But why? He wasn't handsome or rich.
In fact, he was rather homely and was usually broke. He
wasn't gentle or kind. He didn't like children. Russ argued
about dumb things. He'd bought a 1988 Notre Dame football
cap and called the Fighting Irish "My Team." It's easy
to associate yourself with a winner after the victories

are history, she thought.

 

And why had she asked him to live with her? She now
realized Russ needed to shower more often. He never shined
his shoes. His hair was always greasy, and he needed to
floss his teeth.

When they first met, she had been moping about losing
Joe. She thought Russ was fun. Rhonda remembered him
telling jokes and showing off. One time a creep in a bar
had called her "Bimbo." Russ had defended her by confronting

the man until he backed down and sheepishly apologized.

14
That night, Russ had seemed strong and very masculine.

But that had happened months ago. What did she like
about him now? He didn't gamble except for lottery tickets.
That was a positive. Thinking for a moment, she decided
the reason he didn't gamble was because he had no money. His
1977 Buick wasn't fit for a demolition derby. His shoes
should be burned. She smiled. "And his body contained

enough gas to torch all of Brazil,‘ she said and laughed
outloud.

The front door squeaked open and Ronnie stepped inside
carrying a brown paper bag. Rhonda watched him carefully
shut the door. Extending her hands toward him, she said,
"Come here." The boy rushed to her on the couch and pounced
onto her lap hugging her with both arms. "You're getting
so big. Before I know it, you'll be all grown up." She
brushed her fingers through Ronnie's hair.

Ronnie leaned back and handed her the bag. "I got
you presents at the store."

She felt surprised. "You did? Where'd you get the
money?"

"Dad gave it to me. I had one dollar and ninety-seven
cents."

She pulled the bag open and reached in. With exaggerated
smiles, she removed a pack of gum, a small bag of candy,
and a can of fruit cocktail. "Oh, how wonderful. Thank
you so much. Thank you." She pressed a gentle kiss into
his cheek as he hugged even tighter.

She knew love. Holding her child during a calm

 

15

afternoon, talking, listening, caring and giving for her

 

son's well—being, cooperating and not hurting the one she
loved. A statement she had heard somewhere popped into

her mind: Love is patient, love is kind, it is not easily
angered. Love always protects, trusts, hopes and preserves.

Sitting there holding her son, Rhonda Morten knew her
life had to change.

The front door snapped open and cracked against the
wall. Russ marched in. Rhonda watched his cheek muscles
ripple as he ground his teeth. Shaking both clenched fists,
he said, "You know that jackass, Ray Snyder? He don't think
the Raiders are a good team. Just cause they lost a few
don't mean they don't still got a shot at the Super Bowl.

So that ass says I don't know nothin' about football, so I
says you wouldn't know manure if you got a mouthful, so he
says get out, so I took my beer bottle and smashed it all
over the kitchen floor. So Ray comes for me, but the
other guys grab him, and as I left I called him every name

in the book. I hate those stupid asses." He flopped on

 

the couch. Rhonda stared at him. After a long silent moment,
Russ said, "Turn on the TV. The game's on." Rhonda wrapped
her arms around Ronnie and kissed the top of his head.
"Come on, turn it on."
"You can't get up?" she said.
"I thought we settled this last night," Russ said.
Silence. At least a minute passed. Then Ronnie shot
out of Rhonda's grasp and pounced onto Russ. Fists slammed

against Russ's surprised face again and again. "I hate you.

16

You're a dumb bitch." Russ caught and held the child's
arms in his big hands. Ronnie's sneakers stomped into Russ's
groin and kicked relentlessly. "You're a goddamn slut,"

screamed Ronnie, red faced and exploding with anger.

Again a male was defending her. Only this time it
wasn't a man but her child. She was the abused one, Rhonda
realized, and by allowing herself to suffer and providing
Russ as a role model she was abusing Ronnie. What positive
values or behaviors could Ronnie learn from him? None.

Her child would learn to hate and respond to people in a
violent way if she allowed Russ to stay. Rhonda had never
been a fighter. Maybe she was a doormat in most situations,
but seeing her son physically threatened released the lioness
in her. A tingling, powerful sensation rose from the base

of her spine to the top of her head.

Rhonda stood and took her glass Coke bottle from the end
table. "Hey, get this brat off me. I don't wanna hurt
him, but I will," stammered Russ.

I

"Don't you dare,‘ Rhonda said while tightening her
grip on the bottle.
"You're a slut. Goddamn. You bitch!" screamed the
child at Russ.
Releasing one of Ronnie's hands, Russ pushed him away
while stretching his right arm back. As Russ formed a
punching fist, Rhonda with both hands clubbed the Coke bottle

onto the top of Russ's head. An empty thud sounded, Russ's

fist dropped to the couch and his fingers spread apart.

 

17
Exhausted, Ronnie tumbled off the couch and watched
Russ's head nod and finally tip to the side. Russ stopped
moving for a moment. The jerk moaned and then was silent.
A dribble of blood drooled down the side of his head,
collected on his jawbone, and then dripped onto his lap.
Ronnie slid away and watched.

Calmly, his mom walked into the kitchen and washed

off the Coke bottle in the sink. "Son, why don't you go
into your room now?" Ronnie sat right there in front of
Russ.

After a few minutes, Russ opened his eyes and clenched
his hands to his head. The jerk wasn't dead. Like a baby

taking his first steps, he stood and staggered toward the

bathroom. Ronnie's mom blocked his path and said, "Get out."
Her steel voice made Ronnie duck behind the chair. He knew
she meant business. Russ turned, blinked his glassy eyes,

and stumbled for the door. His hand smeared blood across
the knob as he labored to escape. "I'll send your stuff

I

over to Ray Snyder's,' she yelled at the jerk as he made
his way to the parking lot.

Later that night as Ronnie lay in bed, his mom kissed
him good night. She flicked off the light and left shutting
the door behind her. Ronnie listened. No screaming or
breaking glass. His mother suddenly seemed a little like
his teacher, Mrs. Williams. He had never noticed that before.
She didn't look different, but Ronnie knew his mom had changed.

In the darkness and silence, Ronnie felt a warmth. He was

safe, and his mom was safe, too.

 

 

 

NO LONGER THE ENEMY

Eddie Bismark wished Satan would be thrown into the
abyss and burned for eternity, today. But Eddie couldn't
control the prophecies. He knew that. His job was to

preach, warn, and rebuke the non—believers, and he loved it.

 

Standing on the corner of Monroe and Fountain Streets, he
would condemn Satan and all the unrighteous. Sometimes he
wore a sandwich board over his shoulders that read "Repent:

II

Your Doom Is Near, but not today.
Last Thursday, a hideous demon-possessed villain had
grabbed the sign, yanked it off his shoulders, and chased
the good apostle up Monroe all the way to Division Avenue
where Eddie had run out of breath. The demon hit Eddie

again and again with the sign, and finally the flimsy

cardboard tore in half. The vile sinner ripped it to shreds,

18

19
blurted an oath, and hurried away leaving Eddie shaken but
not hurt. Eddie was glad he'd had the opportunity to suffer
for righteousness. Stacking hot coals on the sinner's head
and all. As he took his place on the street corner at ten
in the morning, he pulled his stocking cap over his ears
and breathed on his hands. Snowflakes swirled between the
tall buildings and landed on his nose and eyelashes. He
brushed them away.

A line of cars, stopped at the intersection, eased
forward after the light turned green. It was time for Eddie's
first prophecy of the day. "Fear the judgment for all you
evil sinners will burn. The sulphur flames await and the
fury of an angry God will repay your evil with destruction!"

Three young women wearing long wool coats and leather
boots approached the corner. Eddie watched them. At the
curb, the women turned their backs on him. He had seen
these prostitutes before. Their scarves, gloves, and
briefcases couldn't cover their red sins.

"Pain to the prostitutes who shall burn with Satan
in the flaming abyss. For eternity in hell waits for you."

The cars stopped and the walk sign flashed. Eddie
jumped directly behind the women who scurried across the
street like rats escaping from an inferno. He had filled
them with fear and may have turned them toward repentance.
Smiling, Eddie spun around as a crowd of sinners collected
near him. Business people, buyers and sellers of worldly
goods, Satan's children, sent streams of frozen breath toward

the street like dragons preparing to breathe fire.

 

 

20

Eddie leaped blocking their path and raised his hands
to heaven. "Repent, ye vile sinners. Your rotting flesh
leaves a stench in God's nose. Your faces make God raise
his sword in fury. Your words...."

Suddenly, a tall man dressed in black coat, shoes and
gloves stood before Eddie who cowered from this demon's
gaze. His dark eyes blazed and his lips curled under on
one side.

"What do you say we send this bum to his reward?"
the man said. The others started across the street as the
Devil's servant grabbed Eddie's coat and flung him into
the sidewalk. Scraping his hand and bumping his knees,

Eddie looked back as the man crossed the street.

"Get thee behind me, Satan,” Eddie tried to yell but
only mumbled, "Get thee behind...." His hand hurt. Turning
his palm up, blood oozed along the burning spot. Eddie
pressed the sore to his mouth glad that his blood had been
shed for a righteous cause.

"Are you okay?" someone said.

Eddie glanced up, and two young men wearing down jackets
suddenly took hold of Eddie's arms, one on each side, and
lifted him to his feet. Eddie stared at them amazed. The
blond haired one wore a gold pierced earring and had a
cigarette smoldering between his lips. The dark one smiled
and said, "Have a Merry Christmas."

Shocked, Eddie stepped back but said nothing. The men
stood at the corner for a moment and then crossed. Who were

they? Eddie wondered.

 

21
Knees aching, his hand hurting, a cold shiver trembled
Eddie. He had missed the big morning rush, and at the moment
few people walked the streets. He slid toward the brick
wall, one side of a bank, trying to escape the wind. He
breathed on his hands again, but it didn't help. Maybe
he should go back to the YMCA, he thought. The sinners

were indoors warm and comfortable while God's apostle stood

alone, freezing and hurting. "Thy will be done," Eddie
muttered.
"Um, excuse me, sir," a deep voice said. Eddie looked

up and a silver haired man dressed in a cashmere coat stood
there holding a plastic bag. "I hope you don't mind. I
saw you here yesterday and noticed you didn't have any gloves.
I was hoping you'd be here today so I could give these to
you." He pulled a pair of blue snowmobiler's gloves out of
the bag and held them. Eddie stepped back and looked down.
"I understand. Charity may not be what you want, but please
take the gloves. It's about twenty degrees out here."

Eddie looked at the man avoiding eye contact and took
the gloves. "Well, have a Merry Christmas and God bless
you," the man said. Turning away, Eddie pulled the gloves
on. When he glanced toward the street, the man was gone.

His warming hands made the rest of his body feel better.
Eddie noticed the usually gray buildings and sidewalks had
red and green lights strung along the street lamps with
huge wreaths. In the distance, church bells began chiming

"Silent Night Holy Night." Eddie listened and watched as

an elderly woman wearing a mink coat and beret walked out

 

22

 

of the bank and headed toward him. She held a gold box

and whistled the Christmas carol. At the corner, Eddie

jumped into her path. "Repent for the end is near. Your sin

is red as blood and God's judgment...."
"Listen, you," she blurted. "Cut the crap." Eddie's

voice seemed to evaporate in the cold. "I know what you

want. You want to scare me, so I'll run across the street

to get away. Well, I don't scare." With her right index

finger, she poked Eddie's chest. He stepped back and looked

down feeling her eyes burning into his soul. "You must be
freezing," she said. "Come on." She began crossing the
street. Eddie watched her but didn't move. "You," she
commanded pointing a stubby gloved finger at him. "Follow me.
Now!"

Hunching his shoulders, he saw only her silver boots
marching away. Without a thought, he followed. Down the
street, she turned into Joe's Diner, held the door open,
and motioned him inside. The restaurant's warmth surrounded

and filled Eddie. The smell of coffee, bacon and eggs made

 

him breathe deeply. At an empty table, the woman pulled
out a chair and pointed at him. "You, sit!" she ordered.
Eddie rushed to the table and sat. "Just like training
a dog," she muttered. ”Joe, coffee, scrambled eggs, toast,
and hurry on the coffee." With a clatter, she took her chair.
"You want bacon?" Eddie nodded. "Bacon, too, Joe!” she
bellowed.
As she yanked off her hat and gloves, Eddie looked at

her. She had clear blue eyes and a friendly smile that

 

23
contrasted sharply with her determined tone of voice. A
dark haired man set two cups on the table. Eddie pulled
off his gloves.

"I've seen you on that corner scaring people before,"

the woman said as she sipped her coffee. "I'm Irene Dearling.

What's your name?"

Touching the cup's edge, Eddie met her gaze. "This
for me?"
"Drink it. Sure it's for you. You think I'm goin'

to drink two cups at once?" She laughed. Eddie took a sip.
The steam defrosted his face. "So, you got a name or what?
If you don't tell me, I'll have to give you one, and I'm
sure you won't like it."

"Eddie," he whispered.

"Eddie what?"

"Eddie Bismark.”

She nodded. "That's a good name." The waiter slid
plates in front of them, and after a moment, refilled their
coffee cups. "Eat up, Ed. If you don't mind grease, roach
parts and a little rat hair in your food, then Joe's the best
cook in town."

Eddie coughed and laughed. He knew what she meant, but
the hot food tasted great. Eddie devoured it. His plate
empty, he glanced at her and noticed she hadn't taken a bite.

I

"Hey, Joe,‘ she boomed. "Plate two!" She began eating,
and Eddie looked around. The diner was clean, and except
for two other tables, empty. A fat woman fried eggs behind

the counter. The dark haired man filled coffee cups and

 

 

 

 

24
cleared dirty dishes off tables.

"So, Ed, you scare people for a living?" Irene said.

Eddie turned to her but said nothing. The waiter took
away Eddie's empty plate and replaced it with another serving.
Eddie cleared his throat. "I'm an apostle. I point out sin
to sinners."

"How do you know which people are sinners?” she said
softly.

"We live in an evil world. Satan has a foothold. I've
been beaten and thrown down."

"Ed, people think you're crazy. People think you've
escaped from some asylum and are going to pull a knife."

"No."

"Are you crazy?" she said.

"No."

The waiter refilled Irene's coffee. "Thanks, Joe,"
she said.

"I rebuke Satan."

She waited a moment and said, "Ed, haven't you ever
heard 'Do not judge for you shall be judged'? Or how about
'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass
against us'?"

"Sure. I've heard that. It's the Bible." Feeling
uncomfortable, Eddie slurped his coffee.

I

"Well, let's talk about something else,‘ Irene said.
"Who do you want to win the Super Bowl?"
Eddie shrugged. He ate his food and downed his coffee.

"You live some place?” she asked.

 

 

25

Eddie shrugged again, but then said, "At the Y."

She nodded. He finished his breakfast in silence, and
Irene stood up, handed a ten dollar bill to the waiter, put
on her hat and gloves and said, "Have a Merry Christmas, Ed.
And God bless." With that, she clomped out the door and
disappeared. Eddie watched her go. After a moment, he
pulled on his new gloves and walked outside.

