The witching hour

Forty-four

ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING HAD gone wrong. The roof at Liberty Street had been leaking when he arrived and somebody had broken into the Castro Street store for a pitiful handful of cash in the drawer. His Diamond Street property had also been vandalized, and it had taken four days to clean it out before he could put it up for sale. Add to that a week to crate Aunt Viv’s antiques, and to pack all her little knickknacks so that nothing would be broken. And he was afraid to trust the movers with these things. Then he’d had to sit down with his accountant for three days to put his tax records in order. December 14 already and there was still so much work to be done.

About the only good thing was that Aunt Viv had received the first two boxes safely and called to say how delighted she was to have her cherished objects with her at last. Did Michael know she’d joined a sewing circle with Lily, in which they did petit point and listened to Bach? She thought it was the most elegant thing. And now that her furniture was on the way, she could invite all the lovely Mayfair ladies over to her place at last. Michael was a darling. Just a darling.

“And I saw Rowan on Sunday, Michael, she was taking a walk, in this freezing weather, but do you know she has finally started to put on a little weight. I never wanted to say it before, but she was so thin and so pale. It was wonderful to see her with a real bloom in her cheeks.”

He had to laugh at that, but he missed Rowan unbearably. He had never planned to be gone so long. Every phone call only made it worse, the famous butterscotch voice driving him out of his mind.

She was understanding about all the unforeseen catastrophes but he could hear the worry behind her questions. And he couldn’t sleep after the calls, smoking one cigarette after another, and drinking too much beer, and listening to the endless winter rain.

San Francisco was in the wet season now, and the rain hadn’t stopped since his arrival. No blue skies, not even over the Liberty Street hill, and the wind ripped right through his clothes when he stepped outside. He was wearing his gloves all the time just to keep warm.

But now at last the old house was almost empty. Nothing but the last two boxes in the attic, and in a strange way, these little treasures were what he had come to retrieve and take with him to New Orleans. And he was eager to finish the job.

How alien it all looked to him, the rooms smaller than he remembered, and the sidewalks in front so dirty. The tiny pepper tree he’d planted seemed about to give up the ghost. Impossible that he could have spent so many years here telling himself he was happy.

And impossible that he might have to spend another back-breaking week, taping and labeling boxes at the store, and going through tax receipts, and filling out various forms. Of course he could have the movers do it, but some of the items weren’t worth that kind of trouble. And then the sorting was the nightmare, with all the little decisions.

“It’s better now than later,” Rowan had said this afternoon when he called. “But I can hardly stand it. Tell me, have you had any second thoughts? I mean about the whole big change? Are there moments when you’d just like to pick up where you left off, as if New Orleans never happened?”

“Are you crazy? All I think about is coming back to you. I’m getting out of here before Christmas. I don’t care what’s going on.”

“I love you, Michael.” She could say it a thousand times and it always sounded spontaneous. It was an agony not to be able to hold her. But was there a darker note to her voice, something he hadn’t heard before?

“Michael, burn anything that’s left. Just make a bonfire in the backyard, for heaven’s sakes. Hurry.”

He’d promised her he’d finish in the house by tonight if it killed him.

“Nothing’s happened, has it? I mean you’re not scared there, are you, Rowan?”

“No. I’m not scared. It’s the same beautiful house you left. Ryan had a Christmas tree delivered. You ought to see it, it reaches the ceiling. It’s just waiting there in the parlor for you and me to decorate it. The smell of the pine needles is all through the house.”

“Ah, that’s wonderful. I’ve got a surprise for you … for the tree.”

“All I want is you, Michael. Come home.”

Four o’clock. The house was really truly empty now and hollow and full of echoes. He stood in his old bedroom looking out over the dark shiny rooftops, spilling downhill to the Castro district, and beyond, the clustered steel gray skyscrapers of downtown.

A great city, yes, and how could he not be grateful for all the wonderful things it had given him? A city like no other perhaps. But it wasn’t his city anymore. And in a way it never had been.

