“So, what’s up with the girl?”
“It was a dream, Beth.”
The bland university function room was packed with academics. Even in a corner, Will and Beth nearly had to shout at each other. Will took a long pull on his beer and scanned the crowd. The students were all upper class or graduate level, several of them from his seminar. Huddled together and looking nervous, the poor nerds.
“I don’t think they’ll run out,” Beth said.
“What?”
“Of beer. You can slow down.”
In some mythic past, these student-faculty mixers were boozy affairs, sure to produce at least one tale of a professor embarrassing himself heroically. In this new age, they had become tepid events. Serious types drinking seltzer and lime and gesticulating with bread sticks. At the refreshment table, Will had to specially request the beer, a watery “lite.”
“We should have snuck in a flask.”
“So you could breathe whiskey over Dean Wagner?” laughed Beth. Will’s teaching assistant was tall and dark eyed, with a low laugh and a sharp wit. And tonight, a probing manner. “The dream. It’s based on something,” she pressed. “You told me once. There was a storm and the house got hit by lightning and—”
“Someone died. Yes.”
“But the girl is only in the dream?”
“No,” Will replied. He had forgotten until now that he had told her of his troubled youth. Trying to make the stories funny, though they were anything but to him. They had spoken of it one time, over drinks, but she was not the type to forget. Why did he mention the dream tonight? Because he felt a need to share with someone, and knew Beth would keep it to herself. And because after a long reprieve, he was under siege again. First once a week, then twice, now nearly every night. “She was there, in the field. I’m not sure of the details. I was only five.”
“She was your neighbor.”
“Yes.”
“Were her parents hippies too?”
“She lived with her grandfather. Dartmouth professor. The house was filled with books, wall to wall. Anyway, why are you focused on the girl?”
“That’s who you’re running to, in the dream. Seems like she’s the key.”
“To what?”
“Understanding it.”
“What’s to understand?” said Will, annoyed. The beer bottle was empty, and he had promised himself to stop at two. “Dreams are just mental garbage.”
“Okay.” Beth sipped her soda. “So why were you telling me?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “It was on my mind.”
“It must have been. Because that wasn’t even the girl I was asking about.”
At first he thought she meant Asa, the pierced and pink-haired ghoul from his Myth and Folklore seminar, who was slithering across the room in a serpentine fashion. Headed their way.
“You mean Helen?”
“Is there someone else?”
Not for years, thought Will sadly. And not for a long time to come.
“I haven’t spoken to her in weeks.”
“Wow.” Beth seemed genuinely surprised. “So this is for real, this...”
Breakup? Such a weak word, something that happened to high school sweethearts. He and Helen were in their thirties, had been together four years, lived together for two. He had visited her family far more times than he had seen his own mother in that span. Anxiety rose up, and Will squeezed his eyes shut. The darkness, the burned smell, his mother screaming into the night as he ran. From what?
“They weren’t hippies,” he said, forcing down the panic. “My parents.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, no, I realize I paint them that way. Not my dad, but my mother’s crowd. The flared denims and long hair and mystical chanting. But I mean, it was nineteen seventy-five. Could you still be a hippie then?”
“Sure,” Beth maintained. “It’s a state of mind. They’re out there now, with gray ponytails and tie-dyes yanked over their guts. Starting internet companies.”
“The Revolution,” said Will.
“What did she call it? That séance thing your mom did?”
“Spirit circle,” Will replied uneasily, trying to share Beth’s enthusiasm.
“Spirit circle,” she echoed with delight. “Who were they trying to contact?”
“Darned if I know,” he said, wishing desperately for a real drink. “God? Aliens? The Great Spirit?”
“Professor Fairy Tale,” shouted a voice so close that Will jumped. Asa was beside him. Green peasant skirt low on her hips, a skull ring dangling from her long nose. Her hair was more purple than pink tonight, and her bulging eyes drilled into him. “You’re hiding from us.”
“I’m doing no such thing,” Will lied.
Asa was flanked by her reliable wingman, Viktor, and plaid-shirted... Pete? Will’s wandering mind created nicknames for students, and this kid was always just Plaid.
“Professor Fairy Tale?” Beth repeated, both defensive and amused. “That’s not very nice.”
“Who are you?” Asa demanded, getting into Beth’s space, which is what she did.
“Beth Gonzales. And you are?”
“Asa Waite.” They shook hands like boxers at the weigh-in. “You’re the TA for Prof’s American Lit survey, yeah?”
“That’s right,” Beth said. And you’re that wacko Will told me about, she did not say.