After crossing the street, he stood again on his corner.
The snow fell harder and the wind swirled little tornadoes
on the sidewalk. Images filled Eddie's mind: the two boys
who had picked him up, the silver haired man, Irene Dearling.
He stared at his gloves until a couple, young sinners,

approached. A boy, about eighteen, draped his arm over a

girl's shoulders. She squeezed both arms around his waist
as they strolled. Listening, Eddie heard him making smooching
sounds as she giggled. The sinners stopped at the corner

and together turned toward Eddie who heard in his mind,
"Repent your evil ways. The sulphur and flames wait to

repay your sins."

 

Eddie looked up and the couple stood there appearing
a little puzzled. "You okay, mister?" the girl said.

Eddie couldn't answer but finally nodded.

"Have a Merry Christmas," the boy said as they turned
and crossed the street.

Eddie felt cold again. Why stand out here? Was he
crazy? he thought. He didn't know for sure. But he did
know his anger had disappeared, and the people on the street

were no longer the enemy.

LUCKY NIGHT

Lyle Gdowski felt lucky as he slid the heavy vacuum
cleaner down the hallway. This wasn't going to be any dusty
desk dimes night. He sensed electricity in his mind

forwarning a great moment. Maybe he'd find a pile of

 

forgotten cash or a lost diamond. These high style party

 

chumps were always drinking themselves incontinent and
losing their prized treasures behind the toilet where Lyle
would recover them.

He pushed the Grand Ballroom's doors open, flicked
on the light and surveyed the damage. As night man, he
was always left with the real work. The kitchen crew had
already collected the dishes and silverware, and anything
else on the tables had been grabbed before Lyle even had a

chance, so he had to explore the more subtle possibilities.

26

27
The wall clock read ten minutes after three. He had about
eight hours to collect trash, wash the tables, vacuum, clean
the toilets and make everything perfect for tomorrow's
luncheon. Tonight's brawl had probably been a retirement
party, he thought. It couldn't have been a wedding reception,
not on a Wednesday night. Maybe it was some business bash.
Pinstripe execs didn't need any reason to celebrate as long
as it was tax deductible.

Lyle's job was secure because the Manley Hotel was
booked months ahead with conventions, conferences, all kinds
of talkers, who used the ballroom and partied until hotel
security would escort them to their rooms. Lyle started
work at three in the morning Tuesday through Saturday.

He cleaned the same area five times each week which included
a lobby, a coat vestibule, two enormous restrooms and the
Grand Ballroom. Once a month, a crew with scaffolding would
set up and clean the crystal chandeliers and replace any
burnt out lights. That was the only time Lyle ever had
company. Usually, he punched in and did his work from three
till eleven without speaking to anyone.

At six, the morning crew, cooks, waitresses, maids and
desk clerks, punched in, but they ignored Lyle, and he
preferred it that way. They were all losers.

A ripple slithered across Lyle's forehead, an electrical
twitch, telling him to keep alert for glittering in the
trash or crumpled bills. Once he'd spotted a ten dollar
bill soaked and wadded into a napkin on a table. He hadn't

found anything for a few weeks, so this had to be his lucky

 

 

28

 

night.

Lyle rolled the gray rubber trash can down an aisle
as he shoved paper and assorted junk into it. The kitchen
vultures had really cleaned up. Like a robin pecking for
worms, he flitted about the room filling seven trash cans
while finding nothing. Disappointed, Lyle decided to take
a break, so he sat on a velvety chair. His sense of
anticipation slipped away, and his electric ripples vanished.
This wasn't a lucky night after all. He'd just clean up
the mess and go home. His eyes burned a little, so he rubbed
his fingers across them.

The Grand Ballroom was silent and cold like a cave
with its crystals hanging above and its mossy green carpeting
underfoot. Lyle listened and closed his eyes. A gentle
ripple twitched his toes as if spiders were tickling his
feet and gradually slid up his legs and throughout his body.
Alone with his feelings, Lyle knew his first instinct had
been correct. This was his lucky night. All he had to do

was be patient and good fortune would find Lyle Gdowski.

 

Night janitors don't get many fringes, so fate had to make
up for it.

Lyle opened his eyes and the trancelike euphoria
subsided. Standing, he walked toward the ladies restroom.
He'd look around before finishing the ballroom. A long
ripple spasmed the muscles in his right biceps.

Lyle pushed the door open and entered the pink room.
Inside, he thought everything seemed normal. He shoved

each stall door open as he walked. He found nothing and

29
noticed the spasms had ceased. He grasped his right biceps
with his left hand and squeezed the plump muscle. He felt
no peculiar energy. Turning, he scanned the row of sinks.
Nothing. And the room was fairly clean, too. That was good.
Closing his eyes, he faced the long mirrors trying to
reactivate his radar-sense to locate his treasure. Nothing.
He'd lost the sensation.

Lyle opened his eyes and sighed. His face, reflected
in the mirror, said, "So, where is it?" The face stared,
accusing, tight-lipped. "You're so stupid. Get to work,
you lazy good for nothin', and don't you steal any money
from any desks like you did at the Hampton Building. You'll
just get yourself fired again."

"Oh, shut up!" Lyle yelled at the face in the mirror
which suddenly turned serene, expressionless, like a nun
staring at a crucifix. Lyle looked deep into those blue
eyes through the mirror into someplace he'd never been before.
His mind moved in blackness seeing in all directions at once.
He rolled over and over moving farther away from the mirror,
his eyes and his body. He was weightless, formless, a ghost,
dead or maybe alive for the first time.

Suddenly, Lyle's eyes blinked, and he was back in the
pink restroom standing before the mirror. In the reflection,
his smooth skin looked childlike. He brushed his fingers
through his brown hair and noticed a slight twitch in his
left cheek squinting his eye. He'd taken his pill. This
was no big deal. In fact, the palsy was good. It signaled

luck.

 

 

30

His face said, "It's jackpot. Just find it, Pal."
He smiled at himself and walked to the lobby where he darted
into the coatroom and surveyed the rows of empty hangers.
Nothing. He strode across the lobby checking the chairs and
small tables. Lyle bent down with his head inches from
the floor searching for his treasure. Still nothing. When
he straightened up, he stood before a gold-framed mirror.

"Keep looking, Buddy. You're warm,‘ his reflection
said. He whirled, ran into the ballroom, stopped, looked
around and took a deep breath. The kitchen door at the back
caught his attention. He sprinted across the wooden dance
floor and slid into the entry, his shoulder cracking against
it. Locked, he thought. He peered through the square window
into blackness.

"I must be logical," he said. Gazing through the glass,
he noticed he couldn't see his reflection. That meant this
wasn't the jackpot.

Lyle realized the men's restroom was the only place he
hadn't checked. That must be it. Confidently, he marched
to the lobby. As he neared the doorway, he saw a tall man
dressed in a gray uniform near the coatroom. Lyle stared,
shocked by this intruder who gazed for a moment into the
rows of hangers as if looking for something. Lyle read
the insignia on the man's shoulder, Hotel Security, and as
he turned toward Lyle, brown eyes darted and locked on their
target. This man appeared tough and arrogant as he glared

for a few seconds at Lyle who felt suddenly weak and small.

A wobbly tremor slipped sideways across Lyle's hips and knees.

 

31
He knew he should run but couldn't. A moment passed and
the evil cop grew taller and meaner and more powerful with
each second. Lyle shrunk and dissolved like a wad of toilet
paper in a rain storm.

"You the night man?" the security officer said.

"Yeah," Lyle heard himself say as he suddenly became
fearful that this man had come to steal his treasure.

"You alone?"

Lyle noticed the cop's hand rested on a long flashlight
hanging from his belt like a Greek soldier feeling for his
sword before battle. "Sure," Lyle said.

"A woman upstairs heard someone slamming on a door or
wall and screaming. You heard anything?"-

Lyle shrugged.

The officer's eyes squinted a little. "You been making
any noise?"

"Ju...ju...just cleanin' up."
"You new here?"

Lyle shook his head no.

"How long you worked here?"

I

"A year or so,‘ Lyle said.

"I thought I knew everybody. I'm Joel Graves." He
extended his hand toward Lyle who stepped forward and clasped
the strong fingers. "A year and I've never even known you
were here. Man, you must move around like a ghost. So,
what's your name?"

"Lyle . II

"Well, I'll have to come in here and say hello more

 

 

 

32
often. This part of the hotel sure is quiet. Good seeing
you, Lyle. I got to get back." With that, the security
man strode away and vanished through the doorway.

Lyle blew air out his mouth and felt powerful muscle
spasms stiffen his legs and move up into his back. Panic
filled his mind. He had to find the treasure quickly.

He stumbled toward the men's room door, pushed it open and
entered. Lyle gazed down the lane of toilets and had the
odd feeling that he should throw a bowling ball toward that
far wall. Instantly, a ball appeared and its weight
strained his arms. His hands rose together chest high as he
strode two and a half times, bent and delivered the bowling
ball. Watching the phantom ball roll, he saw it crash into
spectral pins that flew against the wall and disappeared.

"Steerike!" he shouted while clenching his fist in front
of his face. Lyle examined the place on the wall past all
the sinks on the left and stalls on the right. The ball had
smashed through and made a hole in the plaster. Concerned,
Lyle hurried to it and as he approached, he saw the hole
extended many feet into a large empty space. Stretching
his hands out, he touched the hole and his hand passed through
the wall into the blackness. A pulse of tingling power
poked at his fingertips and surged up his arm to his shoulder.
Slowly, Lyle pulled his arm out. As he did, the wall moved
in undulating waves closing down, healing the broken plaster.

This was a miracle.

What did it mean? Lyle stood confused until his eyes

were drawn to his right to the last stall. Lyle pushed on

33
the closed door. It wouldn't budge, locked. Dropping to
his knees, Lyle bent down peering under it. Black shoes,
blue pinstripe pants? Bewildered, Lyle gazed at a man sitting
on the toilet with his head slumped against the wall.

This was Lyle's jackpot? A dead man sitting on the
toilet? He slipped his fingers under the door and yanked
on the pant legs inch by inch tugging them down around the
man's ankles. Lyle felt for the pockets and found a bump.
Electricity pulsed through his body and gentle spasms twitched
as he pulled out a black wallet that had lumps like warts
all over its shiny surface. Made from a pimply cow, Lyle
thought as he unfolded it and separated the sides displaying
his treasure, maybe thousands of dollars. He sat against
the wall and counted two fifties, seven twenties, a ten,
four fives and three ones. Treasure! And it belonged to
Lyle Gdowski.

Springing to his feet, he threw the money into the air
and as it rained over his head, he charged the mirror, hands
above his head, and high—fived his reflection who yelled,
"Treasure, Pal, treasure!"

Suddenly, he scurried around grabbing the bills, flopped
cross—legged and sorted them into piles on the floor. After
counting the cash again, he noticed the wallet lying under
the sinks. He collected the bills into a stack, folded
it over and stuffed it into his pocket. Stretching to his
left, he took the wallet, then crawled on all fours to the
last stall. He slid the leather into the pants pocket and

stood up. Laughing at himself in the mirrors, he

 

34
shadowboxed, punching and jabbing, as he danced toward the
exit. His twitches and spasms had ceased. Finding the
treasure released his senses and freed his mind. Lyle felt
exhilarated and wanted to work. Bursting into the lobby,
he grabbed the spray bottle and sponge and moved to clean

some tables.

At three forty—five, Joel Graves marched up the eighth
floor hallway past some of the most expensive suites at the
Manley Hotel. All was quiet. Occasionally, he'd have to
break up a fight or drag a drunk to his room or escort hookers
out of the building, but this night had been dead. A
computer programmers' convention occupied most of the first
three floors, and they had concluded their meetings with
a party in the Grand Ballroom. Shortly after two, it had
broken up and the building had settled down. Joel sensed
an easy contentment in walking the silent halls. He figured
his job was mainly to provide a legal justification for the
hotel in case anything really terrible ever did happen.

Joel reached the end of the gold carpeted hallway and
stood before the elevator. One thought disturbed his
peaceful feeling. Earlier the desk clerk, Olsen, had told
him a woman on three had heard pounding, hysterical screaming
and insane laughter. Olsen had figured the commotion must
have come from the Grand Ballroom. When Joel had checked
it out, everything was quiet and still. Only the janitor,
Lyle, was around and that scrawny man didn't look or act

as if he'd ever raise his voice, timid, a real nothing,

 

35
the kind of guy who turns invisible in a crowd of two.
Joel had done his job and found nothing.

But something about Lyle bothered him. How could they
work in the same building for a year and never cross paths?
Especially since Joel roamed all over. He'd been in the
Grand Ballroom maybe a dozen times before, and he'd never
seen Lyle.

Joel pressed the elevator button. That woman on three
must've just been dreaming. She'd probably eaten some of the
soup at the Palatial Square Pub. That stuff would give a
billy goat nightmares. The doors opened and Joel stepped
aboard. Pressing one, he decided to check the first floor
again before settling into the office chair and taking a
break.

When Joel entered the Grand Ballroom a few minutes later,
he was amazed. An hour ago, the place had been a disaster
with chairs and tables all over, junk on the floor and spilled
drinks puddled on the furniture. Now everything was where
it belonged. No trash was in sight. And a skinny Lyle
wearing his blue custodian's uniform was soaked with sweat
as he heaved a huge vacuum cleaner back and forth like a man
dancing the jitterbug with a hippopotamus. For a little
guy, he sure could work. Lyle seemed obsessed with cleaning.
Joel figured this man had found his niche.

"Hey, Lyle, you wanna do my apartment next?" he yelled.

Lyle stopped vacuuming and jumped back one step. Joel
felt silly for startling him. "How'd you get all this done

so fast?" He smiled and raised his hand gesturing toward

 

36

the room and noticed Lyle pressed his hand against his right
pants pocket as if gaining strength from a hidden talisman.
Joel watched Lyle tug the vacuum around and push it in the
opposite direction until Lyle's back was toward him.

"Real friendly guy," he muttered. Lyle continued heaving
and hauling on the machine obviously more interested in
cleaning the carpet than in socializing. "Well, it's been

I

nice talking to you,‘ shouted Joel sarcastically as he turned

and walked to the security office.

When Lyle wheeled around, the Gestapo had gone. Good.
He had finished the ballroom in record time. He deserved
a break, so he switched off the vacuum, gathered the cord
and then walked to the head table where he sat down and
picked his lunchbox off the floor. Feeling a tingling
sensation in his right hand, he dug into his pocket and
pulled out his treasure. Carefully, he sorted the money
into piles, the_fifties together, twenties and so on. Laying
them out on display, he popped open his lunchbox and took
out his coffee thermos, sandwich, pudding and apple.

"A victory feast for those with wealth, riches, and a

I

share in the American dream,‘ he said to the money. After
gobbling the sandwich and pudding, he reached into the box

and removed a plastic bottle. He visualized Dr. Avery saying,
"Lyle, always take your medication on time. It's important."
Lyle didn't like the drugs at first, but now he'd grown

accustomed, and he knew the medicine helped him keep his

job. He rolled one pill onto his palm, flicked it into his

 

37
mouth and washed it down with a gulp of coffee.

As he crunched into the apple, a disturbing thought
flickered into his mind. The thought grew stronger and more
persistent. If he just left that dead guy sitting on the
toilet until someone at the luncheon found him, Lyle's boss
would think he hadn't cleaned that stall. He could get fired!

