Brooklyn Legacies Page 17

His apartment was a pigsty, but the room where he kept his work-related files was precisely organized and immaculate. He didn’t even need to look to find any topic, anytime. I often thought it said more about him than he would have wanted to put in words.

  There was the file. “Wise Women Kraft.” I knew it would be there. Inside there were a few handwritten notes, a couple of typed pages, and a few clipped articles. A blurry photo.

  Back in the living room, Leary was leaning back in his wheelchair, eyes closed.

  “You asleep?”

  “Not at all. Thinking back.” He snapped up. “What do you need? My papers or my memories?”

  “Both.” I folded my hands. “I’m ready for my story, please.”

  “Now who’s the smart aleck? Well, I knew them back then. Handful of women in a sort of commune. Worshipped a mother goddess. Or THE mother goddess, they would have said.” He smiled. “In some circles that was kind of trendy around then. Ya know? Rejecting the patriarchal old religions and getting back to the original deity, the Great Goddess.”

  “What?”

  “You’re surprised? It was kind of feminist and kind of that woo-woo, mystical thing. Tarot, astrology, crystals, alternative health, meditation. The whole nine yards.”

  “Was it for real? Any of it?”

  “You mean, real as in ‘real’? Or you mean real as in true believers in a thing you can’t prove? And what religion does not fit there? I should know, being a recovering Catholic myself.” He smirked. “Spent my whole life recovering.”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Both is right. Lots of hocus-pocus flimflam, like astrology. Come on! But some believers too. They read a lot of mythology, some guy named—hell, I can see the book cover. Bachofen! And they liked these ancient little statues of chubby women from ancient digs. Those files there? Those woman there at the store did believe in what they were doing. Friendly, welcoming bunch, on the whole. Free meals one night a week. Strictly vegetarian and organic, so lots of lentils, but they meant well. Homegrown honey. Herbal medicines to sample. Lots of pamphlets on healing. Talk your ear off on the Way, the Great Mother, the moon, the lines of power.” He shook his head.

  “But Leary? I mean, I don’t get it. Were they convincing? Did you get it?” I couldn’t imagine it.

  “No, I did not. Not them and not the Hare Krishnas and not the pope, either. Skeptic head to toe, that’s me. But if you went in? Ah, it was nice. They always had smiles, soft voices, time to explain anything. Oh, yeah, and they took karate, too.”

  “What?”

  “Part of their creed. Peace didn’t mean being a victim. Brooklyn was a rough place then. People tried to rob them a couple of times. They put one in the hospital.” He smiled. “Very tough, but sweet in every other way, too. All other ways. Rejecting patriarchy and its rules, ya know? Women owned themselves. They should do what gives them pleasure.” His smile got bigger. “Who was I to argue?”

  “Are you saying what I think?”

  “Yep. I wasn’t always old and crippled. Normal young guy, nice looking too. Ex-choirboy making up for lost time.” He winked. “They had parties. With vision-creating substances. And doing whatever felt good, whatever made you happy.” He smiled. “It was the times. So we got happy. A lot.”

  I thought about it. The women. A new kind of woman? And what else was going on then. How it looked to Leary. And how it must have looked to someone from another worldview. Warm and welcoming? Life affirming? Or the creation of Satan?

  And how do you deal with that? Cleansing. By fire.

  “What happened to them?” I knew the answer. I wanted to hear it in Leary’s words.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “It burned to the ground. Gone, poof, in a couple of hours. How’d you miss finding that?”

  “Don’t be insulting. You know I didn’t miss it. But I want to hear it from someone who remembers it.”

  “OK. Yeah, burned to the ground in the night. It was falling-down old, held together with tape and chewing gum, more or less. In the store you couldn’t exactly tell that, what with all the posters and incense and—I don’t know—scarves over the walls. Hangings. You didn’t notice the cockroaches in the walls and the ancient plumbing. So it went up in flames one cold night. They thought it was the ancient coal furnace. Or maybe candles fell over. They were always lighting candles in there.”