“Professor Fairy Tale is what he called himself the first day of class,” Viktor explained, a bright smile nicely set off by his black beard.
“Which was so great,” Asa said, her lips red from whatever she was drinking. Or perhaps from feeding on an underclassman before coming here. “Like, this is who I am and what we do, and you can like it or get out.”
“It wasn’t a challenge,” Will corrected, disturbed by her misreading. “Just a little self-deprecation.”
“You’re all enjoying the seminar?” Beth asked, in her den mother voice. She seemed so much older than these kids, though she was only twenty-four.
“Very much,” Viktor said. “Fascinating stuff.”
“I never thought I’d find an actual class like this,” Asa declared. “I’m going to do a paper on incubi.”
“Wait,” Beth said, “that’s the thing that comes in the night and...”
“Screws you in your sleep,” Plaid filled in.
“Lays upon you,” Asa enunciated, aiming death rays at Plaid, “and saps your life energy. But there’s more to it than that. Incubus is male, succubus is female.”
“And which are you?” Beth asked. They all stared at her. “Which are you writing about? Isn’t that what I said?”
“Both kinds,” Asa replied, leaning in confidentially. “It’s partly research, but mostly based on my own experience.”
“Right,” Beth said brightly, turning to Plaid. “What about you?”
“I guess I wasn’t expecting it to be so serious,” he said, with a nervous smirk.
“He thought we’d be reading Harry Potter,” snarked Viktor.
“I did not think that. Maybe Tolkien?”
They all laughed.
“We’ll get there,” said Will. “Celtic mythology is dense, but it lays the groundwork for a lot of later stuff. Hey, be grateful. I used to put Carl Jung right in the first week’s reading.”
“Psychology,” Asa huffed dismissively.
“There’s more to Jung than that,” said Will. “But ultimately, what else are we talking about?”
“Come on, Prof,” the young woman said. “It’s a new millennium. No one has to be ashamed of what they believe. The spiritually tuned-in will lead the way.”
“To where?” Plaid asked.
“My aunt was goth before that was cool,” said Asa. “Got abused in school, cut herself, that kind of thing. She leads a Wiccan circle now, and she’s never been so happy. Fulfilled. It’s everywhere. I’m not saying that’s my thing, but—”
“It’s bullshit,” Plaid said. “Wicca, come on.”
“Okay,” Will intervened, “let’s not be contemptuous, Pla—uh, Pete.”
“You don’t believe that stuff, Mr. Conner, do you?”
Now they all stared at him. Even Beth.
“What interests me, the reason I created the seminar, is to better understand the myth-making impulse. Why do we all do it? Why do all cultures have versions of the same stories? What do we seek in the otherworldly that our reason can’t supply?”
“But it’s not real,” Pete insisted. “That seeking happens in the mind. Right?”
“Yes,” said Will. “Or is shared between minds. Which doesn’t make it less interesting.”
Asa stared into her cup. Purse-lipped and profoundly disappointed, Will could tell.
“I’m going to find food,” she said, starting to move away, but stopping short. “There’s a book I saw. At Argosy. It was behind glass, they wouldn’t let me look at it closely. I’m ninety percent sure it’s a grimoire. I’m going to get that sucker and bring it class. And blow all your tiny minds.”
“You do that,” Will said. “That would be very cool, in fact. Just don’t steal it.”
She smiled and sauntered off. Viktor and Pete followed, waving quick goodbyes.
“Well,” Beth exhaled. “She’s everything you said.”
“She keeps me on my toes.”
“You realize she’s nuts?”
“Let’s not be judgmental,” he counseled. “She’d fit right in where I come from.”
“Grimoire?”
“Book of magic,” Will clarified.
“They have those at Argosy?”
“I doubt it, but they exist. I mean, books purporting to give magical instruction.” Will hesitated. “Our neighbor the professor was supposed to own one.”
“Dream girl’s grandfather? No way. Did you read it?”
“No. Come on—don’t try to make something out of it.”
“I’m not making anything,” she protested. “You just had one freaky childhood.”
“Yeah, and look how sane and boring I turned out.”
“You’re trying to understand them,” Beth said, eyeing him curiously. “Your mother. All the loonies you grew up with and ran away from. You’re studying this stuff to figure them out.”
“That’s insultingly reductive, Ms. Gonzales. I expect more from you.”
“Well, I’ll try to broaden my mind. Maybe I’ll leave my window open tonight and see what crawls in to visit.”