1 Slowly, Lyle placed the apple on the table, chewed and
swallowed. "I must be logical," he said. Random ideas

bombarded his mind as Lyle swept the bills with both hands,

stood up and stuffed them into his pocket. "I could take
him out, clean the stall and put him back." Lyle considered
that. "I could say the door was stuck." His mind cleared.

"What if they think I killed him?" Shocked, Lyle stepped
back covering his mouth with one hand. "I didn't kill him!"
Lyle shouted. He grabbed the apple and wanted to throw it
hard. "Control, self-control is important." He loWered

his arm and then bit into the fruit. "Maybe I should hide

him," he said and smiled.

As Joel sat in the security office, his walkie talkie
crackled, "Graves, this is Olsen at the desk. Please see a
Mrs. Hendershot in room 312 concerning her husband." Joel
dropped his magazine on the desk and scurried down the hall
to the elevator. He hoped this wasn't the same woman who'd
eaten the bad soup and had heard noises in her nightmares
earlier. At least he had something to do.

When he reached the elevator, he pressed the button

and the doors opened immediately. After stepping in, he

 

38
pushed three.

A few minutes later, Joel reached room 312. He gently
tapped his knuckles on the door which cracked open revealing
a middle-aged woman wearing a red bathrobe. Her face pressed
into the three inches the chain lock allowed.

"I'm Joel Graves, hotel security."

The woman blinked. "I'm Lorna Hendershot. My husband
didn't come to the room. Are you the police?"

"No, hotel security."

I

"I want the police,‘ she said.

"I'll do what I can," Joel said.

She stared for a few seconds. "Well, my husband, Evan,
is a computer programmer, and we came to the convention here.
He had a little too much to drink, and I woke up and he
wasn't here, so I called the desk to call the police."

"Has your husband done anything like this before?"

Joel said.

She pursed her lips. "Of course not. He got a little
drunk. Well, okay, a lot drunk. He was wandering from
table to table asking people if they wanted to see his hernia
surgery scar. No one did. Then he filled his mouth with
caviar, went up to other tables, started choking and spit
the caviar onto a man's pant leg. Well, the man jumped up.
Evan thought it was funny."

"Did the man hit your husband?" Joel said.

"Oh, no, Evan's rather tall and brawny. The man just

walked away. Well, Evan did that two more times, and I

just couldn't stand it, so I came up here. When I woke,

 

39
I realized he hadn't come to bed, and it's after four-thirty."
She paused and wiped a tear away.

"Where'd you see him last?" Joel said.

"The Grand Ballroom," Mrs. Hendershot said.

Marching into the ballroom ten minutes later, Joel
felt powerful. This was a real case, detective work. He
looked around. Everything was where it belonged. "Lyle?"
Joel said. He scanned the lobby and strode into the coatroom.
Joel had already patrolled many of the hallways and had
found nothing suspicious. Either Evan Hendershot was in
a room with another woman, or he was passed out dead drunk
some place. Maybe Joel could find him? "Hey, Lyle, where
are you?" He walked to the men's restroom, shoved the door
open and entered. The floor glistened and smelled like
cleanser. The white sinks glowed and the mirror was clear
with no smudges, splashes or handprints. Suddenly, Joel
noticed black shoes and blue pant legs sticking out from
the doorway to the last stall. He stopped, startled, and
then approached cautiously. As he neared the doorway, the
feet moved. Joel jumped back as Lyle leaned his head out
and glared at Joel.

I

"There you are,‘ said Joel relieved.

"Don't you use any of these toilets. I just cleaned

I

them. They're for the paying guests,‘ said Lyle.
Joel felt amazed. This Lyle had gone from aloof to
aggressive in less than an hour. "I'm here on official

business this time." Joel watched Lyle's expression turn

blank. "A woman lost her husband or more like he didn't

 

40
make it up to their room...."
"I didn't kill him!" annonced Lyle as he rubbed a large

sponge along the side of the stall.

Joel watched Lyle work. The man was a cleaning machine,

absolutely amazing. "Have you seen or heard anything
unusual?"
"Nope," said Lyle.

Joel turned toward the mirrors, admired the perfection
of his work and slowly walked out. He could keep snooping
around, or he could just tell Olsen to call the cops. This
Hendershot guy had to be in a room with another woman. If
Hendershot were around the ballroom, Lyle would've found

him. Joel knew there was no use in searching any more.

Rolling and turning, aching and pounding, Evan Hendershot
climbed up through his vodka martini numbness toward painful
consciousness. Opening his eyes, he felt the cold tile
against his cheek. Evan looked around at the pink walls and
realized he was sitting on the toilet.

The blood swirling through his veins vibrated in his
skull. Ears ringing, eyes burning, a hollow nausea echoed
about his bones. Still drunk, his balance on the toilet
felt unsteady as he remembered laughing and spitting
something. He'd been asleep but couldn't estimate how long.
After lifting his left arm and tugging back his sleeve,
he read his watch, five—thirty.

At least he was still alive.

Until he saw Lorna, anyway. Pushing off the walls

 

41
with both hands, he stood which made him notice his pants
had slid down around his ankles. Evan bent over and pulled
them up. He shoved the door open as he hooked and zipped
his pants. Stepping out, a wave of sickness swirled inside
his stomach. The room was pink, he noticed, as he stumbled
for the exit. Unable to locate it, he halted, glanced around
and staggered in the opposite direction.

A hissing tone filled his head as if an angry cat were
blowing a kazoo into his ears. With each step, Evan fought
to keep balanced and meandered into the hallway. A woman
pushing a metal cart that carried sponges, cleansers and
bars of hand soap approached Evan. He watched her and
realized he didn't know which way lead to the elevator.

The woman passed Evan, and he walked up the hall hoping
to find his room.

Evan thought he should be near the Grand Ballroom where
the party had been. He wasn't. To his left a row of large
windows displayed an indoor swimming pool. After turning
a corner, Evan heard voices ahead and suddenly he stepped
into the main lobby. He recognized it and felt somewhat
relieved. Three men stood at the front desk. Two wore
uniforms. The other behind the desk talked and then pointed
a long finger at Evan who stopped as a hotel security officer
and a city policeman turned and glared at him.

"Would ya look at what the cat dragged in," said the
hotel security man.

The cop almost yelled, "You Evan Hendershot?"

Evan nodded.

 

42

"You okay?"

Evan nodded.

"I'm outta here. See you later, Joel, Olsen," the cop
barked as he whirled and marched for the exit.

"Your wife's worried about you," said the desk clerk.
"You'd better get up to your room."

Evan tried to smile but couldn't, so he slid over to

the elevator and pushed the button.

Record time! Lyle Gdowski had finished his work.
The Grand Ballroom was perfect and ready for the luncheon.
Lyle had some extra time, so he sat cross—legged beneath the
crystal chandelier at the center of the room with his treasure
on the carpet in front of him. He swirled his hand in a
circle stirring the cash. After a moment, he closed his
eyes, stopped the motion and picked up one bill. Without peeking,

he felt the energy and guessed. "Twenty,' he said as he
popped open his eyes to see the bill with tight-lipped
Andrew Jackson staring at his right shoulder. Suddenly,
that stiff face turned straight ahead and focused on Lyle
who felt those accusing eyes.

"You're a thief, a liar, a dirty no good scoundrel,"
said Andrew Jackson in a silky drawl. "And you're a
murderer. You killed a man, robbed him...."

The voice stopped. Lyle crumpled the bill and threw
the wad toward the lobby. "I didn't kill him," shouted Lyle.
"I must be logical. Think things through." Lyle grabbed

the cash and stuffed it into his pocket as he leaped to his

 

43
feet. He ran the night's events through his mind. He'd
finished his work in record time. That was fantastic. He
vaguely remembered a bowling ball but couldn't recall anything
else. He'd found his treasure. That was tremendous.
Patting his hand against his pocket where he'd hidden it,
a dream popped into Lyle's mind as if played for him on
a movie screen.

Lyle rolled a laundry hamper into the men's restroom
pushing it all the way to the back. After flipping the
hamper on one end, he slid it against the door
to the last stall. Standing on the next toilet, Lyle
stretched over the partition and unlocked the door. Shoving
it open, Lyle grabbed a huge corpse and heaved him into
the hamper which slammed over onto its wheels.

Lyle then saw himself in the ballroom pulling napkins,
tablecloths, everything going to the laundry, from a pile
and covering the dead man. With laughter in his throat,
Lyle felt a chilling tremor of nervous energy vibrate
throughout his body. He pushed the hamper down the main
hallway and smiled at Olsen who said, "You're a good man,
Lyle."

He proceeded past the laundry beyond the swimming pool
to the restrooms still on the first floor at the south end
of the building. Lyle knew second shift had cleaned these
toilets before midnight. He could dump the corpse and then
get back to finish his work. Moving to the far end of the
ladies' restroom, Lyle uncovered the cadaver, muscled him

into the stall and plopped him on the toilet. The body's

 

44
head thudded against the wall but then settled back. At that
moment, an idea jumped into Lyle's mind. Maybe it wasn't
dead. Hurriedly, Lyle touched his fingers to the side of
its neck. Knowing there should be a pulse, he felt its
throat, warm and moist, but no heartbeat. It was definitely
dead, Lyle decided.

After easing the door shut, Lyle looked at his hands
and held them up to his nose. They smelled rotten,
contaminated by filthy death, so Lyle rushed to the sink,
grabbed a bar of soap and scrubbed suds up to both elbows.
After rinsing, he took a tablecloth from the hamper and dried
off.

Time suddenly jumped ahead in Lyle's mind. He saw
himself delivering the hamper to the laundry and then
strolling back to the Grand Ballroom.

Awakening from his dream standing near the archway
to the lobby, Lyle noticed a crumpled bill on the floor.

He rushed over and swooped it up. More treasure, he thought
as he unfolded it and stuffed the twenty into his pocket.

Lyle Gdowski's lucky night deserved a special treat.

A chocolate bar sounded great. He had some change in his
lunch box, so after getting it, he strode through the lobby
to an arcade where candy machines displayed assorted goodies.
He decided on a Snickers, slid his coins into the slot,
pulled the knob, took the bar and began walking to the Grand
Ballroom. He wanted to wait and enjoy his treat under the
chandelier but couldn't resist, so he peeled the wrapper

back and bit into it. Just then from the corner of his eye,

 

45

Lyle noticed something on the floor behind a potted palm tree
at the far end of the lobby. Like a leaf washed downstream
in a river current, Lyle rushed toward it. Ten feet away,
he stopped and stared in horror. The corpse lay on its
side, hands clasped together under its head. Lyle recognized
its pale face and noticed the corpse's pants were pulled up.
A rush of energy overloaded Lyle's senses. This cadaver
was following him. It was punishing and accusing him.
Lyle sprinted to the Grand Ballroom.

Bursting into the coat vestibule, he knelt beneath
the hangers as a trembling moan slipped from his throat.
That smell returned filling the room, covering his body.
Death! Lyle's mind visualized the evil he'd seen. He
couldn't cancel the thought. It remained a constant image
of the demon inside Lyle Gdowski. Powerful surges tremored
across his body. A pounding thud echoed in his mind. The
electrical twitches bombarded and shook as a frenzied attack

filled Lyle's brain with terror.

At ten—thirty, Joel Graves decided to patrol. It had
been another dead night, but he wasn't complaining. As he
marched through the lobby, he noticed someone lying on the
floor behind a plant. Joel recognized Evan Hendershot dozing.

Joel said, "Hey, Hendershot. You can't sleep here."
The body startled and twitched to life. Foggy eyes peered
at Joel. "You can't sleep here. This is no bus station.
This is a fancy place."

The man leaned against the wall. "My wife won't let

 

46
me in the room," Hendershot said.

I

"Get another room. You can't sleep here,‘ said Joel.

Like a crippled dinosaur rising to its feet, Hendershot
lumbered toward the front desk.

A few minutes later, Joel stood at the doorway to the
Grand Ballroom. Even though Lyle hadn't been too friendly
earlier, Joel decided to visit anyway. Now it was near
quitting time. Maybe Lyle would feel more sociable.

At the entrance, Joel heard a low moan like the whimper
of a hurt puppy. Surprised, he followed the sound into the
coatroom. On the floor crumpled into a fetal position with
his head pressed against the wall and his hands covering
his face lay Lyle trembling with anguished spasms.

Joel felt astonished. Unable to think of any reason
for this, he said, "Ah, you okay?" Bending down, Joel gently
touched his hand against Lyle's shoulder. "Hey, can I help?"
Shaking and crying like a terrified child, Lyle snorted and
choked.

With strong hands, Joel clasped Lyle's shoulders and
lifted him to a sitting position. He watched Lyle's head
drop to the side. Red patches circled his eyes. His pale
cheeks and chin quivered. After a moment, Joel hugged his
arms around Lyle and patted one hand against his back.
"What's the matter?" said Joel softly.

"He's dead! I saw him! Dead!" stammered Lyle in horror.

Alarmed, Joel said, "Who?"

"In the lobby. Behind a palm tree."

Thinking a moment, Joel sort of understood. "You saw

 

 

 

-"

47
a big guy in a blue pinstripe suit lying on the floor in
the lobby?"

Lyle nodded.

"He's not dead. He's Evan Hendershot. His wife was
mad because he'd been with another woman, so she wouldn't
let him in their room. He's not dead. Just drunk and stupid."
Gradually, Lyle's trembling subsided as Joel consoled him.

"He's gone?"

"Oh, yeah, you won't see him any more." In Lyle's
face Joel saw a childlike realization, and the fear seemed
to ease away. "Come on, it's almost quitting time. Let's
get some coffee and donuts." Joel lifted Lyle to his feet.
The two men left the Grand Ballroom as the day crew entered
carrying table cloths, napkins and everything needed for

the luncheon.

A few minutes after eleven, Lyle stood at his bus stop.
Dr. Avery's face kept jumping into his mind. If he had
an extraordinary experience, he was supposed to contact
Dr. Avery. Maybe his medication wasn't right. He considered
that. What had been extraordinary? He'd talked to Joel
Graves. He'd seen a dead body move. Lyle decided to stop
by the County Mental Health Clinic on the way home.

An energy twitch flickered across his pant's pocket.
He'd forgotten about the evil treasure. He still had it
in his pocket. As he pulled the handful out, the smell
of death filled his senses. Turning around, he noticed

a trash dumpster overflowing with green plastic bags in

 

48

an alley. Lyle rushed for it and saw a dirty faced man
lying on the ground who was covered with cardboard. The man
wore a torn stocking cap and he snored a gentle wheezing
sound. Staring at this strange person, Lyle looked around
and then slid the cash under the cardboard against him.
What a dumb place to take a nap, Lyle thought. "Hey, Pal,
why don't you get a room?" Lyle said, but the man snoozed
and snored even louder.

The evil feelings vanished, and his twitches stopped
as he backed out of the alley. Just then, the bus parked
at the corner, so Lyle ran to it and jumped aboard on his

way to see Dr. Avery.

 

 

DEMON STEAM

Donald Summerset sometimes watched demons escape from
the crowns of people's heads like puffs of steam from a
boiling kettle. Occasionally, he would just feel the evil
things vanish. He wondered where they went and why they
would decide to leave when he was nearby. Donald couldn't
decide if he had anything to do with it or if God had
assigned him to witness the gradual vanquish of evil.