Going home.

But he’d forgotten again. The boxes in the attic, the surprise, the things he wanted most of all.

Taking the plastic wrapping material and an empty carton with him, he went up the ladder, stooping under the sloped roof, and snapped on the light. Everything clean and dry now that the leak had been patched. And the sky the color of slate beyond the front window. And the four remaining boxes, marked “Christmas” in red ink.

The tree lights he’d leave for the guys who were renting the place. Surely they could use them.

But the ornaments he would now carefully repack. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing a single one. And to think, the tree was already there.

Dragging the box over under the naked overhead bulb, he opened it and discarded the old tissue paper. Over the years he’d collected hundreds of these little porcelain beauties from the specialty shops around town. Now and then he’d sold them himself at Great Expectations. Angels, wise men, tiny houses, carousel horses, and other delicate trinkets of exquisitely painted bisque. Real true Victorian ornaments could not have been more finely fashioned or fragile. There were tiny birds made of real feathers, wooden balls skillfully painted with lavish old roses, china candy canes, and silver-plated stars.

Memories came back to him of Christmases with Judith and with Elizabeth, and even back to the time when his mother had been alive.

But mostly he remembered the last few Christmases of his life, alone. He had forced himself to go through with the old rituals. And long after Aunt Viv had gone to bed, he’d sat by the tree, a glass of wine in his hand, wondering where his life was going and why.

Well, this Christmas would be utterly and completely different. All these exquisite ornaments would now have a purpose, and for the first time there would be a tree large enough to hold the entire collection, and a grand and wonderful setting in which they truly belonged.

Slowly he began work, removing each ornament from the tissue, rewrapping it in plastic, and putting it in a tiny plastic sack. Imagine First Street on Christmas Eve with the tree in the parlor. Imagine it next year when the baby was there.

It seemed impossible suddenly that his life could have experienced such a great and wondrous change. Should have died out there in the ocean, he thought.

And he saw, not the sea in his mind suddenly, but the church at Christmas when he was a child. He saw the crib behind the altar, and Lasher standing there, Lasher looking at him when Lasher was just the man from First Street, tall and dark-haired and aristocratically pale.

A chill gripped him. What am I doing here? She’s there alone. Impossible that he hasn’t shown himself to her.

The feeling was so dark, so full of conviction, that it poisoned him. He hurried with the packing. And when at last he was finished, he cleaned up, threw the trash down the steps, took the box of ornaments with him, and closed up the attic for the last time.

The rain had slacked by the time he reached the Eighteenth Street post office. He’d forgotten what it meant to crawl through this dense traffic, to move perpetually among crowds on grim, narrow, treeless streets. Even the Castro, which he had always loved, seemed dismal to him in the late afternoon rush.

He stood in line too long to mail the box, bristled at the routine indifference of the clerk-an abruptness he had not once encountered in the South since his return-and then hurried off in the icy wind, towards his shop up on Castro.

She wouldn’t lie to him. She wouldn’t. The thing was playing its old game. Yet why that visitation on that long-ago Christmas? Why that face, beaming at him over the crib? Hell, maybe it meant nothing.

After all, he had seen the man that unforgettable night when he first heard the music of Isaac Stern. He had seen the man a hundred times when he walked on First Street.

But he couldn’t stand this panic. As soon as he reached the shop and had locked the door behind him, he picked up the phone and dialed Rowan.

No answer. It was midafternoon in New Orleans, and it was cold there, too. Maybe she’d taken a nap. He let it ring fifteen times before he gave up.

He looked around. So much work still to be done. The entire collection of brass bath fixtures had to be disposed of, and what about the various stained-glass windows stacked against the back wall? Why the hell didn’t the thief who broke in steal this stuff!

At last he decided to box up the papers in the desk, trash and all. No time to sort things. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and began to shove the manila folders into the cardboard cartons. But no matter how quickly he worked, he knew he wouldn’t get out of San Francisco for another week at best.