  Something in his face? His voice?

  “What are you not telling me?”

  “I had my sources. Yeah. Friend from the old neighborhood was a fireman. It wasn’t what they said in public, but they knew it was set. They knew it, but it was hushed up until they had some leads. And then they never got any.”

  “You mean, it really was never solved? I couldn’t find anything.”

  “Yes, Cookie, that’s what I’m saying. They never got anywhere on it.”

  “Did they even try?”

  He shook his head. “I wasn’t connected enough then to find out.” He stared at me, shrewdly. “Think hard. You wanna bet a few people did not like that decrepit old pile in their pretty midst? And a few other people did not like that shop for a few different reasons?”

  “I get it. Bad influence on kids? Offense to religion? Immoral?”

  “All of the above. And wild, liberated women, all lawless and disrespectful and loose. And all hairy and dirty and sexy on their pretty little street, too?” He snickered. “Bare feet on city sidewalks? Not exactly Saks Fifth Avenue style, right? Start with who hated them. How many places do you end up?”

  “So they died? The news report said an old woman tenant who didn’t hear the alarm and the two women from the group—the co-op?”

  He grinned. “They would have said coven. And man, it’s been almost a lifetime since I said that word or even thought it. But yeah. Them.”

  “So you knew them well. Was there anyone special to you?”

  “You mean like a couple? They didn’t believe in pairing up. We all hung out. It was all go with the flow of the moment.” He seemed to be looking far into the distance. “Good times. Harmless, no matter what people thought. White witchcraft. Ya know?”

  I didn’t, not really, but I would find out someday, maybe. But today I had other questions on my mind.

  “Do you remember names?”

  “Come on! After all this time? And it didn’t matter, ’cause they all had their special names. True names, they called them. Kinda like playing dress up, which they also did. Flowery flowy outfits and, I dunno, scarves? Turbans? Those names were all misty and mythical, too, like, ah, Nimue or Galatea or Morgana.”

  I tried not to smile.

  “And nature names. They loved those. I remember one cute kid named Starry Sky.”

  “Not really!” I tried not to laugh.

  “Damn straight really. And Autumn. And Echo, maybe?”

  And Willow? Then I knew. I knew. Why had it taken me so long?

  I would find Willow Lief and shake her misty, aging self until she told me everything. If I could find her.

  I would find her.

  As I stood to leave, Leary said, “One more thing. I’d forgotten this.”

  That stopped me short. “You forgot something?”

  “Hey! I’ve covered a few thousand other stories since those days. And yes, maybe my memory of those days was fuzzed up by a certain amount of partying, too. You don’t know about that. You were always a grown-up. This. There was a letter nailed to the wreckage after the fire. Something like ‘spiritists defile the people and should burn like stubble.’ Like that.”

  “Wow.” I sat down again with a loud thump.

  “Yeah. But they never got further on that, either, far as I ever knew.”

  Oh, yes. I would find her, if I had to camp on the steps of Downtown Care until they coughed up an address.

  In the end it didn’t come to tha
t. I saw her on the street, a block from the health food store. I followed her in, keeping a discreet distance, and watched her as she slid from one of the store’s shabby connected rooms to the next. After a furtive glance around, she slipped a bunch of fresh herbs into her shabby tote bag. Then a bottle of medication. An item from frozen food, and after a fast look, a second one.

  While she was absorbed in shoving her items to the bottom of her bag, I silently slipped up behind her and snaked a hand out to grab her arm. She gasped, but I held tight.

  She turned and glared, hissing, “Let me go, you…you scorpion. I’ll scream for help.”

  “And will you tell anyone about the items in that bag, buried under your jacket?” I did not loosen my grip.

  She went limp, wilted, almost collapsing, and I still did not let go. Beaten, she stood upright and whispered fiercely, “What in the name of the Great Mother do you want from me?”