As he stood in the foyer of his girlfriend's house,
he clasped Mr. O'Roarke's hand and saw three quick clouds
pop from the older man's head. Watching the silvery phantoms
fade, Donald noticed Mr. O'Roarke gasp slightly and then
a contented smile slid across his face.

"Have a nice time, kids," Mr. O'Roarke said. To Donald,
he suddenly looked healthier. The dark rings that usually

49

50

surrounded Mr. O'Roarke's eyes had disappeared. The cheeky
jowls which gave him an eternal frown had lifted and smoothed
making him look younger.

Donald often wondered if other people also saw the
demon puffs, but like him, were afraid to mention it for
fear everyone would think they were crazy. Did demons puff
out of his head, too, he wondered? Not knowing for sure
just gave him one more thing to worry about.

Releasing the handshake, Donald grinned and then turned
toward Gina whose brown eyes darted from her father to
Donald seemingly puzzled by all the sudden smiles. Had
she seen the demon puffs? Donald tried to read her face
but couldn't. He wasn't any psychic. He only knew it was
Saturday night, he was taking his girl to a movie and her
father had just been exorcised of three demons.
"Let's get going," Gina said. Donald nodded and pulled
the front door open.

As they walked onto the porch, Mr. O'Roarke followed
waving good bye. "Now, you two be careful and have fun."

Gina scrambled for the car and hopped in before Donald
had a chance to open her door. As she slammed it, Donald
lurched to the left and proceeded around the car to the
driver's side. He glanced at Gina's dad who slowly lowered
his hand as his smile slipped away and his usual expression,
growling and nasty like a bulldog with hornets in its ears,
reappeared. Donald guessed the demons had returned by
sliding through Mr. O'Roarke's eyes or nose.

II

"Get in. Let's go, Gina demanded, so Donald climbed

 

51
in and started the car.
A few minutes later, Donald punched the gas and his
Grand Am cruised onto the highway. "What movie do you wanna
see?" said Gina.

"Oh, whatever you want,‘ Donald said.
"If you were going all alone, what movie would you
see?"

Donald thought a moment. "I'd try to see the one that

you'd like the best."

"Not if I wasn't here," she snapped. "Donald, do you
even know what's playing?"
He shook his head no and said, "There're three movies

all starting at nine o'clock. When we get there, I'll ask
you which you'd like to see and that's how we'll decide."

"But last time you hated my movie. You always hate

I

the movies I choose,’ Gina said.

I

"I've never hated any movie you chose,’ he answered

trying to sound a little amazed and hurt.
"Okay, I'll choose again, but this time I'm going to
pick the movie I think you'll like."

II

"Fine, Donald said.

 

After parking, they walked hand in hand to the entrance.

Gina looked cute dressed in light blue shorts, a pink top
and sandles. Donald had worn blue jeans and a T—shirt, and
he felt hot. This steamy June evening was made for shorts,
yet he wore long pants, wool socks and tennis shoes.

PeOple are gonna think I'm Gina's retarded brother,

not her date, Donald worried. Whatever the social event,

 

 

52
Donald Summerset knew no matter how hard he tried he would

always wear the wrong clothes. Sweat slid down his legs.

 

He clenched his teeth as he pulled the door open for Gina
who marched inside.

At the ticket booth, about a dozen people stood in line.
All wore shorts. Donald turned to watch an elderly couple

walk past. They wore shorts. Staring at his shoes, Donald

felt Gina clasp her hand around his arm. "We're not seeing
'The Lusty Ladies'," Gina said with a giggle, "or 'Mr. Rabbit
in Space'. So, it'll hafta be 'Demon Steam'."

Donald's chin popped up and his eyes shot toward the
movie titles spelled out in black above the ticket counter.
Just then, beginning with the man directly in front of Donald,
a series of puffs like dominoes burst from the heads of the
other people and meandered to the counter. Twelve puffs,
twelve demons, maybe gone forever. Donald watched as each

person took a deep breath and then exhaled contented streams

 

of air.
"Sound good?" Gina said.

I

"Uh, yeah, sure,‘ Donald stammered. He felt sweat
slip from his hair down his neck. Everyone stepped forward.
Donald listened to a middle-aged man speaking to the ticket
girl.

"Well, me and the wife was gonna see those lusty ladies,
but all the sudden I'd rather see the rabbit show. Is that
okay with you, Honey?"

His wife nodded, and they bought their tickets. As the

seconds passed, Donald realized everyone was buying tickets

 

53
for "Mr. Rabbit in Space." They were all adults happily
going to a children's show. Finally, Donald and Gina stood
at the counter.

"Demon Steam," Gina said. Donald pulled out his wallet,
paid and took the tickets.

Entering the theatre was like stepping from June into
January. The air conditioning was on full blast. Donald's
sweaty patches chilled and evaporated immediately.

Gina grabbed his hand and yanked him down the aisle

to their seats about halfway to the front. After they sat,

q.—

Donald noticed maybe thirty others waiting for the movie
to start. Glancing from person to person, he saw no demons
puffing from their heads.

"Are you gonna sign up at JC for next fall? Did you
decide?" Gina said.

Donald looked at Gina who hugged her arms around herself
and crossed her legs. Goose bumps burst across her bare
skin. "No, I don't sign up for classes till August. But
yeah, I'm going. Are you?"

She nodded and smiled. "It's freezin' in here. You're
the only smart one in this place, wearing jeans." Her eyes
blinked slowly as she seemed to stare at the blank screen.
"I hope they turn the air off."

Donald nodded just as an elderly couple sauntered by
and sat in front of them. He was bald and wore a red and
green Hawaiian shirt. His chubby wife's brownish hair
flopped against the back of the seat. In unison steamlike

forms oozed from their heads, floated up into the air and

54

disappeared. Two more demons, thought Donald. Other people
believed demons were ugly monstrous creatures that drank
blood. Donald knew better. Demons were puffs of smoky light
that seemed to enter and leave humans at will, or maybe
the demons were somehow invited in according to the person's
mood or thoughts. Anyhow, they were real. Donald was
sure of that. And they weren't ugly. In some strange way,
he saw them as quite beautiful.

The bald man leaned toward his wife and said something.

She chuckled and he joined her in obnoxious guffaws. Gina

—-

entwined her arm in Donald's and pressed her head against
him. Every nerve and muscle in Donald's body eased, and
his being filled with contentment. Life was suddenly easy.
He had no problems or worries. His world was complete with
Gina resting on his shoulder.

As the lights dimmed, previews appeared on the screen.
None seemed interesting to Donald, so he stretched his arm
over Gina's head and hugged her. Suddenly, an overly happy
voice announced, "And now our feature presentation."

The screen faded to black and then gray foglike images
appeared swirling in a blue tidal wave while whistling eerie
tones. They spun faster and then slowed forming the words
"Demon Steam," and then flashed white light like a camera
bulb. Donald blinked and then watched blue and silver spots
dance before his eyes. He couldn't tell if they were on the
screen, floating in the air or inside his head. Closing
his eyes, he felt a shiver tremble across his arms. The

air conditioner must have kicked on again, he thought.

55

As he opened his eyes, the credits ran and the whirling
vapors covered the screen. Donald clasped Gina's bare
shoulder and his palm felt sticky. Carefully, he slid
forward so his wrist touched her skin and his hand dangled
in air. Gina whispered, "I'm really cold. I hope they turn
down the air." Donald nodded in agreement and watched the
opening scene.

A businessman sitting at his desk in a highrise office
building talked on the telephone as an enormous cloud of
steam flowed from his coffee. He laughed, hung up, lifted
the billowing cup and slurped the brew. The steam shot up
his nose. After the first sip, a crooked smile scratched
across his face. His eyebrows cocked together as he lifted
the cup and gulped the remaining coffee.

"At least he's got something to help keep him warm,"
Gina whispered to Donald.

The actor thought for a moment looking more evil and
pressed the intercom button on his telephone. "Miss Anderson,

II

please come in here, he said as darkness rimmed his eyes.

Immediately, the door opened and in stepped the most
gorgeous blond on the planet. Her waist length hair swayed
from side to side with each glorious step. She wore a skin
tight dress that emphasized her bustiness and stopped about
a third of the way from her hips to her knees displaying
long firm legs. Posing before his desk, she put one hand on
her hip and leaned back on her heels.

Donald felt Gina's hand sliding along his chin. "I'll

wipe off the drool,’ she said and giggled. He closed his

 

56

mouth and smiled.

"How may I be of assistance?" said the blond.

The businessman grunted as bubbly froth splattered
from his mouth. His voice turned hoarse and flat. "Have
a seat, Miss Anderson." She sat in the chair before his
desk and crossed her legs. Rising like Godzilla from the
Pacific off the Japanese coast, the man lumbered around the
desk until he stood behind the girl who apparently didn't
notice because she seemed distracted by some problem with

I

her fingernail polish. "Oh, I've got a chip,‘ she cooed

—-

as if it were extremely important.

Lifting his hands high, the man pounced on her. She
screamed. Then he held her form over his head like a big
time wrestler about to body slam an opponent. In a
superhuman rage, he heaved her at a picture window. She
crashed through the glass and fell twenty floors to the
cement below.

Gina quipped, "Miss Legs are dead."

The man strolled to his desk and pushed a button on
the telephone. "Security, there's been a terrible accident."
As he released the button, an evil satisfied smirk covered
his face.

In the next scene, police officers filled the room.
The businessman, pale and shaky, smoked a cigarette as he
spoke to a fat detective. "She just jumped. I don't know
why. She just jumped." The officer watched him seemingly
unimpressed. The man inhaled the cigarette deeply, held

it, choked a bit and then exhaled an enormous stream of

57
silvery particles that flitted around the detective's head
and finally shot like a bottle rocket up his nose.
The officer gasped and said, "I'm sure you must feel
terrible. It's just awful. Maybe you should sit and try

I

to relax." The businessman nodded. "Men,' the detective
announded to the other officers. "Let's wrap this up.
It's a suicide."

Acting a little surprised, the policemen moved for the
door following the detective's orders.

Gina's hand patted Donald's arm. "Donny,' she whispered.

——-

"Would you go out and ask them to turn the air off before

I shiver my teeth out? We're not penguins. Would you tell
'em that?" Donald nodded. "I'll let you know what you
miss."

No one sat between the aisle and him, so he hunched
and stepped through the darkness to the doorway in the rear.
The burst of light in the outer hallway made him squint.

He felt as if he had just awakened after sleeping for hours.
Up ahead, he saw a young man wearing an official looking
vest. Donald walked to him.

"Could you turn down the air in 'Demon Steam'? It's
really cold in there."

I

"Sure thing,‘ the man said.
Donald wheeled around and headed back. When he reached

the door, he Opened it just enough so he could slip inside.

Carefully, he eased the door shut, but it clicked anyway.

Standing in the rear, Donald turned and on the screen the

fat detective now held a meat cleaver as he marched robotlike

58
toward a cowering, sniveling brunette who stumbled and fell.
Just as the meat cleaver rose into the air, Donald's eyes
followed it and continued up above the screen where feathers
seemed to float sparkling in the film's light. Donald
blinked and heard the brunette's terrifying scream. He
jumped and realized he was sweating again. The feathers
remained stationary in empty air. After taking one slow
step forward, he squinted and the feathers began moving
slightly. As if by a pulley, they dropped just a little
and stopped. Donald scanned the rest of the theatre and
as a sunlit parking lot scene appeared on the screen, Donald
saw bunches of these feathers hiding along the ceiling.
They created wavy shadows in the flickering light.

Were these demons congregating at the Saturday night
show, Donald wondered? Or were they something else?
Occasionally, they moved and Donald could make out veins
like on leaves. Some were silver. Others were purple.

As the movie faded to black, the feathers dropped a notch,
and when the lights flashed back on, he could see the
hovering phantoms more clearly. They weren't still. In
fact, they whirled like tiny tornadoes silently without
stirring the air.

The screen darkened again and Donald watched them
descend another notch closer to the heads of the people
below. A single drop of cold sweat slid down Donald's spine
between his shoulder blades. Trembling, he rubbed his left
hand against his back. Gazing up the aisle, he could see

Gina's head above the seat. Donald rushed down the aisle

 

59
to their row where he darted into his place and grabbed her
hand. "Come on. Let's go." He tugged her arm, but she
wouldn't budge.
"Are you kidding? I've got to see the snotty red head

get axed,‘ Gina whispered.

Donald stared at her, glanced at the screen where a
mailman with an ice pick chased yet another long legged
beauty who wore only a string bikini. Leaning back, Donald
looked straight up just as the girl screamed and the feathers
floated down another six feet. Turning toward Gina, he
whispered, "We've got to go."

"Why?" she said.

"Because."

"Because why?"

Donald took a deep breath. "Look up there." He pointed
above the picture where the feathers were easily seen.

Donald watched Gina squint. "See 'em?"

She shook her head no. "What?"

"Don't you see feathery objects?"

Gina pressed her lips together and smiled. "If you try
to make me scream in here, I'll sock you in the nose."

Her little fist suddenly waved before Donald's eyes, but
then she leaned over and peeked a quick kiss on his lips.

"Take that," she said.

"But I'm serious. We've got to get outta here."

"Sssshhh. There's another bimbo at the hotel. I wanna
see her diced, too," she said. "Thanks for getting the air
turned down. I'm warming up now." Gently, she slid her hand to

 

6O
Donald's biceps down his arm tickling lightly until she
clasped his hand.
Donald slouched in his seat and again looked up just
as the feathers drifted lower and stopped maybe eight feet
above their heads.

A purplish tornado spun sideways and gradually changed

 

shape. Donald noticed the movement slowing and a violet
frog's face drifted down. Like shark's teeth, it snapped

at Donald.

v“

"Aaah!" he squealed and covered his face with his arms.

"What's wrong?" Gina said.

"Demons!" Donald answered.

On the screen, two sexy girls wearing black lingerie
lay on a bed in a hotel room. A greasy looking man with
dark hair stood behind a camera tripod and took a picture.
The demon steam flowed under the door and gradually filled
the room. The photographer flashed the camera many times,
and Donald's vision spotted purple and white. The swirling
steam surrounded the girls, and Donald felt suddenly cold.

Donald's eyes felt hazy. As he looked around, a
shimmering red aura glowed from each person's head in the
audience. As he turned toward Gina, she emitted pink light.
The screen turned black. In the darkness, a cold current
rushed past. The air conditioning was on again, Donald
thought. Then the air movement stopped, and the screen
filled the room with light. Looking up, Donald searched
the ceiling. He twisted in his chair. The feathers were

gone. He glanced at the other moviegoers. All seemed normal.

61
Nothing glowed or moved. The film continued. What had
happened, Donald thought as he leaned back? Where had the
feathery tornadoes gone? He noticed the theatre felt warm.
Gina slid her hand into his.

"I bet they throw the fat guy in a meat grinder," she
whispered.

During the rest of the movie, Donald felt prickly along
his chin and then down his spine as if an invisible veil
were waving across his body. He rubbed his chin and
occasionally scratched his chest which made him feel worse
and more self-conscious.

On the screen, the demon steam finally floated from the
corpse of a chubby elementary school crossing guard, who had
just been crushed to death by a cement mixer, and drifted
up the nose of an angelic kindergartener, whose shocked
stare suddenly intensified into a pleased evil smirk.

The End flashed across the screen as eerie violin
music scratched. Gina stood and said, "Kind of a cliche'
ending. Now we'll be able to see Part II next summer."

