Old Miss Gracing by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 16
Zeke went through the alley, up the wooden stairs and knocked twice on Miss Gracing’s door. He heard no sound and feared that she might no longer be there. He knocked again, four times and harder. In an instant the door flew open and a disheveled 76 year old lady with long, wild gray hair and five strange red cuts on her face appeared with a very sharp and shiny pair of scissors in her right hand at head level ready to bring them down.
1976 was also a banner year for Castor of Corpusbury. A few days prior to Zeke’s trip, his lifelong campaign of letter writing reached its zenith when the public school system of population 70,000 Bayonne, New Jersey, wrote back to him saying that they had employed Eloise Gracing as a teacher until 1972, when she retired.
He had been waiting for this day for so long, he had two suitcases perennially packed with the special items he needed.
He packed another bag, this one of clothes and drove to Bayonne.
Suffice to say, he was more used to “rural” areas and cemeteries and this was a city. He didn’t find it ominous, though he felt strange. All these people of different heritages busily on their way somewhere, with one curious trait in common; no one
paid any attention to him. He was a far cry from the safety of the cemetery, but after his lifelong wait, he was not going to be deterred from his forever and a day revenge mission. He took a room at the “Esquire Hotel” on Twenty Third Street, a neighborhood which remained as it was when Zeke was a kid.
The graying red and green velvet walls of the lobby were reminiscent of an old movie theatre, with a musky odor, as if the hidden walls had been leaking for years. The couches in the sitting area were occupied by seven or eight “old” men, but they were probably younger than Castor. They held newspapers and magazines, a few telling a compatriot what they had just read.
They looked up at Castor, but quickly went back to their business, when he gruffly walked by looking at no one, obviously disdainful of their idleness.
Considering himself one of those with a proper work ethic, Castor carried his two bags to the clerk’s desk toward the back of the room, his straggly gray hair askew and his baggy green cuffed pants hanging low on his protruding stomach. The young black man behind the desk looked somewhat amusedly at him and said; “Having a rough one?”
Castor put his bags on the ground and used his now free hands to brush back his hair and pull up his pants. He took the clerk’s opening remark as uncalled for mocking and replied,
“Meet your high standards now?”
The clerk rolled his eyes and said; “What can I do for you?”
“What do you think? I want a room, chief.”
Unflustered the clerk said; “What kind of room and for how long?”
Castor replied, “One single room with a bath for a week.”
“You’re in luck. I have one on the first floor, Number 103. Can I see your credit card?”
Castor took the wallet out of his pants pocket and retrieved a wad of twenties saying; “I got cash.”
The clerk looked at him suspiciously and replied, “That’s unusual.”
Castor fixed his eyes right on the clerk’s, his somber red face demonstrating annoyance and said, “Is cash good here or not?”
“Relax, my man. Yes, it’s good here. Give me two hundred eighty.”
Castor silently counted out the amount and dropped it on the desk. The clerk picked it up and slowly recounted it, then said; “Name?”
“Alexander Hamilton.”
The clerk scratched the back of his neck, but merely wrote it down, then said; “Address?”
“123 Washington Street, Lincoln, Virginia.”
“Okay, here are the keys. Checkout time is 10AM.”
Castor put the keys in his pocket, picked up his bags and started to walk away.
The clerk rang his bell and said; “Need any help with that.”
Castor flatly said; “I got it all the way here. I’ll make it a few more feet,” and kept moving.
The clerk laughingly said; “Looking for any girls?”
“Castor bristled, but kept moving, calling out; “No.”
“Didn’t’ think so.”
Castor turned down the first hallway he saw, found number 103 and entered, seeing the windowless white painted walls and ceiling. The matted orange brown shag carpet gave off the musky smell he noticed in the lobby, this time possibly mixed with vomit. A simple bed, chair, table and chest rounded out the room. The thought passed through his mind that this must be what it’s like in a mental institution, not aware that this was luxury in comparison.
He put his clothes in the white painted chest, having some difficulty with the loose handles.
As it was already evening, he just wanted to bring back some food, eat and sleep. He was glad to find a back door.
The next overcast morning he walked five blocks to the local public high school, where all teaching records were
maintained. Without much difficulty at all he found out again that Eloise Gracing retired as a teacher in 1972 and obtained her last address, saying he was a former pupil who had not aged well. He knew exactly which way to go because the streets are all numbered and the avenues go by letters.
It was an eight block walk to the apartment over the candy store. He was continually disturbed by the urban noises; cars blowing horns, people jabbering, kids yelling and bouncing balls and garbage men using foul language as their tin receptacles clanged. Used to the quiet of his cemetery the sounds were magnified in his ears and it took him some time to again realize that no one was talking to him or trying to get his attention.
Still, worried that someone would notice him; he put a hand up to his face, pretending to be wiping his eyes, whenever he passed anybody, the perceived cacophony ringing in his ears, almost unbearably. He found his way through the alley and up the stairs to the apartment door and knocked. Miss Gracing answered in a bulky blue bathrobe, scissors in the pocket. She didn’t recognize the odd man standing there; perhaps his spending so much time in or near a cemetery had a strange effect on his growth. She said; “Yes, may I help you?”
Extending his right hand to shake, not taken, he said; “I’m Sam McGonigle of the Acme Insurance Company. Do you have a few moments?”
“No, I don’t want any kind of insurance.” She re-closed the door saying; “Aren’t you a little old for that job?”
Castor got what he wished for. It was indeed Bonadea. He happily left and went back to his hotel, considering getting ear plugs, but not wanting to comb the dirty streets looking for a store which sold them.