  “The truth. The whole truth this time. Am I getting it or do we have a talk with a manager? Or I can walk you over to the cashier and pay for your items?”

  She closed her eyes, as if praying and whispered, “You win.”

  We stepped into the last aisle and checked out, with some awkwardness, as I would not let go of her while I pulled my wallet out and threw some crumpled bills on the counter.

  On the sidewalk, she gasped, hyperventilating, or faking it very well, and begged to sit down. There were benches across the street in front of the school.

  “If you cut and run,” I said as firmly as I could, “I will run you down. I’m young enough to outrun you. Count on it.”

  We sat until she recovered herself. She did not try to run. She could barely speak. Finally she said, “You got me. Now what?”

  “Now you tell me the rest about Jonathan Doe and the Wise Women shop, everything you left out before.”

  She actually flinched. “How’d you figure it out?”

  “That doesn’t matter.” I didn’t owe her that. Or anything. “Cough it up, and I’ll buy you dinner.”

  She almost smiled. A bitter smile, but still.

  “So you said. OK. OK. That shop, that group…”

  “Coven?”

  “Oh, be serious. You don’t know enough to use our words. Yes, it was my home. Then. My family. Yes, I was one of them. We only did good. The natural power of the earth and the Great Mother. We taught love.”

  “White witches?”

  “Some people use that term We didn’t. But yes.”

  She stopped. I waited.

  “We were free women of power. And some people, some evil scared ones, couldn’t accept that, the freedom or the power. So yes, we did have our enemies. We ignored them except for sending loving, uh, meditations, their way.”

  “Spells?”

  She looked annoyed. “I said meditations.”

  “Were they men?”

  Her look was pitying. “What do you think? But women too. If you spent your whole life worshipping the rule of the sky god father, how do you think we’d look?”

  I knew. They looked like the negation of everything such women lived for, believed, thought, valued. Demeaning of their truth.

  “Like witches. Like danger. Whose fate is fire?”

  She nodded. “We never knew. Never found out.” Suddenly her eyes overflowed. “They were my family, my tribe, my home. We lost two sisters that night, and the family scattered, looking for safer places of stronger power.”

  “Back to Jonathan Doe, please.” Actually I wanted to know more about her whole life—who wouldn’t?—but I didn’t know how long I’d be able to hold her misty attention. Back to business.

  “Jonathan remembered us. So strange.” Her face went from weepy to dreamy. “Every so often he was back here in this world. And then we talked about the old days. He remembered us, in bits and pieces. The bowls with shiny crystals and smooth stones of power, the agates and turquoises. Our lovely herbal scents and the leaves that helped with visions. And the girls with soft skin and dark eye makeup.” She teared up again. “My sisters.”

  I was beginning to feel trapped by nostalgia in a world where I didn’t want to be. I imagined—I think it was imagination—a whiff of incense.

  “There’s more, isn’t there? Stop wasting my time!” A thought struck. “Do you know who he was?”

  “Even he didn’t know who he was, but he dropped hints about who he used to be. Our sisterhood, we were the forbidden fruit to him. Big time. Ya know? He remembered, one time, how scared he was when he first came by. He came to give us their newspaper and save our souls.” She gave a harsh bark of something like laughter. “Can you imagine that scene?” I could now.

  “But he learned we were not as he feared.” She shook her head. “We wouldn’t harm any living creature. We caught mice in safe cages, and carried spiders outside on a scrap of paper. But you know? The pagan idea disturbed some poor lost folks.”

  Enough.

  “I want that tape you told me about. No games.”

  She smiled at me. Not an entirely nice smile.

  “I have it right here. Whatever I care about, I keep with me. What’s it worth to you?”

  Oh, really? What was it worth to her? Me not beating her up right here? Me dragging her over to Torres’s office for—I hoped—a brutal interrogation? She had a real talent for releasing the worst in me. I wondered if her sisters were like her. Yet another reason for people to hate them.

  Who was I turning into? So I did the opposite.