The lights came on. Donald watched her stretch. He
no longer felt itchy but was still anxious. As he stood,
he moved into the aisle. The elderly couple who had been
sitting in front of them cut in between Donald and Gina.

The woman extended her left arm and elbowed Gina's throat.

"I don't care. So what?" her husband blurted.

' the woman said.

"Come on. Just shut up and come on,‘
As Donald moved out of their way, they stormed off.

Gina clasped her throat. "You okay?" Donald asked.

 

n J I. T I I.
.. A , l .

 

 

62

Gina nodded and as her head rose, he noticed a marble-
like glaze in her eyes. "What's that?" she said pointing
at Donald's face.

"What?"

"That. You've got a rash all over your neck," she
said. Donald looked down but couldn't see it. "Come on,"
Gina said in her most annoyed voice.

Without talking, they followed the crowd to the outer
hallway. Donald entered the men's room. Standing before

the mirror, he stretched his chin up and couldn't see any

—-’

rash. Quickly, he pulled his shirt out and examined his
chest. He didn't have any skin irritation, so he tucked

it in and headed to the exit where Gina waited. As he

 

approached, he noticed her squinting as if she were looking
at a dead cat.
"What is that? Some kinda heat rash or allergy?"
Donald stopped and said nothing. Groups of moviegoers
walked past and the silence seemed strange. No one was
talking. The people leaving the theatre were acting as if

they'd just left a funeral.

"Come on. Take me home," Gina said while shoving the
door open and striding toward the parking lot. Donald
followed. "I hope that creeping crud isn't contagious."

Nearing the Grand Am, Gina blurted, "Don't get my door.
Just get in. I'm not helpless."

Slam! He watched her. Moving around to the driver's
side, Donald heard her muffled scream. "Hurry up!" Opening

the door released her volume. "Get in, Donald! Let's get

63
outta here!" The dome light illuminated her fiery cheeks.
"Maybe I should drive. Can't you move any faster?"
Donald started the car and headed onto the main street.

Gina rolled down her window so gusting air streamed across
her face. Without any conversation, he drove to her house
and stopped in the driveway. Gina's door snapped open,

and she jumped out. "You hated my movie, didn't you?"

Her voice crackled, and Donald realized she was on the verge

of tears. "You always hate the movies I pick." She wiped
the back of her hand across her nose. "I don't want to
see you any more. You're no fun!" Gina wheeled and sprinted

up the front steps into the house. Donald watched her and
then the porch lights darkened. He didn't know what to
do. She had never been so irrational. They had argued
before but not like this. He didn't even know how this
had started. Resisting the urge to charge up the steps
and pound on the door, he eased the car into the reverse
and backed onto the street. A tingling numbness ran down
his neck as he started toward home.

Twenty minutes later, Donald flicked on his bedroom
light. After pulling off his T-shirt, he marched into the
bathroom and examined himself in the mirror. He couldn't
find any rash or redness. His skin seemed smooth and clean.
What creeping crud was Gina talking about?

Had those feathery demons possessed Gina? Had they
made her say she didn't want to see him anymore? That
marble-eyed maniac he had just left wasn't his Gina.

Focusing on his reflection, another startling idea

 

 

 

64
entered his mind. Maybe those demons were inside him, too.
Both hands suddenly clasped the crown of his head and felt
around. There were no bumps or anything unusual. He
concentrated trying to puff those lousy demons out. No
steam appeared from his head. There're no demons in me,

Donald decided.

 

But what could he do to help Gina? She would certainly
be at church tomorrow morning. He decided to see her there

and try to solve the demon steam problem in a holy place.

At nine-thirty the next day, Donald Summerset climbed
the steps to the Baptist Church. He wore navy blue dress
slacks, a white shirt and a paisley tie. This was one place
where he knew how to dress, and he always looked sharp.

His shoes were shined. His hair was combed. Just inside
the door stood a young couple eager to shake hands and offer
a "Good morning." While being greeted, Donald noticed this
man wore a suitcoat. Donald had decided not to take his
because it was just too warm, but he noticed all the other
men were wearing suitcoats.

After grinding his teeth a moment, Donald decided
feeling self-conscious about his clothes was a waste of
energy. He had to find Gina and straighten things out.
Maybe she would have forgotten all about last night and be
her usual happy self.

"Hey, Creeping Crud." Donald turned toward Gina's voice.
"Why don't you see a dermatologist?" she hissed and darted

into the sanctuary. Her father and mother strolled a good

 

 

 

 

 

65
ten feet behind her.

Mr. O'Roarke stopped, and Donald met his eyes which
seemed to say "What's going on?" After shrugging, he led
his wife after their daughter. Donald watched and decided
to follow. He always sat with Gina, or at least he had
for the last eight months. Before that Donald had attended
the Methodist Church, but denominational differences didn't
matter to him. His girl, Gina, made the Baptists the best
church in town.

Well, except for today.

With a bounding step, Donald rushed to the row where
Mr. O'Roarke seated himself next to his wife. Gina sat
alone about five feet farther down the pew with her arms
crossed and her eyes closed.

"Good morning," Donald almost sang. "Isn't it a
gorgeous Sunday?" Donald watched Mr. O'Roarke slowly shake
his head no, and Gina's mom lifted her hand, pointed at Gina
and whispered something inaudible. "Well, excuse me. I'll

just take this empty spot,‘ Donald said as he slipped in
front of them and moved next to his girlfriend.
Gina's eyes shot open and glared. "What do you want?"
she grunted.
"I want to talk about last night. You don't understand.
I wanted to leave the movie early because the...."
"What?"
Donald whispered, "Demons, floating around the ceiling."

Gina smiled and her teeth suddenly looked crooked and

so did her nose. "You said demons, Crud Face?"

66

"Yeah, I can see them. I have always been able to.
I don't know why."

Spasmodically, Gina's spine stiffened as a geyser
erupted from her head. Gray steam shot as if from a fire
hose into the air. Gina's face turned chalky and giant
tears rolled down her cheeks. "I hate you," she blurted.
"You're a crud face and you're ugly." Trembling, she lunged
across the pew and bawled.

The Baptist Brethren, shocked and curious, watched
as Mrs. O'Roarke lifted her daughter, hugged her and slowly
paraded the crying girl up the aisle as her father stared
at the floor and slunk after them.

A moment later, all eyes landed on Donald who hunched
his shoulders and realized retreat was the best option.

So, like a criminal being released from jail, Donald strode
to the door, jogged down the steps and headed for home.

When he got there, his parents were still at the
Methodist Church. Inside, he flopped on the living room
couch and a sorrowful thought entered his mind. Maybe he
and Gina were finished. This demon stuff might be incurable
and even worse it might be contagious. He pressed his head
into a pillow and lay down.

The morning newspaper sat on the floor just below
Donald's head. "Murder Suicide Shocks Town" read the
headline. Oh, great, Donald thought, more good news to
brighten my day. He stared at the paper and Gina's smiling
face filled his mind. A bleary sensation came over him

as he realized he had no idea how to get Gina back. She

 

 

 

67
might go out and find herself a new boyfriend. That would
be easy for her. She was good looking and fun. And she
always had been too good for Donald.
A single tear dropped onto the newspaper. Below the

headline, Donald then saw a color picture of a laughing

elderly couple. The man was bald and wore a green and red
Hawaiian shirt. The woman was chubby and had floppy brown
hair. In the picture, their arms hugged around each other

and their expressions appeared joyous.

They seemed oddly familiar. Donald examined their
faces. Were they maybe teachers he'd had? Trying to recall
them, he decided no. Then where had he seen them? While
bolting upright, he snatched the paper and read the caption.
"Carl and Lorraine Edgemont of South Bedford Street found
dead in their home an apparent murder-suicide." Donald
scanned the article and wondered how could this happen to
such a prosperous, healthy couple? The police believed
Carl had shot his wife and then killed himself. They had
no history of marital problems and left behind six grown
children and ten grandchildren.

Donald stared at the picture and then closed his eyes.
"How do I know you?" he whispered. In imagination, he was
sitting in the movie theatre. Gina had her legs crossed
and her arms wrapped around herself, but she looked happy.
"You goin' to JC" Gina said. Donald looked to his left
and there stood the couple wearing shorts. He remembered
now. They had sat in front of them. Lorraine's hair flopped

wildly like a pom pon over the chair. Carl spoke to her

 

68
and they laughed. He snorted in a goofy manner, but his
wife just chuckled.

Donald's memory raced forward to the movie's conclusion.
Lorraine swung her arm at Gina and punched her throat. The
couple seemed furious, and Gina was hurt.

Slowly, his eyes opened. In a moment, Donald read
the rest of the article which stated the shock and dismay of
neighbors, friends and relatives who thought the Edgemonts
were the happiest people in town. Phrases like "community
service, wealthy retired couple, churchgoers, always friendly"
jumped off the paper, and Donald trembled. Not for himself,
but for Gina. He had to do something right now.

Fifteen minutes later, Donald stopped his car on the
street in front of Gina's house. Her parents' Oldsmobile was
parked in the driveway, so Donald guessed they were all
home. What should he say? How could he get inside to talk
to Gina? With a snap, he pushed the door open and climbed
out.

At that moment, the sun broke through the cloud cover
and instantly he felt better, more confident. Things were
going to be just great. He was sure. It must be vitamin
D, a real miracle, he thought as he walked up the steps
to the porch. He pressed the bell and waited a few seconds
before the door whooshed open, and Mr. O'Roarke, a little
pale and sweaty, stood there.

"Oh, Donald, uh, have you seen a doctor?" Mr. O'Roarke
said.

"What?"

69

"A doctor, have you seen one?"

Donald watched Gina's father scan him from head to
foot. "Why would I need a doctor?"

"Well," he said as he eased the door partway shut and
stood back. "Gina told us you're ill."

"No."

"She said you're contagious with something she calls
the seeping sludge."

"Creeping crud?" Donald said.

"Yes, that's it."

"I'm not sick. I don't have any rash. It's all in
Gina's mind. Could I talk to her?" Donald said.

Mr. O'Roarke seemed to be deep in thought for a moment.
"Uh, Donald, this may be odd, but could you lift your chin
up?"

Donald looked at the porch ceiling and then back at
Mr. O'Roarke. "Okay?"

"I don't see any rash. Did you use a little Calamine
Lotion?"

"I don't have any rash. I'm perfectly fine. Could I
see Gina now?"

Mr. O'Roarke yanked the door open and gestured for
Donald to enter. As he stepped near Mr. O'Roarke, a spray
of blue steam exploded from the middle of the man's forehead.
Donald jumped back and witnessed the cloud's vanishing act.

"This is getting just too weird," Donald muttered.

"What?" Mr. O'Roarke said.

Donald just shook his head and followed him into the

70
living room where Gina sat on the couch with mascara smeared
all over her face.

"Gina," her father said as if he were speaking to a
preschooler. "Donald's not sick. He's all better, and he'd
like to visit a while."

When Donald sat next to her, she turned but didn't
seem to recognize him. "Hi, Gina, how are you?" She glanced
down and then her head slowly circled like an aerobic warm
up exercise. "I have to tell you something about that movie
last night. Do you remember the couple who sat in front of
us? That lady who hit you with her arm? They're dead.

He killed her and himself last night after the movie. It's
because of the demons that were floating around the ceiling.
That's why you feel so bad. You've got demons in you."

Gina's head stopped circling, and then she looked toward
him. "Donald, that rash is sick. It's all over your face.
Why don't you go to the clinic and get some medicine?"

Donald grasped her arm and held tightly. "I don't
have any rash. It's the demons."

"Don't touch me. You're probably contagious!" Mr.
O'Roarke rushed to the couch, so Donald let go of her arm.
Just then from the crown of Gina's head, a purple spray

shot into the air. Donald watched and glanced toward her

dad who occasionally burst a blue puff. Gina hollered, "I
hate you, Donald. You always hate my movies. I don't want
you here."

Her ranting continued and after a few seconds, Donald

felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning his head and opening

71
his eyes, he realized it was her father. "Maybe you should

come back tomorrow,‘ he said.
Gina suddenly became silent as Donald stood and plodded

for the door. Mr. O'Roarke opened it and waited as Donald

exited. When the door slammed, he started thinking. He

needed a new plan, something powerful.

Arriving at home, he realized his parents still weren't

 

there. The telephone was ringing, so he answered it.
"Hello?"

"Donald?"

"Yes," he said and recognized Gina's voice.

"Donald, I'm so sorry,’ Gina snorted.

"Gina, it's okay. You've got to get rid of the demon
steam."

"But how? Donald, can you help me? I'm so sad," she
cried and then blew her nose into the phone. "Could you
come back over here right away?"

"Sure, Sweetheart, I'll be there in ten minutes,"
Donald said.

"I'll be here," she said.

Donald raced his red Grand Am across town. He didn't
know quite what he was going to do when he got there. At
least Gina had come to her senses. Maybe the demons had
left on their own.

As he wheeled around the last corner, Donald spotted
Gina, wearing a black bikini, standing in her front yard

next to a wheel barrow. Totally confused, Donald parked

along the curb and hopped out. He heard a ting and then he

72
turned toward Gina. She reared back her skinny arm and fired
a golf ball size rock at his car. Smack! It hit the wind—
shield leaving a chipped spot. Donald saw her reach into the
wheel barrow and pull out more rocks which she flung madly
at him. Ding! Clack! They dented his car's finish.
"Gina!" Donald yelled as another stone cracked the wind—

shield and a big one struck just below his left eye. "Ouch!

 

Gina!" Ducking down, he crumpled into the car and slammed
the door. Thud! Crack! Thud!

He started the car and hit the gas. As he sped away,
he watched Gina in the rearview mirror waving good bye.

At home, he counted seven dents and chips and two cracks
in the windshield. Donald knew he had to do something.
Seeing Gina in that black bikini, even throwing rocks, made
him more determined. The car could be fixed. Now he had

to fix Gina!

His watch read eleven forty—five. Midnight seemed
appropriate for this sort of thing, and he hoped the rain
would stop. All evening angry black clouds had blown in
and stopped right above Donald's head. The rain started
in sprinkles and had grown in fury as he drove again to
Gina's house which was completely dark.

When he parked in the driveway, he searched for that
wheel barrow. It was gone, so Donald decided to go ahead
with his plan. At eleven fifty—nine, he picked up his Bible
and stepped out of the car into the wind and blasting rain.

Donald slammed the door and then walked to the front steps

73
where he lifted his hands, closed his eyes and said, "In
the Name of Jesus of Nazareth, demons be gone...and don't
come back!" Donald expected a bolt of lightning or maybe
a loud rumble of thunder. Instead, he saw and heard nothing.
Dropping his hands, he stumbled to the car. In the raging
storm, he heard something, a gentle hissing.

"Not the tires," Donald yelled and ran around the car.

 

The tires were fine and after a moment, the sound stopped.
Donald climbed inside the car and dropped his soggy Bible
on the passenger's seat. "Well, good bye, Gina," he said

as he backed out and drove home.

From his bed, Donald smelled coffee, bacon and eggs.
His parents loved breakfast. He slipped out of bed and
headed into the bathroom where he flicked on the light and
examined his face in the mirror. Yesterday's red, puffy
spot had turned hard and black under his eye. He should
have put ice on it but hadn't and now it was too late.
He dreaded having to explain his black eye to his parents.
What could he say? Gina shmucked me with a rock. Naw!