It was eight o’clock when he finally quit, and the streets were wet still from the rain, and crowded with the inevitable Friday night foot traffic. The lighted shopfronts looked cheerful to him, and he even liked the music thundering out of the gay bars. Yeah, he did now and then miss this bustle of the big city, that he had to admit. He missed the gay community of Castro Street and the tolerance of which its presence was proof.

But he was too tired to think much about it, and with his head bowed against the wind, he pushed his way uphill to where he’d left his car. For a moment he couldn’t believe what he saw-both front tires were gone off the old sedan, and the trunk was popped, and that was his goddamned jack under the front bumper.

“Rotten bastards,” he whispered, stepping out of the flow of pedestrians on the sidewalk. “This couldn’t be worse if somebody had planned it.”

Planned it.

Someone brushed his shoulder. “Eh bien, Monsieur, another little disaster.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” he muttered under his breath, not even bothering to look up, and barely noticing the French accent.

“Very bad luck, Monsieur, you’re right. Maybe somebody did plan it.”

“Yeah, that’s just what I was thinking myself,” he said with a little start.

“Go home, Monsieur. That’s where you’re needed.”

“Hey!”

He turned, but the figure was already traveling on. Glimpse of white hair. In fact, the crowd had almost swallowed him. All Michael saw was the back of his head moving swiftly away and what looked like a dark suit coat.

He rushed after the man.

“Hey!” he shouted again. But as he reached the corner of Eighteenth and Castro, he couldn’t see the guy anywhere. People streamed across the intersection. And the rain had started up again. The bus, just pulling away from the curb, gave a belch of black diesel smoke.

Despairing, Michael’s eyes passed indifferently over the bus, as he turned to retrace his steps, and only by chance did he see in a flash through the back window a familiar face staring back at him. Black eyes, white hair.

… with the simplest and the oldest tools at your command, for through these you can win, even when it seems the odds are impossible …

“Julien!”

… unable to believe your senses, but trust what you know to be the truth and what you know to be right, and that you have the power, the simple human power …

“Yes, I will, I understand … ”

With a sudden violent motion he was jerked off his feet; he felt an arm around his waist, and a person of great strength dragging him backwards. Before he could reason or begin to resist, the bright red fender of a car bumped over the curb, smashing with a deafening crunch into the light pole. Someone screamed. The windshield of the car appeared to explode, silver nuggets of glass flying in all directions.

“Goddamn!” He couldn’t regain his balance. He tumbled back on top of the very guy who’d pulled him out of the way. People were running toward the car. Somebody was moving inside. The glass was still falling out all over the pavement.

“You OK?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m OK. There’s somebody trapped in there.”

The flashing light of a police car dazzled him suddenly. Someone shouted to the policeman to call an ambulance.

“Boy, she nearly got you,” said the one who’d pulled him away-big powerfully built black man in a leather coat, shaking his grizzled head. “Didn’t you see that car coming straight at you?”

“No. You saved my life, you know it?”

“Hell, I just pulled you out of the way. It was nothing. Didn’t even think about it.” Dismissive wave of his hand as he went on, eyes lingering for a moment on the red car, and on the two men trying to free the woman inside, who was screaming. The crowd was growing, and a policewoman was shouting for everyone to get back.

A bus was now blocking the intersection, and another police car had pulled up. Newspapers were lying all over the sidewalk from the overturned box, and the glass was sparkling in the rain like so many scattered diamonds.

“Look, I don’t know how to thank you.” Michael called out.

But the black man was already far away, loping up Castro, with just a glance over his shoulder and a last casual wave of his hand.

Michael stood shivering against the wall of the bar. People pushed past those who had stopped to stare. There was that squeezing in his chest, not quite a pain but a tightening, and the pounding pulse, and a numbness creeping through the fingers of his left hand.

Christ, what actually happened? He couldn’t get sick here, had to get back to the hotel.

He moved clumsily out into the street, and past the policewoman who asked him suddenly if he’d seen the car hit the light pole. No, he had to confess, he sure hadn’t. Cab over there. Get the cab.