Up until now Bonadea was in good condition and settled into her retirement existence contentedly; playing music, reading and walking at her favorite place. For the first few years she was regularly visited by former students, but that dropped to near zero when they demolished the old neighborhood. Still it was a rather luxurious life with no worries, no illnesses and minimal
“chores” to do. She looked forward to the infrequent calls from Zeke and Morrigan. She considered taking up painting. Bad dreams became minimal, replaced by ones of her teaching years.
Then the gods in charge must have felt remiss and decided to obliterate the good situation. Bonadea was visited one early evening by some kind of apparition in her hallway. The strangled voice yelled as best it could; “I........ know........
what....... you........ did.” She heard persistent slow steps coming to the door. It didn’t knock but said; “You.......
will........ pay........ for........ your....... sins.”
Given her past, Bonnie thought this sounded so ominous, it frightened her in a few ways; they could know of her half cen-
tury earlier escape, or they could be nuts enough to do physical harm, or both. She went one room away to her bedroom and grabbed her trusty old scissors. She peered through the adjoining door hearing no further useful information.
Eventually, she got the nerve to go to the front door and see if her visitor had left. She walked down the hallway, down the stairs, through the alley and looked out the wooden door to the street, seeing nothing except a declining sun, bestowing its last few rays on the new condos across the street.
She went back upstairs and made herself tea. She didn’t want any music, television, or books. She had a problem and needed to think it through. If it was some kind of nut, the situation was out of her control. If it’s some sort of message from God, she was in worse trouble. The judgment alluded to did not sound kindly. On the other hand, it could be taken as a mere statement of fact. She thought; “God knows what we do and we will all, pay for our sins. Given that, why would he make a special trip to tell me what I already know, especially in so scary a fashion?”
She pragmatically decided that she really couldn’t be 100%
sure of the correctness of what she had just thought and that it didn’t matter, anyway. If God was after her, she had no doubts he was going to get her. So, she focused on the concrete possibility that it was some human or humans who were
potentially dangerous to her and what she could do about that.
Not much came to mind.
She again heard the hallway footsteps and assumed the scissors in hand in the doorway position. The fear on her pale face dismissed any thoughts except, “What can I do if something comes through that door?” Stab it?”
The steps seemed to stop somewhere near the door. She heard a slow growl; “Bonadea.” He paused; “You know why I’m here. You’ve been a very bad girl.”
He called her “Bonadea.” She concluded that this must be a voice from the distant past. It sounded like one. If it’s human, she was in more trouble than she had been in 54 years.
She was helplessly alone, the candy store having closed an hour ago. If she could have seen the apparition at the other side of the door, she would have been even more worried. Castor brought one of his costumes with him and changed into it in her hallway.
He was wearing an “improved” version of a skeleton outfit and mask. He had been collecting animal bones over the years, meticulously sewing them on the costume, front and back, some with a portion of dried meat left on. The hood was done in a similar fashion with special attention paid to the large grinning mouth, comprised of many smaller bones containing maximum amounts of dry meat painted over in bright red, forming lips four times normal size.
Castor’s plan of attack was not to kill Bonadea right away.
He could have done that when he posed as the insurance salesman, if he wanted to. No, she would suffer the pangs of conscience, feel the fear of knowing that she might be tortured to death at any time and suffer the psychological torment of not knowing why this was happening before she experienced the mercy of death.
He stuffed a fake dead rat in the mouthpiece and said; “Bonadea.
Open the door and kiss Marshall.”
She considered dialing 911, but the fact that he knew her birth given name and that of her dead former husband meant that a successful police intervention would result in her status of an escaped convict being revealed. For whatever it was worth, this demented person had conveyed to her that he knew a lot of information a half century old. She quickly thought that this really didn’t matter right now, as the task at hand was to somehow try to single handedly take care of what was at her door. Besides, her story was so well published that a lot of people probably knew it.
“Bonadea. Open the door or I’ll kick it in.”
She was trembling and tears started to find paths down her white cheeks. She held the scissors in her right hand and put it under her heavy turquoise full length robe. With her shaking left hand she undid the door latches. Before she could step back, he pushed the door in, knocking her to the floor, on her
back, scissors exposed. Rather than come in he stood at the door staring silently at her. She was petrified at the very real bones the freak wore. She wondered how many animals or people he had to kill to get his wardrobe. She was still on the floor five feet from him, when she cried out, “Please stop.
Please.” He took the fake dead rat from his mouth and threw it on her. She screamed, trying to get it off her, without having to touch it. When her gyrations were able to remove it from her torso, he turned and left, saying; “This is the beginning of your end.”
Castor changed back to his “normal” outfit at the foot of the stairs and calmly walked back to his hotel.
Bonnie shut the door and crawled into her bed, face down in the pillow and cried to anyone who might be listening; “Why does everything have to happen to me?”
She had a new dream that night. In it she was a very detailed white porcelain sparrow, wings extended, claws anchored to the base, surrounded by books. Inside the glass fronted cabinet she could see most of the room, a library with a solitary desk and chair in the center. There were others like her in other cabinets unable to hear her when she called out;
“Open the door. I can fly.” A man and woman, each about thirty, entered the room, walked over to her and opened the door. The woman picked her up, admiring her and she again
called out; “Let go. Let me fly.” Oblivious to her cries the woman handed her to the man, whose dirty hands smudged her body.
This didn’t bother her, but she again called out; “Let me fly.”
Maybe he heard her, maybe not, but she slipped from his grip and tried to flap her wings. The weight of the base held her claws and she was pulled straight down to the wooden floor and shattered into a hundred pieces. The man left the room and came back with a whisk broom, pan and garbage can. He swept up her pieces and dropped them into the can. As the lid closed over her she called out; “No, no. I’m still alive.” No one reacted to her pleas and the next morning a truck showed up and carried her to the junkyard.