The clanging telephone made him march for it just to

stop the noise. "Hello?"
"Donny, hi."
Donald didn't recognize the voice. "This is Donald.

Who's this?"
"Why Gina, of course. You sure sound guilty. Do you

have another girl callin' you I don't know about?" she

giggled.

74

Dumbfounded, Donald swallowed hard. "Uh, are you okay?
I mean are you yourself again?"

"Oh, that. I'm sorry about church and the rocks, but
you outta know all girls get like that every once in a while.
Do you forgive me?"

Donald thought for a few seconds and realized her
demons were gone. "Yes, I forgive you."

" Gina continued, "why

"Oh, great, now I was thinking,
don't we go to a movie tonight." Donald choked. "But after
that last one, I'd rather see 'Mr. Rabbit in Space'. How's

that sound?"

"Great," Donald said. "Just great."

THE HEALING

George McElroy sat on his front porch and worried about
his subluxations. They weren't as annoying as his fallen
arches or swollen hemorrhoids, but almost. He'd had his
Friday crack at the chiropractor's but wasn't convinced
it was doing any good. After all, his knees still twinged
and his feet hurt. George's daily headaches were less
regular, so maybe all the twisting and snapping was worth it.
At least the chiropractor didn't use any needles or require
any fresh body fluids for analysis.

I

"Relax,' twist, tug and crack! "See you next week.
Pay at the desk," the chiropractor would say.

Twenty seconds of treatment for a lifetime of health,
thought George. Perfect. But did it do any good? It sure

beat that lousy podiatrist and that stinking urologist and

75

76
that stupid proctologist. Never trust a doctor, of any kind,
ever. Maybe his subluxations were better. He knew getting
his spine in proper alignment was important. Subluxations
could be deadly, and George wasn't ready to die.

The tall oaks in his front yard displayed red leaves
that would soon fall, and George would hire the neighbor
kid to rake them. It'd probably cost him fifty bucks, but
he didn't care.

He'd lived on Grove Street for forty-two years and only
knew three of his neighbors. They weren't really friends,
just acquaintances, people he'd say hello to if he passed
them on the street.

His Victorian home, built during the 1870s by a rich
lumber baron, was the most impressive building on the block.
Most of the other historical houses had either been converted
into apartments, condemned and demolished, or torched for
insurance. George had seen some dandy fires during the
last decade.

He loved his home, and he took care of it. Being too
old to do much himself, he'd hire the best workmen to keep
it perfect just the way his Marilyn had insisted. He missed
Marilyn. It was hard being a lonely, old man.

His subluxations were better, he decided. Maybe he
should skip his afternoon appointment. This was a new kind
of treatment, a reflexologist his friend Sam Hauser had
recommended. Sam, also a widower, usually joined him for
lunch after the Sunday service at the Baptist Church.

"Mrs. Kathleen VanderVeer is the best doctor I've ever

 

77

I

known,‘ Sam had said. George had made an appointment but
didn't know exactly what a reflexologist did.

"She squeezes your feet to fix your heart valves,"
Sam had said.

Makes sense, George decided. It couldn't be any worse
than that damn rectum examination. He shivered at that
memory and then looked at the furniture. All were expensive
antiques Marilyn had bought. Some she'd refinished herself.
The porch was spotless. Even the windows were clean. He'd
have to give the maid a raise, he thought.

George's attention span shot across the street. His new
neighbor drove her Impala, a rusty junker, up the driveway
and stopped. She popped the door open and as she stepped
out, her dress slid above her bent knee exposing a leg that
made George squint. She slammed the door, strode to the
house and disappeared around the side.

George exhaled. What a woman. She reminded him of
Raquel Welch. Not skinny like those TV commercial Barbie
dolls, and not phony like those Dr. Frankenstein Miss
Americas.

Her name was Renee Olmstead, and, like Raquel, had
brown hair, dark eyes, and lips, oh those lips, and not
skinny. Renee was certainly bigger than Raquel in some
places, but George liked that. A woman needed a little
meat on her bones. George guessed she was about forty.

He knew she was divorced and had four kids. Renee Olmstead
was one sexy lady.

While taking a deep breath, George closed his eyes.

 

78

Feeling tired and weak, he considered lying down for a long
nap. He had already slept most of the morning, and now he
was thinking about wasting the rest of the day. Might as
well be dead if you're going to sleep all the time, he thought
and became a little angry with himself. Going to his
appointment with this new therapist or doctor or whatever
she was would at least get him off his porch and out of the
house.

As he opened his eyes, he pushed both hands against

the chair and gradually stood. His back ached and his head

 

hurt. He looked across the street again at the Impala and
Renee Olmstead's house. "You're an old fool," he scolded
himself as he made his way into the living room.

At three in the afternoon, George parked his Cadillac

in a driveway. He stared at the building and felt puzzled.

This was not an office or a clinic. It was a brick and
cedar house. George took the slip of paper where Sam Hauser
had written the address and checked the numbers. This was

the right place. His body might be a wreck, but his vision
and mind were perfect, so he climbed out and as he walked
to the door, his knees creaked and the muscles up his back
seemed to stretch and sting. George's left ankle snapped.
He coughed on the cold air, limped to the front steps and
pressed the bell.

Immediately, the door opened. Inside, stood an elegant
woman. Her brown hair and eyes, beige dress, string of
pearls, and confident smile impressed George. He figured

she was about fifty-five, maybe sixty.

79

"Mr. McElroy, please come in," she said. "I'm Kathleen
VanderVeer. Let me take your coat." He slid it off, and
she hung it in a closet. "I hope I can be helpful. Your

friend, Mr. Hauser, has been very satisfied with his treat—
ments." She handed him a clipboard and pen. "Now then,
please fill out this medical history form."

After sitting on the couch, he wrote the information,
handed her the sheet and glanced around the room. This was
no doctor's office. On the wall hung a family picture,

the VanderVeers, mom, dad, and five grown children. George

 

looked through a doorway into the dining room and then back
to Mrs. VanderVeer who, while reading the sheet, creased
her brows.

"Uh, are you a doctor?" he said.

She looked up. "No, I'm a reflexologist. I design
treatments by interpreting complex reflexes. I help your
body's natural healing powers cure your ailments." She
stood and stretched an attractive hand toward George who
grasped it as he rose. "You see, Mr. McElroy, most doctors
treat only symptoms. I treat causes....

A few minutes later, she led him into a bedroom.

"After you've removed all of your clothes, put this robe on
and come into the next room through that door." She pointed
and then exited leaving him alone and puzzled.

Take off my clothes? Here? Is she crazy? he thought
as he looked around the room. On three walls hung paintings
of peaceful lakeshores. The closet was empty except for

a few hangers. He tugged the window drapes open a little

80
and saw a built—in swimming pool, covered with a black tarp
for the winter, enclosed by a stockade fence.

To disrobe or not to disrobe? What had he gotten him-
self into? He really didn't know Sam Hauser all that well,
and some of the people at that Baptist Church seemed strange
at times. He unbuttoned his shirt. After all, he was no
young, calendar hunk. So what the heck. This procedure
couldn't be worse than that damn colon biopsy.

As he took off his clothes, he hung them on the hangers,
put on the robe and then walked into the next room. Mrs.
VanderVeer, standing next to a huge tub of water, said,
"This Jacuzzi will help you relax before the treatment.
After I leave, hop in and enjoy the bubbling water. I'll
turn on some music. When the music stops, get out, wrap
up in this towel and I'll come back, okay?"

George looked at the tub and then at the massage table
across the room. He nodded and she left. She certainly
seemed professional. Nothing here was threatening, so he
began to relax.

Suddenly, enchanting piano music overlaid with the
sounds of ocean waves filled the room. George slid off the
robe and hung it on a wall hook. He climbed, cold and naked,
up the three steps and into the churning hot water. After
stumbling a moment, he caught his balance and gingerly sat
on a step. Steam filled the air and the heat massaged his
pains.

His subluxations felt better already. His knees

stretched straight out in the churning tub without snapping.

 

81

George slid lower into the water. His neck muscles eased
and gradually he felt soothing heat move down his back across
his hips and throughout both legs. He exhaled and closed
his eyes. After a moment, he imagined Marilyn, young, his
smiling bride dressed in white, and then Renee, his lovely
Raquel, appeared. She looked serious and sexy....

"Mr. McElroy?"

George's eyes shot open. He saw Mrs. VanderVeer
standing next to the tub. Had he been asleep? No. He was

just thinking. He moved his arms and legs under the water.

 

She hit a switch and the churning stopped.

"It's time for your massage."

George noticed the music had ended. He felt embarrassed.
How could he get out modestly without giving her an eyeful?

I

"I'll be back in a few minutes,‘ she said. "Wrap up
in this towel and then lie face down on the table." He
watched her walk through the doorway. Getting out of the
hot water into the cold air was a shock to his system. He
stumbled down the steps, grabbed the large towel and wrapped
up. Water dripped down his legs onto the green turflike
carpet. Was she trying to save money on the gas bill?

The room was freezing. He crawled onto the table and hugged
himself into the towel.

"Now for your treatment,‘ echoed her voice from the
doorway.
As George was about to ask her to turn up the heat,

two hands wrestled around his neck, half-nelsoned his shoulder

blades and pinned his spinal column. George couldn't breathe.

82
Her grip choked every muscle, pinched every cell.

"Doesn't that feel good?" she said in a babysitter's
voice. George tried to push up onto his elbows to escape
but wasn't strong enough. Her fists pounded his vertebra,
hammered his buttocks and kneaded his skinny legs. He felt
like a piece of bread dough. Filled with panic, George
tried to cry out. Just then, she strangled his throat.
"Oooh, so good," she moaned.

As suddenly as the attack had begun, it ended. George

gasped. He had survived.

 

"Roll over, Mr. McElroy, and I'll complete the treatment."

George protested, "I think...."

"Come on. Roll over. Don't be a baby." Taking his
shoulders, she twisted him onto his back. "It's time for
your feet." She gently, oh so tenderly, caressed a hand

along the top of his foot. Slowly, with great care, she
rubbed his arches. George exhaled and felt his muscles
relax.

With the force of ten thousand wrestlers, Mrs. VanderVeer
clamped onto George's left foot, squeezed and twisted as if
she were wringing out a dirty mop. Barking once like a hurt
puppy, George yelled a clipped high note.

"Now, don't be a big baby. Doesn't that feel good?"
she cooed. "You may feel a little stiff for a few minutes,
but I guarantee after the shock wears off, you'll feel
twenty years younger."

George nodded and pressed his trembling hands into

the table as he attempted to sit up. His strength had

83
retreated. She had won. He lay flat on his back, eyes open
and watched her exit through the doorway.

Half an hour later while sitting in the Cadillac,
George tested his body parts, assessing the damage, and
pondered which law firm to hire. He'd given that quack
a check for eighty—five dollars. He simply hadn't had the
strength or the courage to argue. He stretched his fingers
and then closed his fists. He pressed his head down so his

chin touched his chest and then rolled his head around in

 

a circle. His neck wasn't broken, he decided. He swayed
his shoulders back and forth and then twisted first to the
right and back to the left. His spinal column was intact.
Turning to the side and lifting his feet onto the seat,

he stretched his legs flexing his knees. He heard and felt
no snapping. George moved his feet around in little circles.
His arches didn't ache. His legs weren't broken. He
couldn't find any damage.

He started the car and while driving home, his anger
faded and was replaced by bewilderment. Did he feel worse
or a little better? George couldn't tell. His knees were
still sore, but his headache had gone away. As he steered
up the driveway, George noticed the Impala across the street.
After parking, he looked at his house, a huge building,
ridiculous for one person. His and Marilyn's home suddenly
looked unfriendly, not a place to live, instead a place to
die. But the problem wasn't just the house.

It was George. Blaming Marilyn for his loneliness

was stupid. He'd been doing that for years. He noticed

84
the rosebushes along the front. Marilyn would have trimmed
those thorny branches back. Why did that matter now? And
why did he think about her every time he looked at those
bushes?

Maybe that therapy session had rattled his brains as
well as his bones. He popped the door open and stepped out
just as the sun slid from behind a cloud. He strode for the
house and stopped. George glanced at his watch, four-thirty.
What was there for him inside? Pictures, the television,

dinner alone, bed and sleep. He couldn't go in.

 

He had felt pain at Mrs. VanderVeer's, and dead people
don't hurt. He was alive but was afraid he'd die if he went
inside right then.

Maybe a walk around the block would help him become
rational. How could an empty house kill him? It couldn't,
right? The way his legs usually ached, he wasn't sure he
could make it all the way around the block anyhow.

He stared across the street at that Impala and decided
he wasn't going to die. Moving faster than he had in years,
he marched down the driveway and crossed the street.

At her house, he rang the bell. The door opened and
there stood Renee Olmstead dressed in jeans and a fuzzy
blue sweater that clung in just the right places.

I

"I hope I'm not disturbing you,‘ said George. She
wagged her head no. "If you're free tonight for dinner,
I was wondering if you'd accompany me to the Chambourg?"

"Oh?" She rubbed her hand against the left side of her

head. "I've never been there. Uh, that'd be great." She

85

smiled.

"If you need a sitter?"

"Oh, no, they're with their father this weekend."
Her smile slid away, and he looked into her eyes seeing
that same serious expression, seemingly puzzled but also
interested, he had visualized in the hot tub.

"Well, great, then I'll come get you at seven—thirty."

She nodded. "See you then."

Three and a half hours later at the restaurant, George

 

held an oak chair for Renee as she sat. She wore a red

knee length dress, a simple gold necklace and matching
earrings. George felt people watching and wondering if the
old man had his daughter with him or a date. He saw a few
women his age scolding him with their eyes and tight lips.
George liked the attention. It was fun being thought a dirty
old man.

Renee didn't seem to notice any odd looks or maybe
she just didn't care what people were thinking. Her face
beamed a joyous expression.

"This is such a nice place," Renee said and patted
George's hand as he sat. She glanced around and her dark
eyes glowed. George watched her and forgot the others in
the restaurant, and he began to relax for the first time
in many months.

"I hope the menu's in French," Renee said. "I took
four years of it in school. Do you speak French, George?"

He shook his head no. "It's in English. Sorry."

86

"That's fine," she said. "You know my kids, Ray, Sarah,
Johnny, and Billy?"

"I've just seen them a few times."

She pressed both hands against the table and leaned
forward. "Well, I'll tell you. Raymond is my oldest. He's
ten, so big already. One day they're babies and the next
they're so big...."

George had always been a good listener, and he had

plenty of opportunity to use that skill while they ate.

 

Renee was happy, so she talked. George was contented, and

he listened. He thought she really enjoyed being all dressed
up in an elegant restaurant as if she hadn't had many dinner
dates lately. In fact, George began to realize she might
have some of the same lonely feelings he had.

But she was young and pretty, and he was a broken down
old man. Or was he?

George straightened his shoulders and sipped his wine.
While setting the glass on the table, he noticed his hand,
smooth and firm looking suddenly strong. Pulling his fingers
into a fist, he then stretched them out. Usually, sitting
for more than fifteen minutes gave him a backache. Tonight
he'd been in the same chair for an hour and a half and he
felt great.