The driver could get him out of here if he backed up on Eighteenth and made a sharp right onto Castro.

“Gotta get to the St. Francis, Union Square,” he said.

“You OK?”

“Yeah. Just barely.”

It had been Julien who had spoken to him, no doubt about it, Julien whom he’d seen through the bus window! But what about that damned car?

Ryan could not have been more obliging. “Of course, we could have helped you with all this before, Michael. That’s what we’re here for. I’ll have someone there tomorrow morning to inventory and crate the entire stock. I’ll find a qualified real estate agent and we can discuss the listing price when you get here.”

“I hate to bother you, but I can’t reach Rowan and I have this feeling that I have to get back.”

“Nonsense, we’re here to take care of things for you, large and small. Now, do you have your plane reservation? Why don’t you let me handle that? Stay right where you are and wait for my call.”

He lay on the bed afterwards, smoking his last Camel cigarette, staring at the ceiling. The numbness in his left hand was gone, and he felt all right now. No nausea or dizziness or anything major, as far as he was concerned. And he didn’t care. That part wasn’t real.

What was real was the face of Julien in the bus window. And then that fragment of the visions catching hold of him, as powerfully as ever.

But had it all been planned, just to get him to that dangerous corner? Just to dazzle him and plant him motionless in the path of that careening car? The way he’d been planted in the path of Rowan’s boat?

Oh, so engulfing that fragment of memory. He closed his eyes, saw their faces again, Deborah and Julien, heard their voices.

… that you have the power, the simple human power …

I do, I have it. I believe in you! It’s a war between you and him, and once again, you reached down and you touched me at the very moment of his contrivance, as his carefully orchestrated calamity was taking place.

I have to believe that. Because if I don’t I’ll go out of my mind. Go home, Monsieur. That’s where you’re needed.

He was lying there, his eyes closed, dozing, when the phone rang.

“Michael?” It was Ryan.

“Yeah.”

“Listen; I’ve arranged for you to come back by private plane. It’s much simpler that way. It’s the Markham Harris Hotels plane, and they’re more than delighted to assist us. I have someone coming to pick you up. If you need help with your bags … ”

“No, just tell me the time, I’ll be ready.” What was that smell? Had he put his cigarette out?

“How about an hour from now? They’ll call you from the lobby. And Michael, please, from now on, don’t hesitate to ask us for anything, anything at all.”

“Yeah, thanks, Ryan, yeah, I really appreciate it.” He was staring at the smoldering hole in the bedspread where he’d dropped the cigarette when he fell asleep. God, the first time in his life he’d ever done anything like this! And the room was already full of smoke. “Thanks, Ryan, thanks for everything!”

He hung up, went into the bathroom, and filled the empty ice bucket with water, splashing it quickly onto the bed. Then he pulled the burnt spread away, and the sheet, and poured more water into the dark, smelly hole in the mattress. His heart was tripping again. He went to the window, struggled with it, realized it wasn’t going to open, and then sat down heavily in a chair and watched the smoke gradually drift away.

When he was all packed, he tried Rowan again. Still no answer. Fifteen rings, no answer. He was just about to give up when he heard her groggy voice.

“Michael? Oh, I was asleep, I’m sorry, Michael.”

“Listen to me, honey. I’m Irish, and I’m a very superstitious guy, as we both know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m having a string of bad luck, very bad luck. Do a little Mayfair witchcraft for me, will you, Rowan? Throw a white light around me. Ever hear of that?”

“No. Michael, what’s happening?”

“I’m on my way home, Rowan. Now just imagine it, honey, a white light around me protecting me from everything bad in this world until I get there. You see what I’m saying? Ryan’s arranged a plane for me. I’ll be leaving within the hour.”

“Michael, what’s going on?”

Was she crying?

“Do it, Rowan, about the white light. Just trust me on this. Work on protecting me.”

“A white light,” she whispered. “All around you.”

“Yeah. A white light. I love you, honey. I’m coming home.”