  “You know you want to give it to me. You meant to all along.” I can be sly, too. “That’s why you told me. So enough fun and games.”

  She nodded. “Smarter than I perceived. Let’s see if you’re smart enough to work out the secret.” She dug into her bag and handed me videotape. At least I thought that’s what it was. An antique. And while I was examining it, she disappeared. She was there and then she was not. Not on the street in either direction. Nowhere on that block for her to hide. She had vanished in plain sight.

  No, not magic, white or any other kind. That’s all bologna. Complete flimflam in my hardheaded opinion. But I did wonder how she did it.

  I stared at the tape, knowing I had nothing that would play it. There were places that could convert it to a disc or a computer file. Sure there were. An old-time camera shop nearby had been staying in business, barely, by doing that kind of thing, but I was impatient. The college-age son of a neighbor had a room full of audio equipment and DJ ambitions.

  I rang the bell. He was home. I explained, sort of. He didn’t need the whole story. He said, “Nothing to it. Come back in a few hours.” Then he asked about Chris, was astonished that she was already looking at college, and that was that.

  I did a few errands, had lunch, and cleaned up my office a bit. And in less than a few hours, I had a playable DVD.

  A raggedy-looking man, not so old but battered, sat at a primitive camera setup and answered questions from an unseen interrogator. Video and sound quality were terrible. It was early days for do-it-yourself video technology, and oral history projects were usually done on a shoestring anyway. More like a frayed shoestring.

  He gave his name, but it was garbled. Damn! I wondered if a fancier conversion could pick it up. I had no idea, and no idea who would pay for it, but I made a note.

  They asked him questions, starting with a few simple ones to establish who he was and where he fit into the project. And nothing made sense. I was so disappointed, as they must have been, too.

  For his name, this time he rattled off three. Good Lord. But I did stop the disc to jot them down. He admitted to living in Brooklyn Heights. Sometimes. Asked for an address, he mumbled for a while. The only clear words were “here and there.” And then he said, “Once it was Bethel.”

  Bethel was the Witnesses’ name for their community in the Heights. So. Now I knew something but it
was almost the last thing I learned. He mumbled. He rambled. He sang. And he ranted, too.

  I could see why the interviewer didn’t want it. It was useless for her purposes.

  It wasn’t until the second watching that I picked up how often he mentioned fire. And it was the third time that I was able to catch some of the Bible passages. Between the crackling, poor quality recording and his incoherence, it was torture to get the verse numbers.

  It was the fourth time that I finally caught a name. Not his name, dammit. And deciphered the mumbles. He looked straight ahead and said, “Why didn’t you help? Before I tried to baptize them and refine their souls by fire. And saw them burn because they were women who profaned themselves. Before I did all that. I was so scared. I wasn’t well. Brother Daniel, I was lost in my soul. You were supposed to be my guide, my friend.”

  And he started to cry.

  Chapter Twenty

  I was shaking. I needed to talk but there was no one at home. I could not reach Sergeant Torres, but I left her an urgent message. “You hired me to find some background information? I think I just did.”

  I could not reach Leary. Where could he be?

  But there was one other person who must remember some of this. Maybe all of this. I had not asked her because she was not—how could she be?—an objective source, but there was no one else. I couldn’t sit at home chasing my thoughts around and around my brain.

  I called Louisa. She answered herself, was glad to hear from me, invited me right over. And with the help of a car service, I was there in twenty minutes, door-to-door. Damn the expense. Torres could pay for it.

  I found her sedately having a cocktail with Dr. Kingston. There was a plate of dainty puffy things to go with it.

  “Come right in, my friend. It is cocktail time in our world. We need something with more kick than even a good pot of tea. What’s your poison? Care for a canapé?”

  “Oh, no, no, thank you. I only came to talk to you. And Dr. Kingston, you would be a plus for this.”

  “Why do you look so stressed? Sure a vodka tonic wouldn’t help? No? Then sit down and tell us what is on your mind.”