It seemed as if Renee emitted some kind of invisible
healing energy that relieved George's pains. Or maybe he'd
been so busy listening, he had forgotten about his physical
problems.

Whatever it was, George realized his body was completely

87
free of soreness. As he watched Renee eat her dessert,
George knew he needed to figure out exactly what had made
him feel so good. Was it the pounding at Mrs. VanderVeer's?
Was it being out of his house? Or was it Renee?

He couldn't decide, and after a moment, he knew it
really didn't matter. His life was not back with Marilyn
at the house or sometime in the future when he was dead.
Life was then at that table with Renee. The past and the
future didn't really matter, only the present. And George

knew that his present moments were up to him. He could

 

either see and feel his body decaying, or he could believe
life was joyous whatever the circumstances.

"And when they put Johnny out in right field, he lost
track of the game and was swatting bugs when the ball was
hit out there. Well, everybody scored and the Bulls lost,
but Billy handled it pretty well. Even though some of the
other boys razzed him, my little trooper ignored 'em and
played the next game. He paid attention and even caught

a pop up,’ Renee said.
George felt dizzy. "Your children sound truly wonderful,"
he said. She grinned and sipped her coffee.
Thirty minutes later as George drove Renee home, he
knew dinner had been pleasant for her but not tremendously
romantic. When he stopped in her driveway, George hopped
out and walked her to the door.

I

"Tonight was fun. Thanks, George,‘ she said. He just
nodded and watched her enter the house.

After getting to his place, George stepped into the

88
bathroom and flicked on the light. While examining his
face in the mirror, he decided he looked no different, still
an old man. But he felt different. Maybe he should have
kissed her good night. Naw! He was too old for romance.

Or was he?

During the next few days, George shopped around at
the hot tub and Jacuzzi stores. He got what he thought

was a good deal on an enormous Jacuzzi identical to Mrs.

 

VanderVeer's. Wednesday two men installed it in the heated
sunroom at the back of George's house.

That evening, George telephoned Renee and asked her
to dinner and a play on Friday. She agreed and George became
excited.

Thursday morning George made an appointment to have
Mrs. VanderVeer pound him again. He didn't know if her
treatment did any good or not, but he was sure that his life
had changed for the better last Friday, so he went again
and this time he relaxed his muscles and her hands caressed
and kneaded, and he felt even better.

It was the touching, he decided. Mrs. VanderVeer's
hands could work miracles. He felt no pain, just an
occasional twinge. Afterward, as he drove home, he remembered
how he'd behaved a week earlier like a baby, a sissy, a
wimp! And he laughed at himself.

The days zoomed past and suddenly it was Friday evening.
George dressed in his blue pinstripe suit and his freshly

shined black shoes. He combed his thick gray hair and

89

realized how fortunate he was. Over the years, his hairline
had receded some but there was no baldness in his family.
In the bathroom mirror, he looked into his clear blue eyes
surrounded by pure white. His skin was pink and clean.
Feeling handsome made him stand straighter.

Tonight was going to be fantastic.

The telephone rang, so he marched into the living room
and answered it. "Hello?"

"George, this is Renee. I'm real sorry, but Sarah

is sick, throwing up and all, and I can't leave her like

 

this with the sitter, so I'm not gonna be able to go out
tonight."

George felt a numbness slip across his stomach. "I
hope she'll be okay soon. Do you think it's serious?"

”Probably just the flu. I'm real sorry, George. Maybe
some other time."

George thought for a moment and then said, "Uh, Renee,
would you maybe like to just come over here tomorrow. I've
bought a new Jacuzzi for my sunroom and since it's getting
so cold out, I thought you might enjoy it."

Renee didn't say anything for a few seconds. "Well,
George, tomorrow's pretty busy, but I could make it in the
evening after eight."

George trembled slightly. "I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Okay, bye, George."

As he hung up the telephone, feelings long forgotten
filled George's body and mind. He hopped into the kitchen

and checked around for a bottle of champagne. Unable to find

90
one, he wrote on a slip of paper "Buy Champagne" and left
it on the table.

As George's anticipation rose, the hours slowed. All
Saturday morning and afternoon, he fussed. At least twenty
times, he checked the Jacuzzi, made sure the clean towels
were nearby, wiped off the wine glasses and felt the
champagne bottle in the refrigerator to make sure it was
cold.

At seven—thirty, George put on his swim trunks and a

Polo shirt. Maybe he should have bought some barbells and

 

lifted weights to bulk up a bit, he thought.

He checked the Jacuzzi again. Everything was ready.
On the dot, eight o'clock, the doorbell rang. George fluffed
his hair and marched to the entry. As he swung the door
open, he spotted Renee looking very happy.

"Why, hello, come on in," he said.

Renee tilted her head to the right. "Go on," she said.
George glanced down as three children stared at him. "Mr.
McElroy won't bite. Go on."

George slid to the side as the children and then Renee

strode past. "Ray is at his friend's so we have to get home
by ten," she said.
"You can change in the bedrooms through there," George

choked and then pointed. The two boys entered his bedroom

while Renee and the little girl headed for the other one.
This was no time to let foolish anticipation spoil

his evening. These present moments were going to be fun.

He darted into the kitchen, grabbed the champagne and a

91
bottle of root beer, took three plastic cups and walked
to the Jacuzzi.
Just then, the boys sheepishly appeared in the sunroom.

I

"Let's see, you're Johnny and you're Billy,’ George said.

The boys smiled. "Well, climb those steps and hop in the
tub." He hit the switch and the churning began.
Renee, holding the girl, entered the room. "You have

I

a beautiful home, George,‘ she said. "You met Johnny and
Billy?" George nodded. "And this is Sarah. She's all
better today."

George pulled off his shirt and climbed into the
Jacuzzi. "Better get in before the boys wear out the water,"
he said.

Renee set Sarah on the edge where George took her in
his arms and slid down. "Hurry up, Mom, the water's hot,"
yelled one of the boys.

Renee stepped to the Jacuzzi and George approvingly

eyed her shapely form wrapped in a yellow flowered swimsuit.

"Whew," he whispered.

Renee eased into the water. "Oooh, this is great,"
she said.
George focused on Sarah who sat on his lap. "I'm glad

I

you're not sick any more,‘ he said. The little girl stuck

out her lower lip and then splashed water into his face.

 

THE DWANA CULT

Barry Milligan was bored. He had been listening for
more than five hours sitting on a grassy field near a farm
and his attention span had been spent long ago. As the full
moon appeared on the horizon, his eyelids felt heavy and he
yawned. He clasped his hand against his face and suddenly
felt Beth's fingers grasp his arm. Barry turned toward her.
Beth's dark eyes stared intently at the speaker. Occasion-
ally her chin nodded in agreement.

They had been going steady all through their junior
year of high school and during that time Beth had been normal.
Ever since summer vacation had started, she had changed
and had been talking about stuff like past lives, the tran-
scendental nature of all matter and her eternal vision.

Barry hoped this was just a phase that she'd soon outgrow,

92

93
but in the meantime, she had insisted he accompany her to
this kooky meeting. He wanted to please her, so there he
sat.

The lecture had gone far past its usefulness. Barry
had heard the early section about focusing the mind and
alternate planes of reality, but the last hours were a muddle
of incoherent nonsense.

Who is this Dwana Klumhol? Barry thought. Looking
toward the speaker who sat crosslegged wearing a brown dress
with red, purple and green beads sewn in a random pattern,
Barry watched Dwana's smooth face while she talked.

"Fear and doubt will always limit your ability to
achieve goals. By overcoming fear and doubt, you will
become free and nothing will be impossible."

Barry pondered that idea.

I

"Now, you must prepare your minds,‘ Dwana said and then
she bowed her head and remained still and silent. Barry
glanced toward Beth who had taken the same pose. His eyes
darted around the group of twenty people. All seemed to be
praying, so Barry bowed his head and closed his eyes.

How old is Dwana? he wondered. She wore no make up
and that baggy dress made her look frumpy. But her perfect
skin and clear eyes made her appear young, mid-twenties maybe.
On the other hand, she might be sixty. Barry couldn't tell.

I

"The time is right,‘ Dwana whispered and Barry's eyes
shot open. Dwana was standing with her head tilting back,
eyes shut and arms stretching toward the stars.

Everyone silently stood. Beth's hand tugged on Barry's

94
arm, so he got up. It felt good to stretch. He'd been
sitting for too long. The others lifted their hands to the
sky. Barry did also. These people are weird, he thought,
but Beth seemed into it. Barry just went along and prayed
the meeting would end soon.

Dwana's head slowly lowered as her eyes Opened. "This
was to be just an introductory session, but I believe the
vibrations are right for this group to advance to the next
stage in experiencing an alternate reality. After the ordeal,
you will be prepared for healing and psychic work."

She paused a moment and seemed to examine each person's
face. "I sense no objections."

The group had agreed, and Barry wanted to ask, "What's
the next stage and what did she mean by ordeal?" But no
one else said a word, so he remained silent.

Dwana floated in her long dress from the field to an
area in back of an old barn. The rest followed. A wheel
barrow sat next to the building and one man rolled it toward
the group. Barry realized there were eight twenty-five
pound bags of Kingsford charcoal on the wheel barrow. The
man stopped, grabbed one bag, sliced the paper with a pocket
knife and dumped the coals on the ground. He emptied the
other bags, took a shovel and spread the coals over an area
about four feet wide and six feet long.

"What's this for?" Barry whispered to Beth.

"The firewalk," she answered.

"What's that?"

"We'll walk across the coals once they're hot."

95

Barry heard himself gasp, so he clutched his hand
against his mouth. No one seemed to notice. The rest
watched the man lighting the coals.

"I can't do this," Barry whispered.

"Sure you can. Anyone can," Beth said.

"I wasn't listening during the lecture. I don't know
what to do."

Beth pressed her lips together as if annoyed. "Don't
be silly." Her hand slid down his arm and slipped around

his fingers.

 

Charcoal smoke filled the air as a wind gust turned
the coals red. "No way," Barry said aloud.

Beth squeezed his hand, and he saw her eyes blazing
at him. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't chicken out."

The word chicken stuck in his throat and then eased
down to his stomach where it sat like a thrashing electric
wire.

Dwana announced, "Prepare your minds." All walked
away from the fire. Beth tugged Barry's arm, and he followed.
Some people headed back to the field. A few wandered toward
a wooded area. Beth sat right in the middle of the lawn
still in sight of the barn and fire.

Barry flopped next to her. "Let's get out of here.

You said we'd just listen to the lecture. Walking on fire!
It's impossible."

II

"For you it is, Beth interrupted. "Didn't you hear
Dwana say as long as your belief is consistent so will be

your experience in the objective world?"

96

"But I can't...."

"I'll do this for you then," Beth said. Her eyes closed
and she seemed to be deep in meditation. She stayed that
way for a long time. Barry decided he'd just watch. No one
would say anything. These people usually talked about the
power of unconditional love and stuff like that. They
wouldn't care if he didn't walk on the coals.

Feeling a little better, he wondered what he could
say to talk Beth out of it. She had always been extremely
head—strong. Barry knew there was no use. She'd firewalk
and nothing he could say or do would keep her from it.

"It is time," Dwana's voice proclaimed.

In a few minutes, the group assembled near one end
of the pit which had turned white. Beth and Barry, wearing
shorts and T-shirts with bare feet, waited as the others
removed their shoes and left them in a pile. The rising
heat irritated Barry's eyes and the smudge made him choke.

He could taste smoke.

"Walk the fire when you decide you are ready," Dwana
said. "Don't stand in one spot for long. Move across the
fire and you will not notice the heat. Know you will not

burn and you won't."

Dwana turned toward the coals, lifted her dress above
her knees displaying firm, smooth legs and sauntered across
the coals. Her bare feet made occasional crunching sounds,
and she didn't burn. At least, she didn't seem to. Barry
watched her step onto the grass, turn around and smile

lovingly at the group.

97

The man who had spread the coals, wearing blue jeans
he'd rolled up to his knees and a Detroit Pistons T—shirt,
casually walked through the fire pit. After five short
steps, he stretched out his arm and Dwana took his hand.
Barry stared at their feet which should have been seared
to the bone with blood gushing out. Their feet appeared
unharmed.

A middle—aged woman wearing a purple sundress strode
across the coals. At the other side, she giggled and hugged

Dwana. One by one the people moved to the pit and crossed

 

it. None sizzled or even complained of any pain. Barry
stood ten feet from the fire and the heat seemed to be
scorching his cheeks, lips and eyelashes.

Beth released his hand and calmly walked to the pit.

She paused and turned toward Barry. When he didn't join her,
she marched the few steps across the fire and hugged Dwana.
The group embraced and kissed celebrating their courage and
power.

After a few moments, some looked back at Barry standing
alone, the outsider. Three people danced across the coals
again. Barry watched feeling amazed and a little weak.

They could do it, so why couldn't he?

Tugged forward Barry stumbled as Beth squeezed his hand
and headed to the pit. At the edge, the heat rose in
powerful waves. Just as Barry began to protest, Beth
interrupted. "You can do it. Now walk."

His will vanished as terror numbed his mind. He couldn't

move. He was going to scream and cry. Beth stepped onto

98
the coals. "Walk!" she commanded.

His bare foot swung over the fire and landed. His
other foot moved forward. He felt the hairs on his legs
scorching. A man gripped his left arm and pulled. Barry
heard gentle crunching, and someone touched his shoulder
blades. He pinched his eyes shut expecting burning pain.
He felt heat all around and smoke surrounded him.

Beth laughed and hugged both arms around his neck.
All the people crowded nearby. Dwana held her arms across
Beth and Barry.

He stared back at the pit. "I can't do it," he yelled.
"I was daydreaming during the lecture!" Everyone roared
in laughter as if he had just told the funniest joke.

"What do you mean can't? You just did,‘ Beth said into
his ear.

While the others walked the fire again, he examined
the soles of both feet. Barry accepted the fact that he
really had walked across the fire without getting burned.
Somehow he had understood enough of Dwana's talk to do it.
Maybe his subconscious mind had taken charge or a guardian
angel had slipped some invisible asbestos booties onto his
feet.

Beth seemed excited and happy. Barry felt bewildered
and wanted to share her emotions but couldn't. It all was
so bizarre, he wasn't able to express joy.

During the drive home, Beth said nothing. She stared

out the window. At her house, she said a quick, "Good night,"

kissed Barry on the cheek and hurried up the walk.

99

As he drove to-his house, Barry wondered about
tomorrow afternoon when they'd attend Dwana's second lecture.
He hoped sword swallowing and cobra charming were not on the
agenda.

The next morning, Barry sat in the kitchen with his
fourteen—year—old brother, Carl. Their mother had left
sandwich fixings, so they piled on ham, turkey, cheese,
lettuce and tomatoes. Barry slurped a Coke and watched

Carl bite into his lunch.

 

"What did you do last night?" Carl said with his mouth
full.

"Oh, I was just wondering," Barry said and then
reconsidered. "Just hung around Beth's." He wanted to
tell Carl about last night but wasn't sure his brother could
resist telling their parents whom Barry was sure would label
Dwana as Satan and Beth as a witch.

"She's cute," Carl said and then took another bite.
"Great legs."

Barry didn't care to answer that except to nod in
agreement and keep eating. After finishing, he put his
dishes into the sink, said, "Later, dude" to Carl and slammed
out the door.