In the taxi home, Beth’s words pursued him. He was aware, in a general way, that the untamed atmosphere of his youth, the eagerness of adults to retell old tales and believe in unseen things, fed his creativity. He would not have spent the hours studying and teaching folklore without that early shaping. That was one thing. It was quite another to say he was trying to decode his mother. Whatever genuine knowledge of the arcane existed in those old families in that little town north of Boston had died out generations ago. Abigail and her crew were pot-smoking, wine-slugging losers, shouting songs from Hair and wishing they had been at Woodstock. There was nothing Will needed to understand, except the one thing nobody would tell him. Which had led to his latest argument with his mother.
Abigail called three weeks before, just as the semester was starting. She was having dreams about the night Johnny died and wanted to talk to Will. In person. It was infuriating. For years he had asked for details about the incident, and she always refused. Now, suddenly, it couldn’t wait? He told her he could not possibly get there in September, which was true. It was also true that somewhere in the last decade a scar had formed over that fearful recollection. Without deciding, Will had simply stopped wanting to know. And, simultaneously, had stopped having bad dreams. Since her phone call, the dreams were back. And the unwanted questions.
He bailed out of the taxi a few blocks from home, to walk off his agitation. On a side street near Second Avenue, he passed a bar. Trinity Pub in yellow letters over the door. Will went inside. It was dark, cramped and loud. But the patrons were adults, not college kids, and there was an open spot at the bar. The Yankees were playing Baltimore on the television above. 2003 was supposed to be the Red Sox’s year, but Will was skeptical. It was always supposed to be their year.
He drank a whisky in two gulps and a Guinness more slowly. The tightness in his chest relaxed. Will didn’t look at anyone and no one bothered him. The Yanks were mauling the Orioles’ pitcher, and leading five-two when he slapped down some cash and swung his jacket off the stool.
Back outside, the breeze had picked up and Will could smell the East River. He was near his apartment now. Light from a corner deli glowed on the far avenue. Plane trees shot out of the broken sidewalk, leaning over the road. There were few lights on this block and he stumbled. The anxiety had worn off, and he was a bit drunk. A short Latino kid in a T-shirt and apron hosed out plastic tubs by the deli’s basement entry. He squeezed off the hose and stepped back to let Will pass. The sidewalk was soapy, and Will had to watch his footing. And then something was wrong. The shape of the young man, seen from the corner of his eye, became distorted. Don’t look, Will told himself. Do not look, just walk by. But he couldn’t help it. He had to look.
Beside him, in the shadow of the brick wall, was a grisly mask. Black lips peeled back from yellow teeth. Bloodshot eyes stared out of the wrecked visage with hypnotizing intensity. Bad energy radiated from it—malevolence, or a desolation so intense it colored the space around the thing. Yes, the thing, because what else was it? Not a man. The mouth dropped open and it staggered forward, forcing two hoarse syllables from its ruined throat.
Murder.
Will reeled. Toward the street, stepping on the plastic tubs and going down hard. Knee, elbow, and then his forehead all banged against the wet concrete. Thoughts retreated, his mind unwilling to process what it had seen, or anything else.
A low, guttural chanting of voices. Some laughing, some deadly serious. A panicked rushing, up and up, and then a blinding flash of light.
The mottled bark of the plane tree filled his vision. Its trunk soared heavenward to the pearl sky of nighttime Manhattan. No stars. A shadow loomed and Will flinched, covering his face.
“Mister. Mister.”
The Latino kid was withdrawing the hand he had offered. Will looked closely at the face. A hint of mustache above full lips. Fear in the eyes. It was all the poor guy needed, some well-dressed gringo falling over his buckets, hurting himself. And just like that, so much for the dream of America.
“I’m good,” Will said, but it came out a whisper. The kid reached out his hand again and Will took it. He needed the tree as well, but finally got to his feet. His vision swam. The elbow hurt, and his forehead stung. He would feel worse later.
“Okay now?” the kid asked hopefully.
Will studied him a while longer. Trying to figure out how he could have mistaken the face, but there was no mistake. One face had nothing to do with the other.
“Yeah,” Will said more clearly. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
He was distracted from the fear of his dark apartment by the flashing red light on the answering machine. Two rapid blinks. Two messages. His mind went immediately to Helen, but before he could hit Play the phone rang again.
“Hello?”
“Will? Is that you?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Muriel.” His mother’s friend. He was surprised not to recognize her voice, but then she did not seem to know his. Maybe nobody was themselves this evening. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”
“No,” he answered, a throbbing setting in behind his eyes. “No, it’s okay.”
“I tried you before.”
“I was at some faculty thing. What is it?”
“It’s about your mom,” Muriel said stiffly. “Will, it’s not good news.”
It never was.