He drove the six blocks to Beth's and found her sitting
on the lawn waiting. Barry stopped on the street, and she
hopped in the passenger's side.

"Hello, how are you?" she said.

"Great, so what's the meeting about today?" Barry said.

"Healing. It's gonna be amazing. I'm still shivering

100
with excitement about last night. Did you tell your parents?
I wanted to tell mine, but I'm afraid they'd ship me off
to some girl's school at a convent and I'd miss my senior
year."

"I didn't even see my parents," Barry said. "And Carl
might tell 'em."
Beth leaned over and smacked a big kiss on Barry's

lips. "I think I'll call you Firewalker from now on," she
said.

Barry just looked at her. Beth's glowing eyes made
her face even prettier than usual. She wore a yellow Polo
shirt and blue shorts. Barry started to hug her, but she
shoved him back to the driver's seat.

"Come on. Let's get going. We don't want to be late,"
Beth said.

Barry hit the gas and drove back to the Muhlenberger's
farm. After parking his car along the dirt road that led
to the house, he climbed out and walked with Beth to the
field. On the way, they passed the charcoal pit now powdery
white and cold. Ahead, some people waited electrified with
anticipation. Dwana, looking serene and beautiful, strode
toward them embracing first Beth and then Barry who clumsily
touched his hands around her waist.

In an airy whisper, Dwana said, "Peace be with you"
into Barry's ear. She wore another baggy dress which was
gray with blue and silver moons and stars on it. Tacky
beyond belief, thought Barry. Dwana's brown hair was tightly

braided and hung down to her shoulders. If she'd been blonde,

101
she would have looked like the perfect Swiss milk maid.

Others arrived and Dwana hugged them. All twenty were
now present. Without any instructions, the people sat
crosslegged on the grass in an orderly semi—circle with
Dwana seated in front. .

"Welcome, I'm sure you slept well," Dwana said. Barry
had, so he nodded. "Today, we will focus our cosmic energy
for healing. This will involve some mental training...."

At that point, Barry tried to concentrate. After a
moment, he glanced at his watch and began thinking about
taking Beth to the lake. Dwana talked and talked and talked.
She was worse than Mr. Edwards, Barry's American history
teacher, who could talk non-stop for fifty—five minutes
five hours a day five days per week without taking a breath
or blinking. Dwana made Mr. Edwards' speeches seem like
chit chat.

"Any questions?" Dwana said and Barry awoke from his
daydream. No one said anything. Barry thought it was
probably prayer time again, but Dwana said, "Joe, would
you sit at the center of the circle and face the barn. We
must sit in male female order to balance the yin and yang."
Some people moved to different locations, and Dwana sat
next to Barry. Beth took one of his hands and Dwana grabbed
the other. "The cosmic energy will go around the circle
through each person until it builds up and heals Joe."

Barry stared at Joe. He didn't look sick. Well,
maybe he was a little skinny but heal what? Barry wanted to

ask, "What's wrong with him?" but didn't. All closed their

102
eyes and became silent. Barry heard a bird whistling in
a nearby tree. He tried to spot the bird but couldn't.

So ask, he decided. "What's wrong with him?" Barry
blurted.

No one moved except Dwana who opened her eyes. Her
face seemed kindly and her warm hand felt so gentle.
"Cancer," Dwana said and then closed her eyes.

The silence lasted a long time. Barry wanted to check
his watch but couldn't without disturbing Beth who seemed
to be asleep sitting up. Barry's palms became sweaty, and
the sun eased out from behind a cloud.

Joe, sitting in the middle of the circle, turned pale
as sweat droplets slid down his face which looked like a
marathon runner's approaching the finish line.

Barry was bored. He suddenly pulled a huge load of
air into his lungs and sighed. Just then, the others' eyes
opened, and they all sighed contented breaths. A few stood
and stretched. Barry released the girls' hands and wiped
his palms on his shorts. Beth jumped up and pulled on
Barry's arm helping him stand.

"Wasn't that fantastic. I could feel the energy
pulsating through me," Beth said. "You had to feel it,
didn't you?"

Barry nodded yes and smiled, but he knew he was lying.
He didn't feel anything unusual. "So, is he healed?" Barry
said and pointed at Joe who still sat on the grass.

I

Beth turned toward Joe. "Isn't it wonderful,' she said.

From the corner of his eye, Barry noticed Dwana walking

 

103
toward the barn. She disappeared behind it. Probably going
up to the house to use the bathroom, he thought.

The people took turns embracing Joe and offering words
of encouragement. After Beth hugged him, Barry stood there
feeling ridiculous. He didn't want to hug anyone who was
sick, so he pushed his hand out and Joe shook it with a

' Barry said.

tight grip. "I hope you're doing better,‘
Joe nodded and then hugged a woman. The embracing
went on and on. Barry finally grabbed Beth's arm and headed
for the car.
"Is that it?" Barry asked Beth.
"For now."
"When's the next meeting?" Barry said.
"Not until next weekend."

That information brightened his attitude. Five days

with no boring lectures. Fantastic, he thought.

On Monday afternoon, Barry took Beth to Hamilton Lake.
She wore a pink bikini and looked gorgeous, but she kept
talking about Dwana and the meetings. Barry had decided
all of this Dwana stuff was just fantasy acted out for an
audience. The healing performance for Joe couldn't cure him,
and Barry was sure that guy would probably die or at least
be hospitalized very soon.

Sitting in the sun watching children play as people
swam, Barry understood Dwana and her cult. Even the firewalk
had to be a trick, a magician's scheme that trapped the

weak minded. The longer he thought about Dwana, the more

104
sure he became. Even though she hadn't mentioned money
yet, she was a con—artist who would eventually expect them
to pull out their wallets and make a donation. That's all
she wanted.

The hot sun gave Barry an idea. He took Beth's suntan
lotion and poured a line down her back. She quivered with
surprise or maybe it felt cold. Barry then gently rubbed
it over her shoulders and back.

"This weekend's meeting will be even better than last,"

Beth said. "I can't wait."
Barry stopped rubbing her back. "I thought we might
skip this weekend. I mean, why sit and listen to some

lecture when we could be here?"

Beth flipped over and sat up. "How can't you be excited
after the firewalk and the healing?"

He stared out at the water where three kids playfully
splashed each other. "Well, it was interesting in a kooky
way, but it's just not something I think we should get too
deeply involved in. It's a cult."

"After this weekend, Dwana won't be here any more.
She's doing these lectures because she cares about people.
There's no obligation or membership. It's no cult. It's
a group meeting based on love."

Barry didn't want to argue. When he looked at Beth,
she almost glared. "Well, it sure has filled our relation-
ship with love," Barry said sarcastically.

"I don't care what you say. I'm going this weekend,"

Beth said and then her teeth clenched, and Barry could see

105
her jaw muscles rippling.

"Fine. You can go by yourself."

"Fine," Beth said. "The people there seem very
friendly."

After a few silent moments, she stood, lifted her beach
towel and sprayed sand over Barry. Momentarily, he got up
and followed her to the car.

Feeling aggravated, he drove her home. Dwana was going

to ruin their summer. Maybe enduring one more weekend would

 

salvage some time. Barry thought it over and finally said,
"How about if I can prove Dwana's a phoney, you won't go next
weekend? If I can't prove it, then I'll go with you."

"How are you going to do that?" Beth said.

Barry stopped in front of her house. Her mother's car
sat in the driveway. "I don't know yet. If I can maybe
prove that guy Joe isn't really cured, then you'd accept
Dwana's a fraud?"

Beth frowned. "His disease might still be there, but
he was healed spiritually."

II

"Spiritually might be hard to prove or disprove, Barry

said.

That evening at supper, Barry sat with Carl and put
together more sandwiches. Their parents were out at a
business dinner and reception for a new company. Carl had
spent all day watching television. "Did you rent some videos
today or just watch the networks?" Barry said trying to

start a conversation.

106

"Yeah," Carl answered as he chewed. "What'd you do
today?"

"Took Beth to the lake." Barry decided to see if maybe
Carl had any ideas that could help him prove Dwana was a
phoney. He had to make sure it sounded casual and not too
important. "So, Carl, why do you think this stuff where
people copy primitive rituals is so popular nowadays?"

Carl looked up from his plate seemingly bewildered.
"Huh?"

"You know like walking across a fire in a deep trance
and not getting burned. It's a fad. It started in
California. People go to lectures."

"Firewalk, oh yeah. I saw a story on television about
it," Carl said and then took another bite of sandwich.

"What about it?" Barry said.

Carl swallowed. "People learn mind control and walk
across charcoal. In fact, Mr. Hessmann, my science teacher,
talked about that." Carl took another bite.

Barry didn't want to sound too interested but said,

"What did he say?"

"Condectvee," Carl mumbled and then swallowed.
"What?"
"Conductivity," Carl said slowly.

"What's that?"

Carl smiled. "It's the ability of a substance to hold
or conduct heat energy. I remember that. It was on the
exam."

"So what's that got to do with people walking on hot

107
coals?" Barry said.

"Everything." Carl seemed smug. "Mr. Hessmann said
firewalkers don't walk on the coals when they're flaming.
That's the trick. They wait for the coals to burn down
so there are no visible flames. The embers are made of
light fluffy material which has low conductivity. See,
something metal or a rock has high conductivity because
it's a solid material."

Barry thought this was good stuff but still didn't
understand. "Why don't the firewalkers burn their feet?"

Carl sighed. "The firewalkers move across the coals
quickly. If they stood in one spot for more than a couple
seconds, they'd get burned. As long as they keep moving,
the heat from the coals is not conducted into the soles
of their feet which are also poor conductors. It's the same
principle as putting your finger through a candle flame.
Or a cake baking. You could stick your hand into the air
in an oven that's at four hundred degrees or even touch
the cake for a second, and you wouldn't burn. Cake and
air are poor conductors. But touch the metal pan and it's
sizzle city."

Barry wanted to hug Carl. "It's just a trick."

"Explained through the laws of physics," Carl added.

In his mind, Barry heard Dwana's voice, "Don't stand
in one spot for long. Move across the fire and you will
not notice the heat." Also they had waited a long time
between lighting the coals and walking on them which let the

flames die down. Barry now knew Dwana was a fraud, but how

108
could he convince Beth?

Immediately after dinner, Barry rushed to the store
and prepared the backyard. Carl helped, and when Beth parked
her bicycle on the driveway at eight o'clock, she seemed to
follow her nose into the back where a white and red char-
coal pit glowed and fumes filled the air.

"What are you doing?" Beth said pointing at the fire.

"Carl and I are going to prove a point. In a few minutes,
you will accept the fact that Dwana is a phoney baloney."

"You're not going to firewalk," Beth said. "Carl,
you can't. You haven't undergone the proper mental prepara—
tion."

Barry said, "You'll see in a moment that this requires
no mind at all."

"I'm not going to argue that. Barry, the only reason
you did it before was because the group sent out powerful
vibrations which protected you," Beth said.

"Bah!" Barry popped. "This is a trick explainable
by the laws of physics."

Beth turned toward Carl who said, "Thermal conductivity."

Barry felt a kind of high. He was tripping on his own
self—righteousness. He strode to the pit's edge and turned
toward Beth and Carl. "You know, this time I'm positive
I won't get burned."

"Stop it, Barry! Don't!" yelled Beth just as he swung
his bare foot over the white coals. His other foot landed
and a searing pain flashed across his legs.

"Aaaaah!" screamed Barry as he hopped sideways off the

109
coals onto the grass where he fell. His burning feet sent
agonizing sparks throughout his body until a sick numbness
entered.

Beth knelt next to Barry. "Oh, your feet. We better
go to the hospital."
Carl appeared behind Beth. "It didn't work the way

Mr. Hessmann said, huh?"

For Barry the hospital was white and pain and some
cream on his feet which eased his suffering. The doctor
wanted to know what had happened, so Barry told him he had
accidentally stepped on the coals dumped from their barbecue.
The doctor then suggested, "Maybe get a gas grill with
mesquite next time." Barry didn't try to smile. He felt
too stupid and sore.

When Beth and Carl were allowed to enter the emergency
room treatment area, Barry closed his eyes. "We finally

contacted Mom and Dad," Carl said. Barry wanted to melt

and disappear forever.

During the next week, Barry helped Carl watch television.
Beth came over each day with a gift. On Tuesday, she brought
a box of chocolate covered cherries Barry loved. She didn't
say anything about his injury except to ask how he was
feeling. Barry didn't think he deserved any sympathy, so he
told her, "Good" each time.

Wednesday's gift was a large deluxe pan pizza. Barry,
Beth and Carl ate it as they watched "Another World.”

Thursday evening, Beth showed up with a yellow T—shirt

 

 

110
with Firewalker printed in big black letters across the
chest. Barry didn't like the joke but thanked her anyway.
His feet were hurting much less, and the blistered skin
seemed to be falling off.
Friday afternoon, Beth presented Barry with a wrapped
gift. He could tell it was a book. He unwrapped it and

thanked her. It was The Miracle of Mind Power by Dan Custer.

 

During a commercial, Carl went into the kitchen. Beth
said, "You know tomorrow's the last meeting with Dwana."

Barry did not want to argue about who had lost their
bet. "What time?"

Beth smiled. "We should leave here about one. Could
I drive you in your car?"

"Sure," Barry said staring at a Tide commercial as
Beth smacked a kiss on his lips.

The next day, Beth parked the car on the dirt road.
They walked the path to the meeting area in the field.
Barry felt like an idiot. As he hobbled, his sore feet ached
with each step. His burns were heavily bandaged, and he
wore thick wool socks and sandles.

Dwana, wearing a plain blue dress, embraced Barry.

I

"Peace be with you,‘ she whispered. Barry nodded and stared
at the ground. After sitting, the pain in his feet was
replaced by occasional bursts.

As the lecture started, Barry managed to pay attention
for a while but then found himself gazing at the trees and

barn and listening to the wind and birds.

Finally, Dwana stopped talking. The people stood,

111
formed a circle around Barry, held hands and did their healing
meditation. Barry watched Joe who held Dwana's and Beth's
hands. Joe still looked skinny, but he wasn't so pale.

Knowing he was supposed to feel some blast of cosmic
energy which would miraculously heal his feet, Barry opened
his mind to the possibility. He felt nothing except
occasional wind gusts.

As the meeting ended, all the people hugged and kissed
again. Dwana gave her final blessing and walked to the
farmhouse. The men helped Barry back to the car, and as
he slipped into the passenger's seat, he noticed Joe puffing
on a cigarette.

After dinner that evening alone in his bedroom, Barry
carefully removed the gauze from his feet. The blisters
were pretty well gone and except for pink skin and some
rough peeling chunks, his feet looked okay. When he pressed
them against the floor, the familiar pain returned. He
wasn't healed. He wanted to telephone Beth, have her come
over and show her the result of Dwana's ritual. Beth would
probably say his unbelief had kept the miracle from happening.
He didn't call.

Barry was sick and tired of being so depressed. As he
lay on the bed, he said to himself, "Think about something
happy." The Dwana meetings were over for the summer, and
maybe Beth would forget about that kookiness. Even though
he'd acted like a total buffoon, she was still his girlfriend.
He pictured himself on the beach rubbing suntan lotion on

Beth's back, and as he did, he noticed that his feet suddenly

112

felt better.